Your Ember

A Ghostwind Novella

Introduction

In the realm of Aurelian, the priestesses of the Sable Sisterhood are known for their uniquely powerful magic, trained into them from a very early age. In the mysterious priory along the very outskirts of the realm, they are made into blessed tools of the land and his majesty, and taught there is no higher honor than sacrificing one’s body to the Sweetflame, during a festivity known as the Ritual of the Black Moon.

One priestess, however, chose to forsake her duty, instead exerting her own will, seemingly against all purpose and reason. As a result, this priestess has made an enemy of the Aurelian King, and chosen to damn herself.

Now she finds herself on the run with a creature who, unbeknownst to her, is just as damned as she.

PART 1: Your Ember

Edric,

It is with deep and sincere feeling that I wish to express how much I have found your correspondence to be most invaluable. From the very first it became clear to me that you not only possess an intrigue in your nature, but an uncommon constitution. As such, you may eternally consider me an ally in your ventures henceforth.

Yet, it appears that I have given rise to feelings both inconsiderate and unwarranted, and so I find it currently necessary to further remark that, however alike we may be theoretically in disposition, our societies do not overlap in the slightest.

I am, as you are aware, the daughter to the king of Realm Aurelian. You are a knight. A very accomplished knight, both in your martial prowess, as well as in your unexceptionable conduct away from the battlefield. But a knight nevertheless. Your circle and my circle are distinct.

And so, while I can certainly admit that you are the sort of creature who may give rise to certain feelings, you are mistaken if you believe that I am one such object. I apologize for causing you pain, as I should have made such a clarification much earlier in our correspondence.

Beyond this, I must give you a fresh source of pain, in the admittance that I do not trust you. For indeed, this is where the theory of our dispositions fails to match the reality. You are a flame, burning hot, just like to injure as to give warmth. I do not wish to be struck by your ember.

May you find more profitable kindling elsewhere.

Cecilia

Cerberus

… while I can certainly admit that you are the sort of creature who may give rise to certain feelings…

Edric’s bile caught in his throat as he sat upright, his nightmare fading, though the underlying sensations lingering.

The two parallel scars on his back briefly felt as though they were on fire.

He quickly recovered himself, returning to lucidity.

The Sable Sister, Serabelle, lingered nearby, opening her mouth on the verge of making some remark concerning Edric’s present condition, only to decide against it.

Edric snarled with distaste — whether directed at her, or himself, or to the world in general was unclear.

It was still in the hours before dawn; the two of them had briefly taken rest at the edge of a high ridge which overlooked the gaping mouth of a great cave several hundred paces away.

“It is here,” Serabelle whispered. “It has strayed into the open air, as you said it would.”

Edric, shaking away the lingering remnants of his nightmare as he rose to his feet, looked off the edge of the ridge, examining the cave’s mouth. His vision, unnaturally strong, quickly made out the movement.

The silhouette was unmistakable: a beast, golden, perhaps twice the size of a lion. Massive claws, a tail like a whip — and most notably, three distinct heads.

Edric raised a brow to Serabelle, reviving a discussion they had had in the hours before. “There are other ways to go east.”

Serabelle shook her head. “None that will bring us to Delinia faster.”

Edric appraised the priestess; they had not known each other long — days — although the brief interval of their acquaintance was enough to establish that she was not a frivolous creature. She never spoke in the way of appeasement over truth. “Very well. You have the spell at hand?”

The Sable Sister nodded, producing her spell book. “I memorized all of the incantations while you were…” she hesitated. “Dreaming. Though I would be lying if I said it would be a perfect art.”

Edric swallowed the bile as the remaining remnants of the nightmare lingered. “It rarely ever is. How long will you be able to subdue the Beast?”

Serabelle gave a slight shrug. “Hours. Minutes.” After a pause, she added with a reassurance: “It shall be done. My spell book has never led me astray.”

Edric gave her an additional appraisal, before nodding. “Very well.”

Edric descended the ridge, drawing his blade and stepping out into the open so as to challenge the cerberus.

The beast took note of him, letting out a guttural shriek. Man and beast clashed, and time very quickly lost all meaning. Every breath became a battle of its own.

Edric danced, his reflexes working of its own accord. He had faced many creatures, from the fiendish gulls of the north, to the fire eels in the rivers of the western city — although a cerberus was another matter altogether, for it was a creature brought into the world not by the sorceries of men, but by the more ancient deities of the world, when such deities existed.

Edric briefly jumped away, luring the cerberus forward, its three separate heads snapping with malevolence.

Then, Edric himself growled. Briefly, his eyes became blood red. The parallel scars on his back burned with agony. The metamorphosis was momentary, reversed within the space of a breath, but it was enough to give the cerberus pause.

The hesitation from the beast was the signal for Serabelle; leaning over from top of the ridge, she held her spell book high, her voice dropping into a rhythmic melody, reciting an incantation in the old elvish tongue.

Following a pause, a number of ethereal patterns emerged from the spell book, the streaks of light, descending upon the cerberus as though it were a fisherman’s net.

The magic was to trap the beast in place, although the moment it came into contact with the golden fur, it dissipated.

Unfortunate.

The cerberus, now enraged, roared three times over with each of its heads. Its whip-like tail swung at Edric, forcing him into action once more.

Edric jumped, high enough to avoid being struck squarely by the tail, although the tail still caught him below the shins, causing him to flip in the air and fall directly on his stomach. Wind knocked out of him, he was briefly catatonic, unable to breathe.

Briefly, his nightmare returned: You are a knight. A very accomplished knight, both in your martial prowess, as well as in your unexceptionable conduct away from the battlefield. But a knight nevertheless.

The words rung through his ears, catching in his throat like bile. He swallowed it down, as he had done so many times in the past; now, animated by hatred, both towards himself and everything else, he forced himself to his feet and continued to circle the cerberus.

Moments became minutes, minutes became moments; he continued to dance, the fatigue weaved into his sinew, his lungs now burning.

He called out to the top of the ridge: “Do we abandon this?”

Serabelle’s face was twisted into concentration as she furiously flipped through the pages of her spell book. “One more attempt! I believe I have determined the reason why the initial —”

“Do not speak of it! Do it!”

Serabelle’s voice fell into a rhythmic cadence once more, haunting and melancholy — undeniably beautiful. The intricate patterns of light emanated from the pages, only this time, bigger and stronger. These patterns flew from the ridge, landing upon the cerberus once more, this time causing the beast to immediately fall into a slumber.

Cave

Some time later, Edric and Serabelle sat around the fire at the mouth of the cave, roasting bits of cerberus flesh in silence.

After butchering the subdued beast, the two of them had explored the initial passages of the cave, which would be their path for the next several days. No doubt these caves were a relic from the prior millenia, when greater entities than men roamed this land — a very different world from the present day.

For their purpuses, these caves served as the most direct path east, cutting through much of the Aurelian landscape, bringing them that much closer to their ultimate destination of Delinia.

Presently, Serabelle chanted a silent prayer of the Sable Sisterhood before taking her first bite of the cerberus flesh. Then, the two of them ate in silence: the custom the two of them had developed since the beginning of their unplanned journey.

On this day, however, the priestess abruptly inquired in a low voice: “Are you displeased, sir?”

Edric sneered. “I am not a knight.”

Serabelle raised a brow. “Forgive me. I had assumed —”

“You had assumed incorrectly,” Edric snapped, his eyes remaining fixated on the cook fire between them.

You are a flame, burning hot, just like to injure as to give warmth.

Serabelle appeared on the verge of inquiring further, only to check herself. Instead, she brushed away the bits of dirt from her own sleeve. The priestess robes — the very same clothes she had worn during the Ritual of the Black Moon, the very day of their meeting, so many days prior — had now become quite dirty.

Edric recognized his anger was misplaced. “I am not displeased. Your plan to trap the cerberus was well founded, and it was hardly as though we could expect you to succumb the creature on the very first try. We both understood the risks.”

Serabelle nodded. “I am glad, though I do not speak of the confrontation with the cerberus, but the one that took place yesterday. Your mood has been black ever since then, and when you sleep…”

Edric was momentarily disconcerted by this observation. It had been a very long time since someone had been observant of him.

He said nothing, staring into the cook fires, watching the flames crackle. For a brief moment, the parallel scars on his back burned.

The bile rose in his throat.

I do not wish to be struck by your ember.

Serabelle set aside her bowl. “The other man, Vallen — he had mocked you in his final breath. Why?”

Vallen

In the very center of Realm Aurelian was a Golden Forest: beautiful, massive, and a place of ancient magic.

In prior millennia, in a world now lost, the old elves had stewarded this forest and the magic it there contained; in recent times, however, the magic had gone wild, untended. As a result, it had become oppressive, disorienting all those who wandered within its confines.

Those of weak spirit or constitution who attempted to traverse the forest would often lose themselves, never to be found again. Or otherwise, if they were found, all remaining traces of their sanity would be lost, in which case death would be a mercy. As such, the vast majority of travelers kept to a small number of well trodden paths.

There were, however, some lesser known passages which cut through the forest, generally considered perilous if one did not have an intuitive understanding of where to tread. Fortunately, in an earlier time in his life — a time when he might have been considered an honorable creature — Edric had become familiar with these lesser known paths.

In the late afternoon prior to his encounter with the cerberus, as the slanted sun penetrated the few open slits in the canopy above, Edric roamed one of the narrower paths.

And though the air all around him was silent, it was imbibed with a distinct weight. Every so often the wind whistled against the leaves and branches, the sounds of whispers emanating throughout, simultaneously tender and mocking.

