Paths of Prophecy

By J. C. Eyler

Set in a world plagued by oppression and greed, this dark epic fantasy follows Makayla, a young slave girl granted the powers of a god after a brutal attack, and Kael, a devoted citizen with vast magical abilities.

With her new powers, Makayla believes herself to be the Light, prophesied to liberate her enslaved people, en

• Language: English
• Publisher: Grim Dragon Publishing
• Release date: May 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9781963717020

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Makayla awoke in a puddle of her own filth, her shame raw and exposed. What little remained of her shredded dress, a gift from her mother, was stained crimson and brown. She raised her arms to cover her chest.

She need not have bothered.

Pain enveloped her, filling her with hatred. Hatred for the empire and all that it was. Hatred for the soldiers who’d left her to die. She shivered, though not from the crisp winter breeze. The stench of death was everywhere.

Endless minutes passed before the pain receded to almost bearable. Vision still hazy, she lifted a shaking hand to her face, and peeled her dark ruddy curls from her swollen eye. Her nose lay flattened against her cheek, and occasionally her lip, split open to her chin, whistled when she breathed, her skin a violent medley of purples and yellows.

Next to their shattered cart, her father lay unmoving in a pool of blood. Memories of his torment boiled in her mind. They’d ripped off his fingernails, made him cut off his own toes and then his fingers, flayed wide swaths of skin. His screams had lasted hours. At least, that’s how it had felt.

The memories filled her with fresh pain over the terrible things the soldiers had done to her—the things they’d forced her to do. A blurry shape caught her eye. Between the throbs of pain, the shape took form and she thought she might cry, if only she knew how. There, amidst the wreckage of their cart, her doll Amelle, the other gift Mother had given her just before they’d headed out.

Makayla tried to stand, but barely managed to get a foot underneath her before she was crushed by overwhelming pain. She vomited blood, covering her naked chest with a fresh sheen of crimson. It warmed her for only a moment before the chill of winter set in. She steeled herself for another attempt to rise, fighting through the pain, accepting it and finally welcoming it. Every stab was a reminder of what they had done, every twinge fuel for her growing contempt. Not that she could ever forget, even if she wanted to.

She managed to get to her knees. Her head swam and threatened to topple her, but she refused to give in, pushing herself erect. She did not realize she was falling until her already shattered chin smashed to the ground. Bright flashes of red and white flooded her vision as a sharp, radiating throb seared through her face.

The sun had already begun to set, splashing the sky with colors she had once thought beautiful. But beauty no longer existed. She passed her tongue over swollen lips and empty gums, finding craters where her teeth had been. The soldiers had taken her beauty as violently as they had taken her father’s life.

They had left her with nothing, not even her dignity.

Take it back.

She laughed, the sound bitter to her ears. Was she hearing voices now? They had taken her dignity and destroyed her body—had they ruined her mind as well?

Take it all back.

The voice was at the same time both hers and not. How could this be? No, she decided. This was real. As real as the pain. How? she demanded, her voice thick and raspy. How do I take them back? I can barely manage to stand.

And yet you will manage so much more.

I just want to go home. Pegrans was only a few miles away, but in her condition it might as well be on the other side of the kingdom. Only a few minutes of light remained, so her trip home would have to wait until the morrow. She would use what was left of the cart to shelter against the wind.

Making her way back was difficult, each step agony. The sergeant had killed her father’s horse, Spinner. Another mercy, he had called it before cleaving his axe through the beast’s neck.

The ground suddenly opened beneath her. She grabbed desperately at loose roots and dried clumps of grass as she fell. Wind rushed past her ears and when she landed, her leg broke with a sickening snap.

When Makayla awoke, it was dark. The hole she had fallen through was high above, and through it, tiny stars winked as though mocking her. A single shaft of moonlight pierced the replete darkness through the hole, illuminating what little remained of her dress. Her chest crackled as it heaved with panic. Then her world ignited with pain.

She opened her eyes again, unsure how long she’d blacked out this time. Her entire body ached and throbbed in rhythm to her heartbeat, and her broken leg sent sharp pangs with every movement. Only a small patch of stars twinkled through the hole. High above her, the sound of crickets teased her with chirps of freedom.

A new fear prodded through her torment. She was alone. No one knew to look for her, and it would be a week before her mother and brother missed her. She held herself, cold and alone in the darkness. She blubbered an uncontrollable sob.

Mama! she cried into the void, craving her mother’s arms. She yearned for her mother to cradle her in her lap and hum a soothing tune. Mama… I need you…

Her voice died in the damp musty air, leaving her with the echoing sound of distant drips.

The rhythmic echo of the water nipped at her thoughts…

Drip-drip…drip.

…chasing them away…

Drip-drip…drip.

…until her head was clear.

A twinkling light caught her attention. It seemed impossibly distant, like a single star in an impossibly black sky, as though the cave itself fed into oblivion. Was her mind playing tricks on her? The light continued to pulse, its call sweet and promising.

Her arms moved as if of their own accord, pulling her across the jagged ground despite her broken body. Pain consumed her consciousness more than once, and each time she awoke, the light renewed her determination. Reaching it was all that mattered. It was all she had. She wasn’t sure how long she crawled—a minute, an hour, a day. The light was no longer dim and distant but a tiny orb of brilliance as bright as the noon sun.

