by Chloe Hodge
Ashalea’s face screwed up in thought, her freckles puckering as she did. “So, my silver hair, it’s because of the Magicka you speak of? That’s why no one I’ve seen in Woodrandia or the Aquafarian Province have it?”
Denavar’s eyes widened for a split second and he shifted his head, avoiding her gaze.
She narrowed her own eyes and tilted his jaw to her. “What aren’t you telling me?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “It’s not my place. I think Wezlan should be the one to tell you.”
“Denavar!” Her voice raised, with a gruff warning laced underneath.
He shut his eyes as tight as possible, then relented, wilting under pressure. A shaky breath escaped his lips. “In the Moonglade Meadows, only a few are crowned with the silver hair of the moon. It is a blessing from the deities, to signify one’s birth and rank.”
“Go on,” she squeezed his jaw harder.
He sighed. Utterly defeated. “Ashalea, silver hair is more than a blessing. It’s a symbol of royal blood. You are the daughter of a King and Queen. The last.”
Green eyes widened in shock and air sucked in behind gritted teeth. Ashalea removed the hand on his face, only to grab his arm to steady herself, her nails biting crescent moons into his brown skin.
Her face contorted in confusion. “It can’t be. You’re fooling with me,” she said as if to convince herself. She turned around and faltered a few paces. Her mind wouldn’t cooperate. It sought any reason to deny the words she heard.
Ashalea whirled on Denavar. “You’re lying! Mother and father didn’t have silver hair! So, genetically it’s not possible,” she spat venomously.
Her mind wandered to memories of a distant past. Her mother, combing silver waves through a horsehair brush, her father gazing at the moon in their favourite nook atop the cliff. Both of her parents’ eyes darting to each other whenever Ashalea asked simple questions about their past.
My mother had brown hair; my father had black.
The realisation weighed on her like stones upon a grave. “Unless… Unless…”
She stormed up to Denavar and gripped his tunic in white-knuckled hands, her gaze burning into his soul.
“Tell me it’s not true,” her voice cracked. “Tell me I’m just a normal girl. That I’m just Ashalea Kindaris. That everything that’s happened in my life is not a part of some bigger sorrow. That my parents didn’t die as part of this pre-ordained plan to lead me to a destiny I didn’t ask for.”
He said nothing. He just stood there as she went through the motions, allowing her to pull at him in a rage. One look in his eyes and Ashalea knew, deep down, he spoke the truth. And that’s the one thing he gave her that no one else would. The truth. He was right. She couldn’t take it back. Couldn’t go back in time. It was just another fact of life she’d have to deal with. New knowledge to stew over, chew up and spit out when she was ready.
The truth she was adopted from a young age.
The truth that her real parents must be dead. Why else would they abandon an heir to the throne?
The truth, that she was the last princess, or even the queen, of the Moonglade Meadows.
The truth that Ashalea Kindaris never existed, and that she was someone else entirely. Who that person was, she still didn’t know.
Anger and frustration welled out of her like a storm, unrelenting, unstoppable. And for once, she uncorked the bottle of emotions and cried. Tears streamed down her face in a torrent of salt. She stopped pulling and prodding and blaming Denavar as the messenger and instead buried her face into his hard chest.
He held her silently and stroked her hair, the protector she never knew she needed. After a few minutes, her anguish melted into soft sobs and she peered up at him with her dirty, tear-streaked face. Their gaze held, and without registering the motion, her lips were on his.
A myriad of emotions fuelled the fire, her pout pressing hard against his mouth, and for a moment everything else washed away as she forgot the world, forgot her problems, forgot herself.
There were only his lips against hers, the feel of his skin, his breath on her cheek, and a burning desire she didn’t know she had. For a moment, it dawned on her that he returned the gesture, just as much fire and brimstone in his passion.
When she pulled away, she didn’t feel embarrassed, nor did she regret the sudden lapse of judgement. She only felt rage simmering deep down inside. And she would keep it stoked until she had her moment to unleash hell on the one person she trusted to be honest with her.
