by K. M. Raya
My eyes rove the drac’s body appreciatively and thoughtfully. Shayde doesn’t look a day older than twenty-five years, but that’s due to his drac nature. Elves, dracs and some of the most powerful mages stop aging once they hit their physical prime. I don’t know how old Shayde really is, but he could be thousands of years for all I know. Dracs are few now—hunted to near extinction since before I was born. The few that remain live in the Darklands alongside the rest of the Kindred.
I take a seat on a withered old stump and pull Shayde’s cloak around my shoulders. I think about all the things he’s told me, and I can’t help but feel sort of hollow. I feel like I never really got to know Tilda. I never heard her stories, her history… In five years, I’d only trained under her tutelage and command, but I never had the chance to know much about the woman beneath the armor. Sadness settles in my bones as I stare at the lump of dirt that harbors her body.
“Where do you think a soul goes when it dies?” I ask—eyes unfocused as I try and hold back tears.
He waits a few moments to respond as he takes a seat next to me on the large flat stump. He’s contemplating—presumably over my abstract thought; it’s an idea that’s been plaguing me these past three days of sitting and waiting. I find myself agonizing over the thought of it.
He clears his throat. “I think that's one of those questions better left unanswered,” he says vaguely to which I snort. “I’d like to tell you there’s some paradise out there waiting for us, or that we’re all a part of some larger plan...but I can’t do that.”
Breathing deeply, I crane my neck until my face peeks our through the waterfall of my crimson hair. “Do you really believe there's just...nothing?” My stomach clenches and rebels at the thought. “All the love, tears and laughter...the blood, death and heartache in this world…it can’t be for nothing, can it?” I sound small and desperate for answers. My chest is opening up and my thoughts and fears fall to my feet, but he listens so patiently. I can’t explain why I’m even having this conversation with a perfect stranger. Something about Shayde puts me at ease and makes me feel…safe.
My eyes don’t leave his face as I try to convey this impossible concept to him with words that aren’t coming out right. There’s no judgement here though as he just listens to my grief-stricken ramblings.
“Who am I to say what happens to a soul?” he asks softly with a small, sad smile. Reaching up, he tucks a wayward strand of crimson hair behind my shoulder while I hold my breath. “I’ve been alive for over two thousand years and I’ve yet to see any sort of proof one way or another. I've seen deceit, war, blood and death. I've watched disease spread and starvation run its course...but in all those years, I’ve not seen a thing that convinces me of an afterlife.”
I pull back a little at his honesty and he flinches just a little—regret passing through his gaze. “I’m sorry if that’s not something you wanted to hear.” I nod absently, my mind is still trying to wrap itself around the fact that Shayde is two thousand and counting. It’s such an inconceivable amount of time. The things he must have witnessed...empires toppled, kings and queens, lovers and enemies. I feel like an insect standing before a mountain. I feel small and naive next to this timeless creature.
He reaches out again, his hand venturing to the spot where I clench his cloak in my fist. My knuckles are white with pressure, but his warm fingers cover mine as he rubs his thumb over them. I can’t help but marvel at the contrast between his onyx and violet tinged skin against my sun darkened cream. I’m so entranced by it, that I almost don’t hear him speak.
“She was a powerful woman. A fierce warrior and a General we all looked up to.” Looking up, I meet his sad eyes and he grips my hand tighter. “Whatever this world is supposed to be, and whatever our souls are made of, I know in my heart that she’s where she was always mean to end up.”
This time, hot and heavy tears spill over my cheeks, dripping onto our joined hands. He pulls me to him in one smooth motion and his massive arms envelop me. I feel the safest I’ve ever been. Nothing can hurt he while he’s my shield. His warmth seeps into my skin and I find myself burrowing my face into his hard chest. He smells of a fireside with just a hint of berry wine.
“I know it’s still early, but we need to gather the counc—” A commotion nearby cuts off what Shayde was about to say. Both of us whip our heads to the side, searching through the trees to find the source of the raised voices.
