Something tells me he’ll want to see this.
DARIUS TYMOND
DARIUS WAITS BY the side of the castle, scowling at the empty dirt path before him. He adjusts his oversized hood, tightening it to hide his face from any lurking townspeople. “Where is he?” he mutters to himself. The darkening sky above indicates it’s well past their agreed upon meeting time, and he’s quickly losing patience.
The sound of hooves in the distance does little to calm his nerves until he eyes Cyrus atop a black steed, a carriage rolling behind him. Darius rushes forward as he approaches, wanting to get out of sight as soon as humanly possible. What a difference being outside the castle is—he can feel the filth and grime as if he’s just bathed in it.
“You’re late.”
Cyrus opens his mouth, surely in an attempt to apologize for his tardiness, but Darius raises his hand to stop him. “To Volkharn.” He pulls the carriage door shut and hits the top twice with his amethyst ring, anxious to get moving. The horse neighs as they take off down the long and winding road.
*****
Dusk is fully upon them as they arrive at the base of the Volkharn peaks. Just west of the Vaekith Mountains, Volkharn doesn’t stretch as tall or as wide, but it’s large enough to house something very sacred to Darius—something only he and a select few know about.
The door to the carriage swings open. Darius delicately places both feet on the ground. He turns to Cyrus and, without a moment’s hesitation, says, “You are to wait here until I return.”
Cyrus bows his head in submission before retrieving a wooden staff, the top curving into a clear glass sphere. “If I remember correctly, you’ll be needing this.”
Darius takes it from him. The moment it touches his hands, the sphere glows a pale green. “This very spot.” He points to where Cyrus is standing. “Do not move until I return.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
With nothing but the sphere lighting his way, Darius begins the skyward hike into Volkharn.
RYDAN HELSTROM
BEFORE DAWN BREAKS, Rydan’s up and moving around Lonia. He roams the streets until he’s off the beaten path, in search of a secluded spot—but no matter where he goes in this damn town, people always seem to be nearby.
After dinner with Vira the other night, he’d returned to his room to finish packing his knapsack. He’d been seconds away from leaving when, without warning, sparks had shot from his fingers. While he’d been able to put out the small, unexpected fire, it was in that moment that he’d realized something. If he left now, he’d be sending himself on a suicide mission.
He isn’t ready . . .
To face Tymond. To face the Cruex. To face the King’s Savant.
As much as it pains him to admit, his illusié abilities as an Ignitor give him a certain . . . edge. He doesn’t know what horrors he’ll have to face once he’s arrived in Trendalath, but having the ability to instantaneously create fire—and knowing how to control it—could very well be the deciding factor in a life or death situation. And so, he needs to practice.
Hence the search for a secluded area.
Upon reaching a familiar crossing—a giant oak tree—he chooses to go left instead of right. The day prior, he’d gone right, and had been led to another small town. Sure, there had been less people around, but it hadn’t been secluded enough, and he certainly doesn’t need anyone asking questions.
As he treks further into the woods, a shoreline comes into view. The coast gleams in the rising sun as pale pinks and yellows are cast upon it. Rydan surveys his surroundings, hardly believing his luck. There isn’t a soul on the beach. No fishermen on the rocks. No ships in the distance. It’s as if he’s struck gold. Not only can he practice his igniting abilities in peace—there’s also an endless source of water mere steps away, in case something goes awry.
Standing where dirt meets sand, he removes one of
his shoes, then the other. His shirt follows. He places them at the edge of the woods, within view. The soft grains cushion the short journey as they slide between his toes. He can’t remember the last time he stepped foot on a beach—or got into the water, for that matter.
He strips off the rest of his clothes before running in, diving headfirst into the water. The salt stings his eyes and, even though the water is still slightly chilled from the winter months, he finds that he’s enjoying himself more than he has in weeks. When he comes up for air, he can’t help but whoop loudly, relieved that his mind is clear and free of Trendalath—of anything, for that matter. He floats on his back for some time, observing a colony of ring-billed gulls as they fly overhead.
Rydan dips underneath the surface a few more times, only getting out once the sun has reached its full ascent. Vigorously, he shakes his head to free the salt particles from his hair. He wipes the remaining water droplets from his arms and legs before pulling his trousers back on. In his Cruex days, he would have considered relaxing to be a waste of time—but now . . . now he views it as absolutely essential.
He laughs to himself as he plops down on the beach and digs his feet into the sand. It immediately sticks to the tops and undersides of his feet, but he pays it no attention. His focus is currently on his hands. He turns them over so that his palms are facing up, studying the many lines that lead to his fingertips. They look so ordinary and yet they hold so much power.
How is that possible?
It’s then the childhood memories come crashing in like the waves before him. He’s always assumed that his mother and father had been non-illusié. If they had been “like him”, surely they would have fought back. Surely they would have used their abilities . . .
He squeezes his eyes shut, forcing the tears back. A low groan stirs inside him, begging to be released—but he clenches his jaw to silence the pain. His eyes shoot open, glassy and exposed.
Slowly, he brings himself to his feet. His focus steady on the crashing waves before him, he brings his palms together, simultaneously pushing his parents’ lifeless faces from his mind. His eyes travel to the tips of his fingers.
Even if I had known, I couldn’t have saved them.
Emotions well up inside of him—rage, guilt, vengeance—but his fingers remain still. Unmoving.
The sparks refuse to come.
CERYLIA JARETH
IT’S A FOGGY day in Sardoria, or perhaps it’s just in her mind. Unable to sleep the night prior, Cerylia had awoken earlier than usual, before the dawn. Her nightly routine of pouring multiple glasses of verdot has not only left her wine cellar empty—it’s also left her with a persistent headache that won’t seem to go away no matter how many different herb concoctions she forces down.
With a hooded cloak and her riding boots, she approaches the stables. Perhaps a bit of exercise will ease the lingering pain. Normally, she’d have Delwynn prep her favorite horse, Briar, but when she arrives at the stall, she discovers that it’s empty. Alarmed, she runs out into the open field, looking in every direction to see if Briar had somehow run off. She glances over her shoulder once more, taking note that the gate is closed—which means someone must have taken him out. It seems unlikely, given the hour, but the thought of taking one of the other horses isn’t the least bit desirable. Not to mention, she’s curious to know who’s taken her horse without her permission. She spots a nearby barrel of hay and sits, quietly waiting for Briar and the perpetrator to return.