The air around her seemed different now, crisp and fresh, the ground smooth like glass but unreflecting and so black it made the darkness of the cave seem bright.

As she approached, she saw the light emanated from a dome no taller than she. Its surface swirled like a liquid cloud, and at its center was a sphere of purest white. Three statues made of the same light-absorbing stone as the floor surrounded the dome: a Boorde, Prytha, human, and an odd creature she had never seen. It was scaled and shorter than the others, with an almost reptilian face and hair along its back. A fifth statue stood head and shoulders above the others, but where the four other statues seemed alive in their detail, the fifth bore nothing more than feminine curves.

But no Boorde…

Makayla found herself humming one of the Hymns of Tolrik her mother would sing at bedtime.

Break free, Oh Light, thy power divine.

In me, Oh Light, thy will to mine.

Break free, Oh Light, imperial chains.

With me, Oh Light, my people remain.

Inside the dome, the shining orb seemed to stir, awakened by her voice as though pleading for release. Makayla scrambled forward, letting her leg drag behind her. The orb must be the Light from the Hymns! The imprisoned Light of prophecy, waiting for someone to break it free! She reached the dome and touched its surface.

A cacophony of voices flooded her mind: Feeding flesh, virulent flesh… Suck the marrow, taste the bone… Dark light, evil day… My light, your light… The light of truth, the light of lies…

She jerked her hand back and the voices stopped. The faceless statue turned to regard her, a tear frozen on its cheek.

A loud snap startled her as a deep crack snaked across the dome. The trapped light swelled, pressing against its prison until the dome shattered with her touch. Freed from its prison, the light hovered for a moment, then slammed into the faceless statue, soaking into its head.

Thank you, it said when it had absorbed the last sparkle. The statue’s head bulged, leaking twinkles of its bright prisoner until it exploded in a violent shower of sparks. Where the statue’s head had been, a swirling ball of pure-white light remained.

Makayla reached toward the light and the swirling sphere shot into her chest.

Power as ancient as time permeated her being. Each bone in her body, every sinew and fiber burned from the light. It whispered to her, beautiful music that sung of vengeance and glory. Knowledge and understanding boiled within her, even as her skin peeled away, revealing new, healthy skin underneath. Bones popped and cracked as they shifted back into place. Her agony echoed throughout the chamber.

When she could open her eyes, she found she couldn’t see any better in the darkness. Although it seemed less dark somehow. She flexed her hands and stretched, testing her body. She could stand, walk, and even sprint. Not so much as a scratch marred her skin. Deep inside, residing in that place where her soul lay, was the ancient power, a warm forge of endless potential, waiting for release. She held out a hand. Crisp light danced above it.

She willed the light to rise above her and brighten. She gasped at what she saw. The top of the dome had shattered open, the once proud statues melted to formless heaps as if by some terrible heat, the ground underneath scorched and ruined. Yet the floor was white. Impossibly so, reflecting her light so well she lost all sense of depth.

The power swelled inside her, dredging up thoughts of her father. She shied at first, reluctant to revisit those memories so soon.

But you’re no longer that helpless little girl. The voice again, both her own and not. Something vast and ancient, beyond her comprehension.

She knew her heart would always ache for her father; for what the imperials had done to him as they forced her to watch; for the way they drew out his death, working each agonizing scream. At least he didn’t have to witness what they’d done to her.

It was a shame he wouldn’t be able to see what she would do to them.

Map of Glaedia

PART I

HOME

For the Light shall shine truth upon the sons and daughters of Vrath, and the mountain of Aqel shall crumble into the sea whence it came.

1

NYATIA

Kael Aelastair had always imagined leaving home would be easy.

After all, there wasn’t much to love about the Workers District. Cramped streets covered in mud, tall stacks of cloistered buildings butted against Nyatia’s imposing Shining Wall, the perpetual stench of poverty. . . He spared a glance upward, toward the city’s higher tiers, like the Makers Tier, home of the Citadel, where he’d lived for the past eight years, enduring seemingly endless lectures, monotonous lessons, and dreadful penances. Maybe too many penances, he thought with a wry grin. He’d spent countless hours dreaming of being done with the Citadel, usually on some heroic mission for an Upper Tier noble or Founder. Now that day was upon him, and he yearned to walk those halls one more time, if for nothing else than to see the newest batch of cadets. Going out into the savage world beyond the Shining Wall, saving a Founder’s daughter from the clutches of the Cabal, becoming a Sotouri—those things happened to other people. His gaze fell to the crimson cord, looped around his shoulder.

Other people earn the crimson cord. I’m just…well, me.

A man bumped into Kael, his curse lost in the loud din of Nyatia’s lowest District. Imperial cities might have consisted of several districts, each a tier of the conical-shaped cities, but there was only one referred to as simply the District—the Workers District. The place he’d called home until his Testing.

Kael maintained the tiniest stream of the Currents of Power to wick away sweat and grime as he ran down the cramped street, bumping into people, and rattling hasty apologies. The patterns were second nature to him now, and had saved him from more than a few penances. Scrubbing pots was bad enough without having to worry about more menial work from stains in his uniform. His Vrath instructors in particular had expected absolute perfection from their terribly flawed cadets, but such was the price to wield the Currents. External perfection led to internal perfection. At least, that was what they’d drilled into him over the past eight years.