…I can certainly admit that you are the sort of creature who may give rise to certain feelings…

Edric swallowed the bile in his throat. No matter where he tread, he was haunted by the same words, over and over again. Waking, sleep, it did not matter.

As he neared a small clearing in the path, however, he abruptly came to a standstill. He was no longer walking alone.

“You conceal yourselves poorly,” Edric called out.

These words were met with the tightening of bow strings, quickly followed by the release of arrows.

The projectiles furiously sought to penetrate Edric’s flesh, though Edric himself had anticipated this attack, and evaded with little difficulty.

This dance continued for the better part of a minute, or perhaps ten — in such instances time had a way of deceiving. When all of the arrows were spent, however, the trio of pursuers were forced to step out into the clearing as well.

There was a moment of mutual assessment between Edric and the attackers; the latter, believing themselves to be at the advantage on account of their number — three in total — drew their own blades and charged out towards him in unison.

While they initially sported confident expressions, these attackers eventually betrayed their craven nature. Young and inexperienced, all three of them slowed down as they approached Edric in the hopes that the other two would charge ahead and take the potential damage while they themselves charged up the rear and delivered the final blow.

Unfortunately, all three of them had precisely the same idea; Edric capitalized on the collective hesitation, cutting down the first, then the second, then the third in sequence. The succession of movements, the ritualistic practice of inflicting death, was academic.

When the third fell, head parted from body, Edric wiped the blood from his blade and called out once more: “The quality of these lackeys are quite pathetic, even by your standards.”

A fourth man stepped out into the clearing, much taller than the other three, blade drawn, and face twisted into malicious amusement. “They were eager to prove themselves,” he replied with a shrug. “Village boys, unfamiliar with the ways of war. They practically begged to join me when I passed — said, they were willing to do anything, so long as I taught them how to wield a blade of their own. Who am I to reject such willing pupils?”

Vallen was a disgraced captain of the Aurelian legion. He was leaner than the last time Edric had observed him several years prior. A piece of his ear was now missing.

Vallen looked down at the three dead men — boys, in truth. “Do you recall when we were like them? Do you remember when we had some notion of honor?”

Edric made no reply.

Vallen seemed both surprised and amused by this lack of response. “Edric Houndish, a creature of silence. I would have never thought to see the day. I distinctly recall how you made all the fair maidens giggle at the jousts, how you would bat your pretty little eyes at them. How things have changed.” He put a hand on his own chest. “I, a damned rogue — you, even more damned than I. In truth, I was quite surprised to learn that you had kidnapped the Sable Sister.”

Vallen looked about the clearing, squinting his eyes, confused. “But now I see you are alone at present. What happened? You kidnapped her, raped her, and then sold her off for a ransom? Is that it? Tell me, what price did she fetch?”

Another voice called out: “There was no kidnap.”

From another part of the clearing, Serabelle stepped forward, no more than fifty paces directly behind Vallen. She had a bow and arrow in hand, presently trained directly upon Vallen.

Edric had chosen this particular path through the Golden Forest for a reason; Serabelle could walk at some distance while maintaining a line of sight to Edric, allowing the latter to deal with the obstacles while the former remained unseen.

Presently, Vallen was between the two of them, effectively flanked from either side of the clearing.

Vallen turned towards the priestess, unperturbed by the weapon in her hands, his countenance of amusement only heightening. “A creature of the Sisterhood standing directly before me in the flesh!” He gave her a mock bow. “Truly, I am honored. I have heard many great stories about your order, and the queer and devastating magics at your disposal. I am told you and your sisters spend your entire lives crafting your spell books, honing your art.”

Edric tightened his grip on his blade, his leather of his glove crunching against the handle. He was aware that Vallen would very likely best him in a direct contact of blades; there was a reason, after all, that he had risen high in the Aurelian Legion prior to disgracing himself.

Vallen further appraised Serabelle. “Indulge me in my curiosity, sister — has a man ever taken you before? Or is this a form of magic you have never indulged in?” He bent forward ever so slightly, as though he were about to tell a secret to a child, whispering across the clearing. “I would be happy to enlighten you on these mysteries. It is a Sweetflame of a different kind.”

Vallen then abruptly turned back to Edric. “Have you broken her in yet?”

Serabelle pulled back on the drawstring of her bow, the tightening sound audible.

Edric shook his head. No, he conveyed with his countenance. This is precisely what he wants.

“Rape is your disgrace, not mine,” Edric answered, fingers loosening and tightening around his blade.

“And pride is yours, I am afraid,” Vallen answered with a smirk. “Edric Houndish, the beloved creature of the court… right until the moment he was not.”

A strong gust of wind passed through the clearing, the trees of the Golden Forest momentarily whispering. Your circle and my circle are distinct.

Vallen pointed an accusing finger at Serabelle. “The King of Aurelian chose you, my dear sweet priestess, to perform for the Ritual of the Black Moon. You were supposed to be the one who blessed the land and skies. You were supposed to embrace the Sweetflame. And in your abdication, you have made many creatures angry, not the least of which being the king himself.”

Vallen shrugged, turning back to Edric. “Your woman is damned — even more than you or I. Were I in your place, I would have my way with her, and then return her to the king. Surely this would be the fastest way to redeem your name. In fact, I cannot help but wonder why you have not already done this.”

Edric had spent many years in a state of degeneracy, staining his soul with every act. He had forsaken any notions of redemption — until, only a number of days prior, Serabelle had burst into the tavern in which he had been in…

“PLEASE! I BEG SOMEONE!”

All the other cutthroats in the tavern had agreed to tie her up, ransom her back to the king. The only disagreement between them had been whether to rape her first.

Edric had previously shown himself to be the worst of these men, a creature who made all the other cutthroats cower in fear. He had therefore surprised even himself when he had instead chosen to help her.

Perhaps he had done it for honorable reasons, or perhaps it was simply his chance to defy the will of the king. It did not matter.

Edric had promptly taken Serabelle from the Royal City, the two of them going on the run — East, towards Delinia. This had been several days prior, and they had been hunted ever since.

Vallen looked back and forth between Serabelle and Edric, bursting out laughing. “The king needs his blessing; you are just as aware as myself that the Ritual of the Black Moon extends all the way to the time of elves. Even if you cut me down, dear Edric Houndish, others will come after you. Many others.”

Edric now raised his blade. “So be it.”

Vallen nodded. “Very well. In which case, grant me an honorable flight.”

“What would a man like you know of honor? Even prior to your defamation, your behavior towards the prisoners — and the women — was well known among the Aurelian Legion.”

Vallen shrugged. “If not honor, then, good sport.”

Edric paused, before glancing over the far side of the clearing, making a gesture; Serabelle lowered her bow.

With this, Edric charged forward, raising his blade high.

Vallen had once been a prominent captain in the Aurelian legion. He possessed great skill with steel, coupled with a tactical mind. His instincts were sound, and they were paired with natural fearlessness and physical imposition.

The thing which had set Vallen apart from all the other captains of the legion, however, was the drop of elvish blood he possessed. Blood which allowed him to summon ropes of flame from his hand.

As Edric charged, Vallen spewed these flames directly towards him…

Edric, however, was wise to it, diving out of immediate harm. Steadily he closed the distance between them, dancing and swirling his blade, attempting to decapitate one limb or another. Whenever Vallen spewed another rope of fire, Edric anticipated the attack and evaded once more.

They danced, the clearing burning all around them.

You are a flame, burning hot, just like to injure as to give warmth.

Then, after another minute, or perhaps ten, Edric found the decisive blow, cutting off one of Vallen’s arms, then the other.

Vallen, still standing, looked upon his own decapitated limbs with mild curiosity. Blood now spewed from him, though he seemed only amused, even now. “Nobody has been able to counter my magic quite like you. Even in the legion, you were able to anticipate my attacks in a way that nobody else could. Now that I am about to breathe my last, indulge me when I ask you how?”

Edric touched his nose. “Houndish, remember? I can smell the flames well up inside of you.”

Vallen nodded. “Ah,” he said, before collapsing. Lying supine, he gurgled one final laugh. “How far the great Edric has fallen, just like me.”

I used to be

In the caves, consuming the final bites of the cerberus flesh, both Serabelle and Edric observed the dying flames of the cook fire between them.

Serabelle appraised him. They were still strangers to one another; this perilous journey of a handful of days was hardly enough to illuminate the true contours of their characters to one another.

And yet, perhaps due to circumstance, or perhaps due to their natural disposition, there was an implicit understanding between the two of them. Perhaps it was simply the fact that they were both mutually damned; Serabelle, in refusing to sacrifice her body to the Sweetflame for the sake of the realm; Edric, in all the things he had done on account of his increasingly twisted nature.

Serabelle set aside her bowl. “The other man, Vallen — he had mocked you in his final breath. Why?”

She had spoken the words carefully, hiding the question she truly wished to ask under the veil of a much simpler one.

Edric fell into contemplation, reflexively drawing his blade, cleaning away the non-existent blood spatter. Then, finally, he answered: “I am not a knight any more, though I used to be.”

He opened his mouth, on the verge of saying more, only to find that he could not. Instead he set his jaw, rose, and stamped away the remaining embers of the cook fire — all the while swallowing the bile of memories rising in his throat.

The bile that always rose, no matter how many times he swallowed.

PART 2: Orphan

Angels, elves, and greater beings had once roamed throughout the many realms of the land; in the present day, what remained of those greater beings were nothing more than tainted memories and hushed whispers, warnings of what might happen to men if they did not adhere to doctrine.

When these greater beings were eliminated from the world by one manner or another, humanity had been elevated to supremacy. Unused to the burden of such a power, men fragmented into many kingdoms, nearly tearing itself apart several times over.

