Ilya awoke like a scabbed wound cracking open, an oppressive half-sleep splitting suddenly into hot pain. His thoughts were slow and clouded, and his whole body ached. Where was he? He lifted his head, and instantly regretted it as pain jolted through his skull.

However long he’d been unconscious, his body remained spent. His throat was dry and his muscles sore, as if he’d been thrashing in his sleep. He must have been on his knees for some length of time, as the chill of the stone had seeped into his legs and his kneecaps protested under his weight. It hardly compared, however, to the hot pain radiating from his left palm and up through his arm. He lifted it to check for blood, and found instead an enigma, crackling white-green in place of where calloused flesh should have been.

Perhaps of more immediate importance were the manacles clamped around his wrists. The chains clanked as he stirred, but the circle of raised swords gleaming in the firelight deterred any further movement. The dungeon stank of sweat and dust, but he could make out little else.

The thing on his hand suddenly… snarled, the eerie light crackling like a fire over kindling. The pain was searing and sudden enough to make him cry out softly, a sound he quickly bit back between gritted teeth.

“He’s awake,” came a nervous voice, muffled behind the heavy wooden door.

What in the world had happened? The last thing Ilya remembered was… was what? A fever dream, filled with formless, hissing shadows, an outstretched hand glowing bright as the moons, the taste of soot on his tongue… He had been at the Conclave, had he not? He’d arrived the week prior with the mercenary company he’d joined up with. He had some sense that the appointed day had arrived, but when he tried to remember that morning, his memory grew hopelessly murky.

“Inform Seeker Pentaghast at once.” Another voice. The name widened the pit of dread forming in his stomach. He had never met the Right Hand of the Divine, but he knew her reputation well from his years among the Nevarran nobility. Hers were not the *worst* clutches in which to find himself, but the thought was not a cheerful one. What was the brand on his hand, then — Seeker magic? And what sort of crime would merit *her* involvement? (The same sort that would merit a dozen swords pointed at a chained and kneeling man, he supposed.)

“Where —” Ilya found his voice hoarse and dry, and had to clear his throat to continue. “Where am I?”

“Shut it,” one of the guards snapped. “Murdering bastard.”

Ah, so that was the charge. Still, he felt only more puzzled: why would he have killed someone here?