Chapter One ONE
Barclay Thorne hid as a monster prowled past.

Rain poured, so dense the forest canopy shuddered overhead and rivulets streamed off every bough and stalk and palm. Barclay couldn’t breathe without sucking in water, couldn’t see without constantly blinking his soaked lashes. And even as he strained to listen, the rain’s roar drowned out all other sound.

Beneath him, a lumpy bug uncoiled from the mud. It rose and peered at him with beady, bulging eyes, then tilted its head curiously. It was a Wetworm, a common Beast throughout the Jungle—and harmless. Barclay ignored it and parted the curtain of vines beside him to scan the underbrush.

He spotted it: a Tarang. It was huge and feline, with muscular limbs and gills bristled with whiskers. Its brown pelt rippled with the strike of every raindrop, and as it sank low into a puddle, Barclay squinted to make out its shape in the water.

Nothing about Tarangs was harmless.

Its head turned, and Barclay hurriedly let the vines fall. He willed his pulse to slow. He’d braved far worse than Tarangs, after all.

In the mud, the Wetworm nudged his boot. Barclay yanked his foot back and glared at it. He refused to get himself eaten because of a pesky Wetworm.

A wind skittered from his left, making strands of Barclay’s black hair tear from its knot and cling to his cheeks. Across the shadowy Jungle floor, a pair of dark eyes gleamed at him. A black paw stepped forward through the grassy sedges, its equally black claws extended to attack.

Barclay held a finger to his lips. They had orders not to engage with wildlife unless they had to.

Leaves rustled as the Tarang prowled closer. Barclay tensed but held his crouch. If it spotted him, he’d run. Tarangs might’ve been fast, but Barclay was faster.

The Wetworm twisted around his ankle.

Barclay stifled a noise of alarm and subtly tried to shake the Wetworm loose. For such a squishy thing, it had an iron grip.

Across the underbrush, the dark eyes watching him moved close enough that Barclay could glimpse the creature’s silhouette. It was massive. Its normally shaggy black fur hung wet and flat, emphasizing the white spikes jutting down its spine. It was a Lufthund, and like the Tarang, it belonged to the second-most-powerful class of Beasts: Mythic class. But that didn’t make them an even match. Tarangs were native to the Jungle and made for its rains. They could hunt as easily on the ground as in the water or amid the treetops. And with the riverbank barely five paces to Barclay’s right, the Tarang would need only drag him beneath the surface, and the fight would be won.

But Root didn’t care that he was outmatched. He took another step forward, prepared to defend his Keeper. Barclay shook his head. It was too dangerous.

A vine skimmed Barclay’s shoulders. The Tarang stood right beside him. He could count its razored fangs, could smell its stale breath. Its scarlet eyes shifted toward—

A splash sounded from the river.

The Tarang snapped to attention and darted to the bank.

A shape burst from the water with a bloodcurdling shriek. The Tarang leapt back as a gigantic serpentine Beast rocketed toward it—a Nathermara. Its face was little more than a gaping mouth with rows and rows of needled teeth. Electricity sizzled down its translucent flesh.

With a whine, the Tarang fled.

Barclay could’ve crumpled in relief—until the Nathermara shot toward him.

Root ran. But not even he could reach Barclay in time. The Nathermara’s mouth opened wide, and Barclay desperately yanked the Wetworm. He yanked and yanked, but it didn’t—

“Mar-Mar,” snapped Tadg Murdock. “We don’t eat friends.”

Mar-Mar halted as his Keeper trudged out from the river. Tadg smirked as he took in Barclay, cowering in the mud.

“Though after saving your life,” Tadg added, “I think Mar-Mar deserves at least a finger.”

“Where have you been?” Barclay demanded. “You said you were only checking around the bend!”

“We got sidetracked. There was this school of Kritterfish upcurrent and—”

“You abandoned me to look at fish?”

“I’ve only ever seen them in fountains! They really do look just like coins. And don’t blame me. You’re the one who didn’t notice a literal Tarang sneaking up on you.” Tadg studied him. “Why didn’t you?”

