In the early ’00s, I dug up the idea and shifted it to a fantasy universe, writing a proposal for an author search that never went anywhere. I’m not surprised; When I go back and read that submission, it’s… not great.

The idea kept jangling around in my head for the next decade, bouncing to the surface occasionally and forcing me to put some of the ideas down in notes. The notes were a haphazard mess, but at least they were written down.

In the early ’10s, I broke out my notes and brainstormed for a week straight, and the bones of an actual story started to take shape. So I decided to start writing it. I got about three chapters in, and life took over, so I set it aside.

I started to take notice of all my friends taking part in NaNoWriMo, and my thoughts naturally strayed back to this started-but-stalled novel I had on the backburner. I knew the overall story was going to be longer than NaNo’s 50k words, but I resolved to use NaNoWriMo to force me to draft. I added over 48,000 words to the manuscript in November 2012, and committed myself to finishing the book.

A massive shake up at my job left me disillusioned, and I wanted a change. After a lot of gnashing of teeth, I left my career in the video game industry to write full time on the angelic good graces of my wife in early 2013.

By the end of 2013, I’d finished the first draft of Construct. The editing and publication process took about 10 months, and it was published in late 2014.

This is a series that’s been in my head, in some form, since about 1997. And now, after a much longer wait than I would’ve liked, the first sequel in the Chronicler Saga series is finally out in the wild.

I’m very proud of Companion. While I still absolutely adore Construct, I feel I’ve leveled up my craft in the last several years, and I think I’ve succeeded in bringing my ambitious vision for Companion to life. The initial reviews are very good, which is validating to some degree, and I genuinely hope fans of Construct enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it (even when it was hard).

If you’re a fan of Construct and have been waiting since 2014 (or whenever you read it), thank you for sticking around, and I hope you’ll find the wait rewarded. If you’re new to the series, there’s no better time to jump in. Both Construct and Companion are discounted right now to $2.99 each, so you can start the series for just six bucks. The sale ends Sunday, March 7th, though, so don’t sleep on it.

If you’re interested in reading either, please add them to your To-Read shelf on GoodReads. If you like them, please leave reviews on GoodReads and Amazon. Here are all the links and info you need:

Buy links, preview chapters, and info: Buy The Book

First Review: One Mike to Read Them All

GoodReads Pages: Construct | Companion

This month (March), Companion is in the list! There are some great looking books in that list, so go check it out HERE!

And thanks, Rob, for doing this!

Mike DePalatis over at the One Mike to Read Them All blog gave it Five Stars (on GoodReads), and had this to say:

“This is very much a “journey before destination” book, but it’s a great journey. All the major characters here have growing they need to do, and all of them do it, in a very satisfying way. It’s hard to call a series with this much plot “character driven,” but it kind of fits here.”

Check out Mike’s full review of Companion at his blog, One Mike to Read Them All,
on Reddit r/Fantasy, or on GoodReads.

I released Construct way back at the end of 2014. It hasn’t actually taken me all six of the intervening years to write Companion, but it took me that long to get it finished, and for that I apologize.

But, that’s all behind us now. Companion is officially finished and on its way into your eyeballs! I’ve got a ton of information about it to follow, but let’s start with the most important part:

THE COVER

I want all of my covers to depict a specific moment from the book they adorn. The cover to Construct shows Samuel passing by a landmark from that book called the Bleeding Pine. Companion‘s cover depicts Eriane in a contemplative moment after an particularly stressful encounter (which I can’t discuss for fear of spoilers).

Since my original cover artist, Carmen Sinek, was unavailable to work on Companion, I put out a call on Reddit r/Fantasy for recommendations. User u/meadblossom suggested I check out Lius Lasahido. While I love Lasahido’s art, when going through the other artists at his studio Polar Engine, I fell in love with Livia Prima‘s art and commissioned her for this cover. I’m extremely happy with the piece Livia produced for me. It’s exactly the depiction of one of my favorite characters I was looking for, and perfectly evokes the book’s title and theme.

THE RELEASE DATE

Companion launches on March 2nd, 2021

Pre-orders are available RIGHT NOW for Companion on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Kobo. Here are the links:

For the pre-order period – and for a limited time after launch – Companion will be available for 40% off retail price at $2.99. After that, the regular retail price will be $4.99.

I very rarely put my books on sale. I prefer to price them competitively so that they’re always a good deal. But I also believe in rewarding early-adopters. If you’re one of the folks who’s excited to read the next chapter and jumps on board at the start, I want you to get the book at a great price.

Speaking of great prices…

CONSTRUCT IS ALSO ON SALE

During the pre-order period for Companion – from February 2nd to March 2nd, 2021 – Construct is on sale for 25% off, also $2.99 (normally $3.99). So, if you’re new to The Chronicler Saga, you can jump in easy at a great price for both books.

CONSTRUCT REVISED EDITION

After working on Companion, especially during the editing process, I decided to embark on a Revised Edition of Construct. You can find out more information about that HERE.

In case you’re worried, though: While there were a lot of changes made, they were all minor and done at the sentence level. If you’ve already read Construct, it is not necessary to re-read it. But you’re more than welcome to.

SPEAKING OF RE-READING

For those who don’t want to re-read anything, I’ve included a “Previously in The Chronicler Saga” section at the beginning of Companion, recapping the events of Construct. This recap is also available HERE, alongside a full preview of the first five chapters of Companion.

ANY QUESTIONS?

First and foremost, check out my interview over at Fantasy Book Critic. This cover reveal and announcement is mirrored over there, but also includes a Q&A session I did with Łukasz Przywóski. I hope you enjoy it.

If you’re looking forward to reading Companion, please take a moment to add it to your “To Read” list over on Goodreads.

