Unfortunately, it also meant Malik was quite literally running in circles.

The first road he picked took him to a wide square selling all manner of embroidered goods, from thick woolen rugs to massive tent covers. As the weaver women shouted solicitations that left his ears burning, Malik turned into a new market, this one filled with twisted iron metal works taller than he was. The next road led to a world of glass, where his frantic face stared back at him from every surface. Some of the streets were filled with lanterns, making them almost as bright as daylight, but others were dark as a moonless night, and not even the light of Bahia’s Comet could reveal what lurked there. Those streets Malik avoided, along with the hungry-eyed people who prowled them.

A stitch began to form in Malik’s side as he hit another dead end in an area filled with dye pits of every shade of the rainbow. There Malik squatted between a pool of cerulean blue and bright rose red. He wiped the sweat off his face and listened to a burst of cheering from Jehiza Square. Another mask had been found, which left three more. He fought down a wave of panic.

Perhaps he could ask someone for the best place to buy a mask in Ziran? But look what had happened at the checkpoint when he’d asked for help locating his satchel. No, he wasn’t naive enough to believe in the kindness of strangers anymore.

Eleven chimes rang from Jehiza Square; soon it would be midnight, and sunrise not long after. Malik recited the riddle again in his mind. Storied places . . . storied places . . . He could feel the answer dangling just out of reach, mocking him.

Something near Malik rustled. His eyes snapped open.

Dozens of wraiths stood on the dye pits around Malik, none disturbing the liquid as they watched him with their bone-white eyes. The breath froze in Malik’s chest and he looked around, but Idir was nowhere in sight.

Minutes passed, and the wraiths did nothing but stare. Slowly, Malik reached a shaking hand toward the nearest one. His hand passed harmlessly through the red glow where the wraith’s heart should have been, and a feeling too intense to be a shiver but too calming to be pain washed over him. Along with it came a stirring in his chest; his magic hadn’t left him after all, and he was more relieved than he should have been to feel it surge once more. He seemed to have better control over it when he was calm, the opposite of how he’d been when he’d tried to summon it in the palanquin.

Malik breathed out slowly, marveling as the wraith’s shadows swirled around his fingers. “Are you trying to help me?”

The wraiths looked at one another. Then the nearest one threw itself straight at him.

Malik barely dodged the first assault before another lunged. He rolled to his feet and ran, the wraiths following him in a dark cloud. They moved as one in a swirling tempest of faces and limbs blending together and breaking apart in an amorphous blob. The mass of wraiths hurdled over Malik’s head to block his path, and he turned onto a new road, only for them to crowd the street again. They reached for him, and Malik pivoted up a flight of rickety stairs.

“Stop! Please!” he cried, but the wraiths ignored his pleas.

Malik sprinted into an empty area, and all at once the wraiths stopped, dispersing into their separate forms. He backed away from them slowly, stopping only when his foot met open sky.

He was standing at the edge of the gorge that separated the Lower City from the Old City, and when Malik had caught his breath enough to look down, all he could make out in the darkness was steep cliffs and scraggly trees, terrain not unlike that of his homeland. Down below, the last dregs of the Gonyama River reflected the light of the moon and Bahia’s Comet in its inky depths.

And directly across from him was the Widow’s Fingers.

The Widow’s Fingers was one of the few bridges spanning the gorge, and had been named such due to the way its spindly supports resembled an old woman’s hands. Legend had it that the spirit of said widow roamed the bridge past midnight, and that she would curse any couple that crossed it for daring to taunt her misery with their love. Though people scoffed at the superstition, the Widow’s Fingers was often abandoned at this time of night, and such was the case now save for a lone carriage sporting a one-winged gryphon.

A carriage that had Princess Karina inside it.

Malik crouched between the trees at the edge of the gorge, a perfect vantage point to see the bridge without being seen. A million questions ran through his head, but his silent companions did not seem inclined to answer any.

The carriage was almost halfway across the bridge now. There was no way Malik would reach it before it entered the Old City, and even if he could, approaching the vehicle so plainly was asking to be attacked by guards. He should follow Leila’s plan and focus on the First Challenge until a better opportunity to kill the princess presented itself.

But what if there wouldn’t be a better opportunity? If there was a possibility Malik could get Nadia away from Idir even a second sooner, he had to try.

However, the spirit blade wasn’t a long-distance weapon. His only option now was his magic.

Clenching his fists, Malik dug down for the thread of magic buzzing through his veins. It lurked just out of reach again, as much of a riddle to him as the one Princess Karina had given the Champions. He had no frame of reference for how powerful he really was, or what his magic actually did besides illusions. How much easier would this be if the world hadn’t forced him to fight it down his entire life?

No, there was no time to dwell on what-ifs. The carriage was three-quarters of the way across now, and getting smaller by the second. Malik closed his eyes once more and thought back to how he had felt when he’d created the illusion of Adanko. His magic had come to him when he had felt completely in tune with himself, and he had only ever felt that way in his lemon tree. He drew the image of his tree to mind once more, imagining the soft cooing of birds in the branches and the caress of leaves against his cheeks.

“Breathe,” he said softly. “Stay present. Stay here.”

His magic wasn’t something foreign or alien to be yanked and throttled as needed. It was a part of him, same as his eyes and blood. His focus deepened—there were his lungs and there was his pulse. There was his heart, beating, steady and strong.

And there was his magic, solid and true.

Power humming on the tip of his tongue, Malik turned his attention back to the quickly shrinking carriage. The easiest way to kill the princess would be to cause some sort of accident. It was a gruesome way to go, but it was all Malik could achieve at such a distance. His eyes fell on the horses drawing the carriage, beautiful thoroughbreds with dark coats.

Much like him, horses were easily frightened.

Whenever he or his sisters would misbehave as children, Nana would threaten them with tales of the bush walkers. Bush walkers were cannibals who roamed the savanna looking for their next meal, and the thought of them had terrified young Malik so much that he hadn’t left the house for a week after learning of them. In his mind’s eye, Malik imagined a shimmering web, and he pulled the threads toward him as an idea came to life.

“Their gray skin is stretched taut over the holes where their eyes should be,” he said out loud. The image of Adanko had appeared after he’d spoken, so he likely needed to speak once more to create anything new. “They move on all fours like animals, with gnashing teeth that crave human flesh.”

The air in front of the carriage shuddered, but nothing appeared. Biting the inside of the cheek, Malik recalled childhood days sitting at Nana’s feet with Leila by his side. His heart beat faster as he remembered his grandmother’s stories, her wrinkled hands clawing for his neck as she spoke.

“Bush walkers cannot be outrun!” Nana had yelled, and so did Malik as his magic burned the night air. “All bush walkers know is hunger, and when a bush walker is hungry, anything in its path becomes a meal!”

As the last word flew from Malik’s lips, a scream tore through the air. A slobbering pack of gray-skinned, humanoid creatures barreled on all fours toward the carriage, and the driver tried to maneuver the vehicle out of their way. The bush walkers barked and hissed and the horses reared back, the bindings connecting them to the carriage snapping completely.

Malik could do nothing but watch as the carriage careened midturn and smashed against the bridge’s wall. Another scream ripped through the air as the driver was pinned helplessly beneath the carriage’s wheels, his blood splattering the stones around him.

Bile burned at the back of Malik’s throat. If that poor man died, Malik would have no one to blame but himself.