With nothing more than a satchel, a bow and arrow, and a canteen of water, he begins his trek down the main dirt road, the dimly lit lanterns stationed near each house serving as his guide. He walks for about twenty minutes until civilization eventually tapers off, leaving him with only starlight to go by. He takes a quick look around him before entering the brush. Twigs snap underneath his sturdy boots and fallen leaves crunch with every step. A few minutes pass, and he begins to worry that maybe he took a wrong turn somewhere. As often as he comes out here, he’d think each journey would get easier, but it’s quite the contrary—especially in a night as pitch black as this one.
He wipes the beads of sweat forming along his brow, his confidence wavering. I should turn around and retrace my steps. The thought is dismissed as quickly as it first appeared.
Off in the distance, not more than thirty feet away, is a canvas of still blue water. It gleams in the moonlight, the stars twinkling in the mirror-like reflection. He looses a breath and smiles. Why he ever doubts himself eludes him. He adjusts his bow, then makes his way to the lake.
Lake Ipcea. One of the only bodies of water in Athia that isn’t a surrounding ocean. Braxton’s always had a preference for freshwater fish—something about the taste leaves his mouth watering for more. His mother and father used to require that only freshwater fish be served in the Kingdom of Trendalath; any other catch could be thrown to the townspeople as scraps. His father thought himself generous for doing so.
One day, when his mother and father had left on official business for more than a few hours, Braxton had seized a rare opportunity: to catch his own food. He’d rigged together a long stick with a piece of string and fastened an iron hook from the kitchen onto the end. Without saying a word to the servants, he’d left the castle, climbing through a back window that appeared to serve no other purpose than decoration. Seeing as the castle was built on a hill that overlooked the Great Ocean, Braxton had no choice but to sidestep down the steep grassy knoll.
When he finally made it to flat ground, he’d dug for worms and placed them in a small tin he’d also found in the kitchen. He’d sat there for hours until a saltwater fish—a rainbow trout—had tugged on his line. And so, he’d brought it inside for lunch. Phillipa, one of the housemaids, had been appalled at the time but, because of her soft spot for the boy, had cooked up the trout anyway.
Braxton could remember the way the saltwater trout tasted as if it had happened yesterday—and it wasn’t good. Simply put, it was fishy and pungent, like a piece of salmon that had gone bad. From that point forward, he understood why his parents preferred freshwater fish and never complained again at a meal.
And that’s precisely what he plans to do tonight in the stillness of Lake Ipcea. Hanslow is a saltwater kind of fellow, meaning that anytime seafood is served at the inn, it’s brought in from the Great Ocean. Braxton skips out on those meals when he can and heads straight for the lake. What can he say, old habits are hard to break.
In the moonlight, he spots a nearby set of branches and breaks off one of proper length. Like old times, he ties a piece of string at the end and fastens the hook. With a reel that he handcrafted himself, he loops the string round and round. He situates himself close to the shore and casts the line. Sitting in the peaceful stillness never ceases to clear his mind. It’s almost as if time stands still, if only for a few brief moments.
The stillness is suddenly disrupted as something rustles in the bushes at the same time his line pulls. He drops the line and jumps to his feet, readying himself in a defensive stance. He swiftly pulls his bow from the holster on his back and draws an arrow. He gazes blindly into the dark with his weapon pointed at the forest. His heart thumps in his chest as the rustling grows louder. What appears through the brush is something most wouldn’t be afraid of, but he keeps his weapon raised, the tip of the arrow aimed right at the heart.
Eyes the color of crimson stare back at him.
It’s a young boy.
RYDAN HELSTROM
THE SHIP COMES to a halt as the captain docks it, the underbelly shaking from hitting the port over and over again. Rydan sits in a corner on the lower deck, his hands bound behind his back, feet tied together, a musty rope pressed between his teeth. His jaw aches from clenching for so long, and both his mouth and throat have gone dry, making it even more difficult to breathe.