If anyone here has anything they want to chat about, y’all can ask me anything on the post over on Reddit r/Fantasy. I’ll be answering all questions I see over the next day or two, so please don’t hesitate to ask if there’s something you want to know.

A lot of authors are embarrassed by their first published works, but I steadfastly refuse to be embarrassed about Construct. I still enjoy reading it. Maybe that’s weird, or deluded, or narcissistic… and I don’t care.

But that certainly doesn’t mean it’s without flaws.

Over the course of writing and editing Companion, I re-read Construct a number of times, and every time I did I’d find a new typo or a clumsy sentence or something that bothered me. As I was doing this I’d highlight those parts on my Kindle and leave myself little notes about what I should change, should I decide to do so. When I was finished editing Companion, I looked back at Construct and I had over 150 notes.

YEESH.

So, I decided to embark on revising Construct and releasing that Revised Edition to coincide with the pre-order period for Companion. The process was surprisingly easy, after all the notes I’d taken while being forced to re-read the book. Most of the time, I left myself great notes that instructed me on exactly what I thought the problem was and how I should fix it. Those edits were great.

Sometimes, though, I’d open up a note and it would just say “Awkward” or “Passive” or “Fix This”, and in those moments I’d curse Past Luke for not spending just a few more moments helping out Future Luke.

I went into this task with one overriding edict: Don’t change the book. Yeah, I know I made dozens of fixes and tweaks, but nothing I did changed anything about the structure or story of Construct. All the changes were individually minor and made at sentence-level, so you won’t find any missing or added paragraphs or completely re-written passages. I wanted the book to, at it’s core, remain the same. First, because I didn’t want to alienate any readers, and second, because I’m damned proud of that book.

In that process I retconned in a few colloquialisms and bits of terminology I used in Companion, to keep the world consistent. For example, the word “kheomancy”, the defining word for magic in the world of The Chronicler Saga, existed in my head and notes while writing Construct, but I didn’t actually put it in the book. I use it quite a bit in Companion, though, so I found a couple of spots in Construct where it fit (where, honestly, I should’ve just used it in the first place).

Fixing typos was an obvious net positive. Tightening the prose in places using the things I’ve learned about the craft since writing Construct helps it flow a little better. And adding in some of that terminology helps keep it consistent with the sequels. All-in-all, I’m extremely happy with the final result.

If you’ve read Construct in the past and don’t want to re-read it, you’re good to go. I don’t think any of the changes here make re-reading a necessity, as it is structurally the exact same story. Plus, I’ve included a “Previously in The Chronicler Saga” section at the front of Companion and HERE, so you can jump right into the new story with minimal fuss.

Going forward, anyone who purchases Construct will get the Revised Edition. If you’ve already purchased the original version via Amazon, it will NOT automatically update on your Kindle (I’m still researching whether it will on Nook or Kobo devices and will update here when I have more info). If you want to update your copy, I’ve included instruction below on how to do that.

Thank you all for your support, and I hope you enjoy the ongoing stories of Samuel, Eriane, and Jacob in Companion!

UPDATING YOUR COPY OF CONSTRUCT ON AMAZON KINDLE DEVICES

NOTE: If you purchase Construct after January 28th, 2021, you’ll already have the Revised Edition of the book, and you won’t need to go through this update process.

1. Log into the primary Amazon account linked to your Kindle device.

2. Navigate to your “My Content & Devices” page.

3. Search for Construct using the search bar.

4. Once Construct is displayed, you should see “Update Available” listed below the book title. Click on that link and follow the prompts to update the book in your Amazon account.

5. Once that process is complete, select the “…” menu to the left of the book title, and select “Deliver to Default Device” to send the new version to your Kindle.

And that’s it! After following these steps, you’ll have the new version of the book.

