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keep him here: oh, his tragic birth, and how one day his mother would return to claim him…?”
    A fierce pain swelled in Oland’s chest. Everything he had believed about his birth was the product of a storyteller’s imagination. All the ideas Oland had ever had about who his parents might be were now worthless: anyone could be his father; anyone could be his mother. They could be living or dead, they could be looking for him, or they could have abandoned him with no further intentions. For six years, he had built hopes on these words, he had built a future on them. And now he could feel something deep in the pit of his stomach replace them: a dull and powerful aching anger.
    It was at this moment that Oland knew he would never again spend a night in Castle Derrington. But one day he would return. And on that day the beast he would slay would be a man named Villius Ren.
    Wickham had trailed off. Oland could see why. Villius, looking more enraged than Oland thought possible, appeared in front of them, wild-eyed. His hair was flat and damp against his skull, his face greasy and ghostlike.
    â€œVillius,” said Wickham, taking a step back. “Is everything—”
    â€œWhat are you still doing here?” he roared. “I told you to go, didn’t I? I told you to leave! Is it that whatever I tell people to do, they do the opposite now?”
    â€œOf course not, Villius,” said Wickham. “I was merely waiting to ask you if there were any territories in particular—”
    â€œEverything is destroyed!” said Villius. “Everything is destroyed! Look!” He was holding up something small. “Look!”
    Oland couldn’t make it out in the mottled reflection.
    â€œA button?” said Viande.
    â€œYou don’t understand!” said Villius. “It’s Oland Born’s button! It was on the floor in my throne room! He was in my throne room! Everything has been destroyed!”
    The intruder , thought Oland. He must have ripped it off when he grasped my neck!
    â€œHe left it unlocked!” said Villius. “He left it unlocked!” He was utterly crazed.
    Oland was puzzled. The throne room door had been locked. He had heard the distinctive rattle behind him as he fled the intruder. But, as was often the case, paranoia had perhaps clouded Villius’ judgement.
    Of course, he had not been completely wrong. Oland had been in his throne room. But what could possibly be inside that would cause an intruder so much interest, and Villius Ren so much rage at its disturbance?
    Oland’s heart was pounding louder than the screaming souls, louder than the inhuman howls of Villius Ren, louder than his own footsteps as he ran down the hallway, ran through the stables, ran across the grounds and out into the world he did not know, but feared.
    He knew that he was as dead as a boy with a still-beating heart could be.

N THE VILLAGE OF D ERRINGTON, THE WET COBBLES OF Merchants’ Alley shone. Smoky clouds coursed overhead, masking and unmasking the moon as they passed. The alley was a bleak and empty place after ten o’clock, bereft of the clamour of trade. Over the cries of the unsettled souls, a cough echoed down the street. Oland stepped out from the shadows as a second cough followed. He moved towards the sound and came upon a man curled in a doorway behind a wall of empty fruit boxes. The damp air was filled with the scent of raspberries. Oland looked down as the man squirmed under a shabby blanket that was so small, it would never fully cover him. At the man’s neck, Oland noticed a sheepskin trim.
    â€œExcuse me, sir,” said Oland. He waited. “Excuse me,” he said again. “Magnus?”
    Magnus stirred.
    â€œI… I came to find you,” said Oland. “I’ve heard you saying that The Great Rains were coming.”
    â€œPlease,” said Magnus, “leave me be.” He spoke quietly.
    Oland began to crouch