“All clear,” Liam said as he rounded a corner. Rowan huddled under a storm shelter with Eamon and a few guards from the manor, apprehensive. I know I was the one to encourage her to do this, but clouds, she could have been a little less dramatic about it.

  “Thanks, lad,” he said, tossing the boy a silver mining which he felt was a fair tip for the work. Liam’s eyes widened at the coin before he disappeared around a corner, and Eamon laughed at him.

  “Lad, how is it you’ve lived Downhill for so many years and yet you still don’t know the value of your own coin?”

  “I know the value of it,” Rowan said, a little defensively. He did, of course—he just overestimated how much was needed to purchase certain services. It wasn’t his fault that the Uphill had an inflation problem.

  Rowan sent the rest of the men to keep watch around the perimeter of the building ahead for any Witchblades in the vicinity, leaving him and Eamon alone. They’d been scouting the location since yesterday—an abandoned ring on the outskirts of Whitering District, the building itself in tatters, both dusty from disuse and damp from lack of repairs all at once. He sighed, grateful that the Floodstorm was light at least. Living Downhill had given him much more empathy for the derogatory term wetboots.

  “Do you think she’ll pull it off?” Eamon asked, looking thoughtful.

  “I’m not exactly sure what she’s trying to pull off, Eamon.” He leaned out of the shelter, watching men pour into the building in boisterous groups. “It’s either genius or it’s insane.”

  “They’re one and the same, lad.” Rowan just shook his head.

  “I’m going to check on her again. Let me know if anything seems out of place.” He turned back towards Eamon on the way out of the shelter, meeting his dark eyes. “The moment anything seems off, we’re getting out. No repeats of a few months ago.”

  “Lad,” Eamon said, fighting off a smile. “You almost seem like you’re worried about the lass.”

  “I—“ Was he worried? No, he was practical. He checked his sword again and watched a particularly bawdy group of men make their way into the warehouse proper as they paid no mind to the rain overhead. “Just keep an eye on things, Eamon.”

  “Of course, lad.”

  Rowan left the shelter and ducked into the cool rain of the evening, sighing. Eamon found all of this more amusing than he should have. Of course, he wouldn’t have to deal with the aftermath—the same way he hadn’t had to deal with Arlette’s tantrum after she realized Kess had made a decision about Forgebrand.

  He stalked around to the back of the warehouse, his footsteps turning into a jog as the rain picked up. In the side of the hill, nestled between several trees, Rowan found the trapdoor Kess had described to him. It was already disturbed with the mark of Kess’s small footprints, and Rowan took a moment to cover her tracks with a few leaves before he cracked open the door for himself.

  The damp, musty smell of old dirt, leaves, and damp stone hit him, and he closed the door overhead with a muffled thump, latching it behind him as he descended the stairs. The hallway below was lit with a single lantern, and while the entrance was mostly mud and silt from the rain, the stone ahead at least seemed respectably clean. Rowan followed the path away from the entrance and through several twists and turns until it emerged into a cavernous space the size of the warehouse above.

  Kess stood in the middle of the space on a circular platform, small face resigned as it flickered in the light of several lamps. The area was filled with colorful streamers, odd contraptions, racks of old costumes, and strangely shaped boxes full of props.

  “I don’t know why we had to go cloak and dagger for this,” Rowan said, approaching. “Couldn’t I just have come with you?”

  Kess hopped down from the platform, surveying the room. “I just wanted a moment alone,” she said, kicking a nearby box. It rattled with the sound of glass bottles.

  “Well, you picked the right place for that. No one’s been here in years.” Despite the dampness overhead, here everything was covered with a thick layer of dust that swirled into clouds with each step they took. Overhead, voices laughed and cheered as men filled the warehouse, their boots raining down more dust over Kess and Rowan as they stood beneath the crowd.

  Kess watched the ceiling, strangely illuminated by a mixture of lamplight, light from cracks in the ceiling, and her own Fulminancy as it crackled around her in waves. Rowan knew it wouldn’t hurt him without her consent, but there was something otherworldly and intimidating about her as she stood there, gazing upward, her Fulminancy snapping at motes of dust as they drifted down around her.

  “What are you going to do?” he asked quietly. She looked at him then, her eyes oddly lit by tiny tendrils of lightning.

  “I’m going to give them what they’ve been asking for,” she said simply, looking back up.

  “Mariel?”

  She nodded. “As you said, no one will know the difference. When was the last time anyone saw Mariel anyway? I—“ Her words hung, and a bit of hesitation appeared on her face again. “I think I can control it enough now, but if something goes wrong, I want you nearby. I don’t want anyone hurt.”

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  “I don’t know if I’m reliable enough to take it all away, but if I lessen it, will it help?”

  Kess nodded again, her face suddenly pale. Her hands shook slightly—she was shivering, though her clothes were dry.

  “Kess—“ Rowan stepped towards her, but Kess shook her head, forcing a smile.

  “Just…stay nearby, okay? There’s a lever on the side of the stage to lift us up. If things get bad, drop us again.”

  Rowan nodded again and picked his way through a few boxes to the side of the stage. Something twisted and churned in his gut. Worry for Kess? Or something else?

  “Hopefully it works,” Kess whispered, then stepped back up onto the platform. Rowan followed behind her and grabbed the lever, one hand on his sword.

  “Rowan.” Kess looked at him as he hesitated over the lever. Was she crying?

  “Whatever happens, it’s still me,” she said. “So…don’t leave, alright?”

