Four days before mission departure…

  After the duel against Nalthir, Ire guards rushed into the barracks upon hearing all the commotion. It was then and there I realized how powerful Renesta had become. With a wave of her hand, the guards stood down. What’s more, we were able to choose our gear and our Kyard before exiting.

  Her role in the Call to Arms sabotage must’ve been critical, or maybe our mission to come. Either way, she’s being a tad too tight-lipped about it.

  Here I thought summoning the might of my five dragons at the battle of Elshard would bring all of us marked closer together. Turns out, it resulted in loss, denial, fear, and disease instead. We’re a fractured mess on the inside, even if we’re all on speaking terms.

  There’s no more room for melancholy, though. I’ll leave that in the past with Foren’s Winter. There’s a silver lining to overcoming that persisting magical wound, though. Now that I’m back to half strength, I feel like Boeru en route to incinerate an enemy castle.

  I throw the fresh covers off of me in the middle of the night. I’ve been sitting here with my eyes open for hours, ruminating. Why? Because I’m experiencing that same darkness that woke me in the fever dreams for weeks. In my heart, I hope it’s Kane trying to reach me from the dark ocean. But something tells me a more nefarious actor is at work.

  As far as I know, there’s no Shade’s Milk here to meet my brother. I’ll have to learn to access the dark ocean more potently without it—like Scorius does. Soon, I’ll be mostly healed, there’s not a moment to waste.

  So that’s where I’ll go. Prominent’s chambers.

  Opening the door to the main room of my cabin, Jurso is facedown sleeping in a mythos tome about Elden magic. It takes a lot for me not to laugh at his bow spazzing with different colors. Guess he failingly tried to smelt some of that Kyard into it. Layla is on the other side, silky hair tied into a bun and pressed flat against the wood wall like a pillow. She must be exhausted if she’s sleeping with her mouth open like that. And the strange light emitted from the frozen bolts in the sky peeks through the windows. It’s like a moon, only longer, and there are four of them.

  Elshard felt more like a home than this, honestly. There was comfort and comradery there, even if it was cutthroat. Freedom’s Ire is all uncertain fear and uncharted magi.

  Carefully stepping outside and closing the door, I notice Casterban’s spirit mote there again. What an inconsistent thing.

  I stare at it, walking backward. It’s the same as last time—hot white center with a greenish tint.

  “Keeping an eye on me?” I whisper, and I swear it tilts like a head.

  I access my mental plane and beckon Sefene to curl her head out my shoulder. “Try not to wake them,” I whisper to the dragon.

  “That’s Menethral, the Ember of Hope.” She waves her orange wing at it.

  The mote zooms back and forth in excitement.

  “She witnessed Sile himself in the eye of his unending storm,” Sefene says. “A blink of him sent shockwaves of terror through her for a hundred years. And when she heard of one of his knights turning upon him… she felt compelled to charge along with us, to those who would listen.”

  The skeptic inside me wants to challenge another tale from the afterlife, especially since most of the other dragons in my roost feel the same. But out of respect to the most revered, albeit eccentric dragon, I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt.

  I’m conflicted, truly. If Sile really isn’t just a scare tactic created by Jasper the Fibber, then surely there’d be events detailing his whereabouts. I’ve been scouring tomes on every free minute, and the ones mentioning Sile and his Bane are still just vague fables, similar to how Elden was treated in Elshard. It’s as if writing about the subject directly would itself cause a cataclysm. Or… there’s no true events detailing the mania because it’s a lie.

  Another tick clicks my brain in the other direction. Elden is real. Casterban possesses it. So did a hidden mage in Elshard.

  “Still skeptical of us, Haledyn?” Sefene twists her neck so her maw is right beside me. Her blue eyes are like mage-storms themselves, spiraling endlessly inward.

  “I haven’t dug my heels into anything since Call to Arms, Sefene. But meeting you in the dark ocean… it meant a lot.”

  “Then trust me.” She swings her head to face Menethral. “Trust us.”

  “I do, Sefene, with everything.” I eye her wing. “That doesn’t mean we have to share the exact same beliefs.”

  “Very true. My brother, Dovesier, would strike down every human castle if he had his way, yet we still circle the same roost.” Sefene smiles.

  “Kind of like me and Nalthir will have to.”

  “Precisely.”

  I notice the mote tilt its proverbial head toward the sky, which prompts Sefene and I to turn.

  Krchr!

  One of the frozen bolts percolates with magi like it did when Hoctrel—Duke of Lacor—flew through unannounced.

  I tense. “Could be an invader.”

  “Prep the riders! Cold coattails!” a mage shouts in the distance.

  In an instant, the temperature plummets, and rain shoots like arrows from the side.

  A handful of warriors march in a line near a half-constructed castle. No. Not a castle. A ramp.