CHAPTER FIVE

Weeks of convalescence did funny things to Mane’s mind. Of particular fascination for him over his time recuperating were the strange angles, especially in the ceiling beams directly above his bed. Buildings in Morrelton ranged from a bit off-kilter to wildly misshapen, the town as a whole keen on forming a synergy with the surrounding forest by avoiding interference with the natural flora as much as possible. The haphazard shape of the tiny hospital made it a wonder it stood at all.
          Luck stuck with him on the road to Morrelton, when he’d been found unconscious by a small caravan headed for Kelef who’d turned back on account of a section of road destroyed by a rockslide. Balance had been restored, however, when he awoke in a hospital to find his purse and, oddly, his boots missing.
          Hospital may have been too generous a term. The ward comprised seven beds, shoved along off-angle walls as best as they could be arranged. A single adept named Aida operated the entire clinic, with two assistants who acted as nurses in rotating shifts. Aida had done a fine enough job repairing Mane’s broken arm, but exhaustion and dehydration took its toll, and his new body had absorbed more injuries than he originally identified. All of which converged into a longer stay than he desired.
          Not a day went by where Mane didn’t agonize over his plight, alternating between crippling depression and numbing anger over sending the children away. Why hadn’t he simply gone with them? Had he really believed he could defend his cabin against determined intruders? Had his delay been at all beneficial to the children? Stop thinking like that. You made a decision in the moment, and now you have to live with it.
          Guilt and anxiety warred with pragmatism at every moment of his recovery. He was weaker now than he’d been in longer than he could remember. Not only due to injury, but occupying a new body meant he had all the disadvantages of combining two people and none of the benefits. Decades of adeptitude, wiped away. At best, he could hope to relearn through therapy, like learning how to walk again. Any knowledge of his host’s particular adeptitudes—and the training and skill he may have undergone to hone them—died when the ring slammed Mane’s consciousness into this form and evicted its owner. Although Mane felt strong—and oh so young—the transition rendered his lifetime of cultivated adeptitude nearly useless.
          The only advantage he had was the ability to approach his retraining with some foreknowledge. He still understood the basics, in theory and practice, and could adopt an accelerated muddle through the relearning of drawing khet and shaping life energy to his will. In his own mind, he likened his struggle to practicing an instrument again after breaking a hand. At least he wasn’t back to square one.
          Mane sat up and stretched, his healing arm still not back to full mobility. Muscles strained and screamed in both pain and disuse. His ribcage still ached beneath the after-image of a massive, newly fading bruise. Hands on knees, he rose slowly to his feet and attempted to arch his back, only to have his breath stolen by a twinge near his spine. Everything still hurt, and he began to suspect he could no longer remain sedentary.
          As if on cue, Aida stepped into the ward from a door in the far end and strolled over to Mane. “How are we feeling today?” she asked.
          Mane couldn’t help but smirk. “You ask me that question every day. In exactly the same way.”
          Aida nodded. “And you respond in exactly the same way. Must we do this dance before you’ll just tell me how you feel?”
          “Fine,” Mane said. “Better.”
          “That’s good, because I think it’s time I discharge you.”
          Mane suffered an unexpected wave of anxiety at the notion. “Uh…”
          “You can’t stay here forever, Seb.” Seb was the name he’d been given when he was brought to the clinic unconscious, and he accepted it, rightly claiming memory loss. He didn’t know the name belonging to the body he occupied, and giving his real name was clearly out of the question. So, Seb it was.
          “You’re walking without support,” Aida continued, “and your arm is healing nicely. It’s time to go recover back in the world.” She gave a light sigh. “Look, if it were my choice, I’d let you stay until you were back to full capacity. But… we have to keep these beds open.”
          Mane looked around the empty ward and cocked an eyebrow. Aida lowered her eyes. As altruistic as Aida would love to be, Mane had made it clear that he was unable to pay for his treatment. He’d arrived without a Jib to his name—or even a name, for that matter—and Aida’s hospital couldn’t treat him forever.
          “Look,” Aida said. She took up one of his hands in hers. The skin of her hands was soft against the calloused knuckles he hadn’t quite gotten used to. An odd sensation, like wearing thin gloves or touching something with nearly frozen fingers. Wearing another man’s body still didn’t sit well with Mane, but at least he lived. He felt something else there, pressed into his palm. “Take this.”
          Mane turned up his open palm to find two gold Damaks. The money alone would be enough to pay for his entire stay, and now Aida’s good heart practically doubled the expense of his treatment. He attempted to press the coins back into her hand. “I can’t accept that, Aida. You’ve already done enough.”
          Aida did not accept the coins. “Look… Seb,” she said, closing his fingers around the money. “You have no money. You have no name, really. If I send you out that door with nothing but the clothes on your back, you’ll either end up press-ganged into work you probably don’t want, or right back here in a bed again. If not worse.” Aida stepped forward, gently pushing his hand back to his chest.
          “You’ve been a model patient,” she said. “I’m glad we could help you heal, but I’m sorry we couldn’t help restore your memory. So whoever you were, whatever came before this, all of that’s gone now. Take this money, and go make something better.” She smiled and kissed his cheek, then left him to his thoughts.
          Her words struck a hammer-blow to his heart. Aida had no way of knowing Mane’s particular predicament; she was merely referencing his lost memory. There was a chance she had some inkling of his body’s former career just from his style of dress and contextual clues like scars, but nothing specific. Regardless, it brought the sundering of his old life into sharp focus, and it hurt. Two lives—both Mane’s and the brigand’s—had been snuffed out, and neither could be recovered.
          During all of his convalescence, Mane had grand dreams of investigating Samuel’s visions of the Queen Consort’s murder. But what good could he really do, now? With his identity in flux and his adeptitude undermined, he wondered what kind of direct involvement he was even capable of. If the children and Samuel were alive and well, they wouldn’t recognize him, and he had no good way to prove his identity. All his influence as Mane died with his old body, and he had no idea what new reputation he’d inherited.
          He found himself half sitting, half leaning back on his bed, staring at the coins in his hand. His entire net worth now consisted of these two coins, a pack, and a single set of clothing, all of which Aida had supplied alongside his care. A month ago, a couple of Damaks would’ve been an insignificant sum to him. Decades of careful planning and gathering of wealth had built a bubble of security, a place where he could study in peace without financial burden occupying precious thought-space. The cabin had been a virtual vault of not only actual wealth, but of numerous artifacts and constructions as well as incalculably priceless knowledge.
          The only solace Mane could take in the loss of his life’s work was that the despicable cretins who’d tracked down and invaded his home never had the chance to ransack it for the secrets it held, and that he’d taken a few of them out in the explosion. But perhaps if they had been able to loot the place, the mercenaries who’d been hired to support the silver-eyed man’s mission of death may have halted their pursuit, or at least stalled it long enough-
          No. Mane chided himself for thoughts leading nowhere but to a downward spiral he couldn’t afford. He’d spent so much of the last few decades in comparative seclusion and security that he’d grown complacent and overly comfortable. He’d known poverty and frugality once, and it was time to re-learn how to live back in the world. Two Damaks and the clothes on his back would be enough to get a good start as long as he was careful. Just because he couldn’t approach an investigation directly or academically didn’t mean he couldn’t have an impact.
          And he knew exactly where to start.

