Books in the Lost in the Aether Series

The Chosen One Con is the first book in the Lost in the Aether duology—a gaslamp fantasy of industrial magic in a world of designer enchantments and celebrity-branded potions.

Read an Excerpt

Want a taste of The Chosen One Con? Here is where the story begins for Max Farrow:

WHERE THE SHOW BEGAN FOR MAX

Every mage began their magical journey thanks to Benny Bluebell’s Magic Hour. Children from across the city would sit cross-legged in front of their MVs, excited for Benny Bluebell to appear on their screens and entrance them with magic. Benny alone inspired many modern mages to open a spellbook, and the same can be said of our greatest Archon, His Eminence Ignatius.

—The Art of Aether, Stoneridge Productions

Magic spoke to me, whispering promises of fortune and fame. It spoke when I switched on the old MV and the screen came alive with the blue glow of magic, the faint spark and pop of aether flowing through the cables. Those faces on the other side of the screen looked at me, spoke to me, as though I were the only boy in all Aefenhold watching. As though one day, I could step through the screen and become a hero like them, born of magic.

Yes, I knew they were actors, and everyone seated dutifully in front of their MagiVisions were seeing the same thing, at the same time, broadcast across the aetherwaves, but it felt as though they spoke only to me, and that was part of the magic, wasn’t it?

No one in the Arches was paying attention to the news, so I switched the channel over to Benny Bluebell’s Magic Hour. It made for good background noise while I cleaned the sticky beer stains off the bar’s tables. They were old reruns, and in this episode, Benny, in his glittering cloak embroidered with tiny bluebells, held up a crystal shard of aether. It was supposed to glow blue, but everything shone blue through the screen, including his porcelain face and sleek pale hair.

“This is where it all begins,” I said in time with Benny’s soothing voice, which crackled through the MV’s speaker. “Magic. Magic comes from crystals just like this. Isn’t it wonderful? This one crystal could switch on your bedside lamp, power a motor, or be inserted into a staff to cast a magical spell. It can also be ground into a fine powder and used as the main ingredient of a potion you can drink. Do you know what that does? I do. It lets you absorb magic. Have you ever tasted magic?”

“Aye, it tastes like shite.”

I jerked up, soapy washrag in hand, as Lyle made his way to the bar, a cardboard placard tucked under his left arm.

For the third day of the strike, he’d swapped the overalls he’d normally wear on the factory floor for a far more flattering flannel shirt and suspenders. It suited him. Though the flatcap he’d donned did nothing to tame his unruly red curls, which tangled in whatever direction they chose. Stubble dotted his chin. He only had a year on me, and yet he’d started growing hair while my own face remained as clear as a potion bottle. A spell could probably speed up the process, but if Benny Bluebell didn’t need a beard for that sophisticated look, then neither did I.

Still, I liked how it framed Lyle’s face, making him look tough and manly. I liked its roughness against my skin.

“What about me?” I rinsed out the washrag and wiped my damp hands down my apron. “I’m magic, and I taste exceptionally sweet.” I blew him a kiss.

“I can’t deny ye’re magical. Don’t even need to put a spell on me to keep me coming back.” He rested his placard against my table with a sly smile. “Bar’s opened early today?”

A few workmen sat in a booth at the back, huddled in hushed conversation, but the rest of the Arches’ tables were empty this early. Most began their day drinking at noon, if they weren’t working over at the Stacks. It meant I could catch up on some MV shows while mopping the place down, not that the Arches needed much maintenance. It was a shabby shack made up of red brick walls, a mismatch of wooden tables and stools, a few threadbare couches, and a couple of blue aether lanterns, which revealed the worst stains. The disinfectant from my mop bucket barely masked the beer, sweat, and piss that lingered from last night.

“Boss opened it early for the strikers.” A safe space for them to gather and plot, so he’d said. “There were more, but they’ve left to form the picket line. Figured I could earn a few extra drenny by showing up.” Depending on how the strike went, the day-drinking could start early. “You’re still going?” I eyed the placard. “Sounds like they’re expecting trouble this time.”

I’d overheard scraps of conversation and gotten the gist from Pa. This strike was the longest in Aefenhold history and was about to break, one way or another.

The Archons didn’t like it when their aether supply was disrupted. Bad for the city, bad for business.

Lyle held up his placard. It was painted in crude strokes of wet soot meant to mimic black ink.

