I didn’t feel the cold—not in the same way. The chill lingered on my hands, dusted the carapace of my spider limbs, but it didn’t penetrate. Not even with the wind as I ran, kicking off trees, circling the mountain.

  That single strand of conjured silk had only touched the surface. Eventually, I stopped running—when I’d made it to the opposite side of the mountain from Azalea and the cave and subversive thoughts. On this side, the valley trapped chill air and the metallic tang of damp rock. The mountains forming the border with the North towered ahead like jagged teeth, pale and gleaming in the afternoon light.

  Moving half on instinct, I climbed toward the edge of the treeline and alighted upon a jutting stone. In an instant, I knew I couldn’t meditate. Too many chaotic thoughts swirled around my head and my spider limbs twitched behind me, restless.

  Most unnervingly, the loudest thought was Azalea’s suggestion that I could be something other than what I’d been born to be. Abominable as it was, I couldn’t get the idea out of my head. So much of my work was navigating bureaucracy, and it would hardly lessen once I was duke.

  Perhaps an identity? Some way to take direct action.

  Twilight had fallen by the time I’d settled my thoughts. Azalea would be fine for the evening without me.

  Just barely, I slipped back into my Garden. Cultivating as a demon was almost entirely different from divine cultivation, except for one fundamental: the collection of vitae and growth of power through it.

  I was a Graystone, and I had made my personal reputation one of precision and technique. My Garden would be orderly, organized, and efficient. The power I had, provided I could pass as my old self through some technique or another, would be sufficient for now.

  The last piece of the puzzle was the understanding of my body’s place in the Garden, or rather that my body was the garden. The Divine Tree was a construct used to house stored vitae and allow for the evolution and reconstruction of the human body to channel it and store more as one grew it.

  As a demon, I grew my body directly. Perhaps in time I could shape my form more than simple strengthening and purification. By my estimation, I was somewhere between First Ring and Second Ring. To a non-cultivator, a fallow as some like to call them, I would be a terrifying presence.

  But I would be far from unkillable.

  And to a cultivator of Second Ring, I would stand little chance of survival. To Third Ring and higher? I would be, well, nothing more than an insignificant spider in a direct fight.

  And the three weeks I had here, even with continued effort, would not be enough to change that, to disguise what I’d become. I’d need to find some sort of solution before then, or potentially ask Azalea to inform my family of extended isolation training.

  Which meant working with her. Despite my new form, the chill of evening was settling into my bones, and I knew I would get no more done without at least resting my mind. When I stirred, however, I spotted a thin trail of smoke at the edge of my vision.

  Someone was out here—and no one should be out here.

  From down near the base of the mountain, curling, dark wisps rose into the sky, almost invisible in the dark. My sight’s better. I knew that, of course, but without experiencing it, it’s difficult to imagine. Though the extra range granted by more eyes was even more difficult to articulate.

  Those extra eyes, and my eight new limbs, proposed a problem. Whoever was out here I wouldn’t be able to have a polite conversation with. Not that I saw such an outcome—Father would have told me were anyone scheduled to visit this mountain or the valleys below.

  Words simply taught what blades could never hope to. For all the claims of knowing someone intimately through their swordsmanship, such a thing would only be possible between those who cared enough to invest themselves into their martial ability.

  For most, a sword was a tool. And learning that it was a tool would do little to understand the motive of why that came to be. Poaching here would be dangerous, but not impossible, and no one knew of the mountain’s secret but a select few in my family.

  And Azalea apparently.

  I couldn’t shake an ominous feeling as I stared down into the dark forest. She’d not have told anyone on purpose, but she’d found out from somewhere what was here. And this was the same side of the mountain as the prison, though far from the path.

  Despite the distance between myself and the smoke, I kept quiet as I moved up and into the trees. My demonic form was becoming familiar unnervingly quickly, and I marveled at just how silent I was as I moved through the trees with a dozen limbs.