Eventually, however, there emerged some semblance of stability, the kingdoms consolidating into a few major realms, the greatest of these coming to be known as Realm Aurelian.

Aurelian stood proud and strong above the rest of the land, blessing its lands once a generation, sacrificing one of its most powerful wielders of magic — Priestesses of the Sable Sisterhood — to the Sweetflame in a custom known as the Ritual of the Black Moon. The ashes of the priestesses were known to bring good fortune for all those in the kingdom.

As time went on, the various stations of men calcified; nobility, rank, and parentage increasingly decided the fate of a given creature, high and low. A man was governed by destiny from the moment of his birth — a destiny decided not by the consequences of his deeds, but by his blood.

Edric, however, proved to be an exception.

He had been born in a nameless village in the northern edges of the realm, nearby to a large and rather peculiar waterfall. Outwardly, the circumstances of his birth were unremarkable; many generations of men, just the same as he, had come before him, the vast majority spending their entire lives without venturing beyond the confines of this menial village.

These men had lived and died without any semblance of legacy, and they were forgotten the moment their bones were laid into the dirt. And yet, the circumstances of Edric’s own birth were idiosyncratic, for he had from the very first been in possession of a secret — of a kind that would have likely gotten him immediately killed if it was discovered.

Edric had never known his father, and his mother had perished of sickness when Edric himself was no more than five years of age.

Still, the words of warning which his mother imparted upon him never left him: You must never let anyone discover your secret, my dear child. Do you understand me? You must never let anyone get close.

Sellsword

Time went on, and Edric the orphan boy became restless. Several of the other families had attempted to adopt him, only to find him completely ungovernable on account of his feral ways. He would not heed the words of the elders, or listen to instruction of any kind.

They had attributed his eccentricities to his lack of parentage; none had ever thought to question the matter further. Indeed, they never questioned why he disappeared for the better part of the day whenever he had to wash, or why he never allowed any of the other creatures to get close to him.

During Edric’s twelfth year, a sellsword company happened to roam near the village. By this time, the village no longer regarded Edric with any sort of warmth. The feeling was mutual, and as such Edric begged to join this company. Edric had always possessed a combination of intensity and cunning, as well as a unique perceptiveness that went beyond his age; for the men of the company, his feral nature and aggression were not the negative attributes as it was perceived by the villagers, and so they accepted him into their lot.

Eight years came and went, and by the time he had reached his second decade, he had taken part in half a hundred skirmishes, and three proper wars.

He gained a reputation during this interval. He was well liked among the men; while he was hardly the biggest, strongest, or fastest with the blade, he seemed to possess an almost unnatural perceptiveness. Indeed, his instincts were almost unsettling, and so he was given the name Houndish.

During this same interval, Edric also learned how to mask his ferality. He observed the customs and niceties of other men, and mimicked them as diligently as he could. It was a façade, nothing more than simulacrum, and yet the illusion was enough to appease all those around him.

Many of the other men of the band grew attached to him, and he, in return, ventured to do the same. His reciprocation, however, never reached the point of authenticity, no matter how hard he tried. It was always a calculation, nothing more.

Perhaps, deep down, he understood that if these men truly came to comprehend the source of his unnatural instinct, all of their previous attachment would dissipate. If they knew his secret — the one that he had been guarding from the very moment of his birth — the one that his mother had impressed upon him never to impart, they would fear him, and very likely become his enemy.

Tourney

Time went on, and the skirmishes continued throughout Aurelian; during one particular year, sickness swept over the land, taking many, cutting their ranks of Edric’s band in half. As such, the captain of their company, looking to replenish their ranks, brought them to the Royal City.

It was uncommon for mercenary bands to enter cities in general, for it meant that they would have to surrender all of their weapons and risk subjugation from the city guard — but in the present instance they were desperately low on coin and men.

As it happened, they had happened to arrive at the Royal City during several days of great festivity.

There was merriment, and plenty of food to steal, and many purses to be snatched. To be sure, their band did not enjoy such petty acts, but they were not above it. More importantly, they were able to find more young and promising men to replenish their ranks within a matter of hours, and it was not long until they had replaced all those they had lost during the interval of sickness. Indeed, they would require training, and only the first several skirmishes would prove whether they were craving or whether they were fit for the battlefield — but it was enough for now.

Before they could leave the Royal City, however, the captain of the mercenary band had summoned Edric to his side, pointing to the royal fortress, perched on a high ridge along the outskirts of the city.

“You see those open grounds, my boy? The king is holding a melee. Indeed, the king himself! The lists are still open — and I have already taken it upon myself to enter your name.”

Edric had naturally resisted, though the captain was deaf to any rebuttal; within the space of an hour, he was taken to the tournament grounds.

During the first contest, Edric had felt the great weight of all the men and women watching. Never before had he been in so fine company. During their travels, their band had encountered some minor nobility across Aurelian — though it was nothing like this. The sheer scale of it all was its own vector of intimidation.

When he claimed victory in this first contest, however, Edric regained some of his previous confidence.

When he claimed victory in the second, he fell into a natural ease.

Edric won the next match, and the next, and the next, defeating men of reputation — garnering his own the process. Who was this mysterious creature from beyond the confines of the city? The whispers began to circulate, the collective eyes increasingly falling upon him.

In the space of a few short hours, he had captured the collective curiosity of a city.

Edric found himself in the final match of the tournament, which he simultaneously won and lost — which was to say, as a matter of technicality, the outcome was the latter, though the nature of that loss made it indistinguishable from a victory.

He and his opponent — a massive creature from the stormlands in the north — had faced off against one another with a most ardent ferocity. They were equal and opposites for several minutes, the frantic bursts and exchanges of movements and aggression causing the spectating men to cry out in awe and the spectating women to faint with anxiety.

Towards the end of the match, however, a strong gust of wind had kicked up the sand beneath their feet, effectively blinding Edric’s opponent, leaving him with the opportunity to deliver the final strike.

And yet, Edric had chosen not to seize upon the opportunity for the sake of honor — or at least, the facade of honor. In reality, Edric viewed the tournament as nothing more than sport, and felt it unmanly to claim victory in such an accidental way.

His opponent, however, had had no such qualms when a similar opportunity was presented to him. Several minutes later in the match, one of the drunken spectators had thrown a number of vegetables onto the tournament grounds, one of them striking Edric, briefly distracting him.

The man from the stormlands had used this opportunity to strike, placing the blade underneath Edric’s chin, forcing him to yield.

Indeed, this creature had ultimately claimed victory in the king’s melee, although his name was immediately forgotten in the hours afterwards. It was Edric who had captured the imagination of the Royal City; this man of common birth who had defeated so many men of reputation on his way to the final bout; this man who had shown an uncommon degree of honor.

As such, Edric was invited to feast with the king later that day.

Feast

The invitation had troubled Edric more than the tournament itself, considering it would be the first time he would ever be in close quarters with nobles and magistrates of such pure blood.

He arrived upon the hall, and was given his seat — one that uncomfortably close to the dais, where the king of Aurelian himself sat. At that moment, Edric felt as though he had been enlisted in a separate tournament, of an entirely different nature, and one that he was entirely unprepared for.

Fortunately, as the hours wore on, he realized that his worries were misplaced; after entertaining a number of brief conversations with several of the nobles who had approached his seat, he quickly found them to be quite tedious. Regardless of rank and blood, he found that these were just as petty, frivolous, and stupid as any creature found at a low tavern or inn, and that their conversation was equally tiresome — the only difference being that their intonation was imbibed with a natural degree of unjustified self-importance.

It was the same haughty remarks, same ribald gestures, same naval gazing.

Edric found it in himself to spend the majority of the night in a relative ease as he observed one frivolous entertainer after the next proceed into the center of the king’s hall and provide their various amusements for the attendees. Moreover, he began to truly appreciate the absurdity of his present situation.

He had brought the captain of his mercenary band with him, along with two other creatures of his band — two men who were, nominally, his friends. At present they were seated at one of the lesser tables, and suffice to say that this trio had been sufficiently elated by the procession in the hall, for, in addition to the great stimulation to their pallets, they made a number of profitable connections that would serve them in the moons and years to come.

As the hour grew late, however, the king became quite inebriated, and boldly proclaimed what all the whispers had previously decreed: that Edric had been the true victor of the tournament, and that the man from the stormlands had shamed himself in winning in the manner he had. As such, the king presented Edric with no less than one hundred gold coins.

Edric was grateful, and received the purse from the king in as dignified a manner as he could. While he found the utility of coin to be delightful, he was not so greatly addicted to it as others. Even after claiming this gift, stepping up to and subsequently retreating from the dais, he simply found himself wishing to be away, to be done with the Royal City.

Then a queer circumstance occurred — a circumstance which forever changed the course of his life.

By this hour of the night, the majority of entertainers were either too fatigued or too inebriated to persist with their merriments, though the king, insatiable in his desire for stimulation, practically demanded those in the hall to continue for his pleasure.

“It is my royal decree that somebody — anybody — step forward and grace us with their talents!” he cried out, his chalice of wine spilling over as he banged the table in front of him.

Perhaps it was the mead Edric had had in the hours prior, or perhaps it was the fatigue in his bones, but before he could think to do otherwise, he volunteered himself.

***

As Edric had gotten older, he found it increasingly difficult to hide his secret from the world. Some part of him was beginning to realize that the barrier he had erected from the very earliest moments of his birth was rotting him from the inside out.

As such, he realized that he required some degree of sublimation, an outlet which would calm him, guide him through the storm that was his mind. He found this sublimation through the form of ink and parchment.

