An Heir Comes to Rise

by C. C. Peñaranda

  Faythe stood in the gold-and-white shimmers of her mind as she flicked through memories of her longest best friend. The thought of nearly losing him had haunted her on her way to sleep, and she found herself immediately needing the comfort of his presence.

  Happy memories. She smiled and even laughed at some of their earlier antics. Reflecting on their younger selves made her heart hurt. They had been so innocent and oblivious to the world around them. Even though they had never had any luxuries and struggled to keep fed, their childhood years had been blissful; the most carefree and joyous.

  She felt Nik’s gentle nudge on the edge of her mind before she allowed him to enter, but then his full presence surrounded her. She didn’t turn to look at him as she continued to watch the memories unfold in front of her like a motion picture.

  “I can leave. I just wanted to check you were okay,” he said carefully.

  She shot him a grateful smile over her shoulder, then she held her hand out, inviting him to come closer. He obliged, coming up behind and resting a hand across her lower back. His touch, even in her mind, soothed every aching feeling.

  “He’s almost fully healed. It’s a miracle,” she said, turning to look at her friend’s face as she recalled the memories to display in front of them.

  “You look happy with him,” he observed.

  Faythe detected the slight hint of a question in his words. Everyone had wondered it at one point or another—why she and Jakon had never become a romantic couple.

  “We were… Still are,” she corrected. Noting the slight stiffening of his hand on her, she continued, “I love him, but not in the way everyone expects. He’s not a lover. He’s not just a friend or a brother either… I can’t explain it.” She twisted to face him, her hands coming up to rest on his chest. “But you should know, I’ve never felt this way for him.” She reached up to brush her mouth against his, and he responded by pulling her gently closer so no air could move between them. The kiss was short but needed.

  When they pulled back to look at each other, his eyes sparkled. He smiled down at her, and it made her heart flutter wonderfully. It felt right with Nik. She hated that she had ever denied herself before. They would figure it out, keep it secret to whatever end if they had to, and only meet in here or the woods if necessary, because any time she could get with him would be better than nothing at all.

  He leaned down and kissed her again, harder this time, as if in silent agreement with her thoughts.

  She sighed contentedly and turned to her memories again just as the scene switched.

  A much more recent memory: the day of the summer solstice when Jakon had just arrived home, about to present her with the sword she’d come to call Lumarias. She tuned in to hear the excitement in his voice when he gave her the one thing she’d wanted most—now her dearest possession. Faythe closely examined it while Jakon explained its craftsmanship. She grinned at the recollection as she had yet to know the brilliant mind behind the sword and how close she would become to the blacksmith.

  “The blacksmith kindly offered the stone with no charge. Called it The Looking Glass—some ancient stone that’s supposed to bring good fortune and all that.”

  Faythe sucked in a sharp breath, and her mouth popped open. She couldn’t have heard it right. She rewound the memory, convinced her mind was possibly was mixing up words from another event. But then she heard it again, unmistakably:

  “The Looking Glass.”

  She froze, and Nik noted her stiffness. “What is it?” he asked in concern.

  How could she not have made the connection earlier? If Marlowe had indeed translated the word correctly, it meant the Riscillius required to open the temple…

  Looking over the blade in her memory again, Faythe was astonished she’d never paid heed to the markings etched on the guard of her own sword before: three similar symbols in a vertical line. Blended in with the tone of the metal, it would take a keen eye to distinguish them, but when she did, a cold chill went through her as she identified the top one to be the mark of Aurialis.

  Why would the blacksmith put such a thing on her sword? She knew her friend had a guilty pleasure for the Spirits and other mythical lore, but it made no sense to incorporate it into her work.

  Faythe felt shaken with dread at the recurring sight of that damned symbol. She cursed herself for her own slowness in not making the connection sooner. But had she really held the real thing in her sword this whole time? Her stomach fell slightly. There was a good chance it was only a replica from some nonsense merchant trying to get more coin. A simple rock with no abilities whatsoever.

  There would only be one way to find out. But…did she really want to discover what dwelled inside the temple? Perhaps there was a damned good reason it was sealed and could only be opened with one very specific, very ancient stone. She might risk awakening something that had been asleep for centuries.

  “Faythe, what’s wrong?” Nik pressed again.

  She twisted to him. “Nothing,” she said sweetly, though her mind was reeling. If there was danger behind those doors, she didn’t need to risk anyone else finding out the hard—possibly deadly—way. “I think I’m going to get some sleep. It’s been a whirl of a night.”

  He gave her a smile of understanding and ran the back of his hand down her cheek. His fingers settled under her chin, angling her face up to kiss him again. She would never get tired of the feeling it gave her and the light it brightened inside of her.

  “I’ll see you soon,” he promised when he pulled back.

  She answered with a nod and then watched as he faded into her swirls of gold mist before disappearing altogether.

  When she could no longer feel his presence, she forced herself awake.

  Chapter 37

  Faythe’s eyes snapped open, adjusting to the darkness of the small bedroom. She didn’t have to glance at Jakon to know he was asleep from the familiar sound of his light snoring. She cautiously tilted her head to the blonde beside her—also sound asleep.