Kael had always thought the Citadel policy backward, which had earned him more hours of penance than he cared to count. They’d also told him nothing good had ever come from the District, and he’d taken great pleasure proving them wrong. The crimson cord looped around his shoulder warmed his chest with pride. He, the son of a nu’baker, raised within these same muddy streets, had earned the Citadel’s highest honor. Not the child of an Upper Tier noble. He, the lowly Districter.

He pulled at his collar, wishing for the thousandth time since yesterday it had been cut a little lower. After his fourth year of study, he’d been more than happy to retire his cadet garb for the white-and-black of the Potential, but the bright shirt chafed, and the dark, loose pants made any amount of hustle a challenge. It was a problem made even more acute by his tardiness. Not the best way to start his first day as a Potential. He cursed his siblings for hiding his uniform, while telling himself the caravan would wait. But the Citadel wasn’t keen on waiting for anyone, not even their star Potential.

Shadowed by tall stacks of unfinished brick houses, the narrow street sloped down and finally opened to a massive staging area, where a multitude of people were gathered. A thick tide of Districters, easily identified by their shoddy, mud-stained clothes, pressed against an invisible wall of force, shaped across the staging area to keep the throng at bay. On the other side of the wall, families showered their loved ones with affection. Mothers cried and wailed, while fathers gently pulled and pried. Even high lords and Founders—rulers of the empire with skin shaped as white as alabaster—had come, smiling and waving to their children from atop their Phaerian-borne palanquins.

Kael swallowed back a pang of regret, telling himself he was glad his family hadn’t come, that it had saved him from a painful farewell. He didn’t fault his little brother and sister for not wanting to see him off. They hardly knew him. The Citadel hadn’t afforded him much time to visit. Still, it would have been nice to see them one last time. He pulled his hair back from his temple as he approached the barrier gate, displaying his Imperial Shield, a shimmering red triangle with circles at the end of each point, proof of imperial citizenship.

A little late, Potential? a guard snorted. His Shield bore the Seal of Bronze District along its base. An Upper-Tiersman, which explained his disdain. From the District, no less.

Another guard playfully flipped Kael’s crimson cord. They’ll give this thing to just about anyone, nowadays. Nothing ever⁠—

—good comes from the District, Kael finished, pushing past them.

His stomach fluttered with excitement and more than a little apprehension at the size of the escort. Four platoons of cavalry were formed at the head of the caravan, a ceremonial pennant with the imperial colors at the tip of each lance—a purple field displaying the Imperial Shield. Beside them, four more platoons of cavalry bore Glaedia’s banner—a gold sextant on a field of blue-gray. Representatives from the Citadel’s three branches were present as well, each Vrath in the traditional colors of their order: the black-and-orange of the battle-hardened do’Vrath, the yellow-and-green of the benevolent tii’Vrath, and the white-and-blue of the scholarly ra’Vrath. The Citadel had even employed a couple Weavers from the Guild to accompany the caravan.

Kael let out a long whistle. Fifty Potentials were precious cargo to be certain, but this escort seemed suited for royalty, not Nyatia’s most powerful cadets. He and his cohort might be fresh out of the Citadel, but they’d spent countless hours mastering the Currents. Let someone try to attack—the cavalry and Vrath would be the least of their worries.

He spotted his friend Tylel with one of their instructors, Jennia Numeriana, a tii’Vrath with an impressive web of Seals added to her Shield—Silver District, Vrath, Ambassador—along with a few Kael didn’t recognize.

So good of you to finally join us. Jennia waved a dismissive hand when Kael mumbled an excuse, and told them both to wait with the other Potentials. She raised an eyebrow at the crimson cord wrapped around Kael’s shoulder. I assure you, Potential Aelestair, your power in the Currents will gain you no special treatment with the Sotouri.

Me, a Sotouri. The notion still felt foreign, as though somehow the nondescript man whose Shieldless temple had made him seem like a phaerian in noble attire, had somehow mistaken Kael for someone else. But Sotouri never made mistakes, and there was no denying Kael’s power in the Currents.

Sudden laughter pulled their attention to a frail man lying facedown in a puddle of mud, his slovenly drab clothes marking him Phaerian as much as his naked temple devoid of the Imperial Shield. Kael felt the familiar tug at the back of his mind from someone shaping. The mud hardened around the Phaerian’s head, trapping it as spectators laughed and jeered. The hapless lout struggled for air, clawing at the hardened ground. Jennia shaped, and the Phaerian burst from his prison in a shower of dirt. She grabbed the Potential who’d trapped him—Caniur, the well-fed son of a Bronze District merchant—and vowed to hang by their feet whoever else decided to shape without permission, then dragged her squealing malcontent away.

Tylel chuckled, nudging Kael with his elbow. Twenty years old and he whines like a child.

A tall Founder, dressed in a long black coat trimmed in gold, moved to intercept Jennia.

Who’s that? Kael asked.

You don’t know? Tylel asked. That’s the king’s brother.

That’s Archon Rodak? Kael said, surprised that the ruler of another city would come here to see them off. An elaborate Shield shimmered on Rodak’s temple, displaying Seals of Founder, Potential, do’Vrath, Master Tactician, and at least a dozen more.

Jennia offered Rodak a deep curtsy, Caniur’s ear still pinched between her fingers.

Where is the Potential with the crimson cord? Rodak asked, his voice deep and commanding.