Barclay pretended not to have heard, busy tugging at the Wetworm. It squirmed with annoyance but didn’t budge.

Thankfully, Tadg’s focus had already moved on. He withdrew a sopping map from his backpack. He waved a hand over it, and the water vanished—not just from the paper but from all of him. His light brown hair sprang up into waves. His clothes dried, the hems of his sleeves and pants shrinking up his lanky frame. The droplets on his skin, extra pink and freckled from the Summer sun, sluiced off him and splattered onto Barclay’s face.

Barclay scowled. But it was hard to stay mad at Tadg when he was like this. Tadg held the map close to his face, squinting. Then he surveyed their surroundings, from the canopy above to the swampy floor. After four years as Tadg’s fellow apprentice, Barclay knew his moods: his grouchiness, his hotheadedness, even the times he went dark and glum, retreating from everyone.

But not on this scouting mission. Out here, hiking through the wilderness, pencil tucked behind his ear, Tadg was someone else entirely.

“It’s early for a Tarang’s typical hunting hours,” Tadg said. “It’s a shame you had to go and make yourself prey. Tarangs are really rare. And the way their water Lore reacts to the rain is fascinating. Mar-Mar’s water Lore doesn’t do anything like it. I would’ve liked to take some notes.”

Barclay and Root exchanged a snarky look. How rude of them to seem like prey.

Tadg peered up a nearby tree. High above, shelves of fungus clustered against the bark. Their wrinkly shape looked like the folds of an ear, as if the tree were covered in ears all huddled together, eavesdropping. They grew throughout the Jungle’s understory, the middle layer between the canopy and the forest floor. Normally, they were beige. But not now—in the rain, they glowed neon violet.

They were called Chattering Chitin. Most called them Chitchat for short.

“They ought to be glowing pink. But otherwise, they don’t look like there’s anything wrong with them.” Tadg pulled two glass jars from his pack. “Come on. Let’s grab our samples and go back to camp.”

Collecting samples was Barclay’s job. Barclay was the better climber.

“I’m stuck, Tadg.”

“Stuck doing what?” he asked distractedly.

“There’s a Wetworm wrapped around my ankle, and it won’t budge. I think this is it for me, actually. I’ll die here. Then the plants will suck the nutrients out of me and use me as fertilizer. All because my best friend was so excited about some fish and fungus.”

“Just poke it between the eyes.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Now hurry up. Mar-Mar and I are starving.”

Barclay jabbed a finger between the Wetworm’s eyes. Its grip slackened, and it tipped over dizzily.

“Well, would you look at that,” Barclay joked, making Root huff. It was tiresome work being as protective as Root when your Keeper constantly stumbled into danger.

Barclay scratched him behind the ear. “Thanks for always trying to save me, buddy.”

Root’s temper cooled. He nuzzled Barclay’s cheek.

Barclay took the jars from Tadg and slid them into his satchel. Then, with a running start, he leapt. His wind Lore burst beneath him, propelling him higher. His boots landed on a thick branch. It wobbled, and he snatched another so as not to fall.

“Real graceful!” Tadg called.

“Says the guy on the ground!” Barclay called back.

Barclay climbed until he reached the lowest cluster of Chitchat. He withdrew a knife from his pocket and sawed off one of the conks. Chitchat might’ve not grown near his hometown at the edge of the Woods, but he’d been a mushroom farmer back then—he liked to think he knew his way around a fungus. Even if this fungus was technically a Beast.

The Chattering Chitin played a crucial role in the Jungle. When it rained—and it rained often, nearly every day this time of year—the Chitchat chattered.

(That was the unofficial term for it. The official term was long and complicated, used only by Scholars and the like.)

As the rain fell and seeped into the Chitchats’ roots, their electric Lore sizzled to life. They glowed pink. Their earlike folds perked up, listening to any passing Beast or Keeper, to disturbances of any kind. Then messages shot through them, root to root, from one side of the Jungle to the other. Like a huge, gossipy network, chattering with itself.

