Ella rubbed her hands together, her breath misting out in front of her before streaming up towards the crisp morning sky. It reminded her of the smoke pluming from the chimneys of The Glade as the sun crested Wolfpine Ridge. Strangely, the comparison gave her a comfort, of sorts. Though, all it took was a moment to remind her that she was nowhere near The Glade.
The morning was full of the constant sounds of axles squeaking, horseshoes clapping against stone, and the general hubbub that Ella had come to associate with people on the road. An unbroken stream of people stretched down the long, paved road from the enormous gates of Berona, past the carriage beside which Ella and Farda walked and onward into the horizon, where the people looked as small as ants.
"So many," Ella said, a soft sigh leaving her throat.
"They seek safety." Farda's black cloak streamed behind him as he walked, his mouth turned down at the corners. He was clearly still irritated at Ella for insisting they walk instead of riding in the carriage. It's not as if she had a choice, though. As Berona had drawn closer and the number of people on the road had continued to grow more and more by the day, Faenir had begun to stay closer and closer to the carriage. Between the wide berth the other travellers gave him, the narrowed eyes, and the muttering, she wasn't about to leave Faenir to walk on his own.
Reaching down as she walked, Ella ran her fingers through the coarse fur at the back of Faenir's neck, receiving a low rumble of recognition in return. The wolfpine strode beside her with a languid gait that suggested he cared little for the wayward glances of strangers.
"If there are this many on the roads, then what happened in Farrenmill was not an isolated occurrence." Farda's lips puckered. "It is worse than I thought."
Farrenmill. What happened in that village had plagued Ella's dreams every night since. And to call them dreams would be lying. They were nightmares through and through. Even now she could see them in the back of her mind – the Uraks. Their thick leathery hides, eyes like blood, their blackened blades cleaving through bone. The blood. So much blood. More than once, Ella had awoken in a cold sweat with the cries of dying men shrieking through her head. She pushed those thoughts to the back of her mind, placing them in a small box. Something far more important lay up ahead.
The sight of Berona's snow-white walls glistening in the light of the sun sent shivers down the length of Ella's back. Camylin had astounded her, and Midhaven had taken her breath away. But they were nothing compared to Berona. The city was cast in the same white stone she had fawned over in Midhaven, but the beauty of the buildings held no comparison.
The city swept across the landscape, stretching off into the distance until the walls became nothing but a blur at the end of Ella's vision. The walls stood so high that Ella was fairly sure if she were to climb to the top, she would undoubtably get a nosebleed.
Enormous, rectangular towers with open tops jutted above sections of the wall, climbing higher and higher into the sky as though attempting to scrape the clouds. Red banners emblazoned with the image of a roaring, black lion hung from every second tower. The banners stretched over at least fifty feet in length and covered nearly a third of each tower's width. Their ends must have been pinned to the stone, else they would have folded up over themselves in the morning breeze. As it was, they simply rippled majestically, a striking contrast with the white stone behind them. It was truly beautiful.
Reluctantly, Ella dragged her gaze from the pristine white walls of the city, turning it instead to those who travelled along the road beside her.
There were men and women in torn clothes, marred with dirt and blood, trudging on foot, cradling children in their arms, or dragging them along by the hand. But there were also women in silk dresses and men in linen shirts, their shoulders wrapped in expensive looking furs, sitting at the front of horse-drawn carts.
But regardless of what clothes they wore on their backs, their eyes held the same despondency, the same scars adorned their skin. It seemed to Ella the Uraks cared little for how much gold lay in the coffers of the wealthy. Death and loss did not reserve itself for those with coin.
"What about Faenir?" Ella asked, turning back towards Farda.
A frown still clung to the man's face as he replied. "What about him?"
"I'm not going into the city without him."
"Well, then, you're not going into the city," Farda said with a shrug. "They're not going to let a wolf—"
"Wolfpine," Ella corrected, not letting Farda finish his sentence.
Farda glared at her, an irritated look in his eyes. "What is the difference?"
"Have you ever seen a wolf his size?"
