Thirteen bowed his head wordlessly, but stayed where he was. There was a short pause, and then the soft clink of chain-links sounded out as he shifted slightly, drawing his new Keeper’s attention to the manacles binding his wrists.

“Oh,” Cyra mumbled, flushing as she realized that she had completely forgotten about Thirteen’s restraints, which obviously had to be removed in order for him to lead her back to the surface. “I’m sorry. Where can I find the key for that?”

In a strangely mechanical gesture, Thirteen raised one hand and pointed a clawed finger towards the table beside the cage. A decrepit old volume rested upon its smooth oaken surface, partially concealing the tiny silver key that poked out from beneath it. Moving over and shifting the book to one side, Cyra snatched up the little piece of metal. Then, on impulse, she gingerly lifted the journal for a closer look, wrinkling her nose at the faint but unpleasant smell of dust and mildew that rose from it.

The tome was a truly ancient-looking thing. Its dog-eared pages seemed on the verge of falling out, and the grubby cover of black leather was in no better shape, covered in burn-marks and a dark stain that looked horribly like blood. With a shiver, Cyra shifted her fingers so that they were not touching the red-brown splatters. Turning the book over in her hands, she found the numeral ‘XIII’ embossed in faded silver upon the front.

It must be about Thirteen.

The Apprentice shot a swift look towards the boy on the platform. Perhaps the book would tell her more about the enigmatic, golden-eyed youth. Cyra decided to keep it. Grimacing slightly, she stuffed the filthy object down the front of her robes so that she wouldn’t lose it before heading back towards Thirteen.

The black-winged boy was waiting patiently for her, and as she approached he raised his manacled wrists stiffly in front of him. His steely talons glinted unnaturally under the harsh light of the magical torches, and Cyra couldn’t help but stop in her tracks at the threatening sight. As docile as Thirteen seemed to be at the moment, she was still reluctant to come within range of those tearing claws, especially after witnessing them slice through solid stone like hot knives through butter.

Nervously, she glanced up into Thirteen’s face. His expression was as apathetic as ever, but there was something in that strange gaze that set alarm bells ringing in her head. Frowning, Cyra tried to pinpoint the source of her apprehension, but it eluded her grasp. Perhaps her last command hadn’t been correct?

“Thirteen? Just now… what did I ask you to do again?”

“You commanded me to get you out of the hideout.”

There it was again – that insistent, nagging prickle of unease. Some sixth sense was tugging tauntingly at her thoughts, telling her that something was wrong. But what could it be? Her order had been as normal as any could get. So why did she feel like she had forgotten something?

The answer hit her in a revelation that chilled her to the core.

“I told you to get me out of the hideout. But I never mentioned anything about getting me out safely, did I? So… it wouldn’t matter to you if I was just a dead body by the time you got me out, because, technically, you’d still have done what I told you to do. Isn’t that right?”

“It is.”

Cyra suddenly felt sick.

“Then… were you going to kill me the moment I took off those chains?” she whispered.

Thirteen’s face remained completely blank, but she could have sworn that he was about to smile. A single word fell from his lips to hang in the air between them.

“Yes.”

It was frightful to hear that word spoken so calmly, so detachedly. Frightful, because it made her realize exactly what the boy she’d allied herself with was capable of. Thirteen was no mindless automaton. Behind his deceptively blank façade lurked a sentient and dangerously intelligent mind, a mind without a shred of conscience or mercy. He murdered in cold blood, without remorse, and he didn’t care which side his victims were on. After all, Cyra would have helped him escape, and yet, he had been knowingly and deliberately planning to slaughter her all the while. Killing was his sole intent. He had come a hair’s breadth from succeeding this time, and there was no question as to whether or not he’d try again if given the chance. There was also no question as to whether or not he would succeed if he did try.

The question was: what was she going to do, now that she knew what she was dealing with?

Cyra shook her head regretfully. Despite Thirteen’s murderous nature, she had found herself pitying the feral youth for the inhumane treatment he had suffered at the hands of the so-called ‘Order’. She had hoped that they could be friends. She had wanted to trust Thirteen. But he wasn’t going to make that possible.

Still, Cyra had come too far to simply roll over and die.

“Thirteen... I understand that it doesn’t matter to you, but I want you to know that I’m on your side. I want to help you,” she said sadly. “If you’re going to try and kill me anyway, so be it. But I’m not going to give you a chance. I’m not going to make a mistake like that again.”

The agitated thud of heavy boots echoed down the corridor in a discordant rumble as a group of six strode by, weapons drawn and faces grim. Out of their number, four were Order guards, as ascertained by the stiff black and green uniforms they wore. In their midst were the two Renegades who had brought Cyra in earlier that night. The duo was looking distinctly the worse for their little encounter with the Apprentice’s magic. Their robes, crumpled and blackened with spell-fire, were a stark contrast against the crisp attire of the men who accompanied them. Both had a few rather nasty bruises, and Uthar appeared to be having trouble keeping pace with the brisk march of the Order guards due to a pronounced limp.