And Raajnavar, the Legendary Beast who ruled the Jungle, listened.

However, for the past six weeks, whole regions of the Jungle had been going silent. Blackout zones. Like the one Barclay and Tadg’s team was investigating now. Instead of pink, the disconnected Chitchat glowed an intense, eerie violet.

“Get the second sample higher up, and on a different tree!” Tadg yelled. “If they’re too similar, they could skew the lab results!”

“I know!” Barclay shouted, already climbing higher.

“Watch out for Asphyxoas! They live in the canopy!”

“Do you want to climb up here and do it yourself?”

“No, which is why I’m warning you! If you get tangled in an Asphyxoa, I’m not climbing up there to save you!”

Barclay snorted. Tadg absolutely would come save him—he’d just never let Barclay forget it.

Barclay climbed so high, he lost sight of Tadg. Yet after he slid the second sample into his satchel, he didn’t glance down—he glanced up. Slivers of gray sky marbled the canopy, and rain streamed around him in miniature waterfalls, glittering in the purple light.

He wondered how it would feel to reach the canopy’s peak. To holler at the hollering storm. To marvel at the rainforest stretching in all directions, strange and lush and alive.

Then he felt it. A prickling against his skin. A quiet tapping in his ear.

It was the same feeling that had distracted him when the Tarang had first appeared. That had been distracting him ever since he came to the Jungle.

He’d been ignoring it. But it wasn’t comfortable, like the tingling of your foot when it fell asleep. And the longer he ignored it, the worse it got. Especially out here, in the wilderness.

Like the wilds called to him, trying to get his attention.

But Barclay didn’t climb to the canopy, didn’t holler, didn’t marvel. Instead, he climbed down somberly.

No matter how much the wilds called, he’d never answer.

Not ever again.

The next morning, Barclay woke to an impatient voice outside his tent.

“Barclay? Tadg? Honestly, boys, the sun rose twenty minutes ago.”

Barclay lifted his head from his pillow and groaned, “We’re awake. We’re just packing up.”

Footsteps thudded away. Barclay heaved himself upright. He regretted staying up so late to read. Beside him, Root yawned, and Barclay blinked away tears. “Root, your breath could knock out a Fluffalo.”

Root swatted him with his tail.

Behind the mesh mosquito nets, Tadg didn’t wake. He slept on his stomach, feet flung out from his bag, arms hugging his pillow. His second Beast, Toadles, nestled in his hair. Toadles was a Stonetoad, a greenish-brown lump of warts, with a sparkling sapphire embedded in his forehead.

“Tadg,” Barclay said groggily.

Tadg didn’t stir. His face twinged as if with pain.

“Tadg.” Barclay shook his shoulder, and Tadg gasped and jolted up, making Toadles tumble off the pillow and plunk upside down on his head. His webby hands and feet flailed until Tadg scooped him up and set him on his lap.

“Nightmares again?” Barclay asked.

“Yeah. The same one,” Tadg grunted. “But it cut out later than the others. I’m standing on this ledge poking out from a waterfall, and then you show up. It’s storming, really storming. And you look—you look like a mess. I’m pretty sure I’m a mess too. And someone else is with us. Viola, maybe. She tells us to run.”

Viola Dumont was the third member of their trio. But they’d been separated since the beginning of Spring. She was staying with her father in the Mountains, another of the six Wilderlands.

Tadg rarely described his nightmares, and so Barclay tried not to look disturbed. Maybe he ought to ask for more details. But it was risky to press Tadg so early in the morning.

“Well, um, we should hurry,” Barclay said. “Cyril’s already waiting.”

The pair dressed and packed in a rush. When they emerged, camp was still quiet, and Barclay, Tadg, and Root tiptoed around the eight other tents. Six scouting teams had been sent into the Jungle’s blackout zones. Theirs included thirteen Keepers licensed by the Guild, which governed the Wilderlands. Most of the Keepers were Surveyors, explorers who knew how to navigate the wilderness. Some were Apothecaries, whose knowledge of magical plants and common, Trite class Beasts made them perfectly suited to transport the samples of Chitchat.