Before every battle, he would write words onto the page — words to nobody in particular, words which were quickly thrown into the crackling fires before the ink would dry. And yet it was enough to quell a particular corner of his mind, momentarily keep the chaos at bay.

Every so often, however, he would keep one or two of his passages with him.

***

Within the confines of the King’s Hall, Edric drifted to the center of the room, just before the dais. All eyes were on him, including the king’s, and yet he did not have the heart to meet his eye.

Instincts guiding him over any conscious thought, he proceeded to recite several of the passages he had written in the seasons prior.

He had written these words in a time of pain, following a series of skirmishes. It was not the pain of the battle, or the pain of killing, but rather the pain of emptiness. It was the musings of a man who could not truly feel as others felt, a man who felt as though he had killed a part of himself a very long time ago — and now thus felt as though killing was academic when inflicted on others.

Edric recited these passages, awkwardly at first, though eventually his voice fell into a rhythm as one line bled into the next. Memories awoke within him, escaping through his lips. The minutes fell away, individual moments expanding into eternities, and eternities collapsing down into nothing.

When he was finished, he was flush, embarrassed to look around him, knowing that, surely, all those in attendance would judge him.

But no, it was the complete opposite. When he observed the hall, every single creature within it was weeping — the king especially so. The passages, the pain uttered with every syllable, was entirely novel in relation to the usual movements of their noble society, normally so reserved and laden with pretense, and his words therefore brought them to a state of authentic feeling they usually kept borrowed under all the veneers of their class.

It was as though a spell had been put on them, a sensation they had not felt in a very long time, not since the earliest interval of childhood, before those crucial moments where they had to wear a mask.

Indeed, all within the king’s hall were weeping, forlorn and weeping.

And then there Edric noticed the king’s daughter for the very first time: Cecilia.

When he had recited his verse, she could not look away from him.

And from that moment they were in love.

Princess

Following the celebration, there was an interval of recovery all throughout the Royal City. Edric, having now cultivated a separate reputation for his beautiful recitation, was therefore invited to stay in the guest chambers with the Royal Fortress during this interval.

It was there that he and Cecilia exchanged dozens upon dozens of letters in the late hours of the night, mired in their secret love, hidden away from the world. Their respective chambers were at the opposite ends of the fortress, and yet, through the use of secret passages and untrodden hallways, they would find their way to each other.

Edric had previously known the fairer sex. A handful had even blossomed into something greater.

But this — this was in a category of its own. Both he and Cecilia were well aware of the foolishness in the strong attachment they had to one another, and yet, from the very first, it felt as though destiny had intertwined the respective threads of their life.

By the end of the interval of stupor throughout the city, where the festivities were properly concluded and the usual movements of society were to resume once more, Edric’s mind was completely decided. When his captain and two companions — the men who had come to the fortress with him — made to set off from the Royal City, new recruits at hand, Edric explained that he would not be joining their company.

His captain had, of course, attempted to convince him to stay, especially now that Edric had cultivated a reputation — one that might serve useful as they continued to roam throughout the various fiefs of Aurelian. But when Edric handed him his purse — the gold he had personally received from the King, asking for nothing in return except for release of his servitude — it became clear to the captain that no amount of persuasion would have any effect.

Edric watched the men part from the city. Outwardly, he made all the necessary overtures to them so as to convince them that the decision had been difficult — that, after spending over a decade with these men, fighting skirmish after skirmish, such a departure would weigh heavily on his heart. In truth, however, it had been no such thing.

No indeed, the rest of the world was nothing compared to Cecilia, his sweet Cecilia.

Edric declared his intentions to stay in the Royal City, which excited the nobles and magistrates of the fortress, including the king. Very little effort was required in order to make the necessary arrangements; he was soon bequeathed a rather lucrative position among the royal guard.

Parchment

Years came and went.

Edric took up his duties as part of the guard, roaming the different parts of the Royal City, becoming quite familiar with its various districts, high and low, beautiful and decrepit.

He additionally took up a number of separate tasks, such as instructing new recruits into the royal guard as to how to wield a blade, or otherwise serving as head page royal messages which needed to be delivered in extreme haste.

As always, he took up these tasks with proficiency, though he never faltered from the warning his mother had imparted upon him. Always aware that he was in possession of a secret that made him different from all the others, he maintained his distance — from the other royal guard, from the other nobles, from the other magistrates… from everyone.

With one exception.

With Cecilia, his world was entirely different. Though he was greatly occupied in his duty, and she greatly occupied in hers, they spent all of their free hours exchanging letters. Words of a sincere and heartfelt nature, unburdened by the strictures of rank or obligation. It was, in a sense, the purest form of freedom either of them had ever experienced.

Edric had, in fact, been on the verge of revealing his secret to her a great many times.

Occasionally, perhaps once or twice a moon, the two of them would find the opportunity to meet properly, in the flesh. Usually in the furthest reaches of a guest wing, or at the top of some abandoned tower or in the lower reaches of the fortress, under the ground, in the alcove nestled between catacombs.

And there they would briefly find escape from the rest of the world.

It went beyond love — a sort of yearning that bordered on illness.

They soon came to view their attachment as a symbol, nothing less than a rebellion against all that their kingdom had come to embody over the last several centuries. Indeed, they came to believe that their love was pre-ordained by the higher creatures of ancient times, a reversal of the calcification that had taken place ever since.

Edric himself could not have imagined such a great fortune. From a creature belonging to a nameless village next to a waterfall, to a member of the royal guard, the lover of no less than a princess… It was more than he could have ever hoped for.

And then fate intervened.

After a number of years, Edric and Cecilia had created an elaborate system of handing off letters to one another, using designated areas all throughout the fortress — nooks and crannies which were not likely to be found.

One day, one of the magistrates had discovered one of the letters Edric had sent Cecilia. The magistrate in question happened to be using one of the secret hallways for his own secret (and nefarious) purposes, accidentally coming across the very spot where the parchment was hidden.

Suffice to say that, when he removed the parchment from the crack between the bricks, and read its contents, he passed it along to several of his colleagues. Within a matter of hours, word had traveled to the king himself.

The king had been furious, punishing Cecilia severely, and for the next fortnight, the entirety of the court had been in a state of turmoil and intrigue. The gossip was incessant, and Edric was met with side-long looks and endless whispers.

Just like this, he had become a pariah, both to the men of court, as well as the other Royal Guard.

And yet, if anything, the open discovery of his love with Cecilia bolstered his resolve. He viewed it as a sign that they no longer had to be secretive, that they could declare their intentions for one another out in the open. He was, after all, convinced of the preordained nature of their unity — why else would two creatures be so wholly suited to one another?

Surely it was because fate wanted them to rediscover the ways of the ancient world. During those days, there had been freedom; blood and birth did not dictate circumstance, but action.

During this interval of great intrigue, Edric had been silently ostracized. He had also been unable to communicate with Cecilia by any means. Still, he held his resolve, knowing that they could not be separated forever, and that the court would eventually have to acknowledge the two of them openly.

But then, one day, a letter came to his bed chamber, delivered through the crack in the door in the late hours of the night.

Edric,

It is with deep and sincere feeling that I wish to express how much I have found your correspondence to be most invaluable. From the very first it became clear to me that you not only possess an intrigue in your nature, but an uncommon constitution. As such, you may eternally consider me an ally in your ventures henceforth.

Yet, it appears that I have given rise to feelings both inconsiderate and unwarranted, and so I find it currently necessary to further remark that, however alike we may be theoretically in disposition, our societies do not overlap in the slightest.

I am, as you are aware, the daughter to the king of Realm Aurelian. You are a knight. A very accomplished knight, both in your martial prowess, as well as in your unexceptionable conduct away from the battlefield. But a knight nevertheless. Your circle and my circle are distinct.

And so, while I can certainly admit that you are the sort of creature who may give rise to certain feelings, you are mistaken if you believe that I am one such object. I apologize for causing you pain, as I should have made such a clarification much earlier in our correspondence.

Beyond this, I must give you a fresh source of pain, in the admittance that I do not trust you. For indeed, this is where the theory of our dispositions fails to match the reality. You are a flame, burning hot, just like to injure as to give warmth. I do not wish to be struck by your ember.

May you find more profitable kindling elsewhere.

Cecilia

***

Edric had desperately attempted to find Cecilia following the receipt of this message, to reconcile with her. He had found the words almost amusing at first, so different they were to all the tender expressions she had related in the days prior. So, he initially thought nothing of them.

He never saw her again.

In the hours and days afterwards, it became increasingly clear that, though the passages might have initially been expressed under a state of duress, they were, in fact, the true state of her heart.

She had well and truly changed her mind. In the space of a moment, upon the discovery of their love, she had come to realize she valued her station to a far greater degree than she had anticipated. The king had not truly punished her, simply reminded her, and ultimately Cecilia had chosen prudence.

She had chosen it.

Cutthroat

Edric had acquired many injuries throughout the many skirmishes of the battlefield, but this was a pain of a different sort. It was a pain that swallowed him from the mind and spread outwards, a feverish disease he could not control, a bile that rose in his throat, refusing to stay down, no matter how many times he spat or swallowed.

Not long after the message, Edric was dismissed from the royal guard, banished from court.

In the days, moons, and years afterwards, Edric indulged in every form of degeneracy.

He was broken. Cecilia had been the first creature he was on the verge of divulging his secret to. She had been the first person that might truly understand him. With her, there had been no facade, none whatsoever — and this had been his mistake.

Now, all of the love and his heart had festered into hatred.

Edric became a cutthroat — worse than a cutthroat. He exuded malice, and came to do a number of heinous things, acts which would haunt him, nearly driving him insane.

