Rist pulled the air into his lungs, feeling them expand as he did. He held it there, counting his heartbeats as they slowed. One. Two. Three. In his mind, he could see the Spark. See the separation of each strand. Power radiated from the strands, pulsating through the fabric of his mind.
Air.
Rist pulled on threads of Air, feeling their cool touch crash over his skin, causing every hair on his body to stand on end.
"Loose."
The snap of a bowstring being unleashed rippled through the air. Rist opened his eyes. He had only a fraction of a second to react. He wrapped the arrow in threads of Air, feeling it push against him as he slowed its momentum, bringing it to a full stop only inches in front of his face. Releasing his hold on the threads, he allowed the arrow to fall to the ground, its steel head clattering against the stone.
"Good," Brother Garramon said, his lips turned up into a mildly impressed pout.
"But?"
"There are a hundred ways to do anything with the Spark. A thousand, even. What separates a good Battlemage from a great one are their choices. You need to be clever, not just talented. It takes a fraction of the energy to deflect an arrow using threads of Air than it does to bring it to a full stop. As you grow stronger, the drain will affect you less, but it will affect you. With increased power, the risks of overreaching grow more dangerous. Those small decisions seem like nothing now, but in battle, they will be the difference between life and death."
"Yes, Brother Garramon. I understand." Rist gave a slight tilt of his head.
"I will be the judge of that. For now, we break." Garramon waved away the soldier who had fired the arrow, leaving only the two of them in the courtyard.
The sun had already dipped out of Rist's view, and a slight chill had set into the air. The palace walls were far too high for most of the smaller courtyards to gather a breeze, but ever since winter's touch had arrived, the nights had become noticeably cooler.
This particular courtyard they stood in, along with four others within the palace grounds, was dedicated specifically to the embassy of the Circle of Magii. It was used for the sole purpose of training and also, from what Tommin and Neera had told him, sometimes for the trials as well. Rist knew that to earn the colours of his chosen acolyteship, he would have to pass trials. What those trials entailed was another matter altogether. The actual details of the trials seemed to be a closely guarded secret. Every book only referenced them as 'The Trials', and Rist could not find anyone who was willing to give any more information than that.
"How go your histories with Brother Pirnil?" Garramon asked, handing Rist a small cup. As he did, Rist felt the Exarch touch the Spark, channelling threads of Water into the air. Rist watched as small droplets of water coalesced from what seemed to be nothing, then joined together before dropping into the cup with a slosh.
"Good," Rist replied, taking a sip from the cup as Garramon repeated the trick for himself. "But now there are more scars on my back than hairs on my head."
Garramon let out a short laugh before emptying his cup and placing it on the ground. "You are lucky. When I first took my apprenticeship, Brother Pirnil's practice was not just considered the standard, it was the preferred method of education." Garramon pulled the black cloak from around his shoulders, leaving only a fine linen shirt embroidered with the symbol of The Circle across the chest. With particular care, he folded the cloak over and lay it down beside his cup. "I was a slow learner," he continued as he lifted his linen shirt up over his head.
Rist tried his best to stifle the gasp that escaped his mouth. A shiver ran up his spine at the sight of Garramon's bare flesh. The man's chest and back were almost entirely covered in a motley array of scars and twisted flesh that ranged from one or two inches long to over a foot, and spread from his hip to the top of his shoulder blade. Rist recognised the scars immediately. He twitched, remembering the sensation of Brother Pirnil carving his lessons into his back. Across Garramon's back, layered over the markings of torn flesh, was a tattoo of black ink in the shape of The Circle insignia – two concentric circles, with six smaller solid circles set into them at evenly spaced intervals. The tattoo stretched from just below the nape of Garramon's neck, out to his shoulders, and over halfway down his back.
"Why… why did you not have them healed?"
The look on Garramon's face made Rist feel ashamed for even asking the question. "Because these scars built me. Each one is a reminder of the pain I endured and the pain I overcame. That is what yours are, as well. Cherish the pain. Let it bind to who you are. You will be the better for it."
Garramon pulled his linen shirt back on, letting it slide down over his torso, once again obscuring his scars from the world. "Come, walk with me. I have a meeting I must attend in the palace, but first we have things to discuss."