Her mentor had lied to her for three long years. He’d watched her struggle with her identity and ignored the questions regarding her heritage. Wezlan Shadowbreaker was about to know her wrath.
◆◆◆
Once her nerves calmed, and the tears ceased flowing, Ashalea and Denavar continued their trek across the beach. The waves grew more insistent, pulling at their ankles, seeking to drag them to the depths. Ashalea viewed the inky waters with distaste. She would rather walk on solid sand, but an unspoken agreement suggested the shallows seemed less daunting than the stone scenery stretching further up.
She could almost hear the growls and grunts of the creatures in their halted battle. She shivered and lifted her gaze to the horizon. A dark haze over the island made it impossible to tell how many hours had passed since they’d washed ashore, but the tide was changing, and the temperature steadily dropping.
“It feels like this island is sucking away all the light,” Denavar pointed. “It shouldn’t be this dark already— the sun is still high.”
“Another pleasant feature of this place. A sort of eternal night,” Ashalea grumbled. “Goodie.”
It really wasn’t her day. So much death and destruction, the loss of friends, and then finding out she was a long-lost princess was overkill.
At least it explains the elves’ reactions in the Aquafarian Province. My lady. She grunted with dull amusement and Denavar raised a thick brow.
“Oh, just considering my new authority.” She nudged a boot softly against his rear, admiring the view as she did. “You know this means I can order you around now, right? So, if I tell you to stop stalking me…”
His eyes registered surprise, before he quickly resumed a lopsided grin. “Not a chance, my lady. You’re stuck with me for good.”
“Mutiny,” she retorted with mock horror. “A crime punishable by death.”
“Gods and Goddesses,” he threw up his hands, “and how would the deed be done?”
“I’ll feed you to the dogs.” She frowned. “If there are any in the Meadows. Better yet, I’ll hand you to the Onyxonites for some good old-fashioned torturing.”
“Do you even know how they dispense justice?”
Ashalea considered. “Well… no, but I’m sure Shara would take great pleasure in it.”
At her name he straightened, an excited glitter in his eyes. “Well now you mention it, I have other crimes on my conscience.”
Ashalea knew he was pretending to be interested but the thought of him liking Shara panged inside her. She glared back and was about to retort with a rude comment when an eerie keening filled the air. They both stopped in their tracks, their elvish ears straining to find the source.
“It’s coming from behind us.”
Denavar turned on his heel to find a small colony of large bat-like creatures headed in their direction. “Right behind us. RUN!”
They took a flight of their own, sprinting as fast as their sinking boots could take them. There was nowhere to run, except towards the stone statues, and neither of them wanted to head there, too many obstacles.
“You know what, stuff this.” Ashalea was done. Her anger returned in new waves, and she ground to a halt, a ball of thunder in hand within seconds.
“What are you doing!?”
“I’m tired of today and I’m tired of running. I’m not hiding anymore. Are you with me?”
He grinned, a fireball already in his hand. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Severed Trust
Wezlan, Shara, Captain Bonodo and three others huddled in the shadows of overhanging rock at the mouth of a shallow cave. Dishevelled, hungry, and each left to their own miserable thoughts, the silence was deafening as they waited, hopeful for a sign of Ashalea, Denavar, and any other survivors. It was cold in the shade and their clothes were still wet from the water, so Captain Bonodo and his remaining men built a fire, which Wezlan lit with a wave of his hand, worry etched into the many creases in his face.
Shara held a steady hand on his shoulder. “She will be ok, Wezlan. She’s a fighter, and she’s too stubborn to die. I know she’s alive.”
Wezlan turned tired, grey eyes to the young woman, whom just over a month ago he’d believed to be an assassin after Ashalea. Since then, she’d shown herself to be high spirited, extremely talented, and surprisingly, a loyal ally. She was also a pain at times, but he realised he’d come to value her for something much more than all those things. He cared about this capable, confident woman. He was curious about the secrets she kept hidden far below the surface; at the trauma her training must have caused as a child. He felt guilty for even thinking of it, but he was grateful in a way. Who better to watch their backs?