You are a flame, burning hot, just like to injure as to give warmth.

And yet he could not stop. It was only in indulging his hatred that his mind would stop torturing him, if only momentarily.

I do not wish to be struck by your ember.

One particular evening he attacked a group of bandits amidst a fit of blind drunkenness, ultimately thrown into the dungeons of the Royal City. Amidst the dark walls and rotting corpses, he was stripped — and it was there that the gaolers discovered the secret of his birth.

What came next was humiliation.

PART 3: Wings

“PLEASE! I BEG SOMEONE!”

Edric woke up in a silent scream, momentarily twitching and flailing about, attempting desperately to strangle the enemy of his nightmares. For several long moments he heaved and spasmed; as he finally regained some semblance of his previous lucidity, the many beads of sweat dripped along his neck and face.

Serabelle was already awake. She had taken her sleep in a small divot in the cave, half a dozen paces away.

At present she was sitting upright, observing him. She made no remark, gave no inquiry; at this point in their journey, they knew each other well enough to leave such matters unsaid.

Edric swallowed the bile in his throat; over the course of the next several minutes, the two of them gathered their belongings and proceeded deeper in the caves, falling into a natural rhythm.

Serabelle held her fingers out to the cold and moist air just ahead of her. “The magic which lingers here is strong — and also quite stale. I suspect it is much like the Golden Forest: once shepherded by the greater races, now left untended.”

Edric nodded, understanding the words unspoken: there would be danger ahead. Of what kind and category remained to be seen.

The appearances of the caves were queer; in certain places, the passages wild, jagged, rough; in others the walls were smooth, the mud and stone interlacing in perfect patterns, unhindered by the corrosions of time.

They occasionally crossed a number of bridges, and eventually a pattern clarified; several portions of the caves had once been proper abodes, replete with their own gardens and courtyards. Indeed, they were small fortresses, underneath the ground. The bridges themselves had a pattern as well, for they were effectively a way of crossing from one residence to another.

Under different circumstances, the two of them might have lingered, studied this place; in the present moment, however, they did not have the luxury of indulging such curiosities.

Time went on, and the two of them continued east, passing from one part of the seemingly endless caves to another. The only source of illumination were torches they carried; Serabelle had recited an incantation to make the fires last unnaturally long.

For the majority of the time, they were silent; somehow, they were able to convey a great deal through looks. Whether to slow down, take rest, double back. They were in agreement without having to consciously convey it.

In one instance, when Serabelle noticed Edric glancing at her curiously after she had crossed a particularly tricky set of steps with relative ease, she betrayed the faintest of smiles — an expression that was exceedingly rare throughout the course of their journey.

“Were you under the impression we were a fragile lot?” she asked as they crossed into the next chamber.

Edric answered in the negative. “I have heard whispers that the Sable Sisters have occasionally been employed as assassins.”

Serabelle smiled at this. “The whispers which you have heard from are not entirely false, although the reality is a great deal more mundane. We have no true skill in the art of killing. Rather, the vast majority of the time we simply happen to be in a position to slip poison into the right cup of wine — something that a child could do.”

Edric gestured back to the tricky set of steps. “Very well. And yet that leaves the question of your unusual nimbleness.”

Serabelle briefly went silent, a look of melancholy passing over her countenance. “A much easier riddle to solve, I am afraid. Behind our priory there were large hills, in which were caves.”

Ever since beginning this journey, the two of them had resolved not to speak of the past, or anything leading to the circumstances of their meeting. They had not made any open agreement, although it was yet another thing they implicitly comprehended in one another. She would not speak of his nightmares, and the bile that consistently rose to his throat; he would not ask of the Ritual of the Black Moon, and her refusal to sacrifice herself to the Sweetflame.

This statement of the priory was a departure from the implied agreement.

Edric inquired: “The priory in which you were raised? The priory of the Sable Sisterhood?”

“Aye.”

Edric had heard of the fortunes that nobles were willing to pay in order to submit their daughters to the priory; yet, the Sisters were completely unmoved by coin, or any other form of material bribery.

Only a small handful were chosen to become the next crop of Sable Sisters. The process in which one was chosen, however, to be one of the greatest mysteries in all of Realm Aurelian — in no small part due to the fact that those who possessed the knowledge were frequently stripped of their memories.

Serabelle remained silent as the two of them crossed yet another bridge, before finally explaining: “The caves behind the priory were rough, dark, jagged, and dangerous. Many girls were known to get lost there, or otherwise fall and break their bones. But I risked it every single time, for at the very bottom of the caves there was a broad pool of aquamarine. In that pool were fish — of a kind that you could find nowhere else. They had no names, but they glowed bright — so bright, in fact, that they illuminated a great portion of the caves. The fish could even speak real words.”

“Speak?” Edric asked, amazed, shifting the angle of the torch he was carrying. The flames illuminated Serabelle’s face; there was a subtle fondness in her eyes.

“Aye — in fact, more than speak. The fishes could sing, and I would sing with them. They would produce a melody like none other. And when we would sing together, the rest of life would melt away. Every time I returned from the caves I was beaten. Such was the punishment for venturing beyond the priory grounds. And yet I could not help myself. It was everything to me, singing with those fish.”

Edric recognized that there was more to this tale — perhaps a great deal. And yet he once more honored the unspoken agreement, and made no further inquiry.

***

Time went on, and eventually the caves opened into a massive hall, simultaneously haunting and beautiful. Large pillars extended from the floor to the vast ceilings, and ornate brackets were carved out in the stone, where magnificent torches no doubt were placed. Scattered all throughout this hall were remnants of tables, thrones, chairs, stools, and other lavish furnishings — the dimensions of which were clearly not made for men. Moreover, there were a multitude of inscriptions etched into the walls.

Edric could practically smell the magic in the air. It lingered, sickly sweet, almost alive.

Serabelle herself seemed to take note of the same thing; and almost out of instinct, she began to sing. Her voice echoed, creating a chorus in and of itself, simultaneously beautiful and melancholy.

After several moments, inscriptions, previously invisible all throughout the caves, began to glow in response to her voice.

Edric, briefly disconcerted, drew his blade — but no, the inscriptions were not a threat, simply a greeting. Setting his blade aside, he listened to the interplay of Serabelle’s haunted voice and the response of the inscriptions.

It was a strange sensation; briefly, the bile in his throat was gone, and the parallel scars that marred his back seemed not to burn. Indeed, he felt as though he was in a waking dream of some sort. Once or twice in his life he had been with an earshot when a Sable Sister crooned, although Serabelle’s own voice was entirely in a category of its own.

It is clear why she had been chosen for the Ritual of the Black Moon.

When Serabelle finished her song, Edric’s ears rang, and he found himself involuntarily taking several steps back in order to keep his balance.

Serabelle turned to Edric. “The walls spoke to me.”

Edric recomposed himself. “Of what?”

“They tell me that I am not the first priestess to have communicated with them, but that my voice is different.”

“And is it?”

“Aye, it always has been. The other priestesses sing their beauty into existence, golden sweet and honey; my voice has always tinged with the flavor of bitterness.”

“Then you sing closer to the truth,” he answered.

Serabelle’s expression flittered from one emotion to the next in rapid succession, appraising Edric, after which she simply replied: “Aye.”

“Did they say anything else?”

“The walls still hope that angels will return to reclaim this hall once more.”

Edric felt his stomach turn over, the image of a waterfall coming to the forefront of his mind. The parallel scars on his back made their presence felt once more, burning into his flesh. “Tell the walls that the angels are gone.”

***

Time went on, and eventually they came across a large alcove, where a number of caldrons were laid out in a perfect circle.

Serabelle smiled, seemingly recognizing the purpose of these cauldrons. Reaching into one of them, she grabbed a fistful of the queer dust that lingered within, and blew it into the air directly before her, gently whispering a spell.

In the air above them, the bits of dust collected, hovering in the center of the chamber, changing color, forming into rendition of the memory.

Serabelle smiled with fondness. “The priory, and the rolling hills just beyond.”

Once more, the dust broke apart and reformed, this time depicting something else entirely: the Ritual of the Black Moon.

All the nobles had been in attendance, standing upon the massive rooftop of the royal fortress, a small town in and of itself. All about the rooftop were grand structures and large and magnificent tents, and on that evening they were gathered to see Serabelle sacrifice herself to the Sweetflame, the ultimate blessing for good fortune in the years to come — and the highest honor for a Sable Sister to achieve, an accomplishment reserved for the very few.

Serabelle, watching the dust form into this depiction, took several steps back, shaking her head. It was clear that, whatever magic she had summoned from the cauldron, she had not meant to summon this particular memory.

The dust broke apart and reformed.

At the very centre of the fortress was a massive cauldron, bright purple, filled with an ethereal liquid in the middle, flaming and bubbling. The most potent source of magic in the entire world: the Sweetflame.

Serabelle shook her head. “No, no…”

The dust broke apart and reformed, now depicting Serabelle herself, channeling all of her magic and strength to escape from the fortress, abdicating her responsibilities to the throne and betraying the king himself. It depicted her running through the storms, bursting into one of the lowliest taverns of the city.

Edric did not need the dust to be reminded of this particular memory. He recalled how she had burst in, her robes soaked through, begging, screaming.

“PLEASE! I BEG SOMEONE!”

Serabelle shook her head. “Enough!”

She threw her arms open, as if physically pushing the latent magic in the air away from her.

Just like this, the dust fell away, and the caldrons in the mysterious cave chamber crumbled as well.

For a moment there was complete stillness between the two of them.

“What happened?”

Serabelle shook her head. “I believe the chamber is reminding me of what I am, lest I forget.”