Barclay and Tadg, however, were Guardians. Their duty was to protect the others from dangerous wildlife. But with the mission teams spread thin between so many blackout zones, the Guardians had been filling in on other tasks, like collecting samples or charting their route.

The team’s three other Guardians awaited Barclay and Tadg along the riverbank, out of earshot of camp.

Cyril Harlow clicked his tongue as he inspected them. Tadg’s bedhead still had its Toadles-shaped dent, and Barclay drooped tiredly like a wilting fern.

“You can’t keep making a habit of this,” Cyril told them. “You’ve already slept through half the lesson. If this continues, I suppose I’ll… I’ll send Codric to wake you up.”

Behind him, Codric hiked up his chin, no doubt feeling Barclay and Tadg deserved a far harsher punishment. Codric was a Xylovis, a rare, ramlike Beast with powerful wood Lore. With Midsummer only two weeks away, Codric’s black wool was sheared short, and his wooden horns were in their greenest, leafiest glory.

“Sorry,” Barclay muttered.

“And Tadg,” Cyril added, “I keep telling you—you need to be wearing your glasses.”

Tadg grumbled something unintelligible and drew them from his pocket.

The silence stretched awkwardly. Cyril cleared his throat. “Well, sit down and open your notebooks. Today is an academic lesson.”

Barclay and Tadg shared a withering look. Lately it felt like every day was an academic lesson.

Cyril was Barclay and Tadg’s substitute Lore Master. Their real Lore Master, Runa Rasgar, had remained in the Tundra to help fix it after it had collapsed in early Spring, its borders fallen, its Lore chaotic and changed. And she’d deemed the work too dangerous for apprentices.

Barclay might’ve respected Runa more than anyone, but in his opinion, the Tundra was beyond repair. Dead Legendary Beasts didn’t just come back to life, Legendary or not.

Although Barclay and Tadg had already known Cyril well, becoming his apprentices had been an adjustment. Where Runa hated mornings and never scheduled a lesson before noon, Cyril hauled them up every day at sunrise. Where Runa preferred hands-on teaching, like sparring and drills, Cyril insisted they learn the theory behind every technique before they tried it. Cyril made sure they kept up with their chores. Runa rarely kept up with hers. Runa was tough but fair—she knew when to push and when to let things slide. Cyril treated every wrongdoing like a personal slight, all sighs and pursed lips and lectures about disappointment.

Barclay might’ve liked Cyril, but he missed Runa. A lot.

Cyril shuffled through his notecards. “I’ll go back and repeat a few things so you can catch up.”

Cyril’s apprentices, Shazi Essam and Cecily Lloris, groaned.

Barclay and Root trudged to the spot beside Cecily. Like Barclay, Cecily was no morning creature. In fact, Cecily looked out of place in the daytime, like a pale, scrawny sliver of night that had slipped past the sun’s notice. She wore all black clothes without any zippers, jewelry, or buckles, nothing that could catch the light. She claimed she didn’t do flashy and that she liked practical things, like her countless, bulky pockets or her brown hair chopped short and out of her eyes. Barclay knew better: Before Cecily had become Cyril’s apprentice, she’d been a thief; and she still was, a little bit.

As Barclay lowered himself cross-legged onto the grass, he yelped, feeling as if he’d sat on a pile of needles. Cecily’s shadow stretched underneath him, black as a pit.

“Sorry,” she mumbled tiredly. She picked her shadow up and tossed it back over her shoulder.

While Barclay rubbed his sore butt, Cyril said, “Per Shazi’s request, today’s lesson is about what a Guardian should consider before bonding with additional Beasts.”

Barclay and Root perked up. That was far more interesting than yesterday’s lesson, which had been the history of the signing of the Guild’s charter.