“Damn that little wench!” Beros growled, mutinously fingering the charred and shriveled thread-ends around a hole in his robes, where a large patch of the material had been scorched away entirely. “Just you wait till I get my hands on ‘er. Gonna kill ‘er nice and slow, I am. I’ll-” he paused, seemingly trying to come up with a sufficiently brutal punishment, before opening his mouth to continue. Before he could carry on with his description, however, he was interrupted by the curt and somewhat irritated voice of one of the Order guards.

“No sign of the girl, Mage,” the man stated flatly, his pointed face puckered into a dubious frown. “If she was anywhere in this wing, the other patrols would’ve picked her up by now. Are you sure she went this way?”

“Dead sure,” Uthar stated resolutely. “Chased ‘er all the way down ‘ere, we did. And then she made a turn that-a-way an’ we lost ‘er right after- …did you ‘ear that?”

In unison, six heads turned to listen as a thin, high-pitched, and obviously feminine shriek rung out from the corridor Uthar had indicated. A split second later, a black-and-silver blur exploded from around the bend, hurtling right into their midst. With a thrill of horror, Beros recognized the black wings, pewter hair, and unmistakable golden eyes. It was Experiment Thirteen. And clinging to his back for dear life was the girl his patrol had been sent after.

Before they could defend themselves, before they could even react, the men were under attack.

The raven wings sliced downward, cleaving the air like twin bolts of black lightning. The first two guards in Thirteen’s way were literally torn apart as the deadly feathers found their mark, slashing through flesh and bone like a storm of obsidian blades. A third fell screaming, clutching the bloody stump where his left arm had been. With a second beat of his now bloodstained wings, the silver-haired menace surged past the injured man, heading up the passage with his passenger in tow. Now Beros, Uthar, and the fourth guard were directly in his path.

Beros saw the gleaming claws point in his direction. Instinctively diving for cover, he hit the floor and rolled as a stream of white fire roared overhead, right where he’d been a second ago. There was a searing explosion of light as the magical attack hit the wall, blasting huge chunks out of the stone and turning the entire section of the wall red-hot. Fires flared to life, and waves of blistering heat rolled from the point of impact, causing the air to shimmer as though in an oven. In seconds, the corridor had turned into an inferno.

Struggling to his hands and knees, Beros looked up just in time to see Thirteen leap over him like he was merely a log on the ground. The fourth guard had barely raised his sword when the outstretched talons, wreathed in flame, sank into his abdomen and burst out from the other side like some hideous growth. Fatally wounded, the man scrabbled weakly against his killer, blood dribbling down his chin. Uthar, with a yell of fear and anger, drew his dagger from his belt and hurled it at Thirteen. The golden-eyed youth jerked sideways, but the weight of the man he had impaled slowed him down, and the dagger struck, drawing a line of red across his upper arm.

The Renegade, too experienced to let up once a blow had been struck, immediately followed the thrown blade with a magical assault.

“Die, freak!” he cried, a wild glint shining in his eyes.

In one swift movement, his opponent wrenched his arm from the guard’s stomach and held him up, using the human’s body as a shield. The spell struck the dying man in the chest, instantly finishing him off. As the sickening stench of charred flesh filled the air, Thirteen carelessly flung the corpse to one side before leaping at Uthar with all the grace of a pouncing tiger. Desperately, the Renegade tried to use his sword to ward off his attacker, but to no avail. One clawed hand reached out and seized hold of the weapon by the hilt, ripping it from his grasp. The other caught him in the face and smashed his head into the wall, shattering his skull in a spray of blood.

In seconds, the patrol of six men had been reduced to two.

Crouched in a huddled heap on the ground, Beros could only stare in dumb horror at the carnage before his eyes. Corpses of men lay strewn about like discarded toys, their limbs splayed in unnatural positions. Blood was everywhere – dripping from the walls like red paint on canvas, oozing from still-warm bodies, and gleaming wetly on the floor. Burning rubble fell from the damaged ceiling, and fire swirled and crackled up the walls, so that the corridor seemed to be a tunnel of flame. And at the nexus, the eye of the storm, was Thirteen. Crimson coated his arms to the elbows and dripped from his dark wings – wings that shadowed the passage like an eclipse, a stark slash of black against the fire-brightened whiteness. His hair and clothes were flecked with red.

The Renegade’s heart failed him. With a moan of terror, he scrambled backwards, his only thought to get away from the blood-drenched form of his soon-to-be killer.