  A high-magic user atop it whips his arms outward, sending wind whips spiraling toward the portal.

  “Apper one, Apper two, clear!” the mage yells, and out of a stable in the distance rushes two long-tailed phoenixes with decorated elite warriors atop them. “Fly!”

  The first phoenix rushes up the ramp and explodes off the ledge, leaving cracked masonry and rubble rattling to the ground.

  I can’t help but gape at the graceful bird and its rider spinning into the windwhip and disappearing into the bolt portal.

  My fingers go numb from watching them. Like war was just declared, and I’m sitting here witnessing the front lines dive in. The fighter in me forces my legs into motion, but my head stops them flat.

  I know next to nothing of Freedom’s Ire, except that they’re heavy underdogs, and peeking my head in to interfere might steal the seconds they need to accomplish their goal.

  Boe rears his head opposite Sefene’s. “Powerful warriors let loose this night. I can smell it.”

  “Come to watch the show?” I ask.

  “Bold three. Bold four and five. Clear!” The mage tangles his arms, generating more windwhips as a wyvern and two small dragons rush from the stable.

  I wonder if the darkness keeping me awake has anything to do with what they’re after.

  “Sefene, can’t you ask Menethral or any of Casterban’s other spirits what’s happening?”

  “My connection to them has severed since I bonded with you, Haledyn. I see through your eyes now.”

  “Hm.”

  “Terror five! Clear!” the mage roars.

  My brow furrows when I don’t see anyone else stampeding out of the stable. I look around, but the lined warriors don’t flinch.

  Then my heart stalls.

  The first crack of lightning I’ve seen in this tier announces the slow limp of my Prominent, out from the half-constructed spire directly opposite the ramp. His long black hair whips from the gales as he walks through the grass. The tap of his cane is more haunting than ever as he commands the respect of each decorated warrior he walks past.

  He stops at the foot of the ramp, winds kicking his cloak in all directions.

  Where are you going, Prominent? I want so badly to call.

  All parties salute him by pounding their chests, and the mage atop the ramp eagerly awaits his ascendance. He stares up to the bolt with that familiar scowl as rain pelts his face.

  Whoosh!

  Dyrlen’s wing outstretches far, and with one mighty beat, he flies into the windwhip, disappearing into the portal.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  The cold temperatures lift and the rain subsides.

  “May the Elden guide you,” the mage says a prayer to the portal, then briskly turns away.

  I revert the dragons to my mental plane so not to draw attention, and promptly make for the Rivten Spire. Considering everyone is in a rush, I’m going to go try and see my father before he’s also called to mission.

  Here’s to hoping the old mage is awake.

  “What did that look like to you, Sefene? Was it a normal occurrence when you were with Casterban?” I ask mentally.

  “Chasing storms, probably. The fools,” Boeru huffs.

  Sefene snaps at Boeru behind my neck, and I cackle.

  She clears her throat. “War-tier missions were commonplace prior to our bonding. It’s the easiest, most chaotic tier to blend in or get lost in battle.”

  “You paint a picture similar to the afterlife. I’ve peeked into that plane before,” I say.

  “It’s nothing like the afterlife. Tactics are different when unending storms aren’t ripping through land and sky. And mortality also plays its part here.”

  I don’t pry further, and instead create a mental image that blends with old mythos I used to read on war. Battalions and artillery defending bastions. Riders protecting the skies. I can see it all.

  Then it hits me. “Scorius and crew went to sabotage a battle.”

  “I wouldn’t know. But I know someone who would,” Sefene chuffs.

  My trek toward Rivten Spire is plagued with spectral figures. Warring dark guardians, no doubt. They scoff and complain from the shadows just like the daytime guards, likely thinking I’ll poison their leader.

  I ignore them, all the way up to the gigantic double doors leading to the portal inside. Last time I was escorted with my Prominent, so I’m not quite sure how to enter alone.

  Do I knock… or?

  Krchk!

  The door unlatches from the inside, and it peeks open enough for a warrior stacked with armor and an orange-hued claymore to stomp through. His face is shrouded behind his intricate dragon helm. As a matter of fact, none of him is visible. He’s armed to the teeth and covered in mystery.

  “About face, Winbridge,” he speaks with two voices at once, and with conviction.

  “I have business with my father.” Saying the words makes me cringe inside, like I’m some noble who can’t move about on my own.

  “That’s unlikely at this hour. Besides, he is not to be disturbed, especially by you.”

  “Would he echo that sentiment if I were face-to-face with him?” Here comes that overlay of magic that’s been happening since iron rank. I sense a bit of high magic… maybe wind… and a bit of alt. There’s an overabundance, which is odd for a warrior type. I’d imagine someone like Rogoshel to ascend into this type of warrior.

  “He would not, because of his crippling empathy. That’s why he has us.”