"I have not," he admitted, sighing out his nostrils. He doesn't mind being made fun of, but he hates being wrong. "Either way. They are not going to let him into the city."
"They will if you tell them to."
Ella saw a twist of frustration on Farda's face as he dropped his hand to his trouser pocket, where he kept his coin. It wasn't even a conscious movement. She had seen him do it many times. What was it with him and that coin?
"Fine," he said, holding his hand on the outside of his pocket. "But I can make no promises."
They walked the next while in silence, trudging along the paved road that led to the great Lorian city of Berona. It had been an elven city once. Many of the northern cities had belonged to the elves, as had some in the South. But that was before The Fall. At least, that is what Therin had proclaimed in his stories.
Ella's chest tightened at the sight of the great white walls up close, stretching towards the sky, red and black banners rippling in the wind. Her throat constricted and tears burned at the corners of her eyes. How many months had it been since she left The Glade with Rhett? She truly was not sure, but it felt like a lifetime ago. So much had happened; so much had changed. It didn't feel real.
I did it, Rhett. I'm finally here. I finally made it to Berona.
Ella tried her best not to cry in front of Farda – she did not want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her weakness – but despite her best efforts, a single tear rolled down the side of her left cheek, escaping the armour she wore around her heart. Ella wiped away the tear with the pad of her thumb, moving as though she were rubbing a blemish from her cheek. Farda gave her a sideways glance, his eyes narrowing a little, but he did not question her. He turned his gaze away, pretending as though something caught his attention in the distance. She knew he was pretending. The man never missed anything – he was like a hawk. And still, he had chosen not to comment. Maybe he had more decency than she had given him credit for.
Shouting pulled Ella's eyes to the road ahead.
"Oi, is that a wolf?" The man who shouted had a deep, gruff voice. It seemed almost too deep to be natural.
"That's a fucking wolf," another man answered back, more than a hint of trepidation in his voice.
"It appears," Farda said with a sigh, "the city guards have spotted your 'wolfpine'. Shall we go and correct them?"
Five soldiers in the red and black leathers of the Lorian army pushed their way through the ever-moving crowd. The man at their head looked to have seen at least fifty summers. He was a tall man with a strong build and a receding hairline that curved into a slight peak. What little hair he did have was flecked with grey. Deep wrinkles furrowed his face, which looked as though a permanent scowl had been carved onto it at birth.
"You there," he growled, pointing a finger towards Farda. "This animal yours?"
"It is," Farda said, letting out an exhausted sigh as though he were already fed up with what was about to happen.
"You can't bring that beast inside the city. Get lost."
Ella thought she saw Farda smirk, but the expression was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared.
"I am—"
"I don't care who you are. Fuck off. Haven't you looked around? There are enough people on this road to fill the city twice over. I—"
Just as the words were about to leave the man's mouth, they stopped, leaving the sentence hanging in the air. Ella wasn't sure what had happened until she saw the man grasping at his throat, his eyes bulging, veins popping in his neck.
"Stop it!" She glared at Farda, fury in her voice. He didn't answer her, but the look he gave her turned her blood to ice.
"I," Farda said, his voice slow and purposeful as he strode over to the man, who had now fallen to his knees with his hands around his throat, "am Farda Kyrana, Justicar of the Lorian Empire and member of Imperial Battlemages. And you will show me some respect."
A small crowd of onlookers had gathered around, gasping, mouths open and fingers pointing. The other soldiers had drawn their weapons from their scabbards before Farda had spoken, but now they looked as though the fear of the gods had set itself in their bones.
With a gasp, the choking man fell forward, his hands catching his weight before he crashed, face first, into the paved road. Ella shivered at the sounds he made, dragging air into his lungs like a dying animal. His hands trembled, and his chest shook.
"Fifteen lashings," Farda said, directing the instruction towards one of the other soldiers. "In the guard barracks, tonight. I will be there personally to ensure it is carried out. Am I understood?"
