THE MAN NOTHING COULD HAUNT

By sunrise, eleven guards were dead.

So were nine Hollows.

Aren considered the exchange unfavorable.

Corin considered it miraculous.

“You killed three with your hands.”

“I touched three.”

“They subsequently stopped existing.”

“Hadrik killed two.”

Hadrik sat against a broken wheel, wrapping linen around a bite wound.

“Don’t involve me.”

Lyssa crouched beside a pile of Hollow ash.

She had been studying it for nearly an hour.

“Interesting.”

Corin pointed at her.

“That word should be illegal in places where everyone almost died.”

Seris was stitching Aren’s shoulder.

The needle entered his skin.

Aren did not flinch.

Seris noticed.

“You can react.”

“I am.”

“You're staring at a tree.”

“I dislike the tree.”

“The tree must be devastated.”

Aren glanced at her.

She almost smiled.

Almost.

Then something changed in her expression.

Confusion.

Aren knew the look.

He had seen it repeatedly since the Heart Court.

The Severance working.

Someone spoke with him long enough, fought beside him, perhaps even began to feel something.

Respect.

Concern.

Affection.

Then the magic noticed.

And erased it.

Seris blinked.

Her hand slowed.

Aren looked away first.

“Finish the stitch.”

She did.

When she tied the bandage, her voice had become professionally neutral.

“You’ll live.”

“My condolences.”

Corin appeared beside them.

“You make jokes.”

“Rarely.”

“So the famous Aren Veyr does possess charm.”

“No.”

“Good. I was becoming insecure.”

Hadrik rose.

“We need to move.”

The surviving guard commander had reached the same conclusion.

Lieutenant Pellian—not related to Aren’s old lieutenant—stood near the ruined wagon arguing with two soldiers.

Blackhold lay four days north by road.

Their horses had scattered.

Food was limited.

Three prisoners remained chained at the ankles.

The corpse had not improved its attitude.

Lieutenant Pellian approached.

He looked exhausted.

“You saved my men.”

Aren shrugged.

The lieutenant frowned.

“That means nothing to you?”

“It means eleven others died.”

“I meant saving us.”

Aren met his eyes.

“I know.”

Pellian looked uncomfortable.

Gratitude toward the Severed never lasted.

Aren spared him the effort.

“Unlock us.”

“No.”

“There are more Hollows nearby.”

“You are prisoners.”

“We are also the reason you still possess organs.”

Pellian's jaw tightened.

“The restraints stay.”

Aren walked past him.

Pellian grabbed his arm.

The lieutenant immediately recoiled.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

Touching the Severed was unpleasant.

People described it differently.

Cold.

Silence.

The sense that someone had removed a color from the world.

Pellian released him.

Aren pretended not to notice.

“Blackhold sent no warning about the Hollows,” he said. “Meaning either their signal tower is down or there’s nobody alive to light it.”

Pellian’s face hardened.

“Our orders are to deliver you.”

“To whom?”

“The station commander.”

“If he’s dead?”

“To his replacement.”

“If the replacement is dead?”

Pellian hesitated.

Corin lifted a finger.

“I believe at that point official procedure is to panic.”

Aren crouched beside the road.

Mud held tracks.

Human boots.

Dozens.

Heading south.

Some barefoot.

Some tiny.

Children.

A village had evacuated recently.

Then Aren saw another trail.

Hollows.

Following.

“They're hunting refugees.”

Hadrik knelt beside him.

“How many?”

“Too many.”

Pellian shook his head.

“We proceed north.”

Aren looked up.

“There may be survivors.”

“Our duty is Blackhold.”

“Your duty is the road. The people on it count.”

“My orders—”

“Orders are what frightened men hide inside when decisions become expensive.”

Pellian flushed.

“You are in chains because thirty thousand people died under your command.”

The words landed.

Nobody spoke.

Rainwater dripped from leaves.

Aren rose slowly.

“That is true.”

Pellian seemed surprised.

Perhaps he expected denial.

Aren had stopped denying things months ago.

He carried thirty-one thousand four hundred and six deaths whether they belonged to him or not.

“There were refugees at Orison too,” he said.

Pellian's anger faltered.

Aren looked down the southern road.

“I won’t walk past another column of them.”

“You don’t command here.”

“No.”