Rist's brown robes drifted lazily behind him as he and Garramon made their way through the palace gardens, the half-light of the fleeing sun casting languid shadows in their wake. The gardens of the imperial palace had given Rist a new appreciation for flora. Some were simple, holding nothing more than oak trees, grass patches, and benches. But the decorative gardens were a sight to behold. He had never before seen such a wide variety of plants and flowers in a single place. He was entirely confident he could have read every book on plants in the great library and still never have been able to name half of what the gardens held. There were flowers that shot ten feet into the air, with yellow petals that spread out like sunbursts, and massive plants that held broad green leaves and white tops shaped like cups, with dark purple flowers and long thin whiskers that draped all the way to the ground. One particular plant looked like the coral that fishermen from Salme got their nets caught in, but it shone with a luminescent purple light. He could have gone on for days just categorising the varying shades of reds, blues, and yellows that sprung up all around. He had even spotted some of the Purple Ember they had found in the cave during The Proving climbing up a wooden framework set into one of the garden walls.
Each of the gardens were divided into sections that followed predetermined shapes and patterns, and were bisected by stone pathways. It was along these pathways that Rist and Garramon walked, oil lamps atop pedestals providing a warm glow to dusk's embrace.
"I think you are almost ready for your trials," Garramon said, breaking the easy silence that had hung in the air as they walked.
Rist tried to hide the shock that hit him. His trials, already? Most apprentices trained for at least a year before they were allowed to take their trials. He knew those who were sponsored advanced more quickly, but he didn't think it would be that fast. A ball of nerves twisted in his stomach, making him feel physically ill.
"Don't be alarmed. Usually, it would not be this quick," Garramon said with a half-smile that let Rist know he had failed in his attempt to hide his shock. "But needs must. Reports of increased Urak attacks come in by the day. Some of the towns and villages closer to Mar Dorul and the Burnt Lands have already been abandoned, and even Fort Harken has called for additional garrison. Between the Uraks and the unrest in the South, more Battlemages are needed. In truth, more mages of every affinity will be needed, but none more so than ours."
Rist swallowed, attempting to add moisture to a throat that felt as though it had been rubbed with cotton. "I'm not ready. I know nothing of the trials."
"There will never be a point where you stop learning, young apprentice. That is a simple truth of life." Garramon stopped at a juncture between four paths, one of which led back towards the palace entrance behind them. "As for the trials, they will not be made clear to you until the day you undertake them. This is the way it has always been, for in life the most difficult challenges are the ones which you do not expect. For now, you may know this. Like each of the affinities, the trials of a Battlemage are set in two parts – a Trial of Will and a Trial of Faith. Your power is raw, but your potential is vast. I would not have sponsored you if that were not the case. All swords were once scraps of metal buried in the earth, waiting to be forged." Garramon smiled, momentarily tightening his grasp on Rist's shoulder. "I will see you here tomorrow for practice at first light, before your mathematics with Brother Audurn."
"Yes, Brother Garramon."
With that, Rist stood alone in the garden courtyard, the full moon now visible in the dark blue sky above. He held his hands at the back of his head, closed his eyes, and let out a sigh loud enough to scare the birds that had been perched at the corner of the garden wall. He could think about the trials tomorrow. He had received another letter from his parents that morning and had not had the chance to open it. It called to him now.
Rist was only five minutes from his chambers when he heard a second set of footsteps echo through the cold stone hallway, only slightly dampened by the black carpet that ran the length of the floor. He stopped in his tracks, as did the other set of footsteps. Instinctively, he reached out to the Spark, drawing threads of Earth into himself. He had found through training that
Earth and Spirit seemed to drain him less than the other elements, Fire the most.
Just as he was about to spin around to face his night stalker, a pair of hands slapped down on his shoulders, and he strangled a yelp in his throat.
"Too easy."
Rist jumped forward, swatting away Neera's hands. "Get off me!"
"Oh, don't be such a baby." Neera shrugged, a smug look sitting on her face. "Running off to bed so early?"