Today, however, all he saw was a friend trying to comfort an old man. A smile itched at the corners of his mouth and he squeezed her hand, which provided more warmth than the fire ever could. It went against his instincts to kindle a fire in the first place. Lord knows what lurked in the shadows, and smoke signals would lead any signs of life to them. He eyed off the small troupe around the room, taking note of their defeated faces and slumped postures. He cleared his throat, and they all glanced at him.
“We lost many souls today. Each one of those men and women will be remembered for their bravery. I will inform King Tiderion and they shall be awarded medals of honour. Because of their sacrifices, we are alive. The time for mourning will come, but that day is not today.” Wezlan paused for effect, gazing at each member of the company in turn.
“We have a mission to complete. The tome we seek is far more important than our lives, for the world we live in is under threat of an evil so dark and powerful, that its existence depends on us.”
Wezlan stood, feeling vigour returning to his veins, and he held one hand over his heart. “We will honour the fallen, we will retrieve the tome, and we will win the fight against darkness by showing him our light. For Everosia!”
His companions jumped up with renewed enthusiasm, determination set in their faces. “For Everosia!”
Wezlan turned to Captain Bonodo and Shara. “I fear we can’t wait any longer. We should send a search party for Ashalea and Denavar before the moon rises.” He grimaced. “If they’re alive, they could be badly injured.”
Shara shook her head. “I will go. You are too important, Wezlan. If anything happened to you than all our losses will have been for naught. You are the only one here that can read the ancient text. You are the only one who can wield Magicka.”
She was right; her logic was sound. But he hated the idea of his ward being alone and worse, injured or dying. He sighed.
“Yes, go Shara, but be careful. At any sign of trouble, you come straight back here and don’t do anything reckless,” he said firmly.
The fiery glow danced on her face as she winked mischievously. The next she was gone.
“How does she do that?” Bonodo queried aloud.
Wezlan smiled grimly. “I doubt we’ll ever know.”
He sunk down onto a rock, perching his rear on its slanting slope. The jagged pits and rises made it extremely uncomfortable, but he barely noticed. Now he had to worry about not one but two of his charges. And a mage. One who has already shown great promise. Perhaps even worthy of becoming a — His thoughts were interrupted at the sudden reappearance of Shara, which apparently startled his companions as well. Gods and Goddesses, she’s better than shadows.
“What are you doing back here already? What about Ashalea?” He said a little irritably.
She raised an eyebrow but smiled. “Turns out I didn’t have to look far.”
She sidestepped to reveal two figures ambling toward the cave, both supporting each other on unsteady legs. The telltale silver hair cascading down the woman’s chest, her pointy ears poking through. They were covered in blood.
“You’re wounded! Come, let me see to you immediately.”
“The blood isn’t ours, but Ashalea does have a wound to her head,” Denavar grunted as they hobbled in.
Wezlan’s brow crinkled, and he looked to Ashalea for answers, but something flashed in Ashalea’s green eyes he had seen only once before. Three years ago, when her parents died. When she swore to avenge their deaths. Now she wore the same rigid features, her mouth pursed into a hard line. When he reached for Ashalea’s hand her body stiffened and she yanked it away. Denavar caught Wezlan’s gaze and just shook his head. Not now, his eyes said.
The mage led Ashalea to the fire, and they sat together, letting the warmth seep into their bones. Ashalea wouldn’t even look at Wezlan, so the baffled wizard just drilled his eyes into her back. Even through her defiance he could see how exhausted she was, Denavar too.
Shara broke the tension. “What happened to you guys? I didn’t think the pair of you could ever look this bad,” she said.
She wasn’t wrong. Their eyes looked ghostly, staring out from blood bathed faces. Their clothes were drenched once again. Ashalea seemed to notice for the first time, peeling the fabric off her skin. She suddenly felt sick.