“Make magic safe?” I read aloud. “I thought the dispute was about pay?”

“It’s about a lot of things.” He dropped the placard under the table and climbed onto a stool. “Those factories ain’t safe. Magic is volatile, and they play around with it like it ain’t some explosive force ready to go boom. How many accidents did we see last month alone? How many fingers lost? Limbs? Magic don’t bring ’em back, and the overseers don’t give a fuck.”

“How do you make magic safer, though?”

“Barriers along the aether vats, emergency stops fer the ore belts in case someone gets caught. You know what they do with the waste afterward? They dump it in the woods, the marshes. There ain’t no proper regulation. That’s how my village got poisoned. It’s what made everyone sick.” He laid his flatcap on the table and ran a hand through his curls, his fingers trembling slightly. “They tell us it’s safe, but they’re fucking lying.”

“Have you eaten?”

He thrust his hands into his pockets. “Aye, yesterday.”

“You can’t go striking on an empty stomach.”

“It’s fine—I’ll find something later—”

“Sure you will.” I headed behind the bar, where the boss kept his collection of liquor and watered-down beer. I wasn’t allowed to pour those yet—not until I turned sixteen—but I could serve well enough, and we kept a selection of nuts and crackers to snack on. I came back out with a small bowl of salted peanuts and a glass of lemonade. Both would come out of my pay, but I could take the hit.

I wasn’t the one laboring in a hot factory day in, day out, on nothing but crumbs.

Lyle held up his hands. “Really, I’m fine—”

“I don’t believe you.” I sat opposite and popped a peanut into my mouth, savoring the salt with a particularly loud groan I knew would make his eyes roll.

He diverted his attention to the lemonade instead, pretending to examine it. Flecks of blue floated within the cloudy yellow. “Does this have magic in it?”

“Everything has magic in it. Makes it taste better.”

“Makes it taste wrong. Like burned sugar.” He took a tentative sip, and his nose twisted in a grimace. “Don’t know how you stomach this shite. Food ain’t supposed to glow blue. It ain’t natural. You coming to the strike?”

“Can’t, I’ve got work.”

Lyle gestured to the empty bar. “Expecting many?”

“I’ve been accepted as an apprentice at Phantom Phial.”

“The potion place up in Fenwell? Why the fuck would you want to work there?”

I leaned back, dangling my arm across the backrest. “Because the pay is amazing, for one. For two, they’ll sponsor a bronze license. I could learn magic.” I glanced at the MV above the bar. Benny was now seated at an apothecary station and held a vial of glowing aether powder ready to be mixed into a potion. It was a basic demonstration of how potions were made, an educational program aimed at younger children, really, and I knew from past watches that he was concocting a simple hair-dye spell, mimicking his own blond shade. I was sure parents across the city had loved when that first aired.

“Is this why you’ve been talking like a character from one of yer MV shows? Not even a day at yer new job, and they’ve got you talking posh.”

“That’s how they want me to talk. I can’t be scaring off customers.”

“Aye, that’s how they start erasing who you are, by making you talk like ’em. Why do you want to learn magic? What about yer job here?”

Wouldn’t anyone want to learn magic, given the chance? “Don’t worry, I’ll still help out in the evenings for some extra dren. If they teach me how to mix potions, I could make them for Hope, rather than have Pa work himself to the bone to provide for us both. Her medicine is expensive, you know? And I could help you.” I reached across the table for his hand. “So you don’t need to risk losing a finger or two.”

Lyle pulled his hand away and tucked it back in his pocket. “But a potion shop? Don’t the church offer free magic courses?”

“They’re sponsored courses for girls only.” An initiative to get more girls into magic, or something like that.

“Is that why yer brother wants to be a girl?”

“She is a girl, and no, that’s not the only reason.”

“What does yer da think?”

“About Hope being a girl?”

“About yer bloody new job.”

“He doesn’t need to know.” Pa was as jumpy about magic as Lyle, but a factory worker’s wage wasn’t enough to keep food on the table, nor pay for the potions that prevented Hope from developing into a man. Especially not when he spent his nights drowning his sorrows in the Arches.

Nothing had been the same since Ma had walked out.

Lyle rummaged through the nuts, as if he could pick out the ones coated in magic dust. “Is he striking this time? Overseers won’t treat him any better if he’s a scab, and that won’t look good on you, neither, working here.”

