The sun was sliding cold yellow claws over the eastern horizon as Darkstalker flew home from the palace. Below him, the detritus of the festival was being swept away by a busy flurry of worker dragons. Soon only the paper lanterns and the gleaming shapes of the glass sculptures would remain. He spotted one dragon industriously scrubbing out the game pavilion, even though Quickdeath had died bloodlessly and his body had been removed.

Darkstalker beat his wings to rise higher, as close to the sun as he could manage.

His talk with Fathom had not gone exactly as he’d imagined.

He’d expected a little more excitement — a little more gratitude. He’d expected that Fathom would be thrilled to find a way to use his powers without damaging the soul he worried so much about. He’d rather expected Fathom to make his very own animus scroll right then and there.

But instead his friend had remained stubbornly unconvinced. “It could still be affecting you,” he argued. Darkstalker could see the images piling up in Fathom’s mind: Albatross stabbing the queen, the dead bodies of his parents, the blood everywhere. Every time Fathom thought about animus powers, that was straight where his mind went — massacres and devastation and the loss of nearly your entire family.

Not only that, but tonight his mind was suddenly occupied with the mystery of some kind of octopus. Fathom’s thoughts were all Indigo, Indigo, Indigo again, just when they’d been starting to get interesting. He spent more of their conversation thinking about her than focusing on the wonderful news Darkstalker was telling him. And as he often did, he forgot to even worry about Darkstalker reading his mind.

Finally Fathom had rubbed his eyes, shaking his head fiercely. “Nobody knows exactly how animus magic works. The only safe option is to avoid using it at all.”

“Why would we have this power if we’re never supposed to use it?” Darkstalker had shouted in frustration, which was when Clearsight had decided it was time for everyone to go home and get some sleep.

Whatever. If Fathom doesn’t want to listen to reason, that’s his problem.

My problem is that someone tried to kill me tonight.

He set his jaw grimly. There were plenty of future timelines where Arctic tried to kill him — but not many where he succeeded.

Still, there were a few, even with Darkstalker’s invulnerability. Now that Arctic surely knew about that, he’d have to plan his next attack on Darkstalker more carefully … maybe even use his own magic. Arctic, in fact, might be the only dragon in the kingdom who could actually kill Darkstalker.

He should have used his power to do it right the first time.

So why didn’t he?

Because he didn’t want anyone to know it was him who killed me. Right?

Darkstalker soared down toward his front door, which was just starting to turn from gray to red as the light of the sun reached it. All the flowers in their miniature hanging gardens were dead. No one had gone anywhere near them since losing Mother.

He pushed open the door and found Whiteout lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling with her wings flopped out to either side of her. She was wearing one of the trinkets from the festival, a black rope necklace with a golden glass seashell pendant, turning it between her claws. He wondered if Thoughtful had bought it for her.

“Good morning,” he said, nudging his sister’s tail affectionately. “Dreaming of your new admirer?”

“Thoughtful,” she said, a statement rather than a question. “Yes and no. I do like him.”

“Do you want me to try to foresee what will happen with you two?” Darkstalker asked. He still wasn’t as good at this as Clearsight — he tended to see the most probable outcomes, and everything else was usually muddled by random events and small deviations. Perhaps if he had a lot of time to devote to studying all the futures, the way she did, he’d be able to follow them more clearly. But who had that kind of time, or that kind of focus? He’d have to be trapped underground for months with nothing else to do.

“No, thank you,” said Whiteout, which was such an ordinary response that Darkstalker peered at her curiously.

“Are you all right?” he asked, touching her neck. It didn’t feel warmer than it should.

“I feel funny,” she said. “All my words are coming out wrong.”

Actually it seemed as if they were coming out right for once, which was worrying. Darkstalker wished that he could read her mind and see what was going on in there.

“Maybe you just need some sleep,” he said. A small clatter from one of the back rooms distracted him. “Is Father here?”

She nodded.

Darkstalker stepped quietly down the hall until he was standing in the doorway to his father’s room. Foeslayer’s side of it still looked exactly the same, everything untouched except perhaps her blankets, which looked as though someone had been lying on them. But it was freezing cold in the room, with actual icicles hanging around Arctic’s sleeping spot. He must have been using his frostbreath to make the room a bit more to his own liking.

Arctic had his back to Darkstalker, fiddling with something at his desk. Fragments of ice were scattered around his feet and a piece of parchment that looked like a map stuck out from under his tail.