Jennia waved Kael over. That’s who you’re looking for, My Lord. Kael Aelestair.

Kael approached the Founder, and bowed. You wanted to speak to me, My Lord?

Congratulations, Rodak said. I could use someone of your strength in Blailon.

Blailon, My Lord? Jennia asked.

To help out an old friend. Rodak’s face soured when his gaze passed over Kael’s Shield. A Districter? The first to earn the Crimson Cord in…well, since I’ve been alive, at least. You must be powerful, indeed.

Thank you, My Lord, Kael said with another bow.

That wasn’t a compliment, Rodak mumbled in that bored, condescending tone Kael had heard from every other Upper Tier noble who’d deigned to acknowledge him. At least learning to be Phaerian should come easy enough for you. You’ll be years ahead of your betters.

Kael hid his anger behind another bow, glad to hear Rodak’s heavy boots carry him away.

Go stand with the other Potentials, Kael, Jennia said, her brow furrowed at the Founder’s back. You and Tylel. And you, she said, tugging Caniur’s ear. If I feel you shape one more…

Her reprimand faded as Kael walked back to Tylel.

Well, that went well, his friend said, oozing sarcasm.

Kael scoffed. Did he really come all this way from Immutia just to offend me?

I know, Tylel said, draping his arm over Kael’s back. You’d think he would have thought of a better insult.

Kael snickered. If only other high lords were more like his friend.

You’re not going to let a dumb old Founder ruin your day, are you? Emperor’s ass, Kael, you earned the Crimson Cord! Tylel jerked his chin toward Rodak. You know what Rodak never earned?

A Crims⁠—

A Crimson Cord! Tylel said, playfully shaking Kael. That’s right. His Founderness got a boring black-and-orange cord. He rolled his eyes. Every cadet and their father wants to be do’Vrath.

At least he didn’t choose green-and-yellow, Kael said, flipping Tylel’s cord.

Ouch, Tylel said, pressing his hand to his chest.

Even though Kael felt more like a bumbling cadet than a soon-to-be Sotouri-in-training, he still swelled with pride at the cord around his shoulder. He hadn’t been raised with tutors like Tylel and Aliece. Until he was eight, his desk had been a floured table, his pen and ink a rolling pin and dough. He gestured to Rodak, trying not to let his mood be spoiled by the thought of spending the next however-many days in a caravan with the Founder. He’s not coming with us, is he?

Thankfully, no, Tylel said. Escorting, accompanying, or otherwise being involved in a caravan—other than their own, obviously—is beneath the Founders.

Says the son of a Silver Lord, Kael teased, then cast a sweeping hand to the platoons of cavalry. If he’s not coming, why do you think we have such a large escort?

Despite the bustling crowd, Tylel leaned to whisper, This morning over breakfast I heard my Phaerians talking about the return of a being called the Light, or maybe someone made of light, I’m not sure. Apparently, he’s on his way. Right now, as we speak. To save them.

Kael scoffed. Since when do you believe in Phaerian superstitions?

I don’t, Tylel replied. But this is exactly how uprisings start. Don’t roll your eyes. There’s a rebellion in Blailon right now. I hear it’s spreading so fast it could be knocking on our borders by the time we finish our training. He rubbed his hands excitedly. I hear they’re going to push us through so we can go off to fight those blasted usurpers. And it’s not just in Glaedia—all the Citadels are doing the same.

How do you know all this? Kael asked.

You’d know too if you had spent less time drooling over Aliece and more time paying attention to morning briefs.

I don’t drool over her, Kael said, smiling. I appreciate her choice of blouse.

Potentials! The booming voice cut off Tylel’s reply and hushed the gathered crowd. Say your goodbyes and get in your coaches. We leave in ten minutes.

Kael slid the curtain open when the coach stopped. Nyatia’s Shining Wall loomed before him, disappearing beyond the haze high above. Translucent, the wall shone during the day and glowed at night, hence the name. The colossal structure looked smooth, like a five-hundred-foot sheet of cloudy glass that bore no reflection, pervading everyone’s life. Everyone except Upper Tier nobles like Tylel, who had an unobstructed view of the world beyond. He could feel Tylel’s amusement; his raised brow told Kael he was acting a like a cadet on his first day.

I’ve never been outside, Kael said, failing to contain his excitement.

Really? Tylel raised an eyebrow. Maybe you forgot, but we’ve already met. It was a long time ago, but I figure since we spent the last, oh…I don’t know,—he counted on his fingers—eight years as bunkmates, I thought you might have noticed.

A sharp tug pulled at the back of Kael’s mind as guardsmen shaped Currents of Power to activate the gate. A moment later, a sharp crack sounded and a large portion of the Shining Wall slid into the ground with a quiet rumble. Drivers cracked their whips, and the coaches lurched forward.

Kael had always imagined he’d feel something when he crossed through the Wall. A chill maybe, a sudden change in the air, or…something. All he felt was the painful splash of sun across his eyes. He cursed and sat back in his seat.

Well, that was stupid, Tylel said. You’re not supposed to look at the sun.

Shut up, Kael replied.

A whip cracked from outside, and someone shouted an order to ready the horses and coaches. Dozens of tugs from Vrath stippled the back of Kael’s mind, activating the pattern-forging needed to ride on the causeways. A moment later, the coaches leaped forward with surprising speed, pressing him back into his cushioned seat.