  She slowly rose from the bed and tiptoed out of the bedroom in a deliberate pattern to avoid the uneven spots on the floorboards that creaked loudly. In the main room, she didn’t dare move or breathe too loudly while she maneuvered the space with stealth, swinging on her cloak and snatching Lumarias. Then Faythe misted into the night, giddy with an adventurer’s thrill.

  Logical reasoning didn’t come into play as she darted in and out of shadowed streets before scaling the hills to the eternal woods. If she really held the key to those doors, the Riscillius, all this time…

  It could just be a simple rock. Then I can let go of my fixation on the damned thing.

  But the reckless, dark side of her hoped The Looking Glass needed to open the temple was indeed within her grasp. Her fingers flexed tighter around the hilt of her sword in adrenaline-fueled anticipation while she marched through the trees to the waterfall clearing.

  She halted abruptly when she emerged, her heart skipping a beat as she stared incredulously across the open space. The mighty white stag stood in wait as if it knew her intentions. She didn’t let the thought rattle her nerves and pressed forward, following the beast for the third—and hopefully final—time. She would either come to find what it so eagerly wanted to guide her to, or she was foolishly trailing behind the Grim Reaper incarnate, happily escorting her to a sure death beyond those doors, ready to claim her soul that was still bound to the cursed woodland.

  The temple glade unfolded in front of her, and the loud pounding of her pulse thrummed in her ears as she watched the stag float up the steps and disappear through the stone doors once again. Realizing this time, she might truly hold the key to follow it all the way, Faythe pulled her sword free from its scabbard without looking, taking slow steps toward the looming structure. The cry of steel awoke her senses, turning her attention to the rational thoughts that screamed the danger of what she was about to do.

  There was only one glaring problem: How to use the Riscillius?


  She held up the hilt of Lumarias and squinted at it. There was no obvious lock on the door, and even if there were, the thought of having to ruin Marlowe’s perfect craftsmanship to remove the stone pained her. Her sword was more than just a key. It was strange to think she could be bonded to an item, but her attachment to Lumarias was strong.

  She stalked up the portico and held out the rock, pressing it against the door at all angles and feeling over the rough surface for any unusual marks or dips that could indicate a slot for the Riscillius. Nothing revealed itself, and Faythe’s frustrations grew.

  Why lead me here and not offer a clue to get inside?

  In her moment of anguish, she growled loudly and slammed a palm against the hard stone. It did nothing but sting her skin and send a hideous jolt of pain up her arm. She rested her forehead against the cold stone door, about to cry out to no one in particular, when a soft female voice made her whirl around.

  “It’s a lens.”

  When Faythe’s eyes landed on a familiar blonde head, all she could do was gawk in absolute shock at the sight of Marlowe at the bottom of the steps. She couldn’t speak for a moment and blinked hard a few times to be sure she wasn’t just another illusion conjured by the eternal woods.

  “What?” was all Faythe could breathe in response, still not believing her friend was really there.

  Marlowe nodded to the sword in her hand. “The Riscillius—The Looking Glass. It also means ‘to see what is not there.’ It’s to be used as a lens to open the temple.” Her voice was different and her expression conflicted. It looked out of place on the blacksmith’s usually bright face.

  Then her words registered, and Faythe too glanced down at Lumarias. “How would you know that?” she asked shakily.

  Marlowe didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she climbed the few steps to level with Faythe and held her hand out. Faythe passed her the sword, too stunned to object or force any explanation from her. The blacksmith gave a small smile—which was a slight relief at least—and then she held up the pommel to her eye.

  Faythe watched silently as her friend reached into her pocket and pulled something out. Chalk.

  “I saw it…in a dream,” Marlowe spoke quietly. Stepping up to the doors, she began to draw steady lines across one side. “You wouldn’t have believed me before, and it was not for me to tell you either.” She carried on tracing, not meeting Faythe’s eye as she pondered her deep thoughts out loud. “You needed to figure it out on your own. Everything has an order. Disrupt it, and you can throw it all out of balance. One small alteration to the chain of events…can change the fate of the world.”

  Faythe’s heart hammered in her chest. It was Marlowe’s voice, yet the words shook right through her very bones, so she couldn’t be sure if they were entirely of her friend’s making.

  “Did you follow me here?”

  The blacksmith cast her a smile in answer. What it meant, Faythe wasn’t certain. She raised the stone to her eye once again before switching sides, continuing her delicate tracing across the gray stone. Then she held the sword back to Faythe.

  She dared to bring it to her eye with a shaky hand and gasped as she saw the markings glowing bright gold under her friend’s white chalk drawings.

  “The temple is warded by a memory spell,” Marlowe explained. “You won’t remember the markings to enter in a few minutes. You’ll need the Riscillius each time as they will fade from the doors once they are sealed again.”

  Did her friend know this all along?

  Faythe looked at Marlowe through new eyes, caught between heartbreak and admiration that she had kept such knowledge from Faythe throughout their friendship. But she decided she had no right to be angry for the deception when she harbored a deadly secret of her own.