But, miraculously, Thirteen never turned back to finish what he had started. Some other purpose held him in thrall, and the two survivors, no longer obstacles in his path, were ignored completely. His vast wings arced overhead, churning the air to a fury. And then, like a hurricane, he was off, hurtling down the fiery passageway at a speed no human could hope to achieve.

From a distance, the thin, plaintive wail of the Order’s alarm sounded, drowning out the sound of fading wingbeats.

Cyra never thought a real battle would be like this.

Minutes ago, she had carefully rephrased her command, freed Thirteen from his chains, and led him out of the double-locked room. It had been considerably harder to pass the rune-warded doors for the second time – presumably because the exhausting mental battle with Thirteen had sapped her strength – and the effort had left her drained and dizzy. But just as she had begun to wonder how she was going to follow Thirteen all the way to the exit without fainting, he had, without warning, picked her up and hoisted her onto his back. Cyra had only barely registered the whoosh of his wings unfurling before he’d sprung into the air, causing her to screech in shock and clutch at his shirt for balance. The few seconds that followed were a windswept blur of inhuman swiftness and jarring turns and pounding wings, and the horrible feeling that she was going to fall and break her neck. And then…

… And then, all of a sudden, there had been blood.

So fast. Too fast. A flash of black, a splash of red across her vision, and two had fallen. Cyra had felt their hot blood splatter across her face. Before her eyes, the world had erupted in a storm of fire. Flames had leapt from the walls and rained from the ceiling. Flames had blazed from Thirteen’s talons as they ripped through flesh and bone. When he’d killed the third one, she had been close enough to hear rattle of the man’s dying breath, and see the wide eyes glaze over as life fled from behind the open lids.

She had buried her face in Thirteen’s shoulder and closed her eyes, hoping to shut it all out. But though she could no longer see the bloodshed, she could not blot out the screams, or the feel of blood trickling down her face.

The nightmare continued. Yells of terror and pain lanced through the burning air. Arrows hissed by inches away, and the sharp clash of weapons rang out again and again. Cyra winced as something – probably a staff or the hilt of a sword – struck Thirteen with a dull thud, causing him to jerk back momentarily. A split second later, he recovered and lunged forward, and a sudden spray of blood, accompanied by a choking gurgle, told Cyra that he had taken care of whoever had tried to hurt him.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, it all stopped. Sounds of slaughter died away, to be replaced with the soft rustle of leaves in the wind, and the clear songs of birds in the trees. The overpowering reek of blood and death gave way to the gentle, earthy fragrance of soil and dew. Thirteen’s jarring charges and evasive maneuvers ceased entirely, and his erratic wingbeats evened out into a steadier rhythm.

Cyra opened her eyes.

Thirteen was flying over the sprawling forest of Sarden. Beneath them lay an uneven landscape of darkened treetops, broken only by gaps in the canopy of leaves through which glimpses of the forest floor could be seen. Ahead, the sky stretched on in every direction, blocked only by the towering mountains that loomed to the north. It was still dark, but on the eastern horizon, the first hues of peach and magenta – promises of a glorious sunrise – were beginning to show. In the feeble light, Cyra could just make out the distinctive shape of the Mage Academy’s twin spires jutting out from amid a cluster of smaller buildings. A mile to the west of the two columns, the shadowy line of the city’s outer wall snaked away into the distance.

Home sweet home. Never in her life had Cyra seen such a welcome sight.

The Apprentice gave Thirteen’s shoulder a grateful squeeze, silently thanking him for getting her out of a situation she’d never thought she’d survive. To her shock, her hand came away damp with what could only be blood. With a start, Cyra remembered the knife wound Thirteen had received from one of the Renegades, and cursed herself for having let the chaos of battle drive that piece of information out of her mind. Leaning forward to examine the cut, she found that it was bleeding freely, soaking Thirteen’s sleeve and sending tiny red droplets spiraling downwards to land on the leaves below. The gash wasn’t particularly serious, but traveling at such a fast pace with an injury like that would surely take its toll on Thirteen. So why wasn’t he slowing down, or even taking notice of his wound, for that matter? Was he was unable to disobey her modified order – to bring them both to the city, alive, and as quickly as possible – even if it meant compromising his own health?

“Take us down, Thirteen,” Cyra said, her voice shaking – whether with horror at Thirteen’s plight or rage at those who had made him this way, she did not know. “I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

Obligingly, the gray-haired youth allowed himself to descend, his wings flexing subtly as he wove between the branches that rose to meet them. Landing noiselessly as a cat on the forest floor, he waited for Cyra to slide off his back before folding his wings, the razor-edged feathers sliding over one another like so many interlocking blades.

They were standing in a clearing – ironically, the very same clearing where Cyra had been caught by the Renegades. The corpse of the man in the white coat still lay where it had been unceremoniously dumped from the wheelbarrow, and Cyra shot the lamentable thing a dirty look, as if blaming it for all the trouble she’d been through.