“Now, as you all know, the amount of Lore a Beast contains varies depending on its class. Humans, however, have no power within us naturally—we borrow it by bonding with Beasts. And there’s a limit to how much power we can take. Too much, and it can overwhelm you.”

“But what is the limit?” Shazi asked.

“That’s difficult to define,” replied Cyril, “as that limit differs person to person. It’s determined by mental and physical strength. But it also depends on the class of the Beasts. The higher the class, the fewer you can—”

“Just Mythic class. How many Mythic class Beasts can one person bond with?”

Cyril quirked a brow. It was very like Shazi to consider only the most powerful option.

Then again, if any of them could handle a second Mythic class Beast, it was her. Shazi was every bit a warrior. Each morning (and she liked early mornings), she tied her dark brown hair into the same sleek ponytail. She wrapped bandages around her palms to better grip her swords. She fastened her prosthesis to her left thigh. And she trained. At fifteen, she already wielded her metal Lore with a mastery that rivaled most licensed Keepers—and she knew it.

“The limit is three Mythic class Beasts,” Cyril answered. “Though few alive have managed to reach it. But it bears noting that you can still be an extraordinary Guardian with a single Beast.”

“Sounds good to me,” Cecily declared, flopping back onto the grass and stroking the black-and-white feathers of Oudie, her Tenepie. Oudie’s shadow writhed cheerfully.

“Can you really be that strong if you’ve only got one Beast?” Shazi asked.

“Of course,” Cyril said. “Take Yang, for instance. She may have only her Sentinal, but there’s no better wind-user in the world.”

“Who’s Yang?” asked Barclay.

“Daxia Yang,” Cecily answered. “Cyril’s best friend.”

Tadg’s brows creased with deep skepticism. “I didn’t know you had friends.”

Cyril’s mouth dropped. “You’ve known me for four years, Tadg. And you’ve been under the impression I don’t have friends? What ever for?”

Tadg’s gaze roamed over him, as if the medals pinned to Cyril’s crisply starched clothes were answer enough. Though recently, thanks to his apprentices, Cyril’s appearance had undergone a drastic improvement: his brown hair, once chopped harshly across his forehead, was now trimmed in such a way that it no longer looked like a helmet.

“How many friends, then?” Tadg asked. “Runa doesn’t count.”

“I… I feel that, given our late start, we shouldn’t waste more time. Should any of you consider another Beast, it’s helpful to divide Lore into three categories: power, support, and utility. A power Lore you can use to fight. A support Lore will provide defense or aid to yourself or others on your team. A utility Lore might not help you in battle, but it could be useful in other contexts. Of course, some Lores fulfill all three. Like Tadg’s water Lore. He can strike with it, shield himself or others with it. And he can also use it for miscellaneous tasks, like keeping himself dry.”

“Or when he’s too lazy to sit up to take a sip of water,” Barclay joked.

“Why should I?” said Tadg. “It floats to me.”

“What about Beasts with more than one type of Lore, like Mar-Mar?” Shazi asked.

“They still count as one Mythic class Beast, but they’re notoriously rare,” Cyril responded. “So, Shazi, since you were the one who requested this lesson, are there any categories of Lore you feel would suit you?”

Shazi didn’t hesitate. “I want a power Lore. Or maybe one with multiple uses, but one of them has to be power.” She crossed her arms. “I assume you’re going to tell me that I shouldn’t rush to decisions or I should be, I don’t know, more prudent or something.”

“Actually, I think your choice is fair,” Cyril said seriously. “Your metal Lore also falls into all three categories. And that was my exact mindset when I was your age and I bonded with Tati.”

Tati was Cyril’s Tasumabasa, his second Beast. Because magma constantly burned underneath her rocky scales, she hated rain. She’d gladly kept to her tattoolike Mark for most of this mission.

Other than making a cozy firepit when she curled up, Barclay supposed Tati’s lava Lore was a power Lore.

