Drawn by the smell of blood, the demons attacked in wave after wave. It was long past dark when they were finally given a reprieve.

Sam, Braeden and Tristan dragged their tired bodies into the small rock shelter. The Diamond Coast was crawling with demons, and had they wanted to, they could have fought well into the morning. But they needed to sleep to survive, and the shelter was as good a place as any to steal some shuteye.

After her watch was over (Sam took the first watch), she made a nest for herself out of the blankets in the shelter and drew a sheet up around her neck. With the Paladins’ deaths weighing heavily on her mind, Sam fought off slumber, fearful of the nightmares that awaited her. But exhaustion won out, and she drifted into sleep, and into dream.



The flame in the fire pit had died and the moonlight was too weak to penetrate the rock walls, plunging the shelter into darkness. Sam sat up, her bone weariness gone as though it had never been.

The fire roared back to life, a high, flickering blaze, sending shadows dancing across the room. Braeden knelt beside the fire pit, tending to the coals. He looked up at her, his clear eyes reflecting the orange of the flame. “Sam,” he said. The way he said her name sounded strange, though she couldn’t pinpoint what was strange about it.

“Is it still Tristan’s watch?” she asked.

“Aye.” Braeden threw another coal into the fire pit, and the flame sparked and flared. “Are you tired?”

Sam shook her head. She felt energized, like she was going to burst out of her skin.

“Let’s go for a walk,” Braeden said, “away from the shelter for a while.”

“But Tristan…”

“Will be fine. And we won’t go very far.”

Sam nodded. “Okay.”

She followed Braeden out through the gap in the rock. Tristan wasn’t immediately outside, but she made no note of it. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“To the sea,” said Braeden. He hadn’t bothered to put his hair up in its top-knot, and it fell in straight shocks of silver to his mid-back. A light wind ruffled through his forelocks and the strands caressed his face. “It’s peaceful there.”

In companionable silence, they walked along the beach, clambering over slippery rock until the sea was almost at their feet. The aquamarine waters were indigo in the night, shot through the middle with white where the moon shone its light. The tide was stronger now, and waves rippled and foamed before spilling onto the shore.

Braeden found a large boulder that was high enough to be dry and sat down on it cross-legged. She climbed up beside him and sat so close to him their shoulders touched. For an instant, a mix of surprise and confusion flashed across his face, and then it disappeared. He smiled at her, a full, honest-to-gods smile with teeth and dimples. Her heart stopped.

“What?” Braeden asked.

Sam was grateful that he couldn’t see her blush. “You’re smiling. You never smile.”

His smile faded. “Don’t I?”

“No! Don’t stop smiling on my account.” She ducked, hiding her face. “I wish you smiled more, that’s all.”

Braeden gazed at her pensively and she could almost see his thoughts whirling. With careful deliberation, he grasped the back of her head and placed it on his shoulder. She froze, unsure of how to react.

He stroked her hair with gentle fingertips, and eventually, she began to relax into him. “Who are you, Sam of Haywood?” he whispered into her ear.

She chuckled softly. “I’m not sure I know anymore. Sam of Haywood? Lady Samantha, daughter of the duke of Haywood?” Braeden drew up sharply, jostling her head. “If anyone can tell me who I am, it’s you.”

Braeden resumed stroking her hair. “Sam, do you want me?”

She jerked up, clocking him in the chin. “What?” she squeaked.

“Do you want me? Do you want to kiss me?” Before she could respond, he said, “I think you do.”

He kissed her.

Braeden’s lips were hard and unforgiving. He tugged her closer, pulling her onto his lap, and his mouth forced hers open. His tongue darted in, like a snake’s, and she recoiled.

Sam shoved at his chest, pushing him away. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “What was that?”

Braeden leaned in again, his lips descending towards her. Sam scooted backwards out of range. She narrowed her eyes. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice cold. “You’re not Braeden.”

“No?” asked Braeden, or the man who wore Braeden’s face. “No, perhaps not.”

Sam jumped to her feet, and the man who was not Braeden did the same. She reached for her sword, but her hand brushed nothing but hip. She was without a weapon.

His laughter rang out like the chime of bells. “You would fight poor Braeden? And here I thought you were friends.” He clicked his tongue reproachfully. “Braeden wants more than your friendship, you know. And we can’t have that.”

He smiled again, a small, secretive smile that had never belonged to Braeden. As his grin widened, the angles of his face softened and grew rounder, and his skin dimmed from burnished gold to yellowing parchment. Threads of dark brown hair sprouted in between the silver, and half the length fell out in chunks. His elongated pupils spun into circular dots and the clear irises filled in with graphite gray.

When he spoke next, it was in the musical voice of the High Commander. “I’ve been wondering what it was about you. And now I finally know.”

Sam took a step back, her feet at the edge of the boulder. “H-High Commander?”