One of Tymond’s guards sits on a barrel from across the room. He stares at Rydan, like he’s being doing all day (and well into the night), but surprisingly it doesn’t bother him. If he really wanted to, he could escape from these shackles in seconds. But where would he go? He’d considered taking down all the men on the ship and steering it far, far away from Trendalath, but the effort seems too great.
So he’d sat there, holding the guard’s gaze for long as he could, until he’d finally broken his stare and leaned his head back into the wood panels lining the lower deck of the ship. He’d closed his eyes, only to find that when he opened them, they’d arrived at their destination. The journey back felt much shorter than the journey there. Not surprising.
Two guards seize him and cut the rope binding his ankles, but don’t bother with the one around his wrists or the one in his mouth. Rydan tries to spit it out, but one of the guards slaps him across the head. “Knock it off,” he growls.
As much as Rydan wants to curse the oaf, he maintains his composure and lets the guards lead him up onto the main deck and off of the ship.
The town of Trendalath is bustling with activity, and as they walk toward the castle, Rydan notices various merchants actually have the courage to approach the king’s guards in an effort to try to sell their goods. The guards, however, remain indifferent and simply wave away the townspeople as if they’re pesky gnats. Rydan’s steps falter as one particularly brave soul spits on the ground before them, shouting obscenities—but shockingly, the guards ignore the boisterous young lad. This is surprising, especially since Tymond is known for doling out punishments for almost everything, no matter how trivial the crime.
The scent of spices and herbs fills the air and brightly colored silks and linens line the dirt streets. While the people seem to be in good spirits, it’s obvious that many of them haven’t eaten in days. Rydan notices one family in particular—a mother with two young children, one that isn’t even old enough to walk. She holds the child to her bosom, her eyes wet with tears. Her husband is on the streets, hustling, doing everything he can to sell his woodenwares.
A chill creeps down Rydan’s spine. That could have been him. If King Tymond hadn’t taken him in as a member of the Cruex ten years ago, there’s no doubt in his mind that he’d be bartering for food and working ridiculous hours just to make end’s meat. As hard as it is to admit, Rydan will always be grateful to King Tymond; even if his decisions seem brash at times or don’t fully make sense, that man had seen something in him and saved him—had chosen him.
Rydan’s thoughts flicker to the day prior, to the Lonia mission with Arden; to the appalled look on her face when she’d tried to stop him from killing the Soames family and failed. In hindsight, he probably should have told her that the Soames were illusié, but knowing Arden, it probably wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Bullheaded and stubborn, once she’s made her mind up, there’s no changing it, so when she’d set out to save the Soames instead of assassinate them, he should have known that it’d end poorly for him. Although, he never could have guessed—never would have guessed—that she’d knock out her own partner to save the very people they were assigned to assassinate, and then flee, but Arden’s also full of surprises. Never a dull moment with that one.
Rydan snaps back to the present as they approach the castle, its monstrous stone walls stretching as far as he can see. Up on the right, Rydan notices a fruit cart, much like the one in Lonia—the one with the mysterious violet-eyed woman. He points his gaze straight ahead as mocha-colored skin and obsidian hair drift across his memory. His breath catches. There’s something a
bout her he can’t quite put his finger on. Something familiar. When he looks back over at the cart, the sight almost stops him in his tracks. It can’t be.
Felix Barlow, the original captain of their ship to Lonia, stands just next to the wooden cart. He tosses a green apple into the air with an all-knowing smirk plastered on his face. Rydan blinks, just to be sure he’s actually seeing Barlow, when a commotion to the left steals his attention. Two young boys are fighting over what appears to be a loaf of bread. One of the guards surrounding Rydan breaks from the circle formation they’d been walking in and approaches the scuffle. A sword is drawn. The boys stop fighting and stare up at the guard with wide eyes, then drop the bread and run for their lives. The guard sheathes his sword and retreats back to his original position.