“Another reason to find work elsewhere, then. Boss knows I’m not my pa. We’ll be all right.” Hector still had a soft spot from when Ma waited tables, though I wasn’t planning on following in her footsteps, or my pa’s.

She’d wanted better for me than factory work. Ma would want better for Hope, too. My little sister was only nine. She deserved a chance at happiness.

The workmen at the back finished their conversations and headed out of the bar.

Lyle’s gaze followed their exit. “Suppose I better head off.”

“You could stay here, you know. Watch some shows with me. Oh! Highbridge Hearts is on later, and it’s getting really heated. It’s the episode where Dashing Draven is dying and hiding it from his lover, Pyra, who is also hiding her drug addiction. It’ll all end in tears. Honestly, though, the quality’s dropped off since Thalia exited the show. You know she started her own chat show, right? Anyway, can you believe she’s taken up a career in politics, of all stupid things? Her character was the literal ‘heart’ of Highbridge Hearts, so why bother continuing the show without her?”

“That’s all we have time for, boys and girls,” came Benny Bluebell’s voice from the MV. “What’s the lesson we’ve learned today?”

“Magic is for everyone, and everyone needs magic,” I replied aloud, a few seconds before Benny repeated the line.

Lyle rested his chin on his fist and stared at me with a lopsided grin.

“What?”

“You and yer shows.”

“They’re entertaining. If you don’t want to join me on the couch later—”

“I didn’t say I didn’t. They don’t make much sense to me like they do fer you, is all.”

“You don’t care about Dashing Draven’s dilemma?” I asked in mock shock.

“I like hearing you talk about ’em. But why can’t the characters communicate like adults?”

“Well, where’s the conflict in that? It’s part of the heartbreak, the drama.”

“There’s enough of that outside.” Lyle stood, kicking the stool back with the sharp scrape of wood against tile.

Before he escaped me, I hurried around the table and slid against his chest. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

Lyle huffed a laugh. “Ye’re more dangerous than magic.”

“And sweeter, don’t forget.”

“Aye, and that. I really ought to go, before they think me a scab.”

I idly rubbed one of his shirt buttons. “You won’t do anything stupid, will you?”

“Depends if the overseers are gonna be stupid.”

“Lyle—”

“I know how to keep my nose clean.” His hand slipped around my lower back, drawing me closer, as I reached behind his neck and threaded my fingers through his flaming red hair. “Just… keep yers out of those potions, aye? They ain’t good fer you.”

I lost myself in his deep green eyes. “And you are?”

“I’m natural made, at least.” He carefully lifted my chin, lowering his lips to meet mine. A spark of magic pulsed between us. I’m not sure if he felt it the same way I did, or appreciated it for what it was, but it burned through my gut, down to the twitch in my trousers.

What else could that feeling be, except raw magic?

Why did he have to hate it, when I saw its beauty?

“Now, let’s finish our magic hour with a sing-along.” The camera zoomed out on Benny’s face as the show’s theme song kicked in. The same song every episode, which I knew by heart.

There’s no need to feel glum, chum,

But it’s okay to look blue.

There’s magic in the world,

And it’s made for me and you.

Lyle broke the kiss and stared at me for a moment, like I was a puzzle. Something he couldn’t quite understand. His brow furrowed in the same way when he spoke about magic.

I fingered the small glass bottle hidden in my trouser pocket. A Patented Potent Potential energy boost potion I’d swiped from Phantom Phial. I’d wanted to show him, thought maybe he’d be impressed or find it useful, but what were the chances? He’d only judge me for trying to better my damn life.

He hadn’t tried the nuts. They added blue sugar to everything now; he couldn’t avoid eating it forever. You couldn’t enter a city like this and hide from magic.

Magic was everywhere. It was everything.

As pretty as a bluebell,

And feels hard and sharp like stone.

If you study at your best,

You’ll earn a piece of magic… to call your very own.

Was it so wrong to want my own piece?

The bar door slammed open, and Hector stomped in. He was a heavy man who’d once worked in the mines and had the muscles to prove it.

“Max, you still ’ere?” he called. “Put the news on.”

I jumped back from Lyle’s arms, my cheeks warming at being caught slacking off, and switched the channel over to AAC News.