  The smoke led to a sharp-edged valley cut through by a stream. I stopped in a tree near the edge, trading chitinous limbs for sharp-nailed hands and feet.

  Instead of a cookfire attended by poachers, several ramshackle buildings huddled against the sides of the narrow, sharp valley. From above, they would be almost invisible. Indeed, the smoke I saw came from an open window rather than a chimney.

  Whatever was here was purposefully hidden, and permanent. As carefully as I could, I pulled into the canopy’s shadows, thankful for the cover of early night. There were two buildings, each abutting the ravine’s far wall, and a few sheds. More dark openings—either doorways or tunnels—dotted the sides. A narrow path ran up towards a tumbling waterfall and a dark opening. Near this upper end, a large shed—with a sod and bush covered roof—spewed a pair of thin rail lines that twisted away into mine entrance.

  An illegal mine, but why here? Why this mountain? And how? This place was remote, dangerous, and under strict control of my family. Nausea crept up my throat as I narrowed the list of people whose inattention—or corruption—could make this possible. Powerful, all of them. Family, most of them.

  Even more worryingly, I heard no sound from the buildings below. Not in the sense of abandonment—I heard literally nothing but the rush of water. One was clearly a bunkhouse for workers and the other… the foreman’s office and quarters maybe? It looked small.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Acutely, I realized how unprepared I was. I barely knew how to move, let alone what techniques I could utilize. Throwing needles would still work—did I have my own venom? Despite only using it once, I felt confident with my silk, like it was a style unto itself.

  Not that I was planning to fight, but no sound… no smoke…

  I jumped out of the tree an instant before it exploded into splinters.

  Three needles, the fourth caught on my too-long hem. Miss, miss—there! The needle glinted as it spun wildly away and I kicked off the ground just in time to dodge—

  Pain tore through one of my spider limbs—too slow to get out of the way. Then nothing: severed, bleeding.

  How. Dare. They!

  How dare they! Howdarehteyhowdaretheyhowdarethey!

  Branches, grass, trees. Knife, needle. Pain.

  I landed in my garden on one side, shoulder digging into soft earth as I rolled to a stop. Branches twisted out of place, growth sprouted out of turn, the path swallowed, and vines pulled me toward the spiraling mass of overgrowth. Black nails tore grooves in the earth, and they didn’t even slow me down. Through the last hole in the growth, I could see a sliver of pulsating, blood-red sky.

  I’d fought stubbornness before. Not the kind of obstinance that stems from ignorance or overestimation of one’s ability or even from age. The kind that only comes from a willful disregard of reality such as to serve a desired end.

  You can’t fight that. You don’t fight that. If the opposing side’s view only exists for a singular purpose regardless of everything else, well…

  You direct it. Their goal is better served by your agenda.

  All the better when I wanted to kill whoever was trying to kill me too.

  One shining thread of silk pulled at the tide, willing light down through the mass above. But it wasn’t enough. I didn’t have enough power to give spark to the vision in my mind’s eye. In rage, I hissed, even as a red-tinged clarity rippled through my Garden.

  There was a source of oh so much power right in front of me. Just one bite. Just one bite, I thought as the garden faded before me. My hissing pulled me back, jaws open, fangs out, eyes searching the autumn leaves for the threat. Like a blur, they were on me.

  One leg parried, barely. Another shot forward, tearing robes and meeting flesh as unyielding as steel. Before I could even think about how dead I was, my body threw itself backwards on seven instinctual limbs, and I got a good look at my assailant.

  Dark brown hair, short on the sides and top feathered. Pale tan eyes, a mask under the nose. Throwing daggers in twitching hands—the twitch was familiar.

  “You’re unusual for a demon,” he drawled, taking a casual step toward me.

  I knew the voice. Kobel, newly Third Ring, from the same sect as me. And I wasn’t enough of a fool to think he was here to stop this mining operation. For a flash of a moment, I actually worried he’d recognize me.