“Cecily,” Cyril said next. “Though you’re already well on your way to becoming an excellent Guardian, you should at least consider a second Beast.”

Cecily tucked her hands behind her head. “Eh. It was hard enough figuring out one Lore. The first week I bonded with Oudie, my feet kept getting stuck in my own shadow.”

“You realize that’s actually quite remarkable, don’t you? Not only are Tenepies challenging to tame, but even older, more experienced Keepers often lose control when they first take on a powerful bond.”

Barclay knew that firsthand. The day after his accidental bond with Root, his wind Lore had nearly leveled his hometown of Dullshire.

“And,” Cyril added, “you’ll have a much easier time accessing rare bonding ingredients as a Guild apprentice.”

“Eh,” Cecily repeated.

Cyril sighed. “What about you, Barclay?”

Barclay considered. “I guess wind Lore is mostly a power and utility Lore, isn’t it? I can fight with it, but I can do other things, like run fast or turn into wind.”

“I’d agree with that assessment,” Cyril said, but his smile looked forced, and each of Barclay’s friends seemed to shift uncomfortably. As if they were all thinking the same thing.

Barclay already had a second Lore.

What made the six Wilderlands different from the rest of the world was the magic that ran beneath them. Wild Lore. Beasts were naturally in tune with it, but not humans. Yet Barclay could sense it subtly. He hadn’t realized so until arriving in the Tundra last year, where the wild Lore had been so off-balance, it’d been impossible to ignore.

Which meant, although Barclay’s friends were too polite to say it, even among Lore Keepers who bonded with mysterious creatures and called the strangest, most dangerous parts of the world their home… Barclay was a freak.

Cyril talked on, but Barclay didn’t catch another word of the lesson. His focus drifted toward the forest. Those same chills prickled up his arms. That same pulse tapped softly in his ear. Barclay studied the rustle of every leaf, the fluttering of every insect, but he didn’t spot anything.

Still, he swore something was staring back.

Their team hiked single file through swampy underbrush. Despite it being midday, without rain to set the Chitchat aglow, the Jungle floor was submerged in shadow. Every team member clutched a sunscale—the shining scale of a Saladon. And they were each slathered in a lime-green poultice to ward away mosquitoes or the far worse mosquito-like Skeeticks, making everyone smell strongly of bubble gum. Backpacks bobbed overtop shoulders. Tools rattled on waistbelts. Walking poles squished deep into mud.

As the lead Guardian, Cyril walked at the line’s front. Barclay and Tadg defended the rear. And Shazi and Cecily protected the middle. Even from a distance, Barclay could hear the swish swish of Shazi’s Scormoddin, Saif, swatting through the sedges with his metallic scorpion tail.

“What about dust Lore?” Tadg suggested. “You could hide yourself.”

“I don’t know,” said Barclay. “Wouldn’t that make us sneeze a lot?”

“Not if it’s yours, I don’t think.” Tadg ducked beneath a curly curtain of moss. “What about feather Lore?”

Root shook his head.

“Root’s right. Feathers would be too tickly.”

“Rubber Lore, then? Come on, you have to admit being super stretchy would be cool.”

Tadg might’ve been more cheerful on their mission, but this was too much, even for him.

Barclay lowered his voice so the two Apothecaries ahead wouldn’t overhear. “You don’t have to do this, Tadg.”

“What am I doing?”

“Pretending I’m normal. I know my wild Lore weirds you out. So do us both a favor and drop it.”

Tadg scoffed. “Wow. Fine. It’s not like I could just be excited for you or anything. Since, you know, I didn’t get any say in my Beasts.”

To forge a bond, typically, a Keeper collected the six ingredients of a snare. The ingredients varied with each Beast species. The rarest and strongest Beasts required the most uncommon and expensive ingredients—if the ingredients were known at all.

However, in exceptional circumstances, a powerful Beast could forge the bond with a Keeper. Like Root, who’d chosen Barclay because of how well they suited. Or like Mar-Mar, who’d found Tadg familiar after his previous Keeper, Tadg’s father, had died.

