Interlude I

  “The regression of one’s path is not a punishment, but an opportunity to learn and grow beyond our previous limitations.”

  – Argus Phaedlich, High Magister of Her Grace’s Order of Radiance

  The Braddock Estate

  San Francisco, Earth

  10:34pm Local Time

  Alasdair grit his teeth as the spiritshard claimed him for the seventh time since his birth.

  He had been close, so fucking close to obtaining its twin.

  It had taken him sixty-four years to discover what had become of the other shard, thirty-seven to find a reliable way to hop between worlds and a final three to locate it. All that planning, all that work, all for nothing at all. He should have claimed it while he had the chance, but instead he’d played nice, yielded to the politics the Magisterium deemed not only important, but necessary.

  And what did he have to show for it?

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  Nothing.

  He dug his nails into his arm as the artifact’s brand carved itself into his flesh, left hand straining against the burn. The process never grew any easier, nor did the pain ever lessen. He’d blacked out during the first few occasions, the agony having proven too much for even his body to handle. But not this time. This time he would control it, wield it, even as it threatened to tear him apart and drag him back into an all too familiar darkness.

  The chloridic scent of raw arcane energy stung his nose as the shard’s golden light flared, melding with his soul and chasing shadows across the walls of his guestroom. Its excess energy turned his bones molten, demanding he vent it, release it. He hissed through his teeth as the will of his governance warred with the aspect of cultivation that so vehemently opposed the one he’d been born to. It fought and thrashed, but he bent it to his will all the same.

  His nostrils flared as he drew in a measured breath and slowly forced his body straight. His hand balled into a fist as his hold upon the wild energy tightened, skin shimmering and distorting as the light bent around it. There was a faint after-image as he lifted it before his face, then, he cast his arm wide, directing all that power into a singular cut.

  Hot, white light blazed and the fabric of the world tore open.

  All at once, the agony of his arm vanished. His brand grew cool, its glyphs dull, red and dormant. With a satisfied sigh, Alasdair slid his marked hand back into his long, black gloves and turned his attention to the doorway he’d forced open. The fabric of reality undulated with an almost oily sheen along either side of the tear, the light within bright as it was warm. His world lay beyond it and with luck, so did this interloper.

  He may not know where they had emerged, but that sort of energy always left its mark. All he had to do was locate the disturbance on the other side. His temper cooled, steeling himself as well as his purpose. One way or another, he would find that shard. He simply had to be patient.

  Trivial as this world was when compared to his own, it offered certain technologies his had yet to fully master. Their motion cameras, in particular, had afforded him a glimpse of his little thief. He’d always relished a good hunt and it seemed in this instance, his quarry was a fox.