The soldier cleared his throat and wet his lips. Despite his best efforts to appear composed, Ella could see his arms, pressed down at his sides, were trembling. "Yes, Justicar Kyrana. It will be done." The soldier barked orders at his companions, and they dragged the half-conscious man to his feet, carrying him off through the crowds, back towards the city gates.
"You wanted the wolf in the city." Farda's eyes were cold and hard as he spoke. It was not a question or the beginning of a conversation. It was the end of one.
Ella did not move as the Farda walked over to say something to Loran, the carriage driver. Her hands shook with an odd mixture of fear and anger.
Most of the time, Farda was fine – good company, even – but there were moments when the façade slipped, and she saw pieces of what he was hiding. Moments like this one, which reminded Ella that he was Lorian. That he fought for the empire that had taken Rhett from her – the empire that wanted her by name. One slip up, and she had no doubt he would drag her off to a cell somewhere, or even just pull the air from her lungs where she stood.
But more than that, there was something else. A nagging feeling at the back of her mind. He always seemed as though he were holding something back, keeping something hidden that he did not want her to see. She would find out what he was hiding.
"Loran is going to carry on and bring the cart to the keep. I will take you to see Tanner. Are you ready?"
With a touch of reluctance, Ella nodded.
The gateway into Berona formed a huge archway that rose so high Ella could have stood on her own shoulders fifteen times before she could touch the ceiling. In awe, she tilted her head back as they walked through, trying her best to keep her jaw from scraping the floor.
Soldiers in the red and black of Loria waved them through. Each of them eyed Faenir askance, but they did not open their mouths. They simply straightened their backs and gave Farda a short nod when he passed. They had clearly been told what had happened.
If the road into Berona had been teeming with people, Berona itself seemed on the verge of overflowing. All around, men and women charged about the streets as though each one of them was late for something, but none of them knew what.
Enormous white stone buildings rose into the sky on either side of the main thoroughfare, taller than any Ella had ever seen, with rows upon rows of windows, semi-circular balconies, and great awnings of cream and red canvas.
The cries and calls of hawkers and pedlars rose above the din of chatter and footsteps, adding an even greater sense of urgency to the already busy city.
More scents drifted on the breeze than Ella even knew existed, creating a mishmash of almost indistinguishable smells. She could pick out a few. Fresh baked bread from the bakery at the corner of the street. The unmistakable tang of smoked fish. The sweetness of cinnamon pastries. Candles, or possibly soap – something that required lavender, among other things; she was certain of that much. Lavender was not a scent Ella could ever mistake. It was the smell of home, the scent that drifted in her window every morning from the bush her mam kept in the garden. It was a key ingredient in quite a few salves that were used to soothe raw skin.
"Are you coming?" Farda's voice broke Ella out of the trance-like state she had not even noticed she was in.
The advantage of having Faenir by their side was that the crowd parted before them, eager to get out of the wolfpine's way. Faenir, for his part, loped along by Ella's side, glaring at anyone who even thought about getting too close.
More than one soldier cast a suspicious glance towards them at the sight of Faenir but averted their gaze once their eyes fell on Farda, his sword strapped to his hip, black cloak billowing behind him, a cold stare in his eyes. What had gotten him so angry? Rhett was the only man Ella had truly ever understood. His moods always made sense. Nobody was like Rhett. He did have his flaws; everyone did. He could be pig-headed, arrogant, and just downright irritating at times, but he had been hers, completely, warts and all.
A pang flared in Ella's heart at the thought of Rhett, and that unsettling weightlessness took hold of her stomach. She swallowed hard, clenching her jaw. She would have taken a broken bone over the relentless pain in her heart.
Farda and Ella walked in silence for at least half an hour, Faenir padding along by Ella's side. There had often been long silences as they rode in the cart from Antiquar, but those silences were usually of the absent-minded kind. The ones that existed simply because neither party felt the need to speak. This was different. The air between them was thick with tension.
Ella stopped dead, folding her arms across her chest and twisting her tongue in her mouth as her mother had taught her. It took a few paces for Farda to realise she was no longer walking beside him. He raised his eyebrow, an unamused look in his eyes. And, just as her mother had taught her, Ella held her tongue for five seconds and then said what needed to be said. "You didn't have to do that."