“And what are you?” Edric asked, before he could think to check himself.

Serabelle appraised Edric, calculating. “I am not a priestess, in the same way that you are not a knight.”

Chase

Over the course of the next several days, Edric and Serabelle continued traversing the various passages. For vast stretches there was nothing save for the flickering light emanating from the ends of their torches and oppression of the neglected magic in the air.

For a lesser creature, they might have fallen ill under the latent weight of such an atmosphere; Edric and Serabelle, however, were quite familiar with this forlorn sensation, and so found only a tranquility within it.

Every so often their tranquility was abruptly, and quite viciously broken by one impediment or another.

In one instance, they came across a rather large nest of ware-hornets: byproducts of foul incantations, when the dark elves had rebelled against the angels so many centuries prior. Ware-hornets had largely gone extinct throughout the majority of the kingdoms of men — although it appeared that a small fraction had survived, nestling themselves in the abandoned crevices of these caves.

“The large red ones are intimidating to gaze upon,” Serabelle called, as the two of them sprinted to find refuge in some other part of the caves, “though their stings have nothing more than pain. It is the smaller purple ones you must worry about.”

The two of them sprinted with every ounce of their strength, although neither were spared of the were-hornet’s sting.

As part of her training in the priory, Serabelle had developed an immunity to various forms of poisons and spells, and was consequently impervious to the stings from the ware-hornets. Edric, however, though possessing an unusually strong constitution and powerful instinct, had nowhere near the same degree of invulnerability.

He was stung no less than three times by the purple buggers.

“Is there a remedy?” Edric inquired, gasping for breath, his expression more angry than fearful as he looked down at his wound, as the two of them finally found a small series of alcoves where they could take rest.

Serabelle shook her head, also desperately trying to catch her breath. “I can recite a couple of incantations from the spell book, but poison inside of you must now run its course.”

Edric paused, realizing that he was already sweating to an unnatural degree. The edges of his vision were closing in.

“Will I die?”

The priestess once more shook her head. “You will hallucinate.” After a pause and a contemplative look, she added: “Most find death preferable, however.”

Seemingly in the next moment, Edric was on the ground, convulsing, foam and spit leaking from his lips. His eyes went bloodshot, and his muscles spasmed against the stone, every tendon and ligament betraying him. Within, he felt as though all of his organs had been haphazardly rearranged, simultaneously submerged in both ice and fire.

For a brief moment there was the bliss of nothingness, and Edric reasoned that if this was death, then it was not overly unpleasant — but no, his consciousness had not reached its permanent oblivion quite yet, but rather taken him to the torture chamber that were his memories.

Quite suddenly he was submerged in a river of time, re-experiencing his days of blind drunkenness, forced to watch his own actions — the violence he had conferred on others, the despair he had dispensed so carelessly, upon those who had never truly deserved it. The young boys and girls who had become orphans on account of his blade.

He had always had nightmares, but this was another category on its own; his own mind was deliberately torturing him.

Then the worst memories arose to the forefront: memories when he was once an honorable man, reciting passages in front of the court, making entire an entire society of nobles weep; memories of a pair of silhouettes, sneaking away to the alcoves and the king’s fortress, sharing moments of tenderness and destiny.

The memories of happiness were a greater torture than any pain.

You are a flame, burning hot…

Edric screamed silently, nothing but blood and foam and bile escaping his lips. An eternity came and went, each wave of memories crashing against him like the waterfall of his childhood village, drowning him over and over again. He wanted to cry out to the priestess, to tell her desperately to end his life, that anything was better than this.

But no, he could only see his mother, standing in front of that very waterfall. His mother was looking down upon him, disappointed; she had attempted to warn him, but he had not heeded her, and now he was being made to suffer.

Then, almost instantaneously, the pain and the hallucinations were gone. The poison had passed through his system, and he was lying supine amidst the caves. A pair of torches, faintly lit by the spark of a priestess’s magic, were laid against the cave walls only a few arm’s length away.

Serabelle was sitting nearby. In her hands were a number of damp rags.

Edric slowly sat up. A series of looks passed between them, concluding with a mutual understanding. Nothing more needed to be said about the matter.

“How long was I…”

“Two days.”

***

Three additional days came and went; under the dim light of the torch, they navigated the labyrinthine passageways of the caves through looks.

Edric found that, while the priestess was not prone to any great outburst of feeling, there was a rather rich tapestry of sensation within her. It was as though Serabelle were perpetually appraising — not necessarily in a devious way, but in a manner of uncommon awareness.

When they took their single meal in the late hours of the evening, Serabelle would occasionally speak. The subjects of discussion would ultimately be trivial, but every so often she would obliquely reveal some aspect early life had separated her from the other Sable Sisters — that, even among the priory and the society of priestesses, she had not been like all the others.

She would never reveal much, however, and Edric would never press the matter.

An additional stanza came and went, impeded by nothing more than small and jagged passageways — until, in one moment, they were confronted by none other than a chimera.

The creature had ostensibly been dormant, almost becoming a feature of the caves itself, but the two of them had accidentally stepped on the wrong series of bricks during their path east, setting off a number of reactions within the caves. The stone clicked and rearranged, and soon enough the monstrous creature was moving, its gaze intent upon them.

The two of them initially attempted to subdue the creature, just as they had done with the cerberus at the mouth of the cave so many days prior, although it quickly became clear that the beast of this kind was greatly different in quality.

Serabelle had no combination of spells at the ready to dispatch the beast. So, they ran. Legs burning, lungs heaving, they sprinted, sprinted with every ounce of effort, attempting desperately to avoid the vile maw of the beast and its many faces, as well as its snapping tail, which was a beast in and of itself.

They ran and ran — and then, in the space of an instant, they spilled out into the light…

Initially blinded by the unbroken rays of gleaming sun, they could not help briefly feel some small sense of relief in being out in the open air once more as their eyes adjusted.

The two of them paused, feverishly catching their breath when they were sure the chimera would not chase them into the open air.

Appraising one another, a number of successive looks passed between them.

“Those fangs appeared quite…” Edric remarked.

“Unpleasant,” Serabelle nodded.

Briefly, they exchanged a smile — although they were forced to the task at hand when they appraised their new surroundings: a series of rolling hills and grasslands underneath the gray sky.

“Fortunately, it appears we are at the borderlands” Edric remarked as they proceeded along the path ahead, “Unfortunately, we will have to pass through that in order to properly cross into Delinia.”

Edric gestured beyond the rolling hills, to a rather thick patch of swamp land.

Serabelle grimaced, although she quickly recomposed herself. This was another aspect of her character Edric was quickly coming to learn; the priestess adjusted to the circumstances unnaturally quickly, accepting it without reservation. Everything appeared in accordance with her expectations, for her expectations were continually changing.

With every passing day of their journey, Edric began to truly appreciate the terror that must have befallen her during the circumstances of their meeting for her to cry out the way she had when she burst through the doors of the decrepit tavern which he had been in.

PLEASE! I BEG OF YOU!

“Very well,” Serabelle now said, proceeding ahead. “If it brings us closer to the convent, there is no use wasting time.”

Fog

The two of them proceeded through the swamp lands. For several hours the greatest impediment was the terrain itself, for their boots kept sinking into the mush of dirt and grass.

Eventually, however, a fog washed over the terrain — prompting Edric to halt.

“Stay behind me,” he said, his eyes darting around.

Serabelle raised a brow. “Do you see something?”

Edric shook his head. “Nothing, save for the fog. Though the fog itself is unnatural.”

Serabelle shook her head, before she went wide eyed. “I can sense the magic in it. How did you know this?”

Edric raised his nose to the air, counting. “Because this is the magic of the Consecrate Guard. We are being pursued by six of them.”

In his interval spent in the royal fortress, Edric had observed the king’s personal assassins but a handful of times. They were largely shadows, without any true identity, and completely devoted to the needs of the royal line. More than this, they were imbued with no small degree of magic themselves — primarily in the way of illusions.

Serabelle produced her spell book. “Perhaps I may be able to summon an incantation which might alter the circumstance and put us on a better footing.”

Edric shook his head, carefully leading the two of them behind a particular formation of trees, where they were not so exposed. “Let them believe that they have blinded us. Indeed, even now, they look to be overconfident as they approach.”

Serabelle narrowed a brow. “You mean to say that you can observe them from this distance?”

“Aye.”

What followed next were several minutes of tense stillness, in which Serabelle retreated to a more defensible portion of the swamp.

For several long minutes there was nothing — and then there was a clash.

Edric fell into his natural rhythm, his instincts sharpening.

Three of the Consecrate Guard attempted to strike Edric down using poisoned darts, while the other three attempted to flank Serabelle. Edric avoided the former trio, instead dealing with the flankers first, momentarily disappearing in the fog. It was not long until he cut down these flankers, first and second and third.

From there, all parties involved became implicitly aware of the game being played. The Consecrate Guard realized that Edric was lurking somewhere near Serabelle, and that if they attempted to capture her, he would simply ambush them first.

As a result, they attempted to move through the fog in a more random and haphazard fashion. Unfortunately for these creatures, the alteration of strategy was ultimately inconsequential. Slowly, steadily, Edric appeared and disappeared in the fog, until the sixth and final assassin was dead.

Serabelle was close enough to see Edric confer death upon the last of the Consecrate Guard — the savage manner in which he bashed the man’s helmet over and over again, until his skull was nothing more than a haphazard collection of bone, flesh, and brain.

The fog cleared away, and Edric, now covered in blood and grime that was not his own, looked at her, and she looked back — her countenance the perfect halfway point between gratitude and fear.