  “Us?” I arc my eyebrow.

  “Yes.” He stands tall.

  “Well, I’m going to take a risk and assume you won’t cut me in half when I get past you.” I take a step to the side to test him.

  “Go back to your cabin, Winbridge,” the voice lowers ominously, and when I take a quick step for the door, the armor dismantles on a whim and clamps over me.

  It happens so fast I don’t know what to think.

  “What the hell are you?” I jerk inside the suit of armor, suffering intense winds.

  As I’m about to summon Boeru to burn my way out, another figure walks out of the spire door. My vision is impeded from the helmet, but I can see enough to know it’s another Lacor type—long purple-black robes, a twirled orange beard, and a scar cutting one lip into a permanent frown.

  “Are all of you assholes masters in alt-magic?” I grunt.

  “Warlocks of Lacor tend to practice differently than you feeble Miria folk,” he says.

  “Feeble? Why do I have a feeling one of us gave you that scar, then?”

  “One that you know, even. You have his scent, however faint,” he says.

  I narrow my eyes. How could he possibly? Does he have a dragon’s nose?

  “His magic is dark and everywhere. Does Relias Drowcastle ring a bell?”

  “The Dane who carried me from the sub-tier. Of course. That must make you the rival he spoke of—Lyburn. A magus of Lacor. Now let me out of this armor.”

  “A Warlock now. I guess he and I both wound up in our respective sub-tiers after the wounds we gifted one another. The realm is small to see one of his awakened here. The one, actually.” Lyburn smiles, slowly unclasping the armor and rebuilding it by his side.

  I run a hand through my hair to fix it. “Take me to him. I’ll be brief, and you can warn of my coming so he can disperse his spirits.”

  “I think not.” He and his suit of armor take a step closer to me. “I’ll escort you back to your cabin, and tell you whatever you want to know.”

  “You can tell me on our way to him,” I counter, tensing my fist to ignite my warring dark, and manifest Kelfore and Risorgus out of my shoulders to create an overwhelming shadow.

  “I see Relias didn’t teach you to respect your elders.” Lyburn commands the suit of armor to draw his claymore.

  “He tried.”

  We stare each other down. In truth, I’m not experienced enough to fight someone like him. I’d imagine Relias as a diamond rank, which means Lyburn would have to be too.

  “Enough.” A guard with two floating motes and a spear the size of a brute stands at attention. “Casterban will see you now.”

  Lyburn scowls, and I unsummon my dragons.

  The Ember of Hope must’ve alerted my father. Good timing, too, because gods know what this Warlock would’ve done to me.

  “This is a crucial time for the Ire,” Lyburn protests. “Deathly so.”

  Him saying that to the guard makes me second guess my boldness. I’m interfering.

  “It’s not up for debate,” the guard says, nodding for me to follow him.

  Lyburn scowls as he remains there with his suit of armor. “You don’t know the mission you’re disrupting, Winbridge.”

  The door shuts behind him, and I’m in the familiar dark plane guarded by warring dark mages. They wave away the curtain and let us through to Rivten Spire. The motes scatter as soon as we’re in, reminding me that I’m a contagion in their eyes.

  “It is simply precaution,” the guard side-eyes me, then remains stoically forward as he guides us through the castle, making a right away from Scorius’ chambers and toward the library. Once we pass that, I’m in uncharted territory. Rune after rune of strange side-effects—inverted vision and intense sensations of hunger—we finally make it to a singular chamber with a tall narrow door of stained glass.

  “He will see you now.” The guard remains at the foot of the room, standing at attention.

  “Thanks.” I head toward the door, but before I push it open, I turn. “Am I disrupting?”

  “That’s not for me to decide,” the guard says.

  A loyal dog, respecting my father’s wishes. They seem few and far between here. A lot of rogue personalities and agendas roam the Ire. It feels so… disconnected. Then again, those riders who just rushed into war were anything but.

  I pull the handle of the glass door to find it oddly weightless, and then stop inside. To my shock, my father is hunched over a table at the edge of his seat with vials at his side filled with colorful liquid. It looks familiar, like the one Renesta handed off to Nalthir in my cabin.

  “Paronox Silk,” I say, walking closer to him.

  The motes fidget all over the ceilings and walls as I approach.

  “Yes!” he tries to sound upbeat, but the strain in his voice is evident. “You are watching how the wine is made.”

  As I round the table, I notice his arm outstretched with the sleeve rolled up. His veins are all discolored, and his hair shifts between brown, black, and grey as he siphons blood through his pores simply by holding his hand over his arm.

  “You probably thought the Danes were the only ones who try to temper blood.” Casterban winces.

  “They do it falsely. Though Scorius would tell me tempered blood is to enliven the Seals, it’s not ultimately what causes an awakened.” I inspect the vials, and the draining color from my father. “Boeru chose to bond to me because I sacrificed for a friend, not because of my blood.” I take a seat in a plush, cushioned chair a few feet away. “Unless of course us harboring dragons from the same roost isn’t a coincidence?”