Rist glared back at Neera, trying his best to ignore the turn at the corner of her mouth. Whenever she did something mischievous, she always smiled differently; he couldn't quite put his finger on it, but it was different.
Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.Tell her you're going to sleep and leave before you say something stupid. "It's been a long day – I was going to get some rest." Good, now go. Rist found that his feet seemed not to share the same inclination towards leaving that his head did. Don't do it. "Why?"
Idiot.
"No reason," Neera said with a shrug, that smile growing a little wider. "I was just going to go for a walk. There's a nice tavern out near the docks."
"The docks?" Rist's pulse quickened. Was she asking him to come with her? Did he want to go with her? It took a moment for his brain to stop spiralling and remember that the docks were very clearly outside the palace. "Neera, we're not allowed to leave the palace grounds. No apprentices are."
Neera just shrugged. "I'm not sure what you mean. I would never leave the palace grounds." Her smile widened. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow," she said, spinning on her heels.
She got about halfway down the corridor before Rist let out an audible sigh. "Wait."
Rist and Neera stood in a dimly lit nook, one of many meant for quiet reflection in the palace gardens. Rist had often used the nooks for reading when the inside of the library had become too stuffy. But now, as the pale light of the moon drifted into the hollowed-out recess in the wall, Rist shuffled his feet, fighting a semi-conscious urge to scratch the skin on the outside of his arm, as he always did when he felt uncomfortable.
"Give me that and put this on," Neera said, pulling a long, dark blue, hooded cloak from the leather bag at her feet and handing it to Rist, holding her other hand out for him to give her his brown robes in return.
Rist hesitated, clasping his hand at the back of his head and puffing out his cheeks. Neera just stared at him, her dark eyes fixed on his, one eyebrow raised. "I, eh…"
"Oh, come on," Neera said with a sigh, a hint of frustration in her voice. "You think I haven't seen a man in his smallclothes before?" Rolling her eyes, Neera shoved the cloak into Rist's chest and proceeded to let her own robes slip down over her shoulders, exposing her bare skin. Rist stifled a gasp, diverting his gaze towards a dark corner of the nook as he realised she wore nothing but her own body beneath her brown apprentice's robes.
Were all northern women this brazen? His heart beat so heavily he was all but certain Neera could hear it.
"Well?"
With a gulp, Rist raised his eyes. Neera stood in front of him wearing a long, flowy blue dress decorated with yellow and white flowers, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders. He had never seen her in anything but her brown robes before. She looked… beautiful.
"Would you like to draw a picture?"
"What?" Rist stumbled over his words, caught off guard by Neera's question.
"Would you like to draw a picture?" she repeated, leaning her head toward him and narrowing her eyes. "It would last longer."
"I, ehm—"
"Stop stuttering, take your robes off, and put on the damned cloak. We don't have all night."
Rist tried to take in a deep breath to calm himself, but it caught in his throat. "I don't have anything else to put on under the cloak."
"I have another dress in here," Neera said, shrugging. "Or you can go back and get a shirt, but I won't be waiting."
Rist narrowed his eyes and threw a glare back at her. He now understood what his father meant when he said that women were equal parts confusing, irritating, and completely unavoidable. Everything in him told him to just turn around, walk back to his chambers, and fall asleep reading the last few chapters of Druids, a Magic Lost. On any other night, he would have listened. He had been trying to finish the book for a while now, he was to meet Garramon in the practice yard at first light, and apprentices were not meant to roam the city streets. All three were convincing reasons why he should simply walk back to his room.
But he didn't walk back to his room. In fact, his feet seemed to have absolutely no intention of listening to his head whatsoever. They were far more intent on planting themselves where they were and forcing Rist to stand there with Neera mocking him. He knew what she was doing. Dann had done it to him every day in The Glade. She was trying to poke fun at him until he felt like he needed to prove her wrong. He could see it plainly, but it was still working.
With a sigh, he pulled his robes from his shoulders, letting them fall across his arm. Every hair on his body stood on end at the touch of the night's breeze as he stood there, bare-chested, in nothing but his smallclothes. Neera's grin was so wide that the corners of her mouth almost touched her ears.
