Fyra turned to stone, and Bran watched in horror. He watched as the Magician tried to free himself from her grasp. He watched as the Magician lowered his hand against her head, and with a gusty sigh, cursed her statue to fall to pieces. He watched as the Magician stood.

He watched, but he did not see. Not really. He thought he might be in shock. What was shock like, anyway? Was it a knife in your heart, tearing you to pieces? Was it an electric shot of adrenaline that buzzed through you? Or was it just this: the sadness and fear he felt in his limbs, weighing him down—the rhythm of repeated words in his mind?

This can't be happening.

This can't be happening.

This can't be happening.

Fyra had been the survivor. If any of them should have been the one to die—to be turned to stone and broken to smithereens—it should have been him. He was useless. Reed had been the leader. Lark had been the kind one. But Fyra had been the hopeful one. She'd never known when it was time to give up.

And now, she was gone.

"Bran," called the Magician, a mocking tone in his voice.

Bran's head snapped up, and his eyes settled warily on the Magician.

"Bran," said the Magician again. He smiled. "Come out, come out, wherever you are."

Bran held himself very, very still, and tried to think of a plan. What had Fyra said before she'd run toward the Magician?

Remember how you zapped me? Remember what you did to those mistlings?

Of course he remembered, but he knew he couldn't do that kind of thing on purpose. His powers had always been instinctive—uncontrollable—a raging river that couldn't be bent to the whims of a small boy like him. Did the sun listen to the flea? Did the sea heed the minnow?

No.

The Magician sighed. "Last chance. Show yourself now, and I might let you go. Otherwise I'll have to curse you. I know where you are."

But he couldn't know where Bran stood. If Bran had been in the Magician's cave—the Magician's territory—maybe it would have been possible, but here, in the forest? This was neutral ground. If the Magician wanted it, he'd have to make it his. And Bran was betting he didn't have the patience to do that.

Bran's guess was correct. The Magician shook his head in disappointment when he didn't appear. He began flinging curses, seemingly at random, turning trees and bushes to stone, but missing Bran entirely as he quickly moved out of the way of the spells.

What was to be done? He couldn't continue this dance forever. At some point, the Magician would tire of the game, and try a more effective way of finding him. Or he'd simply go back into his cave. Either way, Bran would have lost his chance at defeating him.

Fear sparked in Bran's belly, along with a small, traitorous idea. He was invisible. It wouldn't be at all hard to walk away from this. The stone snake in his pocket would be useless for summoning the Calamity, since it couldn't fly, but there were other ways to get back to the ship. The mistlings that haunted that one town could take him. He'd get to belong somewhere, finally, after years and years of being too poor, or too angry, or too magical.

Only... he had belonged somewhere before. He'd been a part of a team, with Fyra, and Lark, and Reed. He'd been a jerk at first. The others hadn't always been nice to him, either. But they'd all loved each other in that way that friends do: affection mixed with unbendable loyalty.

Bran let out a small sigh as he realized that he still felt loyal, despite all his fear, and all his anger, and the way his heart beat a terrified drumbeat against his ribs. There was nothing he could do to break that loyalty.

Closing his eyes, he cast out his magical senses.

In this world—a place drawn and colored by magic alone—the Magician was a flaming beacon. His magic was old and powerful. He would be difficult to beat. Or would he?

Bran frowned as a thought crossed his mind.

Power and power were like metal and magnets—they were attracted to each other. He'd learned this a long time ago. Power wanted to merge with other power, and by doing so, become more powerful.

Bran's magic was a magic based solely in magic. Other Blesseds relied on things other than pure magic: birds and music and pens and shadows—and they were weaker for it. Bran was stronger. He'd be a force to reckon with, if only he understood how to wield his power.

But maybe that wasn't what he needed to do. Nearly every time he'd used his power before, it had wielded him. When Fyra had touched him and called her birds, the magic had flowed out of him of its own accord, like water through a hole in a pail. When he'd destroyed the mistlings, this too had been purely done on instinct. He'd felt that it was the right thing to do. Then he'd done it. Nothing he'd ever done had been on purpose.

I'm going to fail, he thought.

It was a stupid plan. A horrible plan. It didn't really make sense in practice, and neither did it make sense in his head, but he thought there was a chance it might work. Even if it was only the smallest of chances, didn't he owe it to his friends to try? Maybe he was a coward, but he was a brave one.