Or like Toadles. Though as a newly discovered species, nearly everything about Toadles was still a mystery.

“Sorry,” Barclay said quickly. “I didn’t mean—”

“And for the record, I never said you weirded me out,” Tadg grunted. “No one did. You’re the one being paranoid.”

Barclay winced. He should’ve known his friends better than that. How annoying it must’ve been to put up with him.

“I’m sorry,” Barclay repeated. “But couldn’t you bond with another Beast if you wanted to? Toadles is only Familiar class.” Familiar class included the least powerful Beasts a Keeper could bond with, stronger only than Trite class.

At the sound of his name, Toadles peeked out from Tadg’s backpack and stared at Barclay blankly.

“I don’t know he’s Familiar class, not for sure,” Tadg muttered.

“But your experiments haven’t gotten anywhere.”

“Not yet.”

“Okay. But even if he’s Prime class or something, if a Keeper can have three Mythic class Beasts, couldn’t you have two and then—”

“And risk ending up like Soren?” Tadg growled.

Barclay must’ve really ruined Tadg’s mood. Tadg never brought up Soren Reiker, the wealthy Beast collector who’d murdered Tadg’s father. Even four years later, Barclay shuddered at the memory of Soren’s many Beasts overwhelming him, transforming him into something like a Beast himself.

“I—I’m sorry,” Barclay said for the third time. “I was only trying to help.”

“Then how about we both stop trying,” Tadg snapped.

They hiked on, silent except for Root panting from the muggy air.

Ahead, one of the Apothecaries shrieked.

“What is it?” Barclay and Tadg gasped at the same time.

“Never mind! It’s just—just a Skeetick,” the Apothecary stammered, swatting away the Beast buzzing around her hat. Until Toadles shot his long tongue over Tadg’s shoulder, snatched it, and belched.

Neither Barclay nor Tadg cracked a smile. They resumed their careful watch of the wilderness.

Meanwhile, the second Apothecary elbowed the first. “Twitchy much?”

“Don’t laugh at me,” she said. “I keep thinking about the team that scouted the first blackout zone. They encountered six adult male Waramasas. Six!”

“Eh, that was a fluke.” His sunscale flickered, and he shook it irritably. It brightened. “Besides, it’s not wild Beasts I’m so worried about.”

“You really think Keyes is here, in the Jungle?”

Barclay and Root tensed.

“He already attacked three Wilderlands. Who’s to say the Jungle won’t be next? And these blackout zones don’t make sense to me. First there’s one. And before we can even explore it thoroughly, there’s a second, then a fourth, then a seventh. All in the span of two moons? The zones aren’t near each other, don’t follow any pattern. And remember the weeping tide blooms at the Sea? The Ever Storms in the Desert? We couldn’t explain those either, and they turned out to be Keyes’s fault…. What? You don’t agree with me?”

“If the Jungle was under real threat, Raajnavar’s Keeper would be out here helping us. They probably would’ve fixed the blackouts, even.”

“Yeah,” the first mumbled. “You’re probably right.”

Except he wasn’t. But even among the Guild, few knew the identity of Raajnavar’s Keeper. And clearly, these two Apothecaries hadn’t made the cut.

Barclay peeked at Tadg, hoping he hadn’t overheard. Raajnavar’s Keeper was a sore subject.

Judging by his scowl, he definitely had.

Then Root sniffed, and his entire spine curled in disgust.

“You smell something?” Barclay asked. Root nodded fiercely, but all Barclay could smell was the humid forest.

“Did you see that?” a Surveyor barked from up ahead.

“Let me guess—another Skeetick?” someone joked.

“No, but I swear I saw…” The Surveyor broke from the line and treaded through an especially sludgy patch of mud. Shazi, Saif, and Cecily followed—swords and tail pointed, shadow raised and readied.

Without warning, Shazi yelped. Cecily’s arms flailed. And the four of them sank into the mud—and disappeared.