"Shut up," Rist said, tossing his robes at Neera and throwing the dark blue hooded cloak over his shoulders.
"I didn't say anything." Neera chuckled as she stuffed Rist's brown robes into the bag with her own. Her laugh only grew louder when Rist glared at her. "Come on, we only have a few hours. Best make the most of it."
It only took a few minutes for them to reach the entrance to the palace grounds. A massive gatehouse framed by two enormous hexagonal towers rose about fifty feet higher still than the grey stone walls of the palace. The main entrance through the gatehouse was an archway about forty feet long and about the same in height at its highest point.
Four of the palace guard stood in pairs on either side of the gate. Even in the pale moonlight and the dim orange glow of the oil lamps, their black steel armour gave off a magnificent shimmer.
"How do we get past the guards?" Rist's throat was as dry as cotton, and a sickly feeling had set into his stomach. He knew it seemed childish, but breaking the rules had never been something he did. It wasn't so much the rule-breaking itself, it was more what would happen if something went wrong. Even the idea of having to talk his way out of a confrontation caused his stomach to lurch; that was Dann's area of expertise. The idea of having to explain to Garramon what he had done was not even worth contemplating. How long had he been there? Months? And he had never actually seen the city. Apprentices were not permitted to do so. The Circle were guests in the city. For all the training that occurred within the embassy, it was still only that: an embassy. They couldn't have untrained apprentices roaming about, causing havoc.
It was only then that Rist realised Neera had not answered him – she had simply continued walking. He cursed to himself, then picked up his pace to draw level with Neera.
"Just relax," Neera whispered. "Say nothing, keep your head down, and follow my lead."
Rist didn't get a chance to respond. As he and Neera approached the guard, a man in a long black cloak stepped out in front of them, seeming to come from almost nowhere. Silence hung in the air as the man stood there, his hood obscuring his face.
"And where might you be off to?" The man's accent was thick, but it wasn't one that Rist recognised. Reaching his hands up, the man drew down his hood, revealing a dark complexion that was synonymous with the people of Narvona. A gold ring hung from his nose, and his head was shaved smooth, with a short black beard covering most of his face.
"Nowhere, Brother Tharnum," Neera said, bowing her head.
"Nowhere indeed," replied the dark-skinned man. "Ensure that nothing of note happens nowhere, and that nobody is any the wiser."
"As always, Brother Tharnum."
The man took a step to the side.
"Come on," Neera whispered, tugging at Rist's cloak.
Rist couldn't help but look back at the man. Brother Tharnum, Neera had called him. He was a Battlemage. Even if Rist had not been able to feel the sheer power that radiated from him, the way he held himself would have been enough. He oozed self-certainty, and there was an undisguised arrogance in the way he moved. Even then, as Rist half-stumbled after Neera, with his head turned over his shoulders, the man stared at him, unblinking. Brother Garramon was exactly the same, as were all the Battlemages Rist had come across. How was Rist ever to become anything like that? He would be much better suited to the Scholars. Not that he could say as much to Brother Garramon.
The palace guard stared straight ahead as Neera and Rist walked past them, through the long, arched entrance. They acted as though they were not watching two apprentices walk straight out of the palace and into the city of Al'Nasla. Rist waited until they were halfway down the long staircase that descended into the city before he spoke.
"What in the gods was that?" He did nothing to mask the release of the breath he had been holding.
Neera shrugged. She seemed to do a lot of that. "Brother Tharnum lets us visit the city at night as long as we are not seen."
"What if we are seen?"
"Then he never saw us."
Rist grabbed Neera by the shoulders, stopping her in her tracks and spinning her towards him. "Why do you always speak in riddles?"
She raised one eyebrow but didn't complain. Rist was suddenly aware of how close her face was to his. "If we are discovered out here and The Circle finds out, then Tharnum will pretend he knew nothing of our trip. We will be brought before whichever High Mages currently reside in the embassy, and we will be judged." Neera must have seen the question on Rist's face – she took a step back, patting down her cloak as if removing invisible wrinkles. "We will either be put in a cell or have the Spark burned from our bones."
"They can… take it from us? I had heard rumours, but I thought it was just to scare us."