Denavar clasped his hands at the back of his head. “You should see what they look like.”
“They?”
“Bat-like creatures. Came out of nowhere and attacked. We could have run but…”
Shara’s eyes swivelled to Ashalea. “You cheeky elf. Fighting a battle without me?”
Ashalea ignored her. She just hunched over, staring at the fire like a possessed soul. Wezlan approached her tentatively.
“I can restore some of your strength. Let me heal you,” his old hands reached out.
Her head snapped up and her eyes burned. “I don’t need your help, you’ve done enough,” she bit back venomously.
“Done enough?”
She tilted her head down and balled her fists, visibly shaking in anger. Then her posture wilted, and she released her palms into the sand. A full minute passed before she said anything.
“How could you?” the words were soft, disbelieving.
Silence.
“HOW COULD YOU!?” She lifted accusing green eyes, her tone now sharp and angry again.
Captain Bonodo and his men sensed an oncoming argument, and made themselves scarce, mumbling something about needing wood, despite the pile already there. Shara just leaned against the rock, assessing from the darkness. She wouldn’t miss the show.
Ashalea stood up, her form positively quaking again. “Three years have passed, and not once have you offered any indication of my heritage, my birth right or my place in this world. Three years and you’ve waved off all my questions like they were of no consequence. Everyone I’ve met has lied to my face about who I really am. And all the while I’ve acted the unknowing fool,” she emphasised the last, daring him to challenge her. She wanted him to.
Wezlan sighed. “You’re right.”
“What?”
“It’s true, Ashalea. I withheld information, I ignored your questions, I informed the elvish ambassadors and royals to act ignorant to your claims, I ensured you were careful in Maynesgate so anyone educated about Moonglade birth rights wouldn’t discover you. But I didn’t do it to hurt you. I did it to protect you.”
Ashalea threw her hands up in the air, exasperated. “From what?” she yelled.
“From yourself. And from the darkness.” Wezlan wheezed, his old age evident on his face once more. “When I was many years younger, I spent my days at Renlock Academy, teaching its students and managing matters of Magicka and state with the Divine Six. These wizards and I governed the Academy, c
onducting examinations when those gifted enough would seek to graduate from a mage to a wizard. Naturally, the tests were extremely challenging and required mastery of all Magicka forms; first, elemental control, followed by psychic connection — the ability to speak to animals and enter a man’s mind — followed by healing, dimensional travel and the ability to mould darkness and light.
“Since the Divine Six, no one has managed complete all tasks required of them, but there was one who came close. A male elf, still young in elvish years, who showed vast potential, intelligence and raw power. Of our students and mages, his abilities were unrivalled, so he attempted the exam.” Wezlan shook his head and his eyes travelled to a distant memory.
“He passed every test but one. The last is performed by the wizards and assesses the balance of good and evil in the soul of the individual. If darkness tips the scale, the individual fails, for fear they would use their power for selfish, evil reasons. Infuriated by the outcome, the student lashed out. He attacked and murdered scores of apprentices and mages at the Academy and escaped before we could capture him.”
By this time, Wezlan’s eyes had lost the glaze, but he bowed his head in sorrow. Ashalea, Denavar and Shara were now all perched around the fire, gazing at him intently. For the moment, Ashalea was so transfixed on his story, the anger had dissipated entirely. Wezlan cleared his throat, which felt lumpy from emotion, and he continued.
“He returned to the Moonglade Meadows, where he hailed from. The King and Queen rejected him, banishing him for his crimes, and in his rage, he unleashed all the untapped evil within. He decimated the royal family, and was almost successful in severing the line, except for one child who was whisked away to safety.
“That child was cared for, hidden away and protected by the Guardians of the Grove for the many centuries that followed. Nineteen years ago, a daughter was born to the only living member of the royal family of Moonglade Meadows. Fearing for her daughter’s life, and unable to give her a proper childhood for fear of being found, she sent the child away to become fostered by loyal servants of the throne.”