CHAPTER FOUR

Viewed from afar, Jacob understood the marvel of Balefor, a fortified trade-center crawling up the sides of the low river valley in which it nestled. The enormous Colossus stood atop the main gate arch, its back to the city, a vigilant guard protecting its charge. Layers of mis-matched architecture emanated outward from the city’s central core, a hilltop buried in opulence like a jewel-encrusted sword pommel and unironically dubbed the Diadem.
          On one side, the Diadem tumbled sharply downward, an arc of jagged cliffs terminating in a wide bend in the Carrowan river below. Opposite the river an array of government offices, universities, trade schools, and private residences climbed the slope in layered terraces of increasing ostentation. At the crown stood the Villareth, the heavy-columned rotunda within which operated the seat of the Sovereignty’s legislature.
          At street level, away from the Diadem, Jacob knew a different city. Opulence gave way to austerity which often conceded to destitution. In Jacob’s time away little had changed. For a man of his means and desires Balefor’s street life could prove beneficial, but the city’s reality weighed heavy on the hearts of those hoping for more.
          In his time back he’d secured long-term lodging, renewed many old contacts, left a very important message with a moneylender named Jenner, and begun gently probing for information about the murder of Queen Consort Heliah and the artificer Ezekeal. His nascent investigation had yet to yield any results of substance.
          Although the crime had shaken Baleforean society to its core, it had faded from the general consciousness in the intervening time. Eventually, as facts gave way to gossip, and gossip cycled out of favor, the city settled on a comfortable narrative to weave into the fabric of the city’s history. Another brick in the wall, another memory.
          Jacob knew the truth of it. Samuel told him the story of her murder, seen through the eyes of the construct framed for the crime. Oceans stood between knowing a thing and being able to prove it, though. An act like that wasn’t random, and the odds Bales acted of his own accord were exceedingly thin. Even though Eriane had rid the world of the Queen Consort’s murderer and his partner, the puppeteers still waited, somewhere, likely now wondering who’d cut their strings.
          Tonight, like most of his first few nights back in Balefor, Jacob set about tying up a loose end. For perhaps the first time in his life Jacob had thrown his lot in with something—someone—larger than himself, and it was finally time to leave his old life behind.
          His feet found their way through the city without much intervention on his part. Raucous nightlife spilled into the streets near the Lower Seam, the neighborhood marking the division between the warehouse district backing the riverside docks and the financial district at the base of the Diadem. The celebratory din faded as Jacob followed turns he knew by rote, coming to a stop on a wide but deserted side street several blocks from the core of the Seam. The house before him hadn’t changed since he was a child; a slender, three-story stonework affair sharing walls with the houses to either side, capped by a steeply-angled shake roof. Lamplight fell to the street from the second story while gentle firelight flickered behind the downstairs window.
          Some part of Jacob’s heart had hoped the house would be empty, and he could just move on. His leaden legs carried him to the stoop, his hand hovering before the wide front door without knocking. Last chance to turn away. You don’t need to do this.
          “Yeah,” he whispered to himself, “I really do.”
          A voice called out an unintelligible response after his knock and shuffling sounds emanated from the front before the latch clicked and the door swung inward. The inquiring look on the answering man’s face slipped into a swirl of anger and consternation. He took a deep breath and glanced over his shoulder before sliding out to stand before Jacob, quietly latching the door behind him.
          “What do you want?” he said. The man towered a head taller than Jacob but was similarly slender. His shoulder muscles corded at the base of his neck as though he expected a fight.
          Jacob wasn’t exactly sure what welcome he should’ve expected, and only now realized that this reaction was beneath even his meager hopes. “Hello to you, too, Bren.”
            Bren shook his head and clenched his jaw, pointedly crossing his arms. It had been months since Jacob had seen his brother-in-law, and in that time something about him had grown more intimidating. Their relationship had always been uneasy, but now it felt outright hostile.
          “How is he?” Jacob asked. “And how’s Iri-”
          Bren stepped into Jacob’s space, leaning in close to his face. “Unh uh. No. You don’t get to do that,” Bren said, quiet but forceful. Jacob felt the edge of the stoop unnervingly close to his heels. “Those are not the questions you get to ask. I’m running out of patience, Jacob. Why are you here?”
          A kernel of anger welled up in Jacob’s throat, but he decided to temper his reply. “I have something for him. And Irissa.”
          Bren turned his back on Jacob and put his hand on the door-handle. “Keep it.”
          “For fuck’s sake, Bren,” Jacob said. “I know we’re not on the best of terms, but I’ve only been gone for-”
          “Three years,” Bren said.
          Jacob’s anger melted into confusion. “What?”
          Bren’s shoulders rose and lowered with his steady breath, but he didn’t turn around. “You’ve been away almost three years, Jacob.”