"They can," Neera said with a grim look on her face. "I have seen it done before." With that, she turned around and continued down the staircase. "I'm surprised you haven't already read about it in one of your books."
"Wait." Rist dashed down the stairs after Neera, ignoring her jibe about his books, stopping just in front of her. "We need to go back. How are a few drinks in a tavern worth having the Spark… burned from our bones?"
Neera moved her face so close to Rist's that he could feel her warm breath against his skin. She held her dark eyes level with his. Rist was now under absolutely no illusions that she could hear the racing beat of his heart. "Are you coming for the drinks?"
"I…"
A wide grin spread across Neera's face as she spun around, darting down the steps towards the city streets below. "Come on, keep up."
Rist let out a sigh, tilting his head back. Books were so much simpler than women.
Even at that time of night, while the moon stood in enmity against the dark sky, the streets of Al'Nasla were alive. Rist had never seen the likes of it before. It was as though someone had taken the Moon Market and placed it at every street corner, then decided that was not enough. With every few feet they walked, there was a new bard telling a different story or singing a different song, the buzz of the gathered crowds preventing each bard from overshadowing the next. Scantily clad men and women traipsed through the throngs of people, loudly offering themselves in exchange for coin, unashamed of their nakedness.
At one corner, Rist stopped for a moment to watch as a man blew fire from his mouth up into the air. The flames spiralled, twisting and turning as they moved, taking the shape of two serpents winding around each other. Rist could sense the threads of Fire and Air the man weaved through the flames. They were weak, barely capable of sustaining the spiralling flames, but they were definitely there. The man must have been an Alamant – one who was capable of touching the Spark but who had failed to pass the trials. Rist had learned about them in Brother Pirnil's lectures, but the Lector had not spent much time on them other than to voice his disdain for them in their entirety. 'Their very existence threatens to undermine The Circle and everything it stands for. To leave them alive is weakness, not mercy.'
Alamants were another thing Rist had not been able to find much information on in the library. Rist was finding that more and more. Things that just seemed to be 'absent' from the library. He was sure someone would have chronicled the history of the Trials or written about Alamants. Until he found that information, though, he would just have to ask the right people.
"Come on," Neera said, tugging at Rist's robes. "Mixing with Alamants is not something we want to be doing down here. Wherever they go, trouble follows."
Rist made to argue, but Neera had already started off again. He looked over his shoulder at the man, snapping his eyes back around when he found him staring back.
He stayed close to Neera as they shuffled their way through the throngs of people. If he lost her, he would be wandering the streets for hours.
One thing that stood out to Rist more than anything else as they steered their way through the packed streets was the people. Pale skin, dark skin, copper skin. Hair tied up in braids, shaved at the side with top knots, knotted and twisted in all directions. Dresses, shirts, skirts, tunics, and robes – all in a wider variety of colours than Rist even knew existed.
Traders, pedlars, and bards passed through the villages frequently. Rhett Fjorn's family had come from Berona, and Marlo Egon claimed his grandparents had travelled from Arkalen, but for the most part, the people of The Glade were all similar. The villagers of Salme had a slightly more bronze hue to their skin, and they were fond of their brass nose rings and earrings. A man from Talin could sell water to fish, and everybody knew you couldn't trust anyone from Pirn as far as you could throw them. But again, there wasn't much difference between the villages, not truthfully. But here, it was almost difficult to find two people who looked even slightly similar.
"Will you stop gawking at everyone who walks by?" Neera snapped, a frown set into her face. "We're supposed to not be drawing attention to ourselves. You Southerners don't get out much, do you?"
"Sorry, it's just—" Rist stopped when he saw the look on Neera's face and realised it was a rhetorical question. He nodded for her to lead the way.
Even as they drew further and further out towards the edge of the city, the crowds barely seemed to dwindle at all. In fact, in some areas, they even grew larger, chanting and cheering drunkenly. Rist and Neera walked for what Rist figured was at least half an hour more, until the buildings started to peel away, and the smell of salt water and fish added their recognisable tinge to the air.
"Wait here," Neera said as they stepped out onto the wooden docks of the port.