The news anchor sat behind a desk with an expression like she’d drunk one too many Potent Potentials and had forgotten how to blink. “… day three of the ongoing strike action against the aether ore processing plant owned by His Eminence, Archon Ignatius. This site produces approximately two-thirds of the aether energy for the city, and is a crucial manufacturing point for much of Aefenhold’s energy reserve. We’re live now on the scene with the latest developments.”

The camera switched to a washed-out blue view of Lyle’s factory within the Stacks. Hundreds of strikers were already gathered outside the iron gates, waving placards and yelling. Shit, there were more out protesting than I’d thought.

Lyle leaned against a table. “They finally bothered to report it. Figures.”

“That’s good, isn’t it? Means the strikers are being noticed.”

Hector came to stand over my shoulder. “You’re not paying attention, lads. They’ve not reported on the strikers’ demands. They don’t care about that. They’re reporting it now because they’re ready to show the rest of us what ’appens when we kick up a fuss. Just you wait.”

As he spoke, the camera panned out to show a line of Argents marching toward the crowd. Their neat silver uniforms made them appear ghostlike through the screen, and they wielded aether-charged staves powerful enough to blow a hole through someone.

Argents meant serious business.

Lyle stepped closer to the screen. “Oh, shite.”

“Told you.”

The camera cut back to the studio. The anchor placed a finger to a spelled hearing device in her ear. “I’m getting a report that His Eminence, Archon Ignatius, will be arriving at the scene shortly to address the workers.”

“Well now.” Hector crossed his arms across his broad chest. “An Archon like ’im getting ’is ’ands dirty. That’s a rare sight.”

“Fuck!” Lyle pushed from the table and began to pace.

“Why would Ignatius come here because of a strike?” I asked. Surely Sevrina was a more obvious choice, since she was the Archon who commanded the Argents. “You think they’ll arrest the strikers?”

“Arrest?” Lyle stopped pacing and stared at me as if I had aether powder on my face. “If Ignatius is on his way, then it’s all over. They’ll be fucking lucky if all the Argents do is hang ’em.”

“They—They wouldn’t do that, would they? It’s just a strike—”

“The longest strike in Aefenhold’s history. Three fucking days. You ever think about what happened to the others? Why no one ever dared to strike this long before?”

“The news never reported—”

“The news only reports what they want you to hear.”

“The lad’s right,” Hector said. “Argents are coming. They’ll march to our bloody doors if they think we’re ’arboring saboteurs. We’ve got to board the doors, the windows.”

“You’re both talking like Ignatius is on his way to kill people.” It was ludicrous! “Life isn’t like Mage Versus Magic, you know—”

“Max.” Lyle grabbed both my shoulders. “Listen. I didn’t tell you everything about what happened to my village. The Archons poisoned it with their fucking factories, but not just that.” He sucked in a breath. “We protested. And then Ignatius turned up. He… He killed everyone. My da. My brother. That’s how they do damage control. They do what they fucking want.”

Bile rose to my throat. “Wha—Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Would you have believed me? You don’t even believe what’s on yer fucking screen.” He let me go and pointed at the MV.

If what Lyle said was true, then… “But—my pa is out there!”

“I’ll find yer da.” He grabbed his flatcap and headed for the door.

Oh shit, he was serious. “Wait!” I undid my apron and tossed it across the bar.

The boss unfurled his arms and slapped a large hand on my shoulder, holding me in place. “Let ’im go, lad. Country boy has the fight in ’im, but I need you ’ere.”

Fuck, Lyle was already out the door. “I’m sorry, I can’t.” I ripped from Hector’s grasp and wove between tables.

“Max Farrow! You step out those doors, you might as well not bother bloody coming back!”

I hesitated, my hand on the door and ready to push it open. The boss didn’t make idle threats, but I didn’t need this job. Not when I had Phantom Phial. I stole one last look at the MV, at the Argents marching on the factory, and shoved out of the Arches.

The overhead railway bridge cast much of Oldtown in shadow. The bar wasn’t the only building nestled underneath its arches—further down the hill were old brick houses with leaky roofs. Aether touched the streets below, offering a scattering of blue from the streetlamps, or from the flash of trains rumbling above. That way lay home, and Hope, who’d still be asleep this early in our shared room.

That was where I should have gone—to keep her safe—but with the threat of an actual Archon coming, I needed to find Pa first. I needed to warn him.

Lyle was climbing up the steep hill to the railway tracks, presumably to catch a train to the Stacks. I ran after him past piles of empty glass vials, which clinked with the vibration of my footsteps. “Wait up!”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Go back. It ain’t safe.”