His hands leave me. “Let’s go,” he urges before standing and unfurling his leathery wings.
Clasping the cloak around me, I make a run for it. “You go ahead, I’ll follow!” I shout behind me.
He lifts from the ground—wings blowing dust and foliage into the air. I propel myself into the air, sparks swirling around my feet until I reach a nearby bridge nestled in the trees. I follow an overgrown path though the Veil until I’m gliding past my mother’s burned down chambers. I refuse to look at the rubble, instead, making my way around it only to draw up short.
A small crowd has gathered around Wesley—swinging wildly inside the mage net. The magic that laces the rope crackles and stings him as he tumbles around—cursing. Thallan stands to the side, watching the spectacle with an amused curve to his lips.
“Stop this!” I shout at the mages surrounding Wesley. “I said stop!”
I come to a halt beside Thallan. “What’s going on? Why are they torturing him?”
Thallan swivels to glare at me and I have to crane my neck to meet his eyes. “Do you really think it’s a coincidence that the day he shows up here just happens to be the day the General is assassinated?”
I scoff. “He didn’t do this, and you know it.”
“Do I?” he hisses, stepping in closer. His eyes are blazing, and his jaw is set like stone. “You seem to be the only one with any faith in this...necromancer.”
“Thallan, tell them to stop. This isn’t how we do things; this is barbaric!”
He laughs bitterly. “Tell that to the General, Sera. Tell that to your mother. I haven’t even begun to interrogate this man.”
Fury rips through me like hot flame. I have to temper down my magic to keep from flinging it at the elf. Sometimes Thallan can make me crazy. “This man was my friend once! He deserves a trial; you need to call them off right now!”
Thallan glowers—his eyes roaming my face in disapproval and...betrayal. Suddenly, he turns and whistles, signaling his men to stop torturing Wesley and soon the magic dies down. Still they stand around the net, laughing and taunting him, but at least the onslaught has stopped.
“Are you happy now?” Thallan grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest.
Stepping closer, I try to make myself bigger than I am. I jab my finger into his hard chest. “This isn't how we do things. This isn’t how Tilda would have done things. I know you don't trust him, but the Wesley I know wouldn’t have done something like this.”
His eyes narrow. “That’s what you don’t seem to understand,” Thallan snaps. “This isn’t the boy you knew. This is a stranger. This is a necromancer, Sera. The sooner you realize that, the safer we’ll all be.”
A shadow looms behind me and I watch as my elf glares over my shoulder. Turning, I see Shayde hovering protectively before laying a massive hand on my shoulder. Thallan’s icy stare follows that motion and his nostrils flare. He looks up, eyes locking with mine—filled with hurt and anger.
“We need to gather the war council,” Shayde’s deep voice booms over my shoulder.
Thallan looks back to him for a moment before nodding once and turning on his heel, dismissing me entirely. I have the strongest urge to reach out to him, but Shayde’s hand tightens on my shoulder.
“It can wait,” he whispers in my ear, sending chills down my spine. “Go get changed and meet me in the apothecary, I’ll gather the others.”
Sera
I’m the last to arrive at the apothecary. I took my time cleaning the dirt, sweat and grief from my skin—uncaring that the others would
be waiting on me.
The first person I see is Anya as she drops what she’s doing and glides over to me with her arms outstretched. Her brown hair is bound behind her head in a long dark braid and her deep green dress is covered in stains. She embraces me tightly and as I squeeze her in my arms, I catch a strong waft of sage that seems to permanently stick to her skin. The tips of her dainty but callused fingers are coated in a green stain due to crushing and kneading roots and leaves day in and out. This apothecary belongs to Anya—our healer and her apprentices.
“Tell me you’re alright,” she whispers in my ear, low enough to keep it between the two of us.
Pulling back, I give her a watery smile. We both know I’m not alright.
“Don’t worry about me right now, I’ll be okay. But can I ask a favor?”
She straightens her shoulders, a determined gleam reaching her brown eyes. “Anything, Sera, you know that.”