“If it wasn’t for this man, we both wouldn’t be here now,” she informed Thirteen conspiratorially.

No response.

“Well, I guess it doesn’t matter to you anyway.” A long-suffering sigh escaped her lips. “Let’s take a look at that wound of yours, shall we? Hold out one of your hands.”

Stretching the fabric of her left sleeve tightly, Cyra gingerly took hold of Thirteen’s proffered hand and brought one of his talons down upon it. With a ripping sound, the claw made a tiny cut in the navy-blue cloth. Working along the incision, Cyra tore a long strip of material away from the sleeve. Next, she wound the makeshift bandage securely about the gash in Thirteen’s upper arm, finally finishing the job off with a tasteful butterfly knot.

“There.” Taking a step back, the teenager put both hands on her hips and proudly admired her handiwork. “Quite a sloppy job, but it’ll do till we can get Gran to bandage it up properly.”

And speaking of Gran… I wonder what she’ll do when she sees Thirteen? Cyra wondered. As if in response, the image of the plump old lady shrieking and attempting to attack Thirteen with a frying pan popped into her head, causing her to cringe. Her foster parent – or was ‘foster grandparent’ a more appropriate word for ancient Mrs. Friday? – was one of the nicest and most caring people she knew, but surely even maternal kindness didn’t extend to psychotic, homicidal, inhuman beings with way too many sharp edges?

Cyra shook her head dejectedly at the thought, but decided to cross that bridge when she came to it. With a sigh, she bullied her aching frame into motion and began the slow trudge forward, stumbling slightly in her weariness. Thirteen, silent as a specter, immediately fell into step next to her, his booted feet making not the slightest imprint against the leaf-strewn ground. Unlike Cyra, he didn’t seem to be in the least bit tired – and if he was, he wasn’t showing it.

Cyra decided to check, just in case.

“Thirteen, would you like to rest?” she asked tentatively. “You must be tired.”

For the second time since their meeting, the barest trace of puzzlement made its way into Thirteen’s masklike visage.

“I cannot answer your inquiry,” he stated.

Cyra frowned, nonplussed. That was the exact same reply she had gotten back when she had asked Thirteen if he would help her. For a moment, she wondered whether there was some sort of similarity between the two questions, but dismissed the issue as unimportant in favour of a second attempt at getting Thirteen to answer her.

“I said the wrong thing again, huh? Okay, then. Try this one. Er…” There was a short pause. “… Do you need to rest so that you won’t exhaust yourself?”

“No.”

“Oh. Okay.”

They walked on for a while in uncomfortable silence. Cyra, feeling extremely awkward with the lack of conversation – or even acknowledgement of her existence, for that matter – contented herself by taking occasional sideways glances at Thirteen. His actions were quiet, almost measured, but it was impossible to mistake the raw power lurking just beneath the surface, waiting to be called forth. She could see it in the way he walked. There was a flowing, sinuous quality in his strides – an almost reptilian grace – that was at once elegant and frightening. It reminded one of a snake about to strike. And then, of course, there was the way his beautiful gray hair streamed behind him, and the way those unnaturally vivid golden eyes seemed to shine in the dark, and…

Wait, wait, wait. Stop right there!

A rosy blush bloomed over Cyra’s cheeks as she realized that her ‘occasional sideways glances’ had somehow evolved into a rather glassy-eyed stare. She quickly looked away, and as she did, a familiar sight caught her eye. Winding through the trees ahead was the old forest trail, a narrow line of russet-coloured dust festooned with trails of ivy and framed on either side by fallen leaves and clumps of grass. Following that path, they would eventually come to a wider carriage-road that would lead them to the city. They would be home in less than half an hour.

“We’re almost there, Thirteen!” she exclaimed, an uncontrollable grin making its way onto her face.

And then, something entirely unexpected happened. Someone – someone who was not Thirteen – answered her.

“It’s as you say, human girl,” a sweet voice tinkled from somewhere above, “Almost there. You’re certainly better than we gave you credit for.”

Heart hammering, Cyra looked up.

Perched nimbly on a branch and gazing down at them was none other than Enyo. Her exquisite snowy wings were poised for flight, and her tail swished softly in anticipation. In one hand, she gripped a silver-bladed scythe, and her slim fingers tapped slowly against its wooden shaft, as if she simply couldn’t wait to use the weapon. Tilting her head coyly to one side, she let out a silvery giggle, amusement gleaming in her strawberry-pink eyes. Streams of cloud-white hair rippled and fluttered in the breeze, and a few stray strands fell forward over her porcelain features. In a strangely girlish gesture, she reached up and tucked them behind her ear. Her rosy lips curved upwards in an angelic smile.

“Too bad it all ends here,” she purred.