I caught up to his side. “It’ll be easier to find Pa with two of us.”

“Argents ain’t playing around, and neither is Ignatius. This ain’t one of yer MagiVision shows.”

“I—I know that, but that’s my pa out there.”

He drew himself up and nodded, more to himself than me. “We find him, and we run.”

We headed to the train station at the top of the hill. Argents were gathering outside.

“Shit, what do we do?”

“We’ll walk across the tracks.”

“Over the bridge? Is that safe?”

Lyle offered his hand. “Ye’re safe with me.”

I took his hand, and together we crested the hill.

The morning sun warmed my face and highlighted a breathtaking view of the city. The Archons’ tower thrust into the sky, taller than any other mage tower. A gigantic diamond-shaped aether crystal floated above it, glowing blue like a second sun, visible from wherever you looked. A reminder of the power in magic.

But my eyes were drawn to the west, to the Stacks, where the Archons’ factories dominated the skyline. Billboards tried to hide the reality, but even they couldn’t mask the blue smoke rising from the chimneys to glitter among the clouds.

“An Archon, here,” I breathed out, my words curling into steam. “Shit.”

Lyle tugged me along, and we began a steady jog along the railway line. Weeds grew between the ballast lining the track, their flowers blooming with a faint blue glow.

As we neared the Stacks, the taste of magic filled the air, thick and sweet. Blue smoke puffed from the chimneys, emitting sparks with a rhythmic exhale. Lyle worked in one of those factories, along with my pa. There, in the dregs, he witnessed the life cycle of magic from ore to holy stone to pure aether churning through the factory floor. We in Oldtown breathed in the gases left over. Bathed in the waters that flowed out.

Even my familiarity with the raw, dirty process didn’t detract from magic’s beauty, in the same way a newborn child, covered in blood and shit, remained a miracle.

As pretty as a bluebell.

Light flashed across the Stacks in blinding blue. The railway tracks shook.

I stumbled, almost tripping over my arse. “The fuck was that?”

Lyle steadied me. “What happens when Archons don’t regulate magic.”

A plume of thick black smoke rose from one of the factories. Ignatius’s factory. “Ignatius surely wouldn’t blow up his own damn factory?”

“They built a factory in my village, and the fucking thing blew up. This is what I wer saying. Magic’s dangerous.”

“Factories don’t just blow up.”

“Oh aye? That one just did.”

My heart hammered in my throat. Part of me begged to run back, to copy the boss’s idea and barricade myself and Hope inside and wait for this to blow over. But Pa was still out there. If I could find him, get him out before shit really kicked off…

I ran down the tracks and followed the rising smoke. The sweetness in the air soon turned acrid, and as I came off the tracks into the street, shouts echoed off the alleyways. This part of the Stacks was all soot-stained brick factories and workhouses, but it didn’t take long to find Ignatius’s factory.

Smoke continued to billow out of the shattered upper windows as blue flames licked the tin roof, the heat coming off them felt at street level. Hundreds of strikers were railing against the iron gates outside, jostling and cursing at the Argents who’d barred entrance to the factory and now stood guard in a line of grim-faced silver. Behind them, more Argents were dragging workers out of the burning factory, but it wasn’t to save them, no.

They were tossing the workers to the ground and pinning them down with holding spells.

Shit.

One of those workers was my pa. His shaggy hair clung to his sweat-soaked, dirt-smeared face.

Someone shoved past me. “Let them go, you silver fucks!”

“Magic don’t belong to the rich!” another yelled in my ear. “We mine it, we process it; it belongs to everyone!”

“We make the magic! You take the money!”

“Burn it down!”

Lyle bumped into my shoulder, his breath ragged. He’d run hard, his flatcap twisted in his hands. “Shite, is that yer—”

The screech of tires caused us both to jump. A motorcar tore through the crowd, forcing protesters to leap aside. The gates to the factory opened with a deafening clang, and Argents poured out. They aimed their staves at anyone unfortunate enough to be too close, and with a blast of blue aether, strikers were flung, falling atop each other like dominoes.

They made space for the motorcar to pull into the factory, and the gates once again closed behind them. My heart skipped a beat as a tall figure in a crimson robe emerged from the passenger door.

“Ignatius,” I whispered.

The most powerful of the Archons.

The most powerful mage in the world.