“I need you to sit in on this meeting. I know you want nothing to do with council business, but I need you here today. You’ll find out why once we get settled, can you do that for me?”
Anya frowns. “Tell me what this is about, are you in danger?” Her hands clasp mine tighter.
I squeeze her fingers back, catching Thallan’s frown over her shoulder before looking back to her and grimacing at the worry there on her face. “I think we all are. Please join us and then you can give me your decision after you hear what we have to say.”
“Of course—”
“We need to discuss the prisoner,” Thallan grumbles, drawing the room’s attention.
Anya smirks at me before we both turn to take our places at the large, rounded table that sits in the center of the room. I pull up short, grimacing at the sight of scorch marks—recognizing the table as the one that used to sit in my mother's chambers where we used to meet. Seven people sit at the table and each of them have frowns marring their faces and pity shines in their eyes as they watch me sit.
Thallan, Roark and Belinda sit directly across from me next to Thallan’s right hand elvish warrior, Galvan, with his short silvery hair and shrewd eyes. A human named Riehl sits next to Galvan and his orange beard hangs to his chest in bushy curls laced with dark strands of grey that match his hooded eyes. He’s a hard man with scars on his face and hands, showcasing the wounds he bore as he defended the Kindred in the purge. Shayde sits to my right and Anya to my left, making up what’s left of the war council without the General here to lead us.
The room is lit with golden shafts sunlight that stream through the wide windows where glittering dust motes hover in the air around us. Shelves line the walls from top to bottom. Anya has a collection of glass bottles on one wall, filled with all manner of potions, tonics and salves that she hand crafts to perfection. The other shelves are filled with old parchment and books that had been salvaged over the years. Live plants hang from the ceiling in woven baskets, filling the room with musky, floral scents.
“I think we can all agree that the mancer must be questioned—” Thallan continues, but I cut him off.
“Questioned, yes. Tortured, no.” My eyes bore into his and I can see the anger simmering there.
His hand grips the tabletop hard, the leather of his glove creaking softly. “Your affection for the man is clouding your judgement,” he snaps.
“And your affection for her is clouding your judgement,” says Shayde suddenly and all eyes go to him. He clears his throat. “We do need to question the man, I cannot argue that,” he concedes and Thallan audibly scoffs. “But Sera’s right. Torture is beneath us—even beneath you, Thallan.”
Thallan’s silver eyes flash with loathing. Roark stands, gathering everyone's attention. “Bring in the prisoner!” he calls out, waving a hand in the air and the door opens as an elvish guard steps in with Wesley in tow.
My chest clenches at the shimmering ropes tied around his wrists, but I quickly look away—knowing that he’s still a traitor. He looks haggard after days spent dangling in his treetop dungeon. His long hair is matted to his head and his beard has grown even fuller. But he’s still as striking as ever, and I can’t help the way my eyes wander over his impressive, muscular form. Indeed, the boy I once knew no longer exists. Flitting my eyes to Shayde guiltily, I catch his small smirk and my stomach flips. It sours though, as I notice Thallan glaring a hole into my forehead from across the table. The guard shoves Wesley into an empty chair at the head of the table as all eyes look to him from every direction. We don’t know if he was responsible for the attack, but I can admit that the timing is suspicious.
“How could it have been me?” Wesley snaps as he glares right at Thallan. “I was in that net the whole time, you nit.” His brown eyes are hard, tired and untrusting.
Thallan stands and circles the table until he’s in front of Wesley whose hands are still bound. Thallan reaches out, grabbing Wesley by the back of his head and yanking backwards. Wesley hisses, and puts up a slight struggle, but in the end, an elf is just too powerful for a human to compete with strength wise. “Why did you come here, necromancer?” Thallan growls in Wesley's face. “Who sent you and why?”
Wesley laughs, but the sound is hollow. “You’re pointing fingers at the wrong man, I don’t mean any of you any harm, I swear it.” His eyes flicker to mine. “Tell them, Sera...you know me—”
“Don’t you look at her,” Thallan orders, yanking on Wesley's hair again. “You don’t get to look at her for help, you have no friends in the Veil.”