Her words didn't require any further explanation. Men's moods might swing like a pendulum, but the root of them tended to be the same. He was angry at her for making him feel guilty about using his magic to choke the soldier. Now she just needed to get him to admit it.
"I did what I had to do," he replied, his eyes narrowing.
"No, you did what made you feel like a bigger man." Part of Ella wanted to claw those words back into her mouth even as they left her lips. She had overstepped, and she knew it. She was not talking to Calen or her father. She was talking to a Lorian mage – a powerful one, judging by the way people reacted to his title. Next time, she would hold her tongue for ten seconds instead of five.
Tilting his head to the side, Farda's gaze was unblinking as he studied Ella. With a turn at the corner of his mouth, he walked closer, until he was less than an arm's length away. "You wanted your wolfpine in the city. I did what needed to be done so that could happen. Are you always so ungrateful?"
"Are you always so pig-headed?" Again, the words just slipped out.
The tone in Farda's voice changed, becoming even firmer than before. "You are not from the North. You do not understand our ways. Yet you are so full of pride that you think you can judge me?"
It wasn't really a question, Ella knew that. She also knew he was right, but she would be damned if she would admit it. "Take me to Tanner, and then we will be done. All right?"
Berona's keep lay in the centre of the city. It had taken Ella and Farda almost a full hour of walking before they stood before the white walls of its outer gate. Had Faenir not cleared the path around them simply by his presence, it would have taken twice as long.
If Ella had thought the city walls to be the largest she would ever see, the walls that surrounded the keep proved her wrong. They were almost half again taller, with open top towers along their length set at regular intervals – towers so absolutely enormous that Ella just could not seem to wrap her head around them. Her first instinct was to ask Farda what purpose they served. Surely there was a reason to construct such monstrosities. But one glance at his stony face tempered that thought.
The gateway into the keep was again at least one and a half times as big as the one that led into the main city, with a latticed iron portcullis lowered halfway down.
Two soldiers in gleaming plate mail stood on either side of the archway, long, butt-ended spears in their fists and heavy swords belted at their hips. They gave each other a sidelong look at the sight of Faenir by Ella's side.
"Farda Kyrana, Justicar of the Lorian empire. I seek an audience with Tanner Fjorn."
"It is an honour, Justicar Kyrana." The guard on the left straightened his posture at Farda's words, dragging his eyes from Faenir. "The High Captain is in his quarters. Do you require an escort?"
"We do not. My thanks."
The man gave another short nod before returning to his station, his eyes focusing on the streams of people who walked along the street in the shade of the keep's walls.
The walk from the gateway to the keep was not a short one. Sweat glistened on Ella's brow as they marched along the paved path that ran through multiple courtyards, each bounded by yet another gateway and more guards. The pathway's incline was deceptive. It didn't look as though they were going upwards, but Ella felt it with each step, the path winding left and right, through stable areas, training yards, and gardens.
Servants in black and red livery darted around, carrying piles of fine linens, baskets of food, pails of milk and honey, and anything else Ella could think of. Each one of them seemed as though they did not have enough time left in the day to fulfil the tasks they had been assigned.
Up ahead, rising past the walls, Ella could see the central keep itself, massive white towers jutting upwards, some with enormous flat tops, others with pointed caps of dark orange slate.
Ella did not know the slightest thing about warfare. But she could not, in her wildest dreams, imagine how anyone could hope to take this city, never mind the keep. A few months ago, she would not even have been able to dream of cities like Camylin and Midhaven. But this? No, nothing could ever have prepared her for Berona. Every person in all the villages back home could have fit inside the city a hundred times over and still not been able to come close to filling it. It was everything she had ever imagined it would be, and more.
Even as Ella looked around her at the sweeping white walls, enormous towers, and sprawling gardens of the keep, a coil of anguish twisted in her stomach. Without Rhett to share it with, it felt… hollow.
