"We're all going to die," Hettie said.

She stared down at her cold cup of tea; her blonde hair was coming loose, and her pretty summer dress was stained with blood. Jax poked at his tomato quiche with a fork. His mother was taken to bouts of hysterics over the inanest things — mismatched socks, loud chewing, their neighbours accidentally setting fire to the local apple tree again — but this was dire, even for her.

"More tea?" Jax offered.

He held up the teapot. His mother looked at him as if he'd held up a dead kitten. Slowly, Jax lowered the teapot. Heavy footsteps sounded upstairs, followed by the sound of terse voices. His father was entertaining someone in his office. Jax hadn't recognized the stranger, but the fellow had looked big and burly, like the sort of person that shaved his beard with a pocketknife.

"There's cake, too," Jax offered. "Do you want a chocolate tart?"

He pointed to a tray weighed down by miniature carrot cakes, berry tarts, gooseberry trifle and a yellow bar that could have been either lemon or mango. Someone had written "Good luck, Percy!" in celebratory gold icing. Jax wiped it away surreptitiously.

"I loved Percy." His mother's lip wobbled. "He had the most wonderful singing voice."

"I know."

She laced her fingers together. "And he always brought me chocolate from the market. The salted kind, filled with caramel."

Jax smudged the icing some more. "I recall."

"He was such a thoughtful boy." His mother tipped her head back, blinking furiously. "I'm really going to miss him."

"Mum." Jax couldn't keep the alarm out of his voice. "Don't cry."

Good lord, that was the last thing they needed: a bunch of hungry monsters, tumbling through the roof to munch on their faces. No. Better to avoid that. Jax took a deep breath, and his mother copied him, staring hard at a window. Her hands trembled.

"I'm alright," she said.

"Good," Jax said.

He stared down at the smudged icing. Strange, Jax thought, that a name could be erased so easily. Would history remember his cousin? It certainly wouldn't remember him. But then, you had to do something impressive to be remembered. The most impressive thing Jax had ever done was repot a Fire Bush (the burn marks had lasted for weeks).

A door slammed. Heavy footsteps pounded down the stairs.

The stranger burst into the room. He was tall — so tall that Jax had to crane his neck back to look at him — and wearing a fitted black jacket. His nose was slightly squashed, as if it had been punched in a few times. His eyes landed on Jax.

"Do you know who I am, son?"

"Zark," his father muttered, shoving into the room. "This is ridiculous."

The stranger ignored him. "Well, do you?"

Jax glanced at his father. He hoped this wasn't someone important, like the Chancellor of the Exchequer or that guy that won Exerbury Idol last year. But his father was staring at the smudged icing with a clenched jaw. "Er. No."

The stranger nodded, as if he'd expected that. "My name is Commander Romulus Zark. I'm the head of His Majesty's army. Infantry, archers, light cavalry, special forces..." He plucked a lemon square from the table. "Everything is my jurisdiction."

"Right," Jax said politely. "Good for you."

Zark assessed him. "You're awfully small."

Jax blinked. "I... thanks?"

The stranger — Zark — kept staring. Jax picked up a tart at random and ate it. The pastry was slightly too sweet, the strawberries just at the edge of turning rotten. Should he spit it out in a napkin? No. That would be terribly rude.

Jax forced himself to swallow. Zark stroked his chin.

"You must be a fast runner," he said.

Jax's throat burned. "Not really."

"Good climber?"

He shook his head. "Afraid not."

"Very intelligent, then," Zark ventured.

"Um." The cloying strawberry taste was almost overwhelming "I did okay on my exams. Would you like to take a seat?"

Zark remained standing. "As I'm sure you're aware, your cousin Persophecles is dead. So is the entire royal army, including our special forces department, half the city, and one of our best cooks." He sighed. "Damn shame. She made excellent pheasant stew."

Jax reached surreptitiously for a napkin. "I'm very sorry to hear that."

"What do you know about the prophecy, son?"

Jax paused, the napkin raised halfway to his mouth. Finally. A question he could answer. Sword fighting, climbing, all the rest of it — not his area of expertise. But words? Words made sense to him. He liked the shape of words, the feel of them in his mouth; he liked that they could heal and hurt in equal measure.

Jax cleared his throat.

A man made of shadow, a god-wielded knife,

A phoenix of death, a tomb made of life;

A friend without foe, a foe without friend,

A city that begins just the same as it ends.

Sail on glass waters, sail on cold seas,

Find a cure to the most cursed disease;

A man made of shadow, a god-wielded knife

Persophecles, born to steel and to strife.

Jax paused to catch his breath. Slowly, Zark lowered into a chair.

"Well, that was..." The older man whistled. "Wow. I didn't expect you to know the whole thing. I can't decide if that was incredibly impressive or depressing." He raised an eyebrow. "Do you have any friends?"

Jax considered this. "I have a pegapiglet."

Zark nodded gravely, as if this was the answer he'd been expecting. "Here's the thing, son. I need someone to fill in for Persophecles. A trained soldier, ready to take on the five trials in his name. Someone that can kill the mother of monsters and end their reign of terror. Someone people can count on."

"Right," Jax said.

Perhaps Zark wanted help compiling a list of names. Possible candidates. The older man sat forward, his coat falling open to reveal a flash of silver. A blade? A flask? Impossible to tell from this distance.