How many times have you been on the other side of the Wall? he asked.

A few, Tylel said. I went with my father on some of his merchant runs to Sheyos. I can’t remember how many.

Kael tilted his head. You never told me that.

There’s not much to tell. Once you’ve been to one Phlem town, you’ve been to them all, you know?

I don’t know, Kael replied, a thousand questions on his lips.

Well, they’re not much to look at…or smell. Tylel wrinkled his nose. "The people or the towns. Don’t take offense, but their towns are a lot like the District."

Why would I take offense? Kael asked with a bit more bite than he’d intended.

It’s not like you choose where you’re born, Tylel said. Only where you go.

Does the same apply to Phaerians?

Tylel sputtered. Why would it? They’re just smart cows, believe me. Good for simple tasks. He gestured toward their driver. The Phlem we had at the Citadel are the best in the herd. At home, mine can barely clean a hall without knocking something over.

But why did your father take you with him? Kael asked. Isn’t it dangerous outside the Wall?

You read too many stories, Tylel said with a chuckle. It’s not that scary. Mostly my father took me along to bless a Phlem with my seed—he has this crazy idea that we can make Phaerians more civilized by breeding with them. He thinks one day they might even learn to read and write. He’s always been a bit of a Sympathizer, but don’t tell him that. Anyway, I wasn’t about to go near a filthy Phlem. Not one from a town, anyway. I don’t care what my father says.

Are Phaerians really so bad?

I forget, you’ve never seen one outside the Citadel. Sure, they clean up nice. There were a few in our wing that caught a little more than my eye. But the Phlem out here… He shook his head.

Out here, Kael mouthed, unable to hide his grin. He peeked out the window again, this time shielding his eyes from the sun. He never could have imagined the beauty. A vast open plain so green and vibrant stretched into an impossibly distant horizon, and above, the sky was blue. True blue, not the sickly brown haze trapped by the Wall.

My father stops at every Phaerian town and village when he travels, Tylel said. Blesses them with bastards, though thankfully, he never recognized any of them.

Kael shuddered. Can you imagine?

There’s a lot I can’t imagine, Tylel said. Like you and Aliece.

What about us?

A little bird told me that the two of you snuck out last night. So is it true? Is she a good kisser?

Gentlemen do not kiss and tell, Kael said.

So then just tell, Tylel replied.

Her lips tasted of roses.

That’s it? That’s all you got?

They were soft and firm?

Her lips? Tylel asked, his eyes wide with excitement.

Kael raised an eyebrow and shook his head.

Tylel’s mouth dropped open. Blast you if you aren’t the luckiest guy I know.

Kael chuckled and gazed out the window again, amazed at how fast the landscape sped by.

The first time on the other side of the wall is always strange, Tylel said. Even on the causeways, it takes forever to get anywhere out here.

Are we really going to reach Glaedia in a few days?

Thankfully. Sleeping on a bedroll isn’t my idea of a good time. It really makes you appreciate life in the city.

You obviously never spent much time in the District.

Only when I had to, Tylel said, stretching out his legs and folding his hands behind his head. Besides, it doesn’t matter where we’re from anymore. We’re both Potentials now, and you know what that means.

One day you’ll be calling me lord? Kael asked.

Crazier things have happened. But I was talking about the communal bathing rooms. Tylel bobbed his brow. Maybe Aliece will be in my block.

Is that all you’re going to talk about from here to the capital?

Tylel grinned. There are worse ways to pass the time.

Kael extended his will, sensing the glassy Currents that Vrath used to shape wonders and horrors. It was a force that flowed through everything, giving matter life and order: the coach and causeway they traveled on, the grassy plains on either side, the groves of trees. He was careful to skim only the tiniest trickle from the surface so that Tylel, and more importantly the Vrath in the caravan, wouldn’t feel him shaping. He formed the gathered power into a simple, geometric pattern with sharp, angular lines. A dense ball of air launched from Kael’s hand. Tylel grunted and fell to the floor, holding his crotch.

Still hope she’s in your block? Kael asked.

Tylel held up a hand and slowly crawled back to his seat. No. Hey, I’m sorry. If she is, I won’t spy on her in the baths… I’ll hide in her closet!

Kael tried not to laugh, but it was a hopeless endeavor with Tylel’s infectious guffaws. I’ll let her take care of you. She’d box your ears if she heard you talking like that.

In that case, I’ll let you handle her. So when’s the wedding?

Who said anything about being serious? Kael said. Her parents would never accept me.

They’re horrible. Not even my family can stand them.

At least her family was there to see her off. How bad could they be?

Just because her parents came doesn’t mean they aren’t bad, Tylel said, stifling a yawn. Mine came.

They did? Kael asked. I didn’t see them.

Exactly. They were too busy scraping to Gold District lords and Founders.

The only thing my family cares about is getting out of the District. Well, except my father. All he’s ever cared about is making nu’bread. He always said it made him happy, and nothing else mattered. Meanwhile, the rest of us suffered. I dreamed of leaving every day. And now my dream is coming true. What do you…

Tylel was snoring.

Kael contemplated shaping another ball of air at him, but decided his friend had the better idea. He situated himself on his bench and let the rock and sway of the speeding coach carry him to sleep.