And as always, she calculated, appraised, reassessed: who was this creature who had so effortlessly cut down the king’s personal assassins? Who was he really, this man who was now just as damned as she? This man who exuded anger, even in slumber, and perpetually spat bile?

She said nothing. She had come this far without inquiring in that line, and so she came to the conclusion that she would not start now.

***

Time passed, and eventually they came to the last of the marshes, proceeding into an ancient terrain known as the White Gold Woods.

The trees here were said to have been alive since before the elves had ever spawned into the land, created by the eldest of the angels.

Edric and Serabelle found rest here on the first night, and during the evening of the second, they began to hear the deep lamentations emanating from each of the trees, a sort of haunted crooning, as if crying out for a previous time. For several hours, the two of them travelled in silence, listening.

Eventually, Serabelle was compelled to join her voice to the chorus.

What followed next a strange and melancholy harmony, and Edric found himself briefly catatonic. There was a pain within him, simultaneously uncomfortable and alleviating, as though something invisible was pressing against the distorted tissue of a scar that only he could feel — the scar which had no physical presence, but always made itself known in the bile that perpetually rose to his throat.

When she finally finished singing, Serabelle turned to Edric. “Thank you, sir.”

Edric grunted. “I am no knight. Besides, our journey is hardly concluded.”

Serabelle shook her head. “Thank you for not asking the question which no doubt lingers in your mind. Even after all this time you have not asked me why I chose to forsake the Sweetflame — nor have you asked what makes me different from the other Sisters.”

Serabelle stepped close, pulling back the strands of her black hair, revealing a small section of ear that was… not quite flesh, but instead the brown of bark. Rolling her sleeves high, her skin revealed almost imperceptible tattoos of black tree roots.

She looked upon him, briefly opening her mouth as if to give further explanation. But, just had been the case all along the journey, none was needed. The words had already been spoken, though silently.

As they took their rest for that night, they came across one particularly massive tree:

Edric listened as Serabelle once more took up a low euphoric and haunted lamentation, and when she had struck her last note, this massive tree reached out with its roots, simultaneously touching Serabelle and Edric.

Edric gasped, for he was briefly in a different time and place. He was lurking in the deepest part of a series of caves; just before him were fish that could sing. Indeed, this was not his memory.

The moment was gone, and he was standing in the White Gold Woods once more. Serabelle was looking at him, bewildered, her expression radiating an expression Edric had not seen from her yet. She seemed on the verge of tears — and not for herself.

Then, she recomposed herself… swallowing the bile in her throat.

“Let us take rest at the base of the tree for tonight,” she said. “I will take first watch.”

Trust

Delinia, though nowhere near as vast as the neighboring kingdom of Aurelian, was often just as formidable throughout history. If Realm Aurelian was the elder sibling, made powerful through size and brute strength, Delinia was the craftier and more cunning younger sibling.

In recent years, however, Delinia had suffered from internal strife. The king who had previously reigned for several decades in a relatively peaceful manner had died under mysterious circumstances, and without properly articulating a clear line of succession. Naturally, both of the king’s sons made separate claims to the throne as a result.

The elder brother, though having birthright, was known for his temper; the younger, cooler though more sinister of temperament, therefore matched his claim with cunning and guile.

Both of these kings-in-waiting fielded their own separate armies, dividing the loyalties of the nobles in the process.

The older brother, believed to be more predictable, was backed by Realm Aurelian — and thus, in the early goings of the internal strife, seemed to be the likely victor.

The younger brother, though having a smaller army, ultimately showed his tactical prowess on the battlefield, overcoming his disadvantages with an inherent understanding of his elder brother. He knew how to strike at the elder brother’s pride, forcing him to relinquish any natural advantages he might have.

The younger brother thus ultimately proved victorious, ascending to the throne.

As a consequence of this internal strife, Delinia and Aurelian became enemies; and presently, this state of affairs proved to be a boon for Edric and Serabelle.

After treading the furthest reaches of the White Gold Woods, they crossed into an open clearing where eventually they could see a queerly constructed city nestled upon the horizon. Resting at the top of a massive ridge, it was surrounded by several concentric walls.

In fact, the city was not a city at all, but a massive convent: a place which was said to have been constructed by the elves several centuries prior, during the wars against the angels. More immediately it was a place entirely filled with women, protected by an order of female assassins, known as the Black Benediction.

The convent went by so many different names that it effectively had none, and within those walls was a separate hierarchy which operated almost completely independently from the broader kingdom at large.

In effect, it was a kingdom within a kingdom.

Occasionally there were those in Delinia who attempted to subjugate the convent, submit it to its own designs, but in every single circumstance woe befell the attackers, whether it be plague or madness, or something else more queer. It soon became apparent that any creature, no matter how ambitious, was to avoid the convent, unless they had a fondness for living out the remainder of their days in one form of esoteric agony or another.

At present, the convent was the final destination of the two damned travelers — or at least, Serabelle’s final destination, considering men were strictly forbidden from entering the walls of the convent city. Such a place was Serabelle’s only solace from her present circumstances, the only place in either kingdom where she could reasonably survive, even if the Aurelian king found her.

“The Sable Sister and the Black Benediction, though not entirely unfriendly terms, have a mutual understanding with one another,” Serabelle had said in the earliest hours of their journey. “The convent is the only place where I may live out the rest of my life without the curse of damnation, as well as the perpetual threat of rape and ransom.”

Together, the two of them saw the convent city on the periphery of the horizon. They might have been able to end their journey by sunset if not for one of the customs of the convent itself.

Edric gestured ahead. “The convent only opens its gates on the full moon — three days hence. Until then we will have to seek shelter somewhere else.”

And so, as the orange afternoon bled into the purple evening, they found a grove which they made camp for the night.

Together, the two of them silently fell into a seamless routine; Serabelle used some of the incantations and spells in her book to protect the immediate area around them, before preparing the cook fire for their single meal for the day. Simultaneously, Edric briefly made his way deeper into the grove to find any meat they could hunt down.

Bow and arrow in hand — weapons he had taken from one of the Consecrate Guard in the marshes — he raised his nose to the air, attempting to sniff out some movement. After a handful of minutes he discerned something on the far end of the grove: nothing less than a direwolf.

The beast, nearly as tall as a man, charged forward without reserve, and for several long moments Edric struggled against the creature.

Backing away, his instincts took hold; much like his encounter with the cerberus, he briefly bared his teeth. His countenance became feral, his eyes going bloodshot. The direwolf, intelligent enough to recognize that perhaps his prey was not prey but rather something else, abruptly came to a halt, snarling, appraising this man in front of him.

Edric growled — a sound that was nothing more than a guttural cry for most, but communicated a great deal to the beast before him. It was an inquiry: Why do you venture so far away from your home?

The direwolf turned its body, revealing long streaks of blood running down its side; one of the Consecrate Guard had ostensibly struck it with a poison dart, and now the wound was festering.

It was there that Serabelle stepped forward — ostensibly she had followed him to this particular portion of the grove.

“What are you doing here?” Edric said.

“You were away for the better part of an hour,” the priestess answered.

Then, without another word, she recited an incantation. While the direwolf momentarily struggled, eventually it succumbed to a stupor.

Over the course of the next hour, the priestess and the rogue worked in tandem, healing the beast. Serabelle crooned a low melody, working her fingers over the fur; simultaneously, Edric gathered a number of roots and plants, crushing it into a mix, rubbing it directly over the wound. When a makeshift poultice had been constructed, Edric then lowered his blade over the cookfire. When the metal became white hot, Edric placed it over the remainder of the poisoned wound, cauterizing the flesh.

The direwolf whimpered, but otherwise remained in the magic induced slumber.

With this task finally complete, Serabelle and Edric, rather exhausted, made their way back to the cook fire. They ate in silence — a small soup that Serabelle had made — after which Edric proceeded to gather additional bundles of wood to keep them warm for the night.

“Aloich,” Edric said, grabbing one bundle, making his way back to the cook fire, dropping the logs near it, before repeating the process. “That is the name of a settlement a quarter day’s march from where we are. It is known to be the place where the women gather in expectation for the next full moon. It is a slight deviation from the path, but if you wish I can take you there. We can be there by tomorrow afternoon if we wake up early.”

Edric had drifted some thirty strides away as he said these words, holding a new batch of logs in his arms.

Serabelle shook her head. “I would rather stay with you. At present, you are the only one I trust.”

The words were simple. The effect they had, however…

Beyond this, I must give you a fresh source of pain…

Edric stood, frozen. Within, he was thrown into a turmoil — sensations he had long attempted to suppress rising to the surface.

…in the admittance that I do not trust you.

The bile rose in Edric’s throat, and now he could not breathe. Images of the past came to him; images of degeneracy.

“How can you possibly trust me?”

Serabelle, ignorant of what she had spoken — or at least the power behind the words — observed only a silhouette carrying a bundle of logs in the distance.

“The trees, they had spoken to me,” Serabelle replied, no small degree of feeling in her own voice. “I sang to the White Gold Woods, and they sang back. They recognized my pain, and they recognized yours as well. The massive tree showed me the fire that burns inside of you.”

You are a flame, burning hot, just like to injure as to give warmth.

I do not wish to be struck by your ember.

Edric remembered how he had briefly observed a separate memory of his own; with eyes that were not his own, he had observed a school of fish. “And you trust the tree?”

“No, but I do trust my heart.”

Edric, strength leaving him, allowed the logs in his clutches to fall to the ground.

Edric’s Secret

Following his banishment from the court, Edric’s pain and humiliation had driven him mad. Stripped of his rank, his title, his reputation, and the woman which had, in the hours prior, been the light of his life, he devolved into little more than a beast.