With a slow, preparatory breath, he unknotted the rope Fyra had tied around him and let it drop to the ground.

Instantly, the Magician whirled to face him, as though he'd heard the rustle of the grass as the rope had come to rest on it. "There you are."

"Here I am," Bran echoed, his voice sounding much too young and much too small to his own ears. "I'm here to finish the fight."

"Ah." The Magician smiled and nodded. "Good boy, keeping your word like that. I was afraid you'd gone and run off."

And, without any more preamble, he threw a curse directly at Bran.

Time seemed to slow. Bran reached out, feeling the magic in the curse, doing his best to spur his Blessing into action. Nothing happened at first. But when the curse had nearly reached Bran's chest, he held out a hand to touch it. Instinctively. Automatically. The magic flowed out of the spell, down his arm and into the well of magic inside him, leaving the Magician's evil intentions to wither and die in the air.

Bran smiled.

The Magician appeared surprised.

"Well," he said. "That's new."

He threw another few curses at Bran, but now that Bran felt more sure of himself, it was all too easy to leech the magic out of them, one by one. Now the Magician was beginning to be annoyed. His spells grew nastier. Though Bran couldn't tell precisely what they were, the magic in them burned sharp and angry. The air around them sizzled with heat.

The Magician paused in his curse throwing for a short moment, breathing hard. How long had they been there? Bran didn't know. Power flowed through his veins—enough that they had to have been going for a fair amount of time. Perhaps half an hour or more.

"Can I ask how you're doing that?" the Magician said, clearly trying and failing to hide his exhaustion.

Bran shrugged, aiming for nonchalance, but hitting arrogance, which angered the Magician even more. "It's just my Blessing."

"It's powerful. I suppose you wouldn't consider joining me?"

"Never."

"Stupid boy." The Magician pulled a knife out of its sheathe at his side.

Before now, Bran hadn't even noticed the weapon. A knife was a useless thing in a magic fight, so, even if he had seen it, his subconscious would probably dismissed it as a pointless threat. After all, there were so many other ways for the Magician to defeat him. Why would he use a blade?

Now, though, the threat was imminent. The Magician began to sprint toward him, metal flashing in his hand.

Bran drew a wad of magic out of himself and formed it into something familiar. A churning whirlwind of blue sparks and brown dirt.

A magic storm.

He sent it spinning straight for the Magician. He guided it as the man tried to avoid it, binding it to his magic so that, no matter how quickly he moved, he wouldn't be able to escape.

He'd hoped that perhaps the storm would make him disappear altogether, or at least turn him into a chicken or a chair, which was what usually happened back in the village. Yet the Magician survived it. Somehow. The storm disappeared. He emerged from it looking decidedly ruffled, and also quite angry. The knife still rested in his hand.

Once again, he made his way toward Bran, murder in his eyes. This time, Bran was ready. Magic solidified around him in the form of a shield, blocking the Magician's first stab, and shattering his blade on the second attempt. The Magician gasped as the shock of the breaking weapon traveled up his arm.

Bran dissolved the shield and ducked under a punch. He set his hands on the Magician's shoulder.

Magic rested there, beneath his hands, and he began to draw it out. The Magician wheezed and frantically tried to get away, but it was as though Bran's hands had been glued to his skin. Power flowed into Bran. More, and more, and more. He knew he was draining the Magician dry. The man deserved it. He'd been given a powerful blessing, and he'd used it to destroy things. To sow fear and ruin.

His time was at an end.

When no magic was left for Bran to take, his hands came loose from the Magician's shoulder.

"Ow," said the Magician. "I-" He pressed a hand to his chest and looked down, fearfully. "You took it. My magic."

His legs shook beneath him and gave way, sending him to his knees.

"Please," he whispered, tone pleading. "Please. You have to give it back. I'm nothing without it."

Bran shook his head grimly. "You should have been gone a long time ago."

A flash of fear sparked in the Magician's eyes. Then they turned empty and cold, and he fell to the ground, dead.

Yay! Finally, a victory for Bran! But now what do you think will happen to Fyra and Lark and Reed? Will they remain stone? Will they come back to life? Vote if you hope for them to be revived!