"But I… And she's already gone," Rist whispered, letting out a sigh. It seemed there was nothing and no one that made him sigh more than Neera. He would be happy if he just got to finish a sentence every once in a while.
Neera returned within a few minutes, clutching what looked like a small waterskin.
Rist raised an eyebrow when she handed it to him. "I thought we were going to the tavern?" he said, eyeing the waterskin with more than an ounce of suspicion.
Neera shrugged again, apparently her favourite motion. "The sailors always have the best spirits, and besides, what tavern is better than the Tavern of the Sea?" She opened her arms towards the water as she spoke, a delighted grin on her face.
Rist frowned before unscrewing the lid from the waterskin. He recoiled, holding the nozzle away from his face as he coughed. "What in the gods is that stuff? It smells like death."
"Wyrm's Blood," Neera replied, snatching the waterskin from Rist and pressing the tip to her mouth. She shook her head side to side and puffed out her cheeks. "Well, he wasn't lying when he said it was strong. Come on, don't be a baby."
Don't do it. Rist took the waterskin from Neera. He could smell the spirit almost immediately. It had a harsh, botanical tinge to it, and something else as well. The best way he could think to describe it was as if fire itself was a smell.
Do not do it. He pressed the tip to his mouth and took a swig. It burned instantly and continued to burn as it made its way down his throat. He shoved the waterskin back into Neera's hands as he doubled over coughing.
"There, there. I remember my first drink." Neera's voice dripped with amusement as she patted him on the back.
"Oh, fuck off," he said, swatting her hand away, pulling himself back to full height. His throat still burned, and it was everything he could do to stop himself from coughing again.
"Now, now. No need for that kind of language," Neera said, grinning ear to ear. "You keep that up and I won't share."
"Oh no, whatever will I do," Rist replied, scrunching his nose and narrowing his eyes. "So where do we sit in this, 'Tavern of the Sea'?"
"In the prime location, of course." Neera walked over to the edge of the dock as she spoke, dropping her leather bag at her feet. She took off the dark blue hooded cloak, removed her sandals, and sat down, dangling her feet over the water.
Rist gulped involuntarily, trying his best to ignore the knot that twisted in his stomach. That blue floral dress clung to Neera's figure a lot more than her robes ever had; it was difficult to take his eyes off her. It irritated him that she put him off-kilter. Taking a deep breath, he strode over to her, dropping himself down by her side. He slid off his shoes, placing them on the dock, and let the tips of his toes dip into the cool water.
He wasn't going to admit it to her, but Rist was much happier sitting there than he would have been in any tavern. There, where the moonlight shimmered off the water, the gentle sea breeze rolled over his face, and the sounds of the waves crashing against the docks drifted through the night air. It wasn't home, not by any measure, but it was the closest he had been in a long time.
"Are you not cold?" Rist broke the silence, turning to see Neera's bare feet hanging just inches above the water.
She took another swig from the waterskin, then handed it to him. "The more I drink, the warmer I get."
Rist couldn't help but laugh as he took the waterskin. Again, the liquid burned as it went down, but he didn't cough, and it did, indeed, make him a bit warmer. "Has Sister Ardal chosen which affinity she wishes you to pursue?"
"Not yet," Neera answered without looking at him. He felt her reaching out to the Spark, drawing in threads of Water and weaving them into the water just below her feet. Rist watched as large strands of the sea water rose, coalescing into a floating sphere that encased both of Neera's feet. She turned to him, a wry smile on her face. He couldn't help but laugh. "Either a Consul or a Battlemage. She has long deliberated over the two. Though she is a Consul, so I imagine that is where her final decision will rest."
"And you? What do you want?"
"It doesn't matter what I want."
"Of course it does," Rist scoffed.
"No," Neera said, a deep sadness glistening in her eyes as she stared out over the water. "It doesn't."