The yelling dwindled into cowed murmurs as Ignatius’s presence radiated into the Stacks. He was larger than I’d expected, built from muscle he likely didn’t need to cast spells, and wearing iron armor he certainly didn’t need across his chest and shoulders, not when a shield spell would do.

The War Mage, they called him. An arrogant title, Pa had once said, but from the spark in Ignatius’s dark eyes, I’d say he got off on it.

He didn’t carry a staff but instead wore bronze gauntlets around both fists. I’d seen them blast out fire on an old episode of Mage Versus Magic I’d watched once.

He sneered at the crowd outside the gates and then strode toward the handful of workers still pinned on the ground.

Toward my pa.

“You attack my factory!” Ignatius bellowed, his voice ringing across the courtyard. “I give you work, I give you purpose, and this is how you repay me? Ingrates, the lot of you.” He paced the yard, his fiery glare fixed on the workers who couldn’t move even if they dared. “For too long have I allowed the underbelly of rebellion to permeate these streets, but no longer. You are nothing but the enemies of progress. You would see our great city stagnate, as I would see her flourish. To that end, you do not belong, nor should you benefit from the bounties of our greatest magics. These are my achievements. Mine!”

“What—What the fuck’s he saying?” I whispered to Lyle. “They didn’t attack the factory, did they? My pa didn’t…”

He grabbed my hand, his own hot and clammy. “When I say run, you run, got it? Don’t wait fer me. I’m sorry. You shouldn’t watch this.”

I had to watch this.

Ignatius pointed at my pa.

Blue flame burst from his gauntlets. It reached through the air, an outstretched hand of raw aether that offered the gift of magic to those who would accept it.

As pretty as a bluebell.

Beautiful, and yet so wrong.

The flames tore through my pa in a torrent of heat, through the line of workers, as magic sought their flesh and bone and wiped both clean.

It was over in a single blink. The flames vanished as quickly as they’d been cast, leaving nothing but a black smear on the floor where my pa had been.

My pa.

I clutched my stomach. The air suddenly felt too heavy. It wanted to drag me down, to pin me with magic next.

Someone screamed.

Vomit splashed across my leg. An elbow jabbed into my ribs. Lyle was yelling in my face, but I couldn’t hear it over the roar of flame still ringing in my ears.

The gate opened, and the crowd surged. Some charged at the Argents, throwing fists and placards, but they were casually tossed aside as magic flared from the Argents.

And then Ignatius’s blue flames turned on the crowd.

“Ingrates!” he cursed.

Lyle shook my shoulders. “Fer fuck’s sake, Max! We need to run!”

He yanked me into an alleyway, his boots slamming the cobblestones with purpose as I stumbled, struggling to keep up. Others stomped beside us, a riot of strikers desperate to get away from those flames. My heart pounded with each hurried step.

We reached the end of the alley, and I sagged against the wall, sucking in air. “I can’t—I can’t leave my pa like that—”

“There ain’t nothing you can do.” Lyle leaned his arm across the wall, shielding me from workers pushing past, his own breath strained and hot. “This is their playbook, their game.”

I rubbed dust from my stinging eyes. “He killed my fucking pa!”

Ignatius… He’d killed him.

Just like that. Like… Like Pa was nothing. No one’s father. No one.

A smear of dust.

“Aye, and he’ll kill you next. Get home to yer sister. She needs you.”

I grasped his suspenders, pulling him closer. “You’ll come with me? Please?”

He glanced sideways down the alley at Ignatius still rampaging. Lyle twitched, as though he seriously considered going back to fight. As though he’d stand a chance against a fucking Archon!

“Lyle,” I urged. “I can’t do this without you.”

Not on my own. Not without my pa.

He shook his head, snapping out of whatever madness had touched him. “Aye. Let’s go.”

We scurried out of the alley and headed for the rail tracks. Shouting echoed behind us. The Argents had come around the block and were marching toward us to cut us off, waving their staves and knocking fleeing strikers to the ground with a single flick.

One man went flying, colliding with a brick wall like a stunt from an MV movie. It would have been hilarious if it weren’t real fucking life! Another burst of magic shattered a tenement window, shards of glass raining down.

Those the Argents caught were wrapped in magical collars.

“They’re arresting them,” I wheezed between stolen gasps of air.

Lyle didn’t slow. He dragged me on, ignoring the chaos behind us, the shouts and screams, the glass underneath our shoes, the magic sparking at our backs.