Hints of darkness leaked through the small curtain, portending a dying sun. Misty memories of Kael’s dream lingered in his mind: a hooded figure in robes, standing in front of a young girl. A silver cord extended from the figure and into the girl’s chest. In the dream she stroked the cords lovingly, and whenever she opened her mouth, the sound of a thousand screams escaped.

Kael’s thoughts wandered toward Aliece, conjuring vivid memories of their night together. He welcomed the visions of her luscious form, the feel of her soft, warm skin.

He hated what had followed.

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and shifted to a more comfortable position. After a full day on a jostling seat, the excitement of being outside the Shining Wall had faded. Still, staring at a darkening horizon was better than dredging up painful memories.

Tylel snored in his seat across from him, mouth agape. They both wore the black pants and high-collared white blouse of a Potential. The blandness of the clothing was supposed to contrast the power they wielded. At least, that was what they were told. The only difference between his and Tylel’s uniform was the cord that hung around their left shoulder.

Tylel choked on a breath, gave a loud snort, and nuzzled deeper into his cushioned seat. He’d probably sleep till morning in typical Tylel fashion. Kael wanted to wake him, to tell him what had really happened that night with Aliece, how she’d used him in some twisted game of nobles. But shame stayed his voice.

Despite what she’d done, Kael still wanted to believe that she’d cared for him. He’d seen the pain in her eyes when the ladies sprang from their hiding places, her fidgeting looks of sorrow and regret.

Hadn’t he?

Maybe he’d imagined it.

He’d hoped…well, he’d hoped for a lot. Maybe too much. Maybe he should have spoken with her before they’d departed. But he wasn’t sure he was ready for that conversation.

Two more days. That was how long he had before they reached Glaedia. Before he could no longer avoid her.

A high-pitched shriek, like metal scraping over ice, shattered his thoughts.

Nearby shaping tugged at his mind and the coach jerked to a stop.

Tylel crashed the floor. Blasted Phlem! he cursed, pulling himself to his seat.

Kael tried to shake the unease that had latched to his racing heart. Shaping with so many Vrath nearby shouldn’t have been so unsettling. It was late. They were most likely setting up camp.

Tylel brushed himself off, then held up his arm for Kael to see. That blasted son of a motherless whore tore a hole in my sleeve! This shirt is worth more than his entire family. I think I’ll— He sank into his seat. Something’s wrong.

Hard tugs assaulted the back of Kael’s mind. Shouts and cries erupted. Gruff voices ordered the guards into a defensive line around the coaches. Then came the metallic shrieks. A sudden crash rocked Kael’s coach, and the air shook with the sounds of combat. Then, as soon as it had started, everything went still.

Kael could hear nothing over the pounding in his chest and the rush of blood in his ears. His hands shook as he slid the corner of the curtain aside. Tall trees lined the road, and warm shafts of twilight pierced the canopy. He realized he’d been holding his breath and slowly let it out.

Where— Tylel’s voice was a shout in the stillness. When he spoke next, it floated on a breath. Where is everyone?

I felt shaping right before we stopped, Kael whispered. A lot of shaping.

Tylel didn’t seem to notice the thump-thump-thump of his foot.

I’m going outside, Kael heard himself say. Fear had drained his muscles of energy, but he willed his limbs into motion and reached for the handle.

Are you crazy? Tylel growled, swiping at Kael’s hand.

Another metallic shriek was responded by three others.

We can’t just stay here, Kael said.

Tylel paled. What are two Potentials going to do that an army of Vrath couldn’t?

Kael wanted nothing more than to stay in the coach, but he feared it was certain doom. You think these lacquered walls are going to keep you safe? We can make a run for it outside.

Another shriek pierced the air, as quick and disturbing as the last. Tylel startled, then fell back onto his bench, hugging his knees. I can’t… I can’t… I’m not ready for this. I have to go home. I have to go, I have to go, I have to⁠—

Kael shook Tylel by the shoulders. Get a hold of yourself! You’re a blasted Potential, not some floundering cadet. He grabbed the door handle and opened it, then stepped out before he could change his mind.

Bile spewed from Kael’s mouth even as his mind struggled to comprehend the scene around him.

The sour smell of blood and viscera assaulted his senses. Mutilated body parts littered the ground. Torn scraps of wet clothing and shredded armor clung to ravaged torsos and severed limbs. Lifeless eyes stared from decapitated heads, mouths opened in eternal screams, entrails dangling from branches and scattered in the dirt. Kael’s legs failed him and the ground rushed up to meet him.

A streak of blue slammed into his coach with a loud crack. Kael’s arms and legs worked of their own accord, and he scrambled underneath. The coached rocked again, and warm liquid drizzled onto him through the floorboard. He dashed from under the ruined coach and turned to see an entire sidewall smashed to bits. Tylel’s decapitated body lay on the floor.

No… Kael said. This isn’t happening. I fell asleep and I’m dreaming.

A woman’s scream startled him from his daze. The lead coach swayed and a young woman burst from the door. She tumbled into a tree and fell, then struggled back to her feet.

Aliece! Kael called. She flinched at his voice, then ran into the woods. From another coach stepped a nightmare made real. Rotted clothing from an age long past clung to pale white skin. Where its head should have been, a swirling nebula of blue energy floated above torn flesh.

Headless.