          It felt like only months had passed since Jacob last walked the streets of Balefor. Since he’d had a drink at The Severance, or hustled paduki in the dockside bars. “No,” he said. “It’s only been…” How long had it been?
          Bren scoffed. “And you can’t even remember,” he said.
          “Bren, I’m sorry, I-”
          “I just-” Bren paused and shook his head, lowering his gaze. “I just don’t care, Jacob. I don’t care anymore.”
          Jacob started to speak, but his words caught in his throat and he coughed. “I don’t know what to say.”
          “That’s a first,” Bren said with a smirk which vanished all too quickly. “There’s nothing for you to say, Jacob. You’re not welcome here anymore.”
          Those words cut Jacob to the quick. “That’s not your decision to make.”
          “You left, Jacob,” Bren said. “So yeah, it is my decision. I don’t give a shit where you went or why.” He paused, shrugged. “It’s the same consideration you showed us.”
          “That’s unfair,” Jacob said, his anger rising. “I asked you for help and you turned your back on me. Now, I’m not even asking something of you and you decide it’s time to cut me out without even giving me the chance to fix anything?”
          For a beat, Bren simply stared, grinding his teeth. “I’ve given you every chance I have in me, Jacob, and you’ve repeatedly squandered my good will,” he said. He tried to continue but his voice caught, and he took a deep breath. “You’re burned right I turned you down. You put me in a position where I had no other choice.”
          “No other choice?” Jacob spat. “Oh, that’s perfect. You abandon me and somehow it’s my fault. Exactly how could I have done things differently?”
          Their eyes met and held; Bren’s contempt laid plain. “By being a good brother. A good son. By not gauging the worthiness of every single act in your life by what you’d be owed in return. By asking a question expecting an answer instead of an obligation.”
          Jacob rocked back on his heels, stepping one foot down off the stoop. His breath fluttered, anger and horror fighting to stave off a wave of shame welling up from his chest. They stared for longer than either was comfortable before Bren broke, turning back toward his door. He was almost inside before a spike of fear spurred Jacob on.
          “Wait!”
          Bren stopped and heaved a sigh, his hand still on the door handle. Jacob reached into the satchel at his hip and removed a small rosewood box, its lid bearing a fine inlay of walnut. He stepped forward, holding the box in both hands. “Here,” was all he could manage.
          Bren’s brow crinkled before his eyes widened and he moved back out onto the stoop. Slowly, almost reverently, he took the box from Jacob and held it for several seconds before lifting the lid. Bren’s gasp was exactly the reaction Jacob had hoped for.
          “You found it.”
          “I never really lost it,” Jacob said.
          “We thought you’d sold it. Or traded it,” Bren said.
          Jacob dropped his eyes, that familiar pang of shame rising back up. “I did.”
          “Where…?”
          “Morrelton. I was there a few months ago,” Jacob said. “I took an opportunity, then… some things happened.”
          The box riveted Bren’s attention, his breath fogging in the chill night air. After a time his features softened, and Jacob took it as his cue to speak.
          “Look, Bren.” Now that he’d opened his mouth, he had no idea what to say. “Just give that to Irissa for me, please. Let her decide whether to show Father.”
          Jacob raised his eyes to see Bren’s jaw clenched. In spite of the stony visage, he nodded once before turning back toward his home. He paused at the threshold.
          “This doesn’t change anything, Jacob.”
          Jacob’s heart sank. Bren closed the door.
          “I know,” Jacob said.
          A shuddering breath racked Jacob and he moved forward, placing a hand on the door. From inside the house he heard voices, quiet at first but gaining volume as discussion turned to argument. It was time for him to go, but something rooted him in place, the sounds of the argument giving him the slightest hope of the door opening one more time. The voices died down and footsteps moved toward him. Sudden anxiety escalated to panic, and by the time the door opened again, Jacob was gone, the last dark ribbons of khet dissipating in the night air.
          After an awkward landing on the rooftop opposite, Jacob pulled back into shadow, away from the street. Irissa rushed through the open door, swiveling her head about, scanning the street in both directions, clutching the wooden box to her chest. Tears rolled down her cheeks while she waited, longer than he expected, nearly longer than he could bear.
          Every fiber of Jacob’s being wanted to call out to her, to slip back down to the street and pull his little sister into his arms; to show her he hadn’t abandoned her. But that wasn’t the truth. The more he thought about it, the less he understood his own expectations, and the more his motivations came to light.
          Investigating the Queen Consort’s murder would be the most dangerous outing he’d ever embarked on. Dragging what little family he had left into the fray just wasn’t an option. Responsibility for the welfare of others was never Jacob’s strong suit, but something changed inside him the moment he decided to help Samuel; the moment he decided not to run. As much as it hurt, it was better to leave things this way.
          As Irissa turned back to her home, realization and responsibility provided Jacob thin solace. With one last look, she closed the door.