He laughed again, and this time the sound was dark and ugly. “Who would have thought it? Sam of Haywood a girl.” He shook his head in mock sadness, and said, almost to himself, “Too much of his mother in him. But I suppose even a masterpiece must have its flaws.” He sighed. “No matter. I’ll rid him of this disease and then he’ll be fully mine again.”

“This is a dream,” said Sam, shaking. It had to be. “You can’t hurt me in my dreams.”

“Clever girl, you figured it out,” said the High Commander. He pulled her to him as though he were going to embrace her. “But I can hurt you when you’re awake.”



Convulsively Sam snapped awake into the darkness of the shelter. The flame burned low in the fire pit, the embers burning red. She almost expected to see Braeden tending to the fire, as he had in her dream, but the shelter was empty of both Braeden and Tristan. It really was just a nightmare.

She rolled her blankets around her and attempted to fall back asleep. She willed her heart to slow down and concentrated on deep, even breaths, but sleep wouldn’t come.

Echoes of the High Commander’s tinkling laughter sounded in her ear. Ignore it, she told herself firmly. It was a trick of the mind, the result of an overactive imagination. Tristan had said the High Commander was at least a day away…

Cold hands closed around her throat, and pain—real pain—engulfed her. She choked, her lungs desperate for air. Her body bucked against the heavy weight that pinioned her, but as the seconds passed, she felt her strength ebb. Blackness seeped into the edges of her vision.

No. She wasn’t ready to die, not yet. With her last ounce of energy, Sam slammed her forehead into her assailant’s nose.

Her attacker dropped his hands from her neck and brought them to his face. She greedily sucked in air and then planted her feet firmly on the ground, bending her knees. Using her right leg as leverage, Sam drove the right side of her pelvis up, rolling him underneath her. She stared down into the face of the High Commander.

He laughed up at her. “How fitting, Lady Samantha, that you have a man between your legs.” She punched him in the mouth for his impertinence. His bottom lip split, but his laughing only increased.

She punched him again. “Where are Braeden and Tristan?”

“Oh, I’ve kept them busy for a while,” the High Commander said. “It’s only you and me.” His tongue traced over his bloody lower lip. “Perhaps you’d like to steal another kiss? No?” He tsked. “Such a shame. Then I see no reason to lie beneath you.” He threw her off him as though she weighed no more than a doll. The back of her head smashed against the rock wall. Sam saw stars.

Shaking off her dizziness, Sam lurched towards the small stockpile of weapons in the corner of the shelter and retrieved her sword. She held the blade out in front of her, willing her arm not to shake. Her knuckles were broken from her earlier fight, and the sword felt unwieldy in her swollen grip.

“Ah, yes, Sam the swordsman. Swordswoman. I remember,” said the High Commander. “I can play with sticks, too.” Identical daggers with distinctly wavy blades slipped into each of his hands. “I’ll let you attack first. Consider it a lesson to my most precocious trainee.”

Sam aimed a full circle cut at his head, but the High Commander parried it easily. “Sloppy,” he said. “Your footwork betrayed your direction.”

Sam glared at him. “Are you trying to kill me or teach me?”

“It’s never too late to learn.” The High Commander feinted to the right and then sliced into the flesh of her left shoulder, cutting deep into the muscle. White-hot agony lanced down her arm.

The High Commander attacked again, one dagger, then the other. She deflected his first strike, but the second scored a shallow cut across her stomach. She hissed and struck out, but her blade slid harmlessly off his. Shite. She was severely outmatched.

Sam must have amused the High Commander because he entertained her attacks for a while, playing the defensive. But no matter how hard or fast she struck, she couldn’t land even a glancing blow. Gods, her arm ached.

“Enough,” he said and dropped his guard. His daggers flashed silver in the dark and then they were everywhere—against her cheek, jutting into her thigh, scraping the skin off her neck. Blood leaked from her skin as readily as sweat.

The blood loss weakened her, and her sword fell from numb fingers. “Pick it up,” said the High Commander, nodding at the fallen blade. She grasped the hilt and tried to lift it, but she was too weak. No.

The High Commander frowned. “Disappointing,” he said. “I expected better from a trainee of Tristan Lyons. Though you are a woman, so perhaps allowances should be made.”

He stalked towards her, backing her up against a wall. “Shall I confirm your status as the fairer sex?” He traced the point of his dagger down the center of her chest, tearing through her tunic and binding. “My, what pretty breasts you have. No wonder Braeden is so bewitched.”

A blind rage overtook her, and she slapped him hard across the face. The High Commander laughed. “What gall you have,” he said. “And me with my dagger at your heart.” He pushed his blade into the space between her ribs—just the tip—to prove his point.

“Why?” she asked. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because,” said the High Commander, “I made a toy and you broke it.” He drove the dagger in deep, and then pain was all she knew.

The last words she heard before she died were, “Master, what have you done?”