Kael heard the name drift from his lips, and a warm wetness dribbled down his leg. The creature paused and Kael felt its gaze fall over him, eclipsing his resolve. A blade of the same swirling blue energy materialized in the Headless’s hands before it sped after Aliece, leaving a swath of dying vegetation in its wake. Her death throe was as loud as it was sudden.

Red haze burst from Kael’s midriff as pain filled his being. Black and red spots swam in his vision, threatening to drown his consciousness. A blade of swirling blue protruded from his belly. The blade puffed from existence, and Kael crumbled to the ground.

He was exhausted and his mouth was dry. He was desperate for water and craved a blanket to ward off the chill.

Mostly, though, he wanted sleep.

2

NAKED TEMPLE

Aconsciousness floated in blissful unknowing. There was neither darkness nor light, pleasure nor pain, only a curious sensation that somewhere a body lay torn and broken.

Not a body. His body.

At the edge of the unknowing appeared a speck of light. It grew brighter until it shone like the noonday sun, prodding his mind with hints of a word.

A name. His name.

Kael.

Then came the pain.

It engulfed him and infused his soul. Each breath was a fiery torment, every movement torture, until his consciousness faded.

When he awoke again, his pain had abated to an ever-present ache in his belly that flared with seemingly every movement. He forced his eyelids open, his vision a field of white that pulsed with each heartbeat. Inexorable pools of color bled into his vision, vibrant reds and blues and greens that sharpened into shapes and objects.

He found himself in a spacious room that carried a ferrous odor like wet coins. The room was far larger than any he’d had in Nyatia. But instead of brick and mortar, the walls, floor, and ceiling were made of wood. Real wood, from the look of it. A luxury found only in the highest tiers of imperial society.

Warm shafts of sunlight poked through cracks in the walls and shuttered windows. Against one wall was a plain wooden desk with two flickering candles. Real candles, not glowglobes, by the look of the melted wax. Next to his bed was a chair and a nightstand with a quiet oil lamp.

Odd that the room would have such a modest item among such luxury. Still, it added to its rustic authenticity. Maybe this was a Founder’s or a Gold lord’s retreat. That would explain the expensive wood and candles. Wherever here was, it was far from the city. That much he could tell by the fragrant smell of grassy fields. He struggled to recall how he’d gotten here, skimming his memories of Tylel and Aliece and the massacred caravan to the last thing he remembered—a blade of swirling blue energy.

Headless.

That was impossible. Phaery tale monsters only lurked in books and paintings. They didn’t wait alongside imperial causeways for caravans of Potentials.

A door creaked open in another room, inviting sounds of laughter.

Sulia’s going to eat your liver when she finds out you’re here, a young man said.

Not if you don’t tell her, another warned.

I won’t tell. Besides, Livia’s the one you need to worry about, and she won’t be back till sundown. Think she’s already taken to him and he hasn’t but mumbled in his fever.

Kael tried to push himself upright, and collapsed, crying under a torment of pain.

Dear gods, he’s awake! He sounds hungry. I’ll go fetch him some lunch.

What? No, Pendric, you need to fetch Reylan.

But he’s probably really hungry, Pendric said. He’s been unconscious for, what, a couple of weeks?

Pen.

Yeah?

His belly looks like shattered glass.

There was a pause.

Right. I’ll go fetch Reylan. But then I’m getting food.

A long stretch of silence followed. Kael could only assume the one young man had left to fetch this Reylan person. A tii’Vrath no doubt—the Citadel’s healers—based alone on the fact that Kael still breathed after the extent of his wound. But who were the others? Did he say my belly looks like shattered glass? The one who left sounded like he could be District-born. None of which revealed how he’d wound up in such an opulent room, if rustic to a fault.

A door opened and shut. Jouler, why are you still here? An old man by the sound of his voice. Your father will have your hide if he finds out you’re here.

Let’s hope he doesn’t find out, Jouler replied.

Well, you best have all your chores finished. He’s already on his way back from old man Biggard’s.

Blast! Jouler cursed, and the door slammed shut.

Heavy boot falls drew toward Kael’s room. The door creaked open and an old man stepped inside, dressed in thick robes draped over a skinny frame, his bald pate rimmed by short, curly white hair. He measured Kael, fidgeting with his pipe as if unable to decide if he wanted to hold it in his hand or mouth. He had dark skin, a crooked nose, and a naked temple.

Sotouri.

The old man was a bit aged for a member of the emperor’s elite guard. Retired, maybe? Nevertheless, it would explain how Kael had survived his wounds. If this was a Sotouri outpost, the skinny old man would be a powerful shaper and have Kael up and walking in a matter of days.

Another thought nagged at the back of his mind. Like the old man, Phaerians were dark skinned and bore a naked temple. He immediately disregarded the thought. If the old man was Phaerian, Kael never would have survived his wound.

Best close your eyes, son, the old man said. Sunlight is good for a healing body, and you are going to need all the help you can get.

Kael shielded his eyes as the old man opened the shutter behind his bed. Warm sunlight splashed against his skin, and a cool breeze carried the fragrant scent of a grassy meadow.

The old man pulled down Kael’s blanket, and frowned at the line of crimson leaking through bandages wrapped around his stomach. He sniffed the wound and gave a heavy sigh. I’ll have to change this. I’m sorry, son. This is going to hurt.

Each tug on his bandage felt like flesh ripping from bone. Kael didn’t know how long he groaned through clenched teeth. Sweat poured down his face. When he looked, only a single strip of bandage had been removed. He wondered why the old Sotouri hadn’t shaped to ease the pain.