Wesley growls under his breath but he stops wriggling. “I’ll tell you whatever you need to know, but I don’t have the answer you’re looking for. I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to your General.”
His words ring true, but five years is a long time and people change. The brand on my oldest friend’s neck glares at me and I can’t help the bubble of anger that fills my body. Standing from the table, I make my way over, even though I can feel Shayde’s disapproval at my back. I tower over Wesley now and try to place a blank expression on my face, ignoring the way my heart screams. I flick my eyes to Anya, and I pretend I don’t see the tears glimmering in her eyes. She’d had time to speak with Wesley when he first arrived, but I hadn’t been present for that reunion. Some part of me couldn’t face him. I know she’s just as angry with her twin as I am. He lied to us all. He’s a traitor to everything we’ve built here and everything my father stood against.
“What do you know that we don’t?” I ask him bluntly. “What are you choosing not to tell us?”
His glare turns to me but softens ever so slightly. He breathes heavily for a moment, running his eyes over my face. Thallan pulls on his hair again. I grumble at the elf and his fierce possessiveness.
Wesley grunts in pain. “The shadow you saw...I’ve seen it,” he grumbles. “I don’t know who it is, but Sephrian might.”
“And how do you know this?” Thallan snaps.
Guilt covers his face. “Because I was Moran's apprentice before Karn fell.”
My heart drops and I feel sick. “Moran is dead.”
Wesley shakes his head. “He lives—in the dungeons. We were captured when they raided the palace that day. I lived in the dungeons for two years before Sephrian had me brought to him.”
Nothing makes sense. I hear his words, but they scramble around in my mind, not wanting to sink in. “Wesley, what are you saying? Why didn’t you tell me you were working with Moran?”
His eyes gloss over in shame. “I knew what you would think of me...I’m sorry, but I had no other choice.”
“Lies—” I hiss, slamming my hand down on the tabletop and causing Wesley to flinch. “You’re lying to me, just like you always have! Why should I believe a word you say?”
Thallan’s grip loosens and Wesley breathes a sigh of relief, bringing his head forward with a roll of his neck. “I have no reason to lie to you anymore, there’s nothing for me to gain.” His eyes plead with mine and it takes everything inside of me not to give in and believe every
word. “I escaped as soon as he trusted me enough to let me leave his stronghold on an errand. I played my part until I could run, Sera—you have to believe me.”
“She doesn't have to do anything,” Thallan cuts in.
Roark lets out a frustrated groan. “We’re getting nowhere with this!” He stands back up. “Clearly this man isn’t responsible for the General’s death. He is many things, but something tells me a murderer isn’t one of them.” He glares around the table, daring anyone to challenge him. “This is an act of war plain and simple. You say this shadow assassin is one of Sephrian’s?”
Wesley nods. “Yes—and whoever it is, they’re powerful beyond anything I’ve ever seen. Even Sephrian and his brothers fear it.”
Everyone at the table murmurs at once—cold fear washing over the room. Sephrian, Magnus and Soran are three of the most powerful mages in existence. After commanding my father’s army alongside my mother for over twenty long years, their battle magic grew and honed until they became near unstoppable. When my father banished them, he failed to find it suspicious that they didn’t fight back. But then again—Seth Draegan was always a shallow, ignorant man. For men as powerful as them to fear one lone assassin…it chills me.
“If this is war, then we’re all doomed,” chimes in Riehl. All heads turn his way. His tired eyes look hollow and hopeless and he strokes his long beard nervously. “They outnumber us hundreds to one. Sephrian took half of our mages and two fully grown dracs. How are we supposed to fight an army like that?” The room is silent.
“Not to mention the fact that the king’s guard—the ones who surrendered will be fighting alongside him now. There must be thousands of humans at his disposal. We don’t have the numbers for something like this,” says Belinda in agreement with Riehl.