She had always loved the way he smiled when she got excited. The way his lips would spread so wide that small creases would appear at the corner of his eyes. It was that smile that Ella needed right now. But instead, all she had was the unabating Beronan sun and a stone-faced Lorian mage.
Faenir let out a soft whimper, as though he knew exactly what Ella was thinking at that moment, nuzzling his head into her side.
"I know I have you," Ella said, scratching the top of the Wolfpine's head as she walked, receiving a low rumble in return. "And you have me."
Two more guards stood at the entrance to the main keep, garbed in the same gleaming plate as the others, the same spears gripped in their fists and swords strapped at their hips. Farda repeated the same greeting he had given to the soldiers who stood at the main gate, receiving much the same reply.
"Though I'm not sure we can allow the wolf inside," one of the guards added, giving an uncertain look to his companion.
"The wolf comes. If you have an issue with that, speak to the Grand Consul."
Ella wasn't sure who the Grand Consul was, but the soldiers' backs stiffened. "Carry on, Justicar Kyrana."
Farda nodded, gesturing for Ella to follow him inside.
The interior of the keep was just as breathtaking as the exterior. White stone staircases carpeted in a deep red swept up either side of the entrance, rising to a second-floor balcony that looked down over the main hall. Rows of pedestals stretched the length of the entrance hall, supporting intricately carved busts of men and women Ella didn't recognise. Enormous tapestries woven with fine threads of every colour imaginable hung on the walls, each one depicting scenes of past battles and coronations in astonishing detail. Everywhere Ella looked, people darted about: servants, chambermaids, cooks, kitchen staff. Nobody in Berona seemed to have the time to stop and take a breath.
Pulling her eyes from her surroundings, Ella realised that while she had stopped to gawk at the main hall of the keep, Farda had continued, his long strides carrying him quite a way down the hall. She caught up with him just as he reached the foot of the staircase at the far end of the hall, more white stone with red carpet gliding effortlessly upward.
"Tanner's office is just down that hall," Farda said, gesturing to a long hallway at the top of the staircase that veered off to the right. "I won't be able to stay long."
Ella cast her eyes over Farda. Something had changed in him, and she wasn't sure what. He stood a little straighter than usual, his entire body seeming tense, on edge. But what truly struck out at Ella was that he refused to meet her gaze. In all the time they had travelled together, that was never something he had shied away from. "Farda, is everything all right?"
The corners of Farda's mouth turned down at Ella's question, but he didn't answer. He simply continue to walk down the elaborately decorated hallway, his pace increasing slightly. He stopped at the third door down on the left, giving the hard wood a rap with his knuckles.
"Come in."
A lump caught in Ella's throat. This was Tanner's office. She was finally here, and she had no idea what she was going to say or how he was going to react when she lied and said she was his niece. Suddenly, this felt like a terrible idea. How had she gotten herself into this mess? Was that why Farda was on edge? Did he know she was lying? Ella's stomach turned, but before she could change her mind, Farda twisted the handle and pushed the door inward.
The room was large, but austere. No tapestries hung on the wall; there were no busts, or statues, or paintings. A small fireplace sat on the left-hand side of the room, adorned with a simple frame of white stone. Two bookcases stood side by side, backed up against the wall into which the door was set, each book neatly arranged in its particular place.
A heavy oak table sat facing the door, its corners banded in brass. A man sat behind the table, his head buried in a ledger of some sort, a pen in hand.
He looked as though he had seen just over forty summers. His hair was the same raven-black as Rhett's, with only a barely visible dappling of grey. Soft wrinkles creased at the corner of his eyes, giving his face a friendly look. A long white cloak was draped over his broad shoulders, and he wore a well-fitted suit of black half-plate armour – a solid breastplate of black steel, pauldrons with the image of a lion embossed across their face, and a pair of black steel greaves enamelled with white along the edges.
"High Captain Tanner, I bring you your niece, Ella Fjorn."
The hair on the back of Ella's neck stood on end as Tanner's brow furrowed absently, his head still buried in the ledger, his pen moving quickly across the paper. "My niece? I don't—"
Tanner's words caught in his mouth as he looked up from the pages of the ledger, his eyes settling on Ella for the first time. Ella saw a glint in his eyes, a recognition setting in. He went to speak, but nothing seemed to come from his mouth.