Rydan diverts his attention back to the fruit cart. His shoulders sag at the realization that as quickly as Barlow had appeared, he’s gone. Rydan silently curses himself for not keeping a closer eye on the lad. He was probably his only chance for escape at this point.
Rydan and the guards go as far as they can, reaching the moat that separates the castle from the rest of the town. A guard at the top of the watchtower motions to another to lower the drawbridge. Rydan winces as the hundred-year-old chains moan. After what seems like an eternity, the bridge lands on the ground with a loud thud. The ground rumbles, but the guards take little notice as they drag him forward across the walkway. Rydan looks up at the many men guarding the castle, bows drawn at the ready, dozens of iron-tipped arrows pointed directly at his skull. He lowers his head, afraid that one false move could be the deciding factor in whether he lives or dies.
The castle smells just as he remembers it—damp and musty with a side of death. The hallways are dimly lit with barely any light seeping through the windows. The thunderstorm Barlow had predicted hasn’t hit yet, so perhaps today will be the day. They approach an all too familiar room, one that Rydan was hoping he wouldn’t have to see for a while.
The Great Room.
He locks his knees, knowing that this won’t stop the guards from bringing him inside, but at least it will give him a few extra seconds of peace. The double doors swing open and he takes a deep inhale as the guards push him forward. He walks solemnly toward the king, eyes cast downward, until the guards stop him.
He slowly lifts his head and immediately wishes he hadn’t. The usual light blue of Tymond’s eyes is completely engulfed in black, and his salt-and-pepper hair has strayed from its usual comb over. Eyes alight with rage, he looks like a demonic creature sent from another world. Rydan tries to restrain a shudder, but the king’s dreadful glare makes it almost impossible to do so.
Tymond presses his lips together before speaking. “Rydan Helstrom.” The bitter expression on his face says it all.
“Your Majesty.” When Rydan doesn’t bow, one of the guards elbows him in the side, causing him to keel over in a semi-bow.
Tymond taps his fingers, the sound deafening in the quiet space. “This is not how I expected our next meeting to go. I thought we’d be joined by your partner.” His expression grows even darker than before, something that Rydan didn’t think was possible. “Care to enlighten me?”
A multitude of scenarios run through his head. He could lie, like he had to the soldiers, and tell him that Arden’s dead. Already highly unbelievable, seeing as the soldiers found small, petite footsteps leading away from the Soames’s residence.
He could say that they’d lost tabs on each other once they’d arrived in Lonia. He could also say that just as they’d been about to complete the assassination, the tables had turned, leaving Arden no choice but to flee and leave the rest of the dirty work to him. Oh, how he wished that were what had actually happened. But, most likely, Tymond already knew the truth, so there would be no use in lying. No sense in digging an even deeper hole for himself. “I do not know where Arden is.” The words fall out of his mouth almost too easily. “But the assassination is complete.”
Tymond narrows his eyes. “And where’s my proof?”
Rydan swallows. Oh right, that. “I don’t have it, Your Majesty, but I give you my word that the assassination was carried out just as you’d requested.”
Tymond rises from his throne, walking down the steps ever so slowly. He keeps his gaze pinned on Rydan the entire time. When the king finally reaches him, it takes everything in him to maintain eye contact. The urge to look away is strong, but his desire to remain dignified is stronger.
“I have your word?” the king hisses.
Rydan’s body goes stiff as a board.
“Tell me, Helstrom, what good is your word?”
The king’s face is just inches from his own, his hot breath blazing across Rydan’s cheekbones. “Your Majesty, I am an honorable man.” His voice wavers. “You can trust my word, I swear it.”
Tymond takes a step back. He slowly shakes his head and looks . . . disappointed.
Not good.
“I had high hopes for you Helstrom,” the king says with a sigh, “but unfortunately, you are a traitor and a liar.”
The words hit him right in the gut. Rydan squeezes his eyes shut, wishing that this were all just a dream. A twisted, backwards nightmare of a dream.