Can’t wait much longer, his brain muttered. Not sure this will be enough, though.

“I’m alive,” Darkstalker announced. “In case you were worried.”

Arctic stiffened, then cast an evil glance over his shoulder at his son. “Can’t say that I was.”

“I know you were there,” Darkstalker said. “At the pavilion. Watching.”

“Indeed,” said Arctic, turning back to his work. “Care to explain how that spear bounced off your scales?” This one gets more dangerous all the time, he thought. Maybe I should do what Mother wants.

“Did you know the dragon who attacked me?” Darkstalker asked instead of answering.

His father shrugged. “I’ve seen him around court, but never spoken to him. I’m not interested in knowing every common NightWing in the tribe.”

Darkstalker paused, waiting for Quickdeath’s name to appear in Arctic’s thoughts. But it didn’t. Arctic had a brief memory of passing Quickdeath in the halls of the palace, and that was it.

Could Darkstalker be wrong? Or had Arctic finally developed the strength to shield some of his thoughts?

“Why do you think he tried to kill me?” he tried.

Arctic snorted. “Because you’re an arrogant fool. Because you flaunt your magic and don’t care who you offend. Because you insulted his mother, or stole his prey, or cheated off his test, or read his mind when he told you not to. I can think of a million possible reasons, but what does it matter? He’s dead now, isn’t he?”

That idiot, Arctic thought, flicking his tail. He should have known it wouldn’t be that easy to kill an animus dragon. Couldn’t have gotten me that way, either, not if I was wearing my shielding earring.

Darkstalker tipped his head. He hadn’t known that his father had a “shielding earring.” He wondered which one it was: the light blue diamond in his left ear, or the silver narwhal in his right.

More important, these didn’t sound like the thoughts of a dragon who’d just tried to have him killed. Arctic seemed more … disinterested than anything else.

“You’re probably right,” Darkstalker said, backing out of the doorway and heading to his own room.

Behind him, he heard Arctic swivel around again, thinking, Now that was suspicious. What does he mean, I’m probably right? What’s that dragon hiding? And then, a few moments later, as Darkstalker was unlocking his door, Arctic thought, Better act soon, before anyone can stop me.

Darkstalker paused, listening, but Arctic’s thoughts didn’t elaborate further. Maybe he wasn’t the one who hired Quickdeath, Darkstalker thought, but it certainly sounds like he’s still planning to kill me eventually.

Darkstalker locked the door behind him and started pacing up and down in his room. He wished Clearsight were here, to help him figure out what to do next. What would she see Arctic doing, if she looked ahead in his timeline?

Although he had to admit his faith in her powers was shaken by the attack tonight. Why hadn’t she seen it coming? Who could have known enough to trick her foresight that way — and his, for that matter?

He’d have to find out later what evil scheme was circling around Arctic’s head. Right now all that interested him was finding his would-be killer.

Who besides Arctic might want Darkstalker dead?

He paused next to his desk, thinking of the last dragon who had dared to threaten his life.

He remembered the cold prick of steel at his throat. The tension that hummed through her wings whenever he walked into the room. Her dark blue eyes, always watching him, as though he was the one who posed a danger to Fathom.

Dragons who try to kill me don’t fare too well, do they, SeaWing?

He swept the clutter off his desk. Sorry, Clearsight. He had promised her he’d wait before doing any spell — that she could be there if he decided to do it. But he didn’t want to wait. He hated the idea that someone was out there wishing for his death, planning to kill him … planning to derail all his glorious futures and blink all his dragonets out of existence. How dare they. He needed to find out who they were and punish them.

Whoever it was had to know immediately that they couldn’t do this to him and get away with it. They had to suffer the consequences as soon as possible. He was the most powerful dragon in Pyrrhia. He should act like it.

He took his scroll and his secret inkwell out of their hiding place, rolled it to the newest blank spread, and weighted down the corners with little statues. Next he pulled out a scrap of parchment and set it on top of the scroll. He dipped one claw in the red ink and wrote, Enchant this parchment to reveal the name of the dragon who hired Quickdeath to kill me tonight.

As he carefully wiped the ink off his claw, jagged red letters began to appear on the parchment, slowly scrawling a name across the stark white page.

Darkstalker froze as he realized what it said.

Oh, yes. There are definitely going to be consequences.

Now I know who has to pay.