All notions of honor and decorum melted away. He undertook deeds that not even the basest coatthroats would mimic, and indulged in every possible vice. He killed for coin, killed for sport, and killed only to inflict pain on others. He killed men, he killed women, he killed creatures who were barely more than children.

The only sensation inside of him was misery, and the bile in his throat, and with every passing deed, his conscience became increasingly tortured. He haunted the lowest establishments throughout the Royal City, drinking himself blind, finding every possible opportunity to turn his inner landscape upon others. A wrong look, a wrong word, or simply the wrong circumstance… anything was enough to bring Edric to maim.

Days and weeks and years went on like this, but in reality no time passed at all. As far as he was concerned, his soul had been frozen from the very moment he read the parchment, haphazardly slipped underneath his chamber door.

Your circle and my circle are distinct.

On one particular day, Edric had come upon a man and woman, both no more than two decades in age. The two of them were ostensibly thieves, having stolen from a minor noble in one of the peripheral districts in the city; there had been a price on their heads to see them captured. In reality, this particular man and woman were guilty of nothing more than poverty and hunger.

The price for capturing these creatures alive had been slightly higher than dead — and indeed, when Edric found them, it had been perfectly within his power to bind them, and drag them back to the noble they had stolen from. But no, amidst a rain which had been falling heavily on that day, and the low-lying fog which clouded the various alleyways, Edric’s blade and his hatred did the work before he could think to do otherwise.

There was no remorse in Edric when he looked down at the pair of corpses, no sensation at all aside from the droplets of rain striking his cloak. He had had the ability to show them some small mercy, and he had denied it to them; it was only fair, in the sense that he was unfair to others the same way others were unfair to him.

…the theory of our dispositions fails to match the reality.

Binding the man and the woman with a rope, readying himself to drag them to the other end of the district, it was there that Edric observed a small boy at the end of an alley, watching in horror.

A sibling to the man and a woman — no, a son.

Edric had turned this boy into an orphan — and, as a consequence, made this boy into his own son. A son not of blood but of hatred, a progeny who shared in the very same despair that he felt. A creature who would feel nothing more than ice in his soul and bile in his throat.

This was not the first orphan Edric had created, and it would certainly not be the last.

Several years went on, and yet no time passed. Edric lived only in the nominal sense, for he had none of the instincts which made him wish to retain life. He possessed no fear, no reserve, for he had nothing to lose. He was nothing more than a corpse who still retained life.

Then, on one particular day, he happened to antagonize a small band of city guards. Several years prior they would have been considered his colleagues — or at least, his subordinates. Indeed, these fresh-faced young men would have looked up to him and the knowledge that he was not a simple member of the guard, but assigned to the Royal Fortress.

But now there was no recognition in their eyes; as far as they were concerned, this creature, low and decrepit, had no resemblance to that young man of reputation who had captured the hearts of the nobles when he had almost won a tournament so many years prior.

While Edric had managed to cut down no less than half a dozen of these men during this incident, he was eventually subdued and thrown into the dungeons of the Royal City.

It was there that he was stripped, and it was there that the secret of his childhood, the very secret which he had been harboring from the very moment of his birth, was finally discovered.

More profitable kindling

Beyond this, I must give you a fresh source of pain, in the admittance that I do not trust you. For indeed, this is where the theory of our dispositions fails to match the reality.

Ever since Edric had been banished from the court, Cecilia’s words had haunted the very deepest recesses of his mind.

He had participated in many skirmishes and conflicts, travelling through vast plains with the other men of his sellsword company. Whether it be shattered bones, drowning, wildfires, or endless frosts, he had nearly died half a hundred times. Hatred, sickness, neglect, or simply stupidity were all vectors by which he had nearly sacrificed his life.

By the time Edric had been forced to enlist by his commander in that tournament in the Royal City, he had been incredibly well-versed in the language of pain. And yet the pain conveyed through a simple parchment, slipped through the cracks of the door in the late hours of the night; the pain of words gently laid out in ink, had been the greatest pain of all.

Love had infiltrated his mind, his body, his soul — and with these words, that very love had festered into a disease, filling his mouth with bile with every breath.

… I do not trust you.

Cecilia had been his, and Edric had been hers. There had finally been a creature which had punctured the barrier that he had erected ever since the very moment of his birth, when his mother had given them the warning, reminding him what he was.

But no, he had been stupid, left only with burden. And ever since that moment, he was completely frozen in time.

But now, amidst this grove in Delinia, Serabelle had made a simple declaration of trust, spoken in the most offhanded of manners. It was, perplexingly, the first instance in which Edric time moved forward once more.

“No, but I do trust my heart.”

As Edric gazed upon the silhouette of the priestess of the Sable Sisterhood — this creature which had ventured to the lowest of taverns, begging and pleading; this creature who had, against all odds, found someone willing to escort her away from harm at the risk of damnation — a part of him thought to be dead animated within once more.

Edric’s arms went slack, and the logs he had been carrying from the far end of the grove fell to the earth in a heap.

A moment later, there was no space between them. He stood before her, and their bodies became one.

Edric could feel the urgency in her breath.

When his tunic fell away from his body, however, and Serabelle gently searched his skin with her fingers, she found the course and jagged scars upon his back: two parallel lines from his shoulder down to the small of his back; seams of flesh, looking as though they had almost rotted, stitched back together.

Edric momentarily flinched. Nobody had ever touched his scars before.

Now under the moonlight, Serabelle looked upon him with curiosity.

Edric whispered into her ear: “I was raised in a nameless village, notable for nothing save for the waterfall nearby, tall and proud. Whenever men made their way to this waterfall, they would occasionally gaze behind its waters, and find only a collection of beautiful yet ordinary stone. And yet, a very long time ago, strange creatures would emerge from behind that waterfall.”

A small eternity came and went, the two of them standing there in bare flesh, after which Serabelle whispered: “Angels.”

Edric nodded. “Angels.”

Another long silence came and passed, after which he explained: “Mother would tell me tales of the angels who visited our ancestors. In fact, she explained that a drop of angel blood was rumored to exist even now, among the men of the nameless village. Nobody believed it, of course — except when I emerged into the world.”

Serabelle reached around Edric, tracing her fingers over the scars of his back. Edric, still close enough to feel her every exhalation against his shoulder, observed every twitch of her mouth, and how her brow narrowed and raised by intervals. Appraising, always appraising, even now.

There was a question in her gaze, though the priestess did not pose it; Edric nevertheless answered it. Bowing his head forward, he bared his teeth, which briefly turned into fangs; simultaneously, his hands transformed into claws.

Serabelle momentarily stepped back, only to recompose herself. She was not scared, only surprised. Yet, as always, her acceptance came quickly.

She then put a hand to his cheek, and Edric’s form became human once more.

“Canic,” Edric said. “That is the type of angel I am. Or at least, this is what my mother told me.”

“Canic,” Serabelle whispered, nodding, several of her memories recontextualizing. “Now it makes sense. You were able to smell Vallen’s fire magic before he unleashed it upon you. And when we were in the caves, you seemed to possess an uncommonly strong sight. You were just following your nose.”

Edric gestured in the affirmative.

He leaned forward, touching his forehead to hers. “Mother explained to me that if I told anybody, I would be hunted.” He snorted with amusement. “I am hunted now, anyways.”

You are a flame, burning hot, just like to injure as to give warmth.

Serabelle whispered so close her lips brushed his ear. “You and I both.”

Then, their lips were together again, the work of their movements almost hungry.

Their fingers intertwined, their breaths became an orchestra. They were equal parts conductors, as well as the instruments of the other. With the flames of the cook fire dwindling to a low orange glow, they were two halves of a greater whole.

Serabelle, now underneath him, looked up at Edric, countenance conveying the question. It was strange; somehow it was in the moments where they were perfectly still, and said nothing whatsoever, that the greatest meaning was conveyed.

It was almost as though she was speaking directly into his mind — a property not of the magic she possessed, but simple familiarity. They had not known each other long, little more than a fortnight, but the parallel nature of their lives meant that they had always been close, side-by-side.

Edric answered the question she did not ask; he resigned himself to the idea that if she was going to hate him, she might as well hate him now.

“I did a number of horrible things when I was banished from court. I was punished for it. I was thrown into a dungeon, stripped to nothing, and it was there that they observed the wings on my back — wings that I had hidden from the very moment of my birth.”

He remembered how the other men gawked and gaped when they observed the stunted wings sprouting from the flesh — wings that had never gotten the chance to grow, never gotten the chance to fly.

“The gaolers took a rather blunt knife, and spent several hours subjecting me to excruciating agony.”

Serabelle shook her head, reaching up and pulling Edric’s face to his. A moment later they were lying side-by-side. “They cut off your wings?”

Edric shook his head. “Wing. Just the one.” He struggled with a sensation rising in his throat. “I was forced to cut the other one off myself.”

Following a silence which bore the weight of a thousand shields, he added in a hardened voice. “I have come to accept the pain for what it is. A reminder of what I am.”

You are a knight. A very accomplished knight, both in your martial prowess, as well as in your unexceptionable conduct away from the battlefield. But a knight nevertheless. Your circle and my circle are distinct.

Serabelle cupped his cheek. “And what are you, sir?”

I do not wish to be struck by your ember.

Edric’s heart ignited with both ecstasy and rage. “I am not a knight.”

May you find more profitable kindling elsewhere.

Serabelle smiled. A fondness lingered in her eyes, the same fondness of when she spoke of the singing fishes and waters of aquamarine. “No, that you are not. And yet, now, you are… mine.”