CHAPTER THREE

Eriane hunkered down in her winter cloak, a scarf around her face like a bandit’s mask. Pare hadn’t said a word to her in days. Their time on the road felt interminable. He trudged alongside her through the chill, boots crunching atop churned ruts of frozen mud. In only his hunting gear and a light green vest, he managed somehow to seem warm despite the heavy mist accompanying each exhale.
          Eriane pulled the scarf away from her face and sniffled, shocking her sinuses with the intake of frozen air. The silence closed in as they walked the empty road.
          “Are we ever going to talk about this?” she asked.
          More silence. Pare maintained his pace, a step ahead of Eriane, without so much as a hitch to acknowledge her question.
          “We can’t just keep going on like this, Pare,” Eriane continued. “You have to talk with me eventually.” She sniffled again. “You have to give me a chance to—”
          With a loud crack!, her foot vanished beneath a sheet of ice into a hole full of viscous, near frozen standing water, bringing her to an abrupt halt. She righted herself and pulled, to no avail. Pare still walked on, several yards ahead.
          “Uh,” Eriane stammered, “I could use a little help here.” She regained her feet, but still couldn’t free herself. Pare kept walking.
          “Pare?” she said. The sound of shifting ice drew her attention. The puddle had already re-frozen, trapping her foot inside. “Hey!”
          Pare stopped twenty yards distant, staring down the forest road. She pulled again, failing to even rotate her ankle as the water solidified around her foot.
          “Pare!” Panic rose up. Invasive cold sank into her leg and crept upward. Her thigh throbbed where it had been broken, sending pain into her hip and knee. Ice formed around her calf and her pant leg froze solid.
          Still no response. Pare stood rooted, stone still but for the gentle rise and fall of his shoulders. Breaths of mist shrouded his head with each exhale and dissipated into the night air. Still he did not turn.
          “Pare, you son of a bitch!” Eriane screamed. She dropped her cloak and unstrung her rucksack, freeing a small hatchet. With frantic strokes she hacked at the ice surrounding her leg, desperate to free herself. “I need you!”
          When she tried to shift her weight, she found her other leg pinned, vines of ice surging upward in small advances every few seconds, pausing between. Her swings grew wild, the ice creeping faster than she could hack free of it. A strong swing stole her breath away, igniting searing pain in her gut that doubled her over, clutching her midsection.
          Blood soaked her gloved hand, seeping from the re-opened wound in her belly. “Pare?” she asked, less pleading than disappointment. Pare’s shoulders rose and he exhaled again. The ice around her legs rose in response. With each breath the ice advanced, encasing her, trapping her. Crimson stained the white crystals around her thighs, pumping out from beneath her clasped fingers.
          “No, Pare,” she whispered. “Please no. Not again. Not like this.”
          Pare turned, eyes downcast. Blood sheathed the lower half of his face, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Steam pumped from his nose like smoke with every angry exhale. Ice clamped down on Eriane’s arms, a clear sheath around her bleeding belly like a crystal goblet full of wine. Tears froze to her cheeks as she cried, stinging her eyes.
          “Pare-” she croaked, little more than a whisper. When she tried to speak again, to yell for Pare’s help, ice at her throat stole away her voice. Her jawbone ached as the cold crept into her skull, pinning her head and locking her gaze to where Pare stood. She sobbed.
          Pare shifted his shoulders, turning his back on her. Tendrils of ice slid around her head, covered her mouth, crept into her nose. Eriane’s lungs burned for lack of breath as another exhale from Pare covered all but her eyes. He turned his head so his gaze met hers, his eyes flashing silver—
          Eriane jolted awake. At some point during the nightmare she’d discarded most of her bedroll and lay exposed to the night air. She wiped half-frozen tears from her cheeks and sat upright, a bit too quickly, and her abdomen screamed in response. Pressing a hand to the scar beside her belly button, she took a few deep breaths and the pain subsided to a dull throb.
          Something brushed her shoulder. “Another nightmare?”
          Eriane started, bolting away from the touch and clutching at the hatchet beside her bedroll before she registered the voice. “By the Vells, Samuel!” she said, wincing as another stabbing pain stole a breath. “How can something so big be so burned quiet?”
          The construct knelt before her, his three-fingered hands raised. Firelight reflected in the burnished metal of his face and arms, and the blue-green glow of his eyes looked for all the world like an expression of worry, set into an immovable copper visage.
          “I didn’t mean to startle you.” Samuel said.
          Eriane shook her head. “What did you expect, sneaking up on me like that?”
          “I wasn’t exactly sneaking,” the construct replied.
          Eriane drew a deep breath and rubbed her eyes. They’d been on the road for what seemed like months, but it had in fact only been a few weeks. Adepts from Kelef cleared the bulk of winter’s snowfall from the pass through the Eastern Range but it still lingered in abundance on trees and undergrowth, early spring still carrying winter’s chill in the mountains. The cold seeping into her bones, exacerbating the near constant pain of her mended leg, made foot travel slow going.
          Without prompting, Samuel tossed her the blanket from her bedroll and stoked up the fire, waving her in close. In the months she had known the construct, he managed to regularly surprise her with little gestures of caring, a stark contrast to her experiences with most of the emotionless automata of his kind. Only one other had shown her the kindness Samuel displayed… but Icariascus was gone now. The thought eroded her calm, recalling her nightmare and stealing her breath. She closed her eyes and huddled into the blanket, wiping a few stray tears in the process.
          They were all gone now. Everyone she’d begun to build her new life with—Mane, Icariascus, Pare—either died or abandoned her. Even her newest acquaintance, a slip thief named Jacob, walked away while she lay comatose, recovering from her injuries.
