Mistborn #03 The Hero of Ages

warning, as well as a good position to watch the building burn down. Plus, Durn promised he had another tidbit, something Spook would be interested in. Something worth the coin he'd paid.
    Count the skulls.
    "Spook!"
    Spook opened his eyes. He'd fallen to the floor and begun to drift off. Flames were already burning the ceiling. The building was dying. There was no way Spook would get out, not in his current condition.
    "Go to the desk," the voice commanded.
    "I'm dead," Spook whispered.
    "No you're not. Go to the desk."
    Spook turned his head, looking at the flames. A figure stood in them, a dark silhouette. The walls dripped, bubbled, and hissed, their plaster and paints blackening. Yet, this shadow of a person didn't seem to mind the fire. That figure seemed familiar. Tall. Commanding.
    "You . . .?" Spook whispered.
    "Go to the desk!"
    Spook rolled to his knees. He crawled, dragging his useless arm, moving to the side of the desk.
    "Right drawer."
    Spook pulled it open, then leaned against the side, slumping. Something was inside.
    Vials?
    He reached for them eagerly. They were the kinds of vials used by Allomancers to store metal shavings. With trembling fingers, Spook picked one up, then it slipped free of his numb fingers. It shattered. He stared at the liquid that had been inside—an alcohol solution that would keep the metal flakes from corroding, as well as help the Allomancer drink them down.
    "Spook!" the voice said.
    Dully, Spook took another vial. He worked off the stopper with his teeth, feeling the fires blaze around him. The far wall was nearly gone. The fires crept toward him.
    He drank the contents of the vial, then searched inside of himself, seeking tin. But there was none. Spook cried out in despair, dropping the vial. It had contained no tin. How would that have saved him anyway? It would have made him feel the flames, and his wound, more acutely.
    "Spook!" the voice commanded. "Burn it!"
    "There is no tin!" Spook yelled.
    "Not tin! The man who owned this house was no Tineye!"
    Not tin. Spook blinked. Then—reaching within himself—he found something completely unexpected. Something he'd never thought to ever see, something that shouldn't have existed.
    A new metal reserve. He burned it.
    His body flared with strength. His trembling arms became steady. His weakness seemed to flee, cast aside like darkness before the rising sun. He felt tension and power, and his muscles grew taut with anticipation.
    "Stand!"
    His head snapped up. He leaped to his feet, and this time the dizziness was gone. His mind still felt numb, but something was clear to him. Only one metal could have changed his body, making it strong enough to work despite his terrible wound and blood loss.
    Spook was burning pewter.
    The figure stood in the flames, dark, hard to make out. "I've given you the blessing of pewter, Spook," the voice said. "Use it to escape this place. You can break through the boards on the far side of that hallway, escape out onto the roof of the building nearby. The soldiers won't be watching for you—they're too busy controlling the fire so it doesn't spread."
    Spook nodded. The heat didn't bother him anymore. "Thank you."
    The figure stepped forward, becoming more than just a silhouette. Flames played against the man's firm face, and Spook's suspicions were confirmed. There was a reason he'd trusted that voice, a reason why he'd done what it had said.
    He'd do whatever this man commanded.
    "I didn't give you pewter just so you could live, Spook," Kelsier said, pointing. "I gave it to you so you could get revenge. Now, go!"

More than one person reported feeling a sentient hatred in the mists. This is not necessarily related to the mists killing people, however. For most—even those it struck down—the mists seemed merely a weather phenomenon, no more sentient or vengeful than a terrible disease.
    For some few, however, there was more. Those it favored, it swirled around. Those it was hostile to, it pulled away from. Some felt peace within it, others felt hatred. It all came down to Ruin's subtle touch, and how much one responded to his promptings.
    20
    TENSOON SAT IN HIS CAGE.
    The cage's very existence was an insult. Kandra were not like men—even if he were not imprisoned, TenSoon would not have run or tried to escape. He had come willingly to his fate.
    And yet, they locked him up. He wasn't certain where they had gotten the cage—it certainly wasn't something kandra normally would need. Still,