Michael was running fast and hard through King Marlo’s palace. Servants quickly dodged out of his way and guards tried to intercept him, asking what was wrong or if there was danger nearby, but he couldn’t hear them. Gabriel was alive. His son was alive. He’d been here in the new world alone since he’d died. He’d been born a Prince of Burndan and had become a King. Michael had fought his son’s armies, lost a man he considered a brother to them. He needed to reach Gabriel. He needed to see his son. He made it to the palace gate, it had been sealed after the festivities of the parades, and he quickly created barriers in stairsteps that led him up and over it then leapt to the other side and began running through the streets of the capital, his feet desperately striking the pavement. He made it halfway through the city, dodging people still celebrating after the parade the whole way before his single driving thought started to give way to others.What he was doing was stupid. Pyotr had told him that King Castor had requested his help and that he was branded in the same way that Michael had been when he’d served as a Penitent. If he ran in there without a plan he could get him killed. Even beyond that he would be leaving behind a vulnerable Hume to be consumed by the rifts, ignoring the deal he made with Bayle to help with the assassination of the King of Stent, and abandoning his friends.In spite of all of those realizations he didn’t manage to stop his desperate running until he was a dozen miles outside of the capital. His desperation finally overridden by his common sense. He stood still, clenching his teeth with enough force that he could feel them straining against one another like metal crushing metal, and stared straight ahead. His son was alive and he was a prisoner. He thought of the pain he remembered feeling through his own brand and clenched his fists.He turned his attention outward, to the voices (...)