          Samuel was the only one to stand by her. They both danced around the idea of parting ways, neither willing to endanger the other, both concluding it wasn’t their choice to make. Of anyone she’d ever known, Samuel—an artificial metal hulk—had been the most courageous. He repaid her faith with a loyalty she’d never known, and wasn’t sure she was comfortable with.
          “Do you want to talk about it?” Samuel asked.
          “It was-” Eriane hesitated, her words caught at the sight of Pare’s silver-eyed glare. An unsteady breath couldn’t push the image away, so she shook her head as she exhaled. Samuel’s unblinking stare hovered over her for another moment before he nodded once and returned to tending the fire.
          Eriane’s nerve-calming breaths pulled chill air into her lungs, so she opened her blanket to the fire with the hope of absorbing some more warmth. When her chest and face were almost too hot to bear, she sat back and rummaged through her rucksack. She produced her journal, a leather-bound volume stuffed with all manner of drawings and notes regarding the journey ahead. She pulled a piece of parchment from between the journal’s pages and unfolded it into her lap. Hand-drawn waypoints dotted the map, their destinations marked in red.
          “Are we still on track?” Samuel asked.
          Eriane nodded. “We left with plenty of head start,” she said. “Jo said the SAO agents dispatched by the Sovereignty to investigate Achtemenius’s involvement in the battle wouldn’t reach Kelef for another few weeks due to the road being out.”
          The construct nodded. “What’s next, then?”
          “It’ll take a few more days to get to Fen,” she said, “where we can resupply and I can get a pack for you to carry water. Then we head to Porral.”
          “To see your parents.”
          Eriane still struggled with that idea. In the years since she ran away from home, her entire existence centered around forgetting the parents she’d left behind. They could likely skirt Porral entirely and she’d never have to face the confrontation, but too much of her worried that she’d never get the closure she needed if she didn’t go back, if for no other reason than to assert her independence.
          “To see my parents,” she said, quietly.
          Samuel, seeming to sense her discomfort, changed the subject. “I still don’t see how a water pack is more practical than a harness for me to simply carry you,” he said.
          “I can walk on my own two feet,” Eriane said, perhaps snippier than she intended. “I’m happy for your ability to carry extra water, but I’m not interested in being carried.” She couldn’t deny the appeal of not having to trudge the whole way out, but her pride made the idea of being outright carried distasteful.
          “Fair enough,” Samuel said. “I just hope this Gunsmith person is actually where you think he is.”
          “He will be,” Eriane said, fronting confidence she wasn’t sure she felt. Although many thought him dead, Eriane had found evidence the man she sought, an outcast gunsmith who’d worked directly with the Sovereignty until the assassination of Sovereign Solus and subsequent Sovereignty-wide ban on all firearms, had lived in the Drain ever since shortly after his involuntary exile. Even if she wasn’t completely certain of his location, she was certain of one thing: after Mane’s death, he could be the only person left in the Sovereignty who could help her figure out her ability to control the trajectory of bullets. An adeptitude which should have been, by all knowledge of kheomancy and its interaction with most metals, impossible.
          “Besides,” she said, breaking free of her worry, “even if he’s not there, no one from the SAO will follow us into the Drain, even if our trail leads out there.” She hoped.
          “And then, on to Balefor?” Samuel asked.
          The whole idea of traipsing into Balefor to investigate the Queen Sovereign’s murder terrified her still. “Just like I promised,” she said. “On that note, have you had any more luck—”
          Samuel sat in an awkwardly balanced half-crouch, one metal-clad hand in the firepit to adjust a burning log, unmoving. His dark eyes told her he wasn’t with her. With a sigh she disentangled herself and moved to his side, tipping his whole frame backward to remove his hand from the fire. He sank into an awkward sitting position, half leaned and one arm akimbo.
          “I guess it’s my turn to take watch for a bit, huh?” she asked, knowing there would be no response. Samuel’s encounter with the self-proclaimed construct prophet Acthemenius left him prone to random shut-downs like this as his core attempted to reconcile the hundreds of years of gathered memories Acthemenius forced upon him. Although Samuel endured the Chronicler’s attempt to overwhelm him, and was oddly lucky when the killer Bales intervened, the half-finished process left him with lingering problems. Episodes like this one were thankfully infrequent, but could last hours, with seemingly no rhythm to that interval.
          Eriane’s mouth watered, igniting a sudden craving for tea. She still had some of Jo’s private stash, a strong, black blend with a smoky bite derived from being dried over burning wood chips. She threw off her cloak and pulled a small cookpot from her supplies.
          A creek ambled through the woods not too far from their campsite. As she approached, the gentle sound of the running water brought her full bladder into sharp focus. She undid her trousers and crouched by the stream to relieve herself. After bundling back up, she moved a few steps upstream and dipped her cookpot into the water to fill it.
Eriane made her way back towards camp, guided by the dancing shadows in the low glow of their fire. Trees were sparse on this side of the mountains, so light carried further than through the dense foliage of the woods around Morrelton. The forest was unusually quiet in the pre-dawn darkness as the sounds of the creek faded behind her.
          Within the circle of the campfire’s light, Samuel still leaned at his awkward angle, eyes dark. She paused and shook her head. When the first blackouts hit she’d been frightened, almost panicked at losing him. Experience taught the benignity of it all, and now she struggled to be anything but amused. Someday, she’d commission a painter to render an image of Samuel in one of his fainting poses so he could see how ridiculous he looked.
          Before she could step forward to the fire, a shadow moved behind the frozen construct, punctuated by the snapping of a twig underfoot.
          A man stepped out from behind Samuel, a pistol at his hip leveled at Eriane.