A single train sat in the Stacks station, but… shit. The area was crawling with Argents. They were blocking the bridge, not letting anyone through and taking down anyone who tried to slip by.

There was no way home. We were fucked.

I pulled Lyle to a stop. “What now? We can’t get past them.”

“Go through the train.”

“What?”

“The compartments. Use ’em for cover. I’ll distract ’em.”

“With what? They’ve got magic!”

Lyle dug up a broken shard of glass from the ground. “Aye, and I’ve got good aim.”

“That won’t work, they’ve got shielding spells—”

“Let’s find out, aye?” He ran ahead and threw the shard at the nearest Argent.

It bounced off an invisible shield, causing a blue ripple to flash and vanish, just as I’d fucking known it would.

But the effect was immediate.

The remaining strikers took that as a signal and threw glass, rocks, an entire barrage of debris and furious curses.

“Run!” Lyle yelled.

Shit, this was such a fucking mistake! I ran for the train, my chest heaving. Lyle followed close behind, taking potshots at the Argents with whatever he’d picked off the ground. Somewhere along the way he’d lost his hat. His red hair shone bright amid the sea of silver, and I don’t know why I fucking fixated on that!

The Argents aimed their staves.

One of them aimed at me.

They were going to kill us.

A wave of magic surged toward me. Lyle shoved me aside, and it hit him square in the chest.

He fell onto his back in one clear sweep.

“Keep—running!” he yelled with a strangled gasp.

I did. Oh my fucking god, I kept running and running, and I didn’t fucking stop!

Not for Lyle. Not for anyone.

Magic whooshed past me as I leapt into the train, slammed the door closed, and bolted inside the empty compartment. I dove behind a seat as voices carried after me, accompanied by the rattle of footsteps.

They were going to catch me. There was no point in hiding, not if they had a detection spell, but fuck, my lungs were burning. I couldn’t run anymore. I couldn’t…

With trembling fingers, I pulled out the green Potent Potential potion I’d carried with me and almost forgotten about. My thumb rubbed across the wax seal. This would give me the boost I’d need to get all the way home, but I couldn’t leave Lyle. No, not when I’d already left my pa.

The carriage stopped shaking. Another voice recalled the Argents. One that carried authority. Not Ignatius; a woman.

I ripped through the wax seal and popped open the stopper, downing the potion in one, then tossed aside the empty glass. The liquid slid down my throat as thick as syrup, and I suppressed a cough at the sharp, minty bite mingling with the sweet, sugary hit of aether. I wasn’t sure how long it took for a potion to work its magic—I hadn’t gotten that far in my apprenticeship—but whoever had recalled the Argents had given me a breather.

Slowly, I crawled out from behind my cover and peered through the compartment window.

Lyle was lying on the ground, pinned by magic. An Argent wrapped a collar around his neck.

Fuck! No!

More strikers were rounded up by Argents. Whoever Ignatius hadn’t blasted away was being taken, but why? What would they do with them? Hang them? God.

What the fuck could I do to save Lyle? If I even tried to reach him, they’d take me, and then who’d tell Hope that our pa was dead?

“Did you catch that on camera?” drawled a female voice.

Holy fuck. I knew that voice.

I shuffled sideways to get a better angle, and shit, I hadn’t imagined it.

A middle-aged woman in a vivid pink robe, with long blonde hair was examining the screen of a recording device operated by another woman in a more modest dress—not a mage, then. But why would a famous MV actress be here, in the middle of a riot?

“Yes, my lady. Got enough good footage of the riot, if you’d like us to process these?”

“Do it, before Sevrina arrives. If Ignatius wants to keep one of his little temper tantrums away from the public eye, then he’ll need to take my application to the Arcanum seriously. This is a public relations nightmare ready to spill. Killing his own workers? What a waste.”

What?

Thalia, the heart of Highbridge Hearts, was making a bid for the Arcanum?

Leaving the studio for politics was one thing, but wanting to join the Archons? Fuck.

The Argents hauled Lyle away along with the other strikers, and I did nothing but watch, because that was all I did. I watched like it was some fucked-up MV show.

And then when the Potent Potential potion kicked in, I ran.

I ran and never looked back. All the way, Benny Bluebell’s theme song played in my head, over and over.

There’s magic in the world,

And it’s made for me and you.