  Something in her voice broke, and it was all Rowan could do to remain on the lever. But the crowd roared overhead, and there was no more time. He smiled at her in what he hoped was a reassuring way.

  “I’m not leaving anytime soon,” he said, and pulled the lever.

  The roof overhead retracted to admit the stage, accompanied by the clanking of gears and the creaking of machinery. Rowan wished he’d gotten a chance to look into what made the contraption work, but that became the least of his problems as a wall of sensation hit him from all around—the roaring of men, the stench of thousands of wet bodies all packed together, and a blanketing darkness but for the stage where he stood with Kess.

  The voices quieted, and Kess stepped forward to the center of what Rowan now realized was a fighting ring. Even the cage remained here in the warehouse, though it was tattered and bent in places. A few torches lit the stage itself, and overhead, the Floodstorm ceased its rain, rumbling its displeasure.

  “Mariel,” Kess said, her voice strong as it carried throughout the hall. “The Seventh Seat. Savior. Leader of Forgebrand. Plenty of rumors have made their way around the city in the past few months. Whether you recognize me as Mariel or not, it’s best if I’m just honest with you all.”

  A murmur at this. Kess continued as a rumble of thunder rolled overhead, and a few men looked up at the sky where it peeked into the building through a destroyed skylight.

  “Like all Seats, unfortunately, I’m just a woman,” Kess said. “The Mariel you worship was dead centuries ago. I can’t be your god, but as the current Seat of Mariel, I can try to stop this bloodshed before it’s too late. Let me be clear—if we start a bloody civil war with the Uphill, the Downhill will burn. They have numbers and power. We have friends, families, and homes to protect.”

  Kess tossed a dagger onto the stage that Rowan didn’t even realize she’d been carrying. It landed with a clang, and an angry buzz emerged from the crowd. “I can only ask that you choose not to participate in this war,” she continued. “There’s no shame in understanding when you’ve lost a fight. Go home. Be with your families. Protect them. Live your lives in peace.

  “But quiet lives aren’t for everyone, are they?” Kess asked, voice quieter. “We might not be able to win a war, but we can change things. Forgebrand is an organization of change—it’s honored to call most of the Downhill’s most talented craftsmen its members. The Downhill doesn’t need bloodshed—it needs laws and representation. Legitimacy. No one should be shamed for wearing a striped sash, or feel guilt for housing a Fulminant child who has just as much claim to the Downhill as they do to the Uphill.

  “That kind of change will take time. It’s a quiet revolution, but a more effective one. In the meantime, Forgebrand will look out for its own using the supplies we’ve built up over the years—that will require just as much manpower as a war, but instead of death, you’ll be able to return to your families at night.”

  Rowan hovered over the lever, nervous. The storm built overhead, and lightning flashed, illuminating the spot where Kess stood. The crowd was nearly loud enough to drown Kess out now, though she continued, determined.

  “You can have your Mariel,” Kess continued, voice rising over the crowd. “But lay the bloodshed on my shoulders. I won’t defile Draven’s grave by throwing the men he loved to an early death.”

  Finished, Kess stood there at parade rest. Where she learned to do that, Rowan had no idea. Her face was calm, though she clenched her hands tightly behind her back. The crowd erupted into an odd mixture of reactions then, with some men spitting towards the stage and leaving, and others exiting more quietly, a look of relief and gratitude on their faces. Finally, one man forced his way to the front of the stage, balding and enormous. Rowan would have stepped up to defend Kess if the cage hadn’t separated them. The man sneered at her, missing a few teeth.

  “You’re not Mariel,” he said, spitting. “You’re just Mattes’ lass from the rings. You cheating whore, you barely have enough Fulminancy to stay alive in Downhill rings. What makes you think you have the right to claim to be our god?”

  Kess smiled slightly, looking at her boots. Her shoulders rose and fell, then she looked the man in the eye as the room quieted. “I already warned you I wasn’t your god,” she said.

  Fulminancy erupted from Kess, a whirl of crackling lightning to match the storm overhead. It crept away from her, tendrils inching their way through the cage and over the crowd to touch the very edges of the building itself. Some men who had been exiting froze, watching the spectacle.

  The very air itself hummed with that energy, the strength of which Rowan hadn’t seen before. This dwarfed what she had done that night against the shadow, and Rowan took a tentative step towards her, suddenly worried. She’ll kill herself, he thought, panicking. Kess caught his eyes, and though hers were glazed over with concentration, she shook her head. The meaning was clear there: Not yet.

  That power grew, and the storm came down to play, crackling through the ceiling itself, swirling around Kess with power Rowan could feel rattling his bones. As the storm joined with her, a macabre dance, some men fled, terrified.

  It was only then that Rowan realized the full extent of what Kess had done. Fulminancy became exponentially more difficult to control the further away it was from your body. In choosing such a large warehouse during a season where no real lightning called the skies home, Kess had made an unbelievable spectacle—a night the men of Forgebrand wouldn’t soon forget. It was a show not unlike those that had populated this building so long ago. An act.

  And yet her power was no such act, and Rowan found himself worried, terrified, and in awe all at once.

  Finally, when the warehouse was bathed in blue light and could hold no more, Kess closed her fist, and the lightning snapped back towards her in an instant. The force of the power leaving the room created a vortex of wind, and before the torches were snuffed out, Kess looked at Rowan, panicked, and mouthed, now.

  Rowan pulled the lever. The lights fell, and in the darkness he felt a thump vibrate through the stage as it descended.

  Then the screaming began.

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