CHAPTER TWO

Insistent, throbbing pain brought Mane part-way back to his senses. Disoriented, he made the mistake of trying to move. What had been a dull ache flared into a spear of pain, driving through his side and up into his shoulder, turning his stomach. His eyes were open but he saw nothing but darkness. Just as he came to understand his blindness, his eyesight adjusted to the nighttime forest.
          His arm lay badly twisted beneath him, bent in places other than the appropriate joints. The sight made him gag and swoon. He laid his head back on the soft forest floor to avoid vomiting. After a few steadying breaths, he re-opened his eyes.
          A wide swath of forest lay open to the night sky above, rimming the ashen crater where his beloved cabin once stood. Oh, his cabin, with all its tricks and wonders, and his construct companion, all gone in the blink of an eye. Living through the explosion—even in someone else’s body—brought with it the worry of other survivors, but all he could do now was hope. Hope that this sacrifice, this minor apocalypse, had not been in vain. Hope that Pare and Eriane were safe.
          Mane shifted painfully to free his broken arm, then took hold of that wrist with his good hand. With three deep breaths and a succession of panicked ones, he sat up. Excruciating pain lit through his arm and threatened to deposit him right back in the dirt. He held firm and stayed upright, cradling the mangled limb. A few more deep breaths and the pain settled back to a dull roar.
          Pain drowned out his sporadic memory and sluggish thoughts. His clothes lay in tatters but still mostly covered him, tears revealing his murderer’s dark brown skin beneath. Although he’d be exposed to the early winter wearing naught but rags, more importantly his boots were still intact.
          He shook away the fugue and tried to focus, drawing khet to at least begin healing his arm. The draw was weak and unfamiliar. His experience still allowed him to raise a bump field with relative ease, but more complex workings would have to wait. Ah well, he’d never had much skill as a kheurgeon, anyway. He’d have to do this the hard way.
          He examined his arm and thought setting the breaks might be possible with one hand, as long as he could stay conscious. He slowly rearranged his broken forearm with numb fingers, trying to get the bone as close to right before having to endure the hard part of actually setting it. Every little movement shot jolts of pain through him, stalling his breath.
          He scooted himself to his right, next to the stump of a tree blasted free by the explosion. Leaning over he braced his twisted elbow between his hip and a jutting root, grabbed his wrist, took a deep breath… and stalled. His jaw locked up and his grinding teeth sent spikes of pain into his temples.
          Mane let out his breath and laid his broken arm carefully across his lap. Never in his life had he experienced pain like this, and he was surprised now to feel it starting to slide away. Fog settled back around his mind and dulled his senses. The intellectual part of him identified the sensation as shock. He fought hard against it, trying to keep his wits about him. With his good hand he managed to fumble his belt loose of his torn trousers, fold it in half, and bite down on it.
          Gripping his wrist once more he pressed his arm between himself and the stump, inhaled sharply, and twisted his arm back into place. And promptly passed out.
          Bitter cold and a bright sky woke him the second time. Luck had never really been on Mane’s side before, but just waking up again was enough to convince him that perhaps that had changed. With some pain and aggravation he found two sticks he could use as a splint, fumbling his belt around them and his arm with his one good hand, then tying it off at his wrist with a strip of torn fabric, cinching the knot with his teeth. He shoved his splinted arm through his torn-up shirt to act as a sling.
          Aside from the broken bones, some blisters and scrapes, and a lot of bruising, Mane’s new body felt intact. Through the chore of simply standing, every muscle and joint sang together in a chorus of protest. Finding balance a foreign concept he stumbled. He couldn’t be sure whether this was a function of adjustment or injury. At this point, the reasoning didn’t matter much.
          Big Sister and Little Blue flew through a small break in the clouds above the treetops, casting a brief, bright ray of light on the devastation. Mane stared in stunned silence across the thirty meter wide crater where his home used to stand.
          What trees had not been vaporized by the explosion had been blasted into the forest. Splinters, broken branches, and logs littered the perimeter of the new clearing. A blanket of grey and brown covered the forest floor, ash and dirt mixing into a slurry as the previous night’s light snowfall melted. The meaty carcass of a former mercenary hung from the branches of a tree at the edge of the circle, but he found no other traces of the people who’d set this destruction in motion. He tried, for a moment, to foster the vain hope they’d been vaporized like the rest of the cabin, but concerns for his own survival banished that thought. As much as he wanted to count this as a win it was, at best, a fleeting victory.
          At the first sign of despair he chided himself. Nothing more could be done to help in his current condition, and he needed to break down his next steps into digestible goals. The first step would be making it to the road. Then, if luck ran his way, all the way back to Morrelton, a place where he could find real help and competent healing. And buy some new clothes.
          He walked to where the crater butted up against a rocky rise in the forest and knelt, thrusting his hand wrist-deep into a cleave near eye level. It took a moment to find his target, and with a muted click a small section of the rockface crumbled, the dust and rock shards falling away and unearthing a small, round cubby from which he withdrew a weather worn leather pouch. It jingled with coin as he stowed it as best he could in his shredded trousers.
          Well, there’s something to be said for preparedness, he thought. Morrelton would be several days walk in his current condition, and he had little choice but to make it. The disadvantages of his sheltered existence became quite apparent.
          The once-hidden trail to his cabin had been hacked wide. The mercenaries must not have wanted to fumble their way out once their task was complete. It made the walk much easier, though, and for that Mane was thankful. It wasn’t long before he came upon the small clearing where one of his defenses had stood, an illusion designed to draw people away from their real goal, had they been searching for his home.
          The illusion would show travelers whatever might sway them from their course, perhaps making them believe their destination was destroyed, or just too difficult to reach. An airy, broken illusion stood now in the clearing. A conglomeration of different imagery, split by shifting blue light, flickered and spat amongst the flowers, a useless binding of khet with no purpose now but to mark the path to where Mane had lost everything. Even himself.
          He closed his eyes and breathed deep. Khet coursed around him, through him, its flow so alien in his new form. Deconstructing the illusion would be more effort than it had taken to build it, and he wasn’t even sure if he could do it without some time to properly adjust. Perhaps leaving the broken illusion intact would further serve his purposes, convincing any more who might come he was dead and gone. As if the giant crater wouldn’t drive that point home.
          Dusk had fallen by the time he reached the Bleeding Pine. He’d gone unmolested by siphils after the clearing, and suspected the breaker had destroyed the bait that kept them near the trail. All the better that they were free, with nothing left to protect.
          Mane stepped out onto the road by the pine and waited, a moment of hope that he might run across a traveler. When snow began to fall, he knew none would come, and settled back into the woods to find a place to rest. He propped himself against the trunk of a tree just outside the Bleeding Pine’s clearing, and took a deep, cleansing breath.
          He began to experiment, feeling through the flow of khet in this unfamiliar body. Every adept had a unique connection to khet, and their own combination of knowledge and talent dictated how they accessed it. The rules governing Mane’s access to the forces around him had been rewritten, but the rulebook was still readable.
          Mane just needed enough access for a simple conjuration, practically a child’s trick. The flow was easy enough to read, but harder to access as he molded his mind into his new body, feeling around the flow as a sculptor might look for shapes in a lump of clay. Understanding formed quickly, but seeing the path and walking it were separate matters. With some effort, he began drawing on his inherent flow, pulling inward in an attempt to contain it.
          His breathing grew ragged. His muscles burned; his head throbbed. Like a wounded man re-learning to walk, all but the smallest effect required monumental effort. His face drew into a pained grimace as he pulled inward, the idea of his goal forming in his mind, coalescing into reality as he solidified his will. A simple cantrip to create a barrier, something to hold in warmth. A basic survival trick. Mane felt as though he were attempting to uproot a tree with his bare hands.
          And then it clicked. As the barrier fell into place he blew out a long breath, wiping sweat from his face. A warm trickle of blood ran over his lip from his nose. Closed off from the elements now, he felt himself warming as though wrapped in a comfy wool blanket. Under the perfect combination of warmth and exhaustion, he faded into sleep once again, only this time by choice.