“Oy!” a voice shouted. Devil’s Son awoke with a start and was met with a startling sight—miles and miles of water stretching in every direction.

  “Oy!” someone shouted at him again. He turned toward the voice and saw a sailor adjusting the sails.

  “Get over here and help me adjust the sails! The wind’s blowing us straight into the demon storm!”

  This got Devil’s Son thinking. That only exist in the Hundred Mile Sea, he thought.

  The sailor rolled his eyes. “You’re not that bright, are you? You’re in the Hundred Mile Sea—we’re on our trading voyage.”

  Devil’s Son was confused. “How did I get here, then?”

  “Yer old master gave ye to us.”

  Devil’s Son started to piece it together. Zathor was trying to get rid of him, and what better way to do that than to send him across the Hundred Mile Sea? No ships are allowed to travel back and forth unless authorized by government officials on both sides, and he wasn’t exactly on good terms with them—especially the city of Peace.

  He was so lost in thought that he didn’t see the sailor pick up a small rock and chuck it at him. It hit Devil’s Son in the arm, and he jumped up instinctively, ready to defend himself. But when he stood, he was blinded by pain—pain so intense it made him fall back into his chair.

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  “Wow, now get up slower. You’re hurt really bad. Suspect yer old master didn’t treat you well,” the sailor said.

  Devil’s Son was badly injured; his shirt was burned and his skin was scarred from the magic he’d been struck with. Zathor was the one who’d taught him all the magic he knew, so any spell Devil’s Son could use, Zathor probably knew the counter for. He tried to stand and walk, but he couldn’t—he fell again, this time hitting the floor instead of his chair.

  Devil’s Son paused for a moment, then mumbled an incantation under his breath. He stood up, and this time was able to walk.

  “Wow, you’re a quick healer. Now get over here and help me with the sails.”

  Devil’s Son stood up and helped him with the sails, deciding that he was in no condition to fight. But as soon as he was fully healed, he would take control of this ship, and they would be hanging on his every command like an army of slaves. He may have found a girl who was worth changing for, but he knew he’d have to be the Devil’s Son the world knew if he had any chance of getting back. He didn’t care how much his heart would change—he would kill Zathor and make him pay for all the pain he’d caused him and Angel’s Daughter.

  He wore a look of hatred—a hatred for Zathor and everything he had done: for turning him into a killing machine, and for trying to turn her into one, too. The sailor glanced at him and asked, “What’s with the angry look? You’re not going to be here forever. What’s your name?”

  Devil’s Son thought for a moment and decided he would use his real name—the one he hadn’t spoken in years. He knew he couldn’t use the title “Devil’s Son,” because everyone knew that name, even if they didn’t know his face.

  “My name,” he said, “my name is Zashan.”