Because he’s not a Sotouri. Kael tore his gaze from the old man’s naked temple. But then, what was he? He was far too confident and well-spoken to be Phaerian.

The old man grabbed the corner of a second strip. I truly am sorry.

Kael couldn’t tell how many strips had been removed. The torment left him exhausted and drenched. When he looked at his belly, a wave of dizziness washed over him. The skin on his stomach looked shattered.

The old man reached for a rough towel and a vial of dark green salve. He hesitated, eyes laden with regret. Now I have to scrub the wound.

Kael’s stomach throbbed under the squeeze of fresh bandages, his throat too parched for more than a groan.

The old man helped him sit upright before dumping himself into the chair by the bed. Heavy bags drooped under his eyes. He offered Kael a weak smile and proffered a flask from under his robe. When Kael didn’t take it, the old man took a swing and offered it again. Emperor’s ass, son. If I was trying to kill you, I would have left you on the side of the road. I’m Reylan. And you are…?

Kael grabbed the flask and took a sip, surprised by the sweet earthy taste with hints of flowers.

Kael, he croaked, testing his voice. Where am I?

Headwater. It’s a small village, a ways off the beaten path.

The name didn’t sound familiar, but Kael’s head was still a bit muddled. He took in his surroundings once more, this time noticing imperfections that would never be seen in the empire’s affluent tiers. Beams of light leaked through walls from warped planks, rough edges, and imperfect cuts. The room had obviously been made by hand, not by shaping, which made even less sense, given the old man with the naked temple. Phaerians lacked the knowledge and skills to construct such a building. So said the Imperial Paradigm and the Three Laws.

Euphoric ease spread through Kael.

A knowing smile creased Reylan’s face. I see the tonic is already taking effect.

What’s in that stuff?

Nothing other than what it tastes like, Reylan said. Water infused with rose and jasmine, and some ha’ath to help with the pain. Oh, and some honey. Your mind may wander and feel a little thick, but that’s to be expected.

Ha’ath? Kael asked, frowning at the crude concoction.

Go on, finish it, Reylan said, waiting for Kael to comply before he continued. It’s an herb. Helps with pain. Prytha have been using it for millennia.

You know about Prytha? Kael asked, further confused by this mysterious old man. Kael only knew what everyone in the empire was taught about Prytha—they had extremely long fingernails that looked like talons, they avoided cities, and hated citizens. That and the only thing more addicting than life was a Prytha’s love, or so the saying went.

Kael wracked his mind to make sense of this old man with the naked temple. All citizens were born with the Imperial Shield, passed down through both parents. Only the Sotouri knew the pattern to remove a Shield, but no matter how hard Kael tried, he couldn’t picture Reylan slaughtering Phaerian villages and leaving the babies to feed the wolves.

Neither could Reylan be Phaerian. Not even Aliece’s Phaerians were so articulate, and none ever could be. The First Law was clear on the matter. Phaerians were incapable of learning to read or write, much less saving someone from a near mortal wound.

By a phaery tale creature, no less.

Who are you? Kael asked.

I told you. I’m Reylan.

Kael gritted his teeth against another wave of pain. Stop playing coy. You know damn well what I mean. You don’t have a Shield, and you’re not a Sotouri.

Reylan’s eyebrows climbed his forehead. Certainly not.

Then what are you?

You know what I am. Reylan crossed his arms, eyes gleaming with intelligence. Say it.

It can’t be. The Three Laws…

Say it, Reylan urged.

Phaerian. Silence draped the room. Thousands of thoughts and implications ignited in one instant and died in the next. Is this some sort of game?

I assure you, this is no game.

Then who’s in charge and why’d they leave me in the care of a Phlem?

Reylan’s back stiffened. The village council is in charge of village affairs. But I am in charge of your health. I don’t care who says what. You’re not going anywhere until I say, and I’m not saying until you’re hale and hearty. He put a hand to Kael’s forehead again. Fever’s finally starting to break. He examined Kael’s eyes, listened to his lungs, and checked his pulse. Satisfied, he sat back down and chewed on his pipe. To answer the second half of your question, the council sent a Phlem, as you call us, because there hasn’t been a citizen here in over fifty years.

How long? Kael must have misheard. No Phaerian town could exist for more than fifty days without a citizen to keep them in line, let alone fifty years.

You heard right, Reylan replied, but said no more.

Kael scoffed, which sent a fresh wave of pain through his belly. According to the Second Law, Phaerians would mindlessly roam the land like mischiefs of rats if left to their own devices. But then, the Three Laws also demanded that a Phaerian like Reylan could never exist, and yet here he was.

Tell me the last thing you remember, Reylan said, holding Kael’s gaze unlike every other Phaerian he’d met.

Maybe a Founder’s servant would have such arrogance, but what Founder would have stopped to save a dying Districter? Rodak! Of course! He’d been at the staging area, and had talked to Kael, as distasteful as the meeting had gone.

It’s all still a bit hazy, Kael said. I remember waking up in my coach and feeling a lot of shaping. Then…I went outside. Images of massacred bodies flashed in his mind, and blood—so much blood. His heart raced, his lungs begged for air. His memories of that day were scattered and incomplete, but there was one thing he’d never forget—those swirling blue orbs of power. "I know