"People are familiar with the Blackwater name," Zark said. "They trust it."

Jax nodded. "I see."

"You don't have much family, do you?"

"No," Jax said. "No, it's just us."

Silence fell.

His father rested his elbow on the mantlepiece, staring gloomily into the empty grate. His mother picked apart the fragile crust of a berry tart. Zark gave him a meaningful look. And suddenly — too suddenly — Jax understood.

"Oh, no," Jax said, horrified. "No, sir, I..." Strawberry acid clawed its way up his throat. "That's not really my thing."

Zark's face was calm. "We'll send in reinforcements, of course. Two people to accompany you on the quest."

"I really can't do that," Jax said.

"You killed that monster today," Zark said.

They both looked at where Wind-Singer leaned against the wall; the large sword was covered in dried entrails, the blade dull and scratched. So much for cleaning it, Jax thought. He hoped his father hadn't paid too much for the service.

"That was an accident," Jax said, turning back to Zark. "I promise. The thing impaled itself on my sword."

Zark stroked his face thoughtfully. "Even so. A lot of people saw you do it, and appearances are everything." He dropped his hand. "You must have some special skills."

"I don't." Jax shook his head violently. "I promise you."

"Think, son." Zark leaned forward. "What are you best at?"

"Um." Jax paused. "Flower arranging?"

His father ran a scarred hand over his face. "You see, Zark?" His voice was wary. "I told you this was a terrible idea."

"I don't understand." Jax's heart slammed in his chest. He wondered if he might pass out. "The prophecy says—"

"I know what the prophecy says," Zark said, picking up a carrot cake. "You've just recited it for us with a disturbing amount of accuracy. But Persophecles is dead." He bit into the cake; cream cheese frosting coated his mouth. "There is no plan b."

Jax closed his eyes. "Why can't someone else do it?"

"There is nobody else," Zark said. "The prophesied hero is dead." He ticked off a finger. "The infantry is dead." Another finger. "Special forces are dead. The archers are dead. Even the cavalry is dead." His eyes were solemn. "It's just you, son."

Jax's voice was meek. "I've never even swung a sword."

"You'll learn," Zark said.

"I can't—" The words stuck in his throat. "I mean, I'm so flattered that you'd think of me, and I'm sure it's a great honour, but I just really can't—"

"Son?" Zark cut in.

"Yeah?"

"Shut-up and eat a scone."

Jax shut up and ate a blueberry scone. Zark watched him as he chewed. The older man reached into his coat pocket, drawing out a silver knife, and Jax choked a little. But Zark merely cut into a berry tart with surprising grace.

"It won't be that difficult," Zark said. "All creatures are bonded to the mother of monsters. Kill her, and the rest die, too. Find her, put a sword through her blackened heart, and bam." He set down his knife. "You'll be home before the first frost."

Oh, Jax thought faintly. Is that all? "Again, sir, I'm really not sure—"

"Alright," Zark said. "What do you want?"

Jax swallowed. "Pardon?"

"I'm a powerful man, Jaxon." The delicate pastry looked ridiculous in his beefy hands. "I have the king's ear. He's desperate to see the monsters banished from the kingdom. If you can do that — if you can succeed — then I'll grant you anything. Anything you desire."

Zark took a bite of the berry tart. Jax's mind spun.

"Anything?" he echoed.

"Anything." Zark's voice was firm. "Think. What do you want?"

His mouth felt dry. "I want..."

"Yes?"

"Well, I want..."

"We don't have all day," Zark said, polishing off the tart.

"I want to be a famous writer," Jax said.

His cheeks felt hot. Zark — who had been wiping his hands on his trousers — paused. His face was incredulous.

"You want to be a... writer?"

"I want to write books." Jax's voice was stronger. "Good ones."

Zark sighed. "I'm sorry, son, but I'm a soldier. Not a miracle worker."

"No, I do write good books." Jax paused. "Well, they're okay. The plot is a bit convoluted, and the third act could use restructuring, but..." Three faces stared. His cheeks grew warmer. "Never mind. That's not important. I just need someone to read my books."

Zark ran a thoughtful hand over his blade. "You want me to force people to read your books?"

Jax had a sudden image of Zark chasing a group of terrified bookworms around a shop with a knife. He shuddered. "Not, like, force people. Just put my books in Exerbury shops. So people can choose to read them if they want to."

"Right," Zark said slowly. "So you don't want gold? Or a castle with lands? Or a harem of women eager to do your bidding?"

"Um. No."

"Okay." Zark pocketed his knife. "Books it is. Do we have a deal?"

The older man held out his hand.

"No." His father turned from the fireplace abruptly. "That's enough. Jax, don't be a moron." His mouth was a flat white line. "You can hardly tie your own shoes. How on earth do you expect to take on a monster?"

Jax looked away. "I can do it."

"You'll get yourself killed," his father said.

Something prickled at the back of his throat. Jax thought of all the times he'd tripped over his feet. He thought of the time he'd asked out Grace Rosethorne and she'd laughed in his face, and when Pierce Greyhorn had hidden cow testicles in his peanut butter sandwich (Jax still had to look inside his sandwiches before he ate them). If you grew up believing that you were nothing, Jax thought, didn't that give you nothing to believe in?

A low hum began in his ears. He seized Zark's hand.

"I'm in," Jax said. "When do I start?"