  “It is. And you are right. Mythos is vague and half-right, at best.”

  “Especially when we’re purposely lied to.” I smile angrily. “It’s more of the same here. Elden tomes are vague and perplexing.”

  “Because stoking magi is not a science, my son. Those of us who obtain and awaken some forms of it can master it, sure. But the initial invoking? You could go mad detailing the thousands of ways. High magic is the most common and best documented. But go down the list, and watch how your mind spins. Mythos is not meant just to inform, but to teach us how to critically think.”

  “I’ve come to a similar conclusion,” I say.

  I appreciate this drained version of my father more. He’s less… political. Like he lost the energy to uphold the show. But when I lock eyes with him, the sunken lids and red lines make it hard to hold.

  “I’m happy you came.” He forces a smile.

  I don’t know how to respond to that.

  “And I’m sorry, son, for everything.” He winces as another ball of liquid is carefully extracted and poured into a vial. “I knew Efias would throw you and Kane into the sub-tier. He’s convinced our lineage is strong. And although he turned out to be right… it was cruel beyond belief, and it broke me every day to think of it.”

  The declaration hurts more than he knows. But the truth is, I have no regrets, just remorse for those who were needlessly killed. Suffering trial and blood with my fellow orphans forged a bond that can never be broken, even if we’re somewhat fractured.

  I look away, saying nothing. My job isn’t to make this strange person feel better about his choices. I hardly know him, and only decided to step in during Call to Arms because it was the right thing to do.

  “You’re harming yourself to create and distribute these vials. For dire missions,” I change the subject. “Your Elden blood is the key to fractures in the tiers.”

  He smiles with pride. “It is so, yes. I’m afraid our attempts to broker peace have failed in a time of grave danger.”

  “You’re sending your riders into the war-tier,” I guess. “To stop something… or sway the winds of war.”

  He takes a deep breath and holds his clawed hand over his arm once more, magically syphoning more of his own blood.

  I furrow my brow. “Stop.”

  “You have come at a poetic time, Haledyn,” he says. “This is the hour, I’m afraid.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Have you felt it, son?” He narrows his eyes at me, clenching his fist and dipping his head in pain. “The presence that rouses us from sleep?”

  A chill wraps my spine.

  “My most attuned all report the same sensations. A rumbling deep in their mind. Low and ominous. Lurking closer.” Casterban bares his teeth as he extracts half an orb of blood, enough to slightly fill the last vial. “It’s him. Sile. He lurks closer to our realm.”

  More folklore.

  “But that’s not why we move this hour.” He leans back in his chair, allowing himself a breath. With one look, I notice a glimpse of pride I’ve seen before. He slides the half-filled vial my way.

  I catch it and tilt my head curiously. “This was already granted to Nalthir—”

  “Take it,” he cuts me off. “That’s raw Elden blood mixed with Hefsen seed and Graff to create Paronox Silk. It’s enough for one use, maybe two. Keep it as an emergency.”

  “Wouldn’t it do better in the hands of the elites? We’re just iron ranks.” I go to shove it back, but he holds up a hand.

  “Obviously there are a thousand walls I’d have to tear down for you to trust me, Haledyn. But if nothing else, listen to me now. Your quest… is crucial to the Ire’s fate. And your abilities… are beyond unique. If only we had the years to nurture and ascend you to the top… But alas, we do not. Fate tells us that now is the time. We were given iron ranks to blend and fold into Lacor. Trust in the unbonded general’s instruction, and in that of your team.” He manages a smirk. “Menethral tells me you fight with the confidence of a general yourself. That is good. Lead them. For your journey will be more trying than a hundred battles.”

  “Four days left,” I sigh.

  “No, son.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  We stare at one another.

  “Lacor slithers through the grass and strikes Miria’s Havenyar bastion from within. The war-tier is in chaos, and the kingdomonia is poised to trample through it. All quests have been accelerated. Yours among them.” He sighs. “An emergency in the truest form.”

  “It’s too soon.” I hold my abdomen. “I’m not fully healed.”

  “Nor I.” He motions to his arm. “But rarely does preparedness trump timing. If we are so lucky to stall Lacor’s takeover, perhaps I can appeal to Miria again. To broker peace is this Ire’s sole hope now. And the stakes truly are dire.”

  This mission is critical, but not how he thinks it is. It’s the only way to ascend… the only way to get Kane and Misty back, even if I’m wasting time scouring for Sile’s remnants.

  “If peace stops the tyranny among the sub-tiers, then I’ll do my part, Casterban.”

  “That you will, son. Renesta has the instruction and awaits you at your cabin. You depart on first light.”