  Not that it’d matter either way. Each ring was an order of magnitude stronger than the last and I knew whatever I was now wouldn’t even match up with Second. I was weaker, slower, unfamiliar with my body, nearly out of needles, and who knew what support Kobel might have. Vitae suffused my body like I’d never felt before, and I knew it was draining quickly.

  How do I not die? Trick, misdirect, bite—the only way.

  For a long, tense moment he studied me. “Tell me what you’re doing here, and who you serve, and I’ll give you a quick death.”

  An obvious lie—he’s digging for information.

  “Lord Obsidian,” I spat, using the long-stricken name of the impaled demon up the mountain. It wasn’t hard to add a sneer. Two of my eyes held his, the others watched for a reaction.

  Nothing—he doesn’t know. Few people were supposed to even know.

  I hissed. “How dare you defile his resting place.”

  That clicked. The realization was enough to give Kobel pause. I took the chance, and leapt forward, relying entirely on my spider limbs to turn the strike into a feint. A feint and two threads of silk on the ground.

  A mindless, cornered demon would strike out. A mindless demon wouldn’t set a trap, wouldn’t be worth any consideration. They’d only be worth keeping around if there was some information you needed. Like why an imprisoned ancient demon suddenly had a minion.

  I jumped just in time, but the grazing blow sent my vision tumbling until I hit a tree with a loud crack. Another spider leg went limp. When I tried to roll, a gray stone shard thudded above me, sinking completely into the wood.

  “And what does your master plan to do, demon?”

  The next shard sunk into my leg—one of the human-looking ones. The pain was harder to ignore than my instincts screaming to leap at Kobel and bite down. He took a step closer, shards of vitae-conjured stone spinning lazily around him. Two wicked spikes sheathed his hands.

  “Your greed has weakened the seal,” I lied through inhuman jaws. “And when he—”

  I cut off in a scream as one of those spikes flashed down. Horrible burning replaced any feeling in my right arm.

  “When he what, demon? Escapes? But you know…” He took another step forward—so close! “You’ve given me a lot to think about. Maybe I ought to take a look around, see if I can’t find the source of all this, eh?” The other spike pinned my remaining human arm.

  The source? Just what are they mining here… no…

  No it couldn’t be.

  “That’s right, demon. Your master’s power’s almost gone. Fed to your enemies just like you try to feed on us.”

  Kobel leaned down, the barest hint of a smirk visible under his mask.

  One twitch, outside his periphery. No vitae, silent. Then another.

  Pull.

  His eyes went wide as the silk threads wrapped his ankles. Just a moment off balance; less than a second. The shards reacted, some missing, but most thudding home up and down my body. All my vitae surged forth through two good legs and into my fangs as my jaw split.

  His neck tasted of mineral dust and sweat. Even with the last of my strength, I barely pierced his flesh. Unfamiliar muscles pumped, then again. More shards slashed my body, breaking limbs, tearing gashes. Kobel’s stone-covered hands broke both my shoulders trying to shove me off as he tumbled over.

  My jaws clicked, then groaned, latching on and holding for dear life. He rose, throat moving as he tried to shout, scream, something. All that came out was a gurgle.

  From my upper jaw, two more fangs slid down, thin and needle-like. These didn’t carry venom, they drew in vitae. Blood, warm and hot, and something far, far more euphoric. I couldn’t suppress a moan, my broken and shattered body forgotten only for a moment.

  This was better than the sweetest wine, the softest cake, the freshest game. Worthy prey.

  He tried to use some sort of technique, then another, but his vitae went to me instead. The burning in my shoulder stopped, and a tingling, numbing itch flowed down as the limb regrew. My spider legs all popped back into place. Slashes and punctures melded closed, ejecting bits of dissolving rock, and I didn’t realize Kobel had died until I’d sucked the last drop of vitae from his desiccated corpse.