“You see, Helstrom, my guards infiltrated the Soames’s household, and while the bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Soames were indeed decapitated, the whereabouts of said heads were nowhere to be found.” Tymond tisks under his breath. “In addition, the body of the Soames boy, nor his head, were present. So it appears that you completed a little more than half of your mission, which, as you are aware, is considered a failure in my book.”
Rydan opens his mouth to protest, but one of the guards kicks him in the back of the knee, forcing him to kneel.
“Rydan Helstrom, I hereby sentence you to one year in the dungeons, at which time the royal court will deem your worthiness of a trial.”
He clenches his jaw to keep it from dropping, but it disobeys. Well, that turned rather quickly.
The guards yank him to his feet and whirl him toward the double doors. With much intended force, Rydan manages to break free, if only for a moment, and runs up a couple of the steps leading to Tymond’s throne. The king watches him approach with beady eyes, raising a hand to cease the guards from attacking.
Rydan’s fierce gaze meets the king’s. “You are not worthy of the throne you sit upon and I will no longer serve under your reign.” He spits on the ground at Tymond’s feet. “Consider this my formal resignation.”
Tymond’s gaze hardens. “Make it two years.” He motions to the guards. “You are dismissed,” he snarls.
One year, two years, what did it matter? It was all the same to the king—Rydan would wind up dead and his remaining scraps of flesh would be fed to the buzzards.
The guards seize him and turn him back around to face the double doors. Rydan notices a black falcon perched on one of the windowsills, watching him, observing him. He scowls, then allows himself to be led through the double doors and down the hallway that leads to the dungeons. He takes one last glimpse of his life—his old life—before ducking into the stairwell. Even in the dim light of Tymond’s underworld, his new home for two years, Rydan manages to keep his head held high. The guard throws him into an empty cell. The iron door slams shut.
He is alone.
DARIUS TYMOND
DARIUS REMAINS SEATED on his throne, staring at the double doors to the Great Room. Whispers of what a dreadful king he is consume his thoughts, but he forces them away with a quick shake of his head. He did what was right. He’d been left with no other choice. The boy had to be locked up, seeing as he poses a potential threat not only to the Cruex, but also to his reign as king. Even still, a lump forms in his throat. Failure will not sit well with his Savant; the thought of facing them is enough to fill him with dread.
The glinting of his amethyst ring briefly catches his attention, but his focus shifts as one of the doors creaks open. A head of long wh
ite-blonde hair pokes through. With a quick nod of her head, Aldreda enters the Great Room and closes the door behind her. Her shoes clack across the marble floor, her black and red robes slithering along the smooth surface. She looks absolutely stunning, as she always does, and Darius catches himself holding his breath as she approaches.
Aldreda curtsies then says, “My King.”
Darius rises and steps toward her, taking her hand in his. “My Queen,” he responds as he bows and kisses the top of her hand.
Aldreda seems to hardly acknowledge the gesture. “The Helstrom boy,” she starts without hesitation as she gazes back at the double doors, “I saw the guards leading him toward the dungeons.”
The king drops her hand, suddenly feeling insecure with his decision-making capabilities.
Aldreda turns back toward him with an icy glare. “Did you not consider consulting me first?”
Darius just stares at her, uncertain how to respond.
“Apparently, my counsel is of little to no importance to you, but I’m going to express my opinion anyway.” She brings her hands to her lower abdomen, cupping the small bump that is seemingly more visible from underneath her robes. “Seeing as you haven’t given it much thought, condemning the Helstrom boy could have serious repercussions.”
“On the contrary, I have considered it,” Darius shoots back. “Not only does he pose a threat to the Cruex, he also poses a threat to my reign over Trendalath.”
Aldreda raises an eyebrow. “How so?”
“If I don’t severely punish Rydan for disobeying the terms of his mission, then I will lose the respect of the remaining Cruex members. And without the respect of the Cruex, my assassins, I am powerless.”
Aldreda tilts her head back and forth as if weighing the statement. “Did you not consider how respected Helstrom is among the Cruex?”
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