Aren pulled against the ankle chain.

“Hadrik?”

The big man sighed.

“Was hoping you'd ask.”

He took the chain in both hands.

Pellian drew his sword.

“Stop.”

Hadrik pulled.

His face reddened.

Metal snapped.

Pellian stared.

Corin lifted both hands.

“I personally remain deeply committed to lawful behavior.”

Lyssa pointed.

“You stole the lieutenant's keys.”

Corin looked offended.

“I borrowed them.”

Pellian touched his belt.

The keys were gone.

Seris closed her medical case.

“I’m going with them.”

Pellian looked at her.

“Why?”

“There may be wounded.”

“You are sentenced prisoners.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

Seris frowned.

“And wounded people are wounded.”

The simplicity of it silenced him.

Aren began walking south.

After ten steps Corin joined him.

“Just to be clear, I am not motivated by heroism.”

“Of course.”

“I dislike refugees.”

“Naturally.”

“Children especially.”

“Monstrous.”

“They touch things.”

Aren glanced at him.

Corin sighed.

“My younger brother was eight when the winter plague came through Eastmarket.”

Aren said nothing.

“He would be twenty now.”

They continued walking.

Hadrik followed.

Lyssa hurried after them, muttering calculations.

Seris came last.

After perhaps thirty seconds Lieutenant Pellian swore.

“Move!”

The remaining soldiers followed.

Aren did not smile.

But something inside him loosened.

They found the refugees three miles away.

Or what remained of them.

A cart had overturned in a ravine.

Bodies lay along the road.

Some dead.

Some pretending.

Aren lifted a hand.

Everyone stopped.

No Hollow in sight.

That was worse.

A child crawled from beneath the cart.

A little girl.

Maybe six.

Blood covered one side of her face.

She saw the soldiers.

Then Aren.

“Please.”

Seris moved.

Aren caught her wrist.

She stiffened.

“What?”

“Listen.”

Silence.

Wind.

A crying child.

Nothing else.

Aren studied the trees.

“Hollows don't leave food.”

The girl began sobbing.

“Please help me.”

Seris whispered, “She's hurt.”

Aren watched the child.

“What’s your name?”

“Ena.”

“Where is your mother?”

The girl pointed toward a woman lying face-down near the ditch.

“Dead.”

Aren’s stomach tightened.

“How?”

“The monsters.”

“How many?”

“I don't know.”

“Ena.”

Her crying stopped.

Too quickly.

Aren felt the absence then.

The wrongness.

He looked at the dead bodies.

No flies.

No ravens.

No scent of blood.

Illusion.

“Back.”

The road erupted.

Hands burst from the mud.

Not Hollows.

Something worse.

Grievers.

Humans whose bonds had been consumed until only longing remained.

They clawed upward by the dozens.

The little girl smiled.

Her mouth split to her ears.

Pellian screamed an order.

Heartsteel ignited in the soldiers' hands.

Gold light filled the road.

Every Griever turned toward it.

Aren understood immediately.

“Put the swords out!”

No one listened.

The creatures rushed the light.

Hadrik swung his broken chain.

Corin vanished behind a cart.

Lyssa began drawing.

Seris dragged an injured soldier away.

Aren ran toward the little girl.

The false child tilted its head.

“You're empty.”

“No.”

It sniffed him.

“You have no one.”

Aren stopped in front of it.

That sentence should have hurt.

Instead he smiled.

“I have everyone.”

The creature frowned.

Aren drove his fist through its chest.

Blackness exploded outward.

The illusion shattered.

There had never been refugees.

Only clothing.

Carts.

Bones.

The Grievers shrieked.

And for one impossible heartbeat Aren saw threads pouring from his hand.

Not gold.

Black.

Severed strands.

Dead connections.

They wrapped around the creature.

Lyssa screamed his name.

Not in fear.

Discovery.

“Aren!”

He turned.

She pointed at his hand.

“You're not without Resonance.”

Black fire crawled over his fingers.

The creatures backed away.

Lyssa’s face had gone pale.

“You're carrying the negative space.”

Aren stared at her.

“What?”

“When a bond is cut, the connection disappears, but the shape it occupied remains.”

She looked almost terrified.

“You aren't empty.”

The black fire rose.

“You are made of everything they took away.”