Rist let his gaze linger on Neera for a few moments, before turning to the ever-shifting surface of the water as the moonlight caught the breaking waves. Talking had never been his strong suit, especially not to women. He had never had a problem talking with Dann and Calen, but they were different. Talking to them had always felt as comfortable as talking in his own head. A hollow fluttering feeling ignited in Rist's chest at the thought of Dann and Calen. That had been the way ever since he had begun training with Garramon. The training would push the thoughts of home to the back of his mind, sometimes for hours, sometimes for days. But in the end, they always came back. And when they did, he always felt that same hollow feeling. He missed his parents and his home. Of course he did. But most of all, he missed his friends.
"Are you all right?"
Rist hadn't noticed Neera shuffle closer to him. She was barely a few inches away. She took another swig of the Wyrm's Blood, then handed it to Rist, who took it without hesitation.
"Yeah," he sighed, before lifting the waterskin to his lips and taking as deep a draught as he could handle in one go. He clenched his jaw and grimaced as the horrid spirit burned its way through him. "Just thinking of home."
"You are home."
Rist lifted his head from the waves and found himself looking into Neera's eyes. In the light of day, they were the darkest of brown, but now they shimmered like polished jet. Since he met Neera, he had always figured her for an unbreakable wall of steel, unbending and unyielding. Her mind was sharp, her tongue was that of a viper, and she carried herself with an air of unbridled confidence. But in that moment, with her eyes fixed on his, all he saw was vulnerability.
Rist held his breath, trying desperately to slow his heart. A nervous mixture of calm and untethered panic burned inside him. What do I do? Please, don't do anything stupid. Rist went to speak, but before he could, he felt Neera's fingertips tracing along his cheek, and the soft touch of her lips on his. They stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, but at the same time, nowhere near long enough.
"I—"
Neera gave him a wry smile and placed her finger on his lips. "Don't ruin it."
Rist didn't move to stop the smile from spreading across his face as he gave a soft laugh and leaned back in, his thumb resting on Neera's cheek. He thought about speaking again but decided against it. Instead, he pressed his lips against hers once more, losing himself in their soft touch. He felt Neera's lips move into a smile.
"Better," she said, pulling him in closer.
Dahlen and Ihvon sat in the corner of the common room of The Broken Stone, a dingy old tavern in the dwarven kingdom of Volkur. Most of the tavern's occupants were dwarves – the rough kind, by the looks of them. Like many of the dwarven buildings Dahlen had seen so far, the entire tavern looked as though it had been cut straight from the stone it was set into, even the furniture. He found it strange to think of wood as an exotic material, but that is precisely what it was here in the Dwarven Freehold. The methods they used to grow their crops obviously weren't capable of providing a steady flow of timber. The only place where wood had seemed commonplace was in the Heart of Durakdur. Though, he supposed, that was often the way. The wealthy always tended to flaunt whatever the common folk didn't have.
"I thought you said it was best to bide our time?" Dahlen took a draught of his ale, letting it sit at the back of his throat for a moment before swallowing; it wasn't the worst he'd ever had.
"We are," Ihvon replied, draining a small cup of a dark black liquid, before moving on to his ale. "But only a fool would simply sit and wait. Daymon is not in the right mind at the moment. He is fuelled by grief, a mistress I know all too well. He wants to charge headfirst into a nest of spiders, for that is what these dwarves are." Ihvon lowered his voice towards the end, half-leaning across the table in a whisper. "We need to tread carefully and gather as much information as we can. There is more going on here than meets the eye. Why would Queen Elenya try to assassinate Daymon? What purpose would it serve her? And why would she send an assassin who was clearly not up to the task?"
Dahlen nodded, taking another mouthful of his ale. He hadn't thought about it like that, but it made sense. Elenya would gain nothing from Daymon's death. "Who is it we are meeting here, anyway?"
"You are about to find out. Here she is now."
Dahlen turned his head to follow Ihvon's gaze. His eyes did not have to search for long to find the woman Ihvon was talking about. In a sea of gruff-looking dwarves, with thick, knotted, ring-laden beards, the tall woman in the long purple dress stood out like a signal fire. Her skin was dark, and she had short-cropped black hair. By the gods, she was beautiful. If Dahlen hadn't known better, he would have thought she was Elyara herself.
As the woman approached, Ihvon stood up from his seat and pulled her into a tight embrace. "Dahlen," he said, "this is Belina Louna."