"Uncle." Ella felt a tremble in her voice that she hoped Farda didn't notice.
Without saying a word, Tanner got to his feet – he was just as tall as Rhett. In truth, they could have been father and son, not uncle and nephew. His eyes flickered between Farda and Ella, his jaw tight.
The man stopped in front of Ella. Her stomach twisted, a tense silence hanging in the air. But then Tanner leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Ella, pulling her in to the warmest embrace she had felt in a long time. A weightlessness peeled through Ella's body, and the tension drained from her muscles as she let herself slip into Tanner's embrace. She had never been so happy to receive a hug from a man she didn't know.
"It's good to see you," he said, the warmth in his voice indicating his sincerity.
"I will leave you both to catch up," Farda said, after what felt like several minutes. "I have some things to discuss with the Grand Consul."
"Thank you for bringing her to me, Farda," Tanner replied, relinquishing his almost vice-like grip on Ella. "We shall see you later for a glass of wine, maybe?"
"I will see what I can do."
There was a tense silence once Farda left the room, Tanner slowly closing the door behind him. Once the latch clicked into place, Tanner rested the flat of his forearms on the wooden door, not turning to Ella, and he remained like that for quite a while.
Just when Ella went to speak, he stirred. He turned towards Ella, his voice dark and sombre. "I'm assuming," he said, "seeing as you are here alone, that Rhett did not survive the journey."
And just like that, tears streamed down Ella's cheeks, her stomach twisted, her chest and shoulders convulsed, and her heart wrenched. Ella's legs gave way beneath her, but Tanner caught her just before her knees hit the ground.
"It's all right," he said, wrapping his arms around her. The man's voice held a tremble, and the side of his cheek was wet from tears, but he held her firmly, like her father would have. "It's all right."
Farda's fingers clenched into fists as he made his way through the white stone hallways of the keep, down the stairs, and out into the courtyards. He had known it would eventually come to this. He had taken it too far. What was he thinking, bringing her all the way to Berona?
He unclenched the fingers on his right hand, stretching them out to remove the stiffness that had set into them. He reached into his trouser pocket, stopping dead as he pulled out the golden coin, running his fingers over its familiar marks and scratches.
His blood rushed through his veins, and cold sweat slicked his brow. What was happening to him? Why was he so angry? How was he angry? He stood there for a moment, his chest rising and falling in heavy sweeps. Then he opened his palm, staring down at the coin that sat at its centre.
He flicked it, hearing the metallic whir as it moved through the air. All other sounds yielded to that metallic spinning. He had asked the same question each day: should he do what he had gone to the South to do? Should he take Ella to the Inquisition to be broken and used against the Draleid? And each day, the coin had landed the same. Each day, he had felt a sense of relief. Why had he felt relief? Why did this girl matter to him? She was nothing. A pawn on a board.
Only she wasn't.
The coin landed in his outstretched palm with a subdued thump. Taking a deep breath in, he looked down at the result of the toss. Twenty-two times he had asked that question, and twenty-two times he had seen the lion staring back at him.
He closed his fist around the coin, then closed his eyes, letting the cool air tickle his face and ripple through his cloak, providing some reprieve from the Beronan sun.
Ever since Shinyara had died two years after the battle of Ilnaen, Farda had been broken. He had been Rakina. A soul, once bound to another, could never be whole again. Farda understood that, viscerally. There was not a waking moment where his mind did not battle with the swirling black void that threatened to swallow him whole. When a Draleid's dragon dies, they always take an uncountable number of things with them: emotions, feelings, beliefs, personality, the Spark, sanity. Shinyara had taken more than most with her to the void, for she encompassed everything that was good about Farda. But for the first time in four hundred years, he felt something when he tossed that coin. He felt a yearning.
He cared for Ella. It should not have been possible. He had been stripped of the ability to care. Yet there it was, burning in him. He could not deny it.
But now he asked himself a new question. What do I do?