  Then another thought froze her still, and she stared at her friend.

  Did Marlowe know about her abilities too?

  It would be impossible. Her ability wasn’t something the blacksmith could pick up from a book—not connected to Faythe specifically. Though this didn’t ease her nerves. She was an anomaly that shouldn’t exist in the world; a human with an unexplainable gift…

  Was the quiet, book-loving blonde one of her kind too?

  Faythe trembled, unable to reel in her racing thoughts and wild, outlandish conclusions about her friend’s knowledge. It seemed too vast, too perfect, and Marlowe always held the answers as if she knew exactly when they would be needed. But Faythe couldn’t bring herself to outright ask or accuse her. Before she could send herself into a frenzy of possible explanations, Marlowe finished her artwork on the temple doors and stepped back. Faythe copied the movement in nervous anticipation. After a moment of deafening silence, the doors groaned loudly, caving inward a fraction.

  Faythe was stunned. Quite literally. She stood with her mouth agape and couldn’t peel her eyes from the slither of darkness that opened into the temple. Her hands shook violently, and she gripped Lumarias so hard it hurt.

  When no danger immediately presented itself, Faythe cast a look to Marlowe. The blacksmith beamed enthusiastically.

  “Shall we?” She didn’t wait for Faythe to join her as she walked the few paces to brace her splayed palms against the door.

  Faythe watched her strain for a second, still dumbfounded by the events, and then she moved to help. Together, they pushed against the heavy door. External light flooded in to illuminate the interior of the temple. Marlowe moved to enter first, unfaltering, unflinching, while Faythe remained on the edge of caution, eyes darting to scan every inch of the place as she took her first wary steps inside. She kept her sword poised.

  But it was not at all what Faythe was expecting. There were no rows of benches or any sign this was ever intended as a place of worship. Instead, the great hall was surprisingly empty. The first thing that caught her eye was the symbol engraved into the center of the ground—the mark of Aurialis, identical to the one on the door. It became the focal point of the room, shimmering gold under the light emanating from a dome in the roof that allowed the eternal sun to penetrate a perfect circle.

  The walls were lined with rows of sunken alcoves, each holding various old books and artifacts. Marlowe found herself at home with the treasure trove of knowledge, already scanning the pages of a thick volume. A deep frown creased her perfect skin. Luckily, no threats were triggered in her boldness to tamper with the long-forgotten items.

  Despite its abandonment, the temple didn’t choke Faythe’s lungs with dust or sting her nose with damp stone rot. The air was surprisingly clear and bright. She breathed deeply to calm her racing heart and allowed herself to admire the beauty of it now it was clear no foul creatures or deathly traps lay inside. Though the latter still kept her slightly vigilant. Nothing was certain with ancient magickal dwellings.

  Spying a podium past the circle of light, Faythe stalked for it. As she stepped over Aurialis’s crest, Marlowe called out.

  “Wait!”

  Faythe halted on command, bringing her sword up in a spike of fear. But when she did, what startled her was the laser beam of light that shot out from the pommel—from the Riscillius. Marlowe stared at it wide-eyed too, an indication her friend didn’t hold the answers this time. Faythe’s eyes followed the line of white light, but it struck nothing except the gray stone of the wall near the exit. When she moved her sword, the beam moved with it, always channeling through The Looking Glass.

  Then she saw it.

  Right above the stone doors, she spotted a protruding sculpture in the shape of an eye. And within it…a stone identical to the one she held.

  She didn’t need Marlowe to conclude the obvious. Without overthinking it, Faythe took a firm stance and braced Lumarias in both palms, blade pointing to the ground. The laser wavered slightly, and she gripped the hilt tighter to steady her trembling hands. She didn’t look to Marlowe again, and the blacksmith made no call to stop her as she began to guide the light to connect it to the crystal above. She tuned in to the sound of her own heartbeat,
cast out all thoughts of reservation, and then, when the light met its destination…

  All went blindingly white.

  Marlowe no longer stood beside her as she was encased in an impenetrable veil of the brightest white light. She dropped her hands, keeping her blade poised, and twisted to look for any sign of the grim stone walls that were around her a second ago. She looked to the floor, relived when it confirmed she was indeed still inside the temple. The symbol of Aurialis remained under her feet, now glowing brightly.

  She called out to Marlowe, but her name only echoed off the phantom walls, and her panic surged. She was about to reach out and touch the white sheet that surrounded her when a voice spoke.

  “Hello, Faythe.”

  She whirled to meet a tall, slender woman. Only, she wasn’t fully there. The figure appeared slightly opaque and glowed around the edges. Despite this, Faythe’s breath left her as she stared at the ethereal beauty. Her hair was moon-white and poker-straight down her long, slim face. A silver ornate band adorned the top of her head, over her forehead, and she wore a gown of layered, flowing white.

  “Who are you?” Faythe managed to get out, though her throat had turned paper-dry.

  “My name is Aurialis. Your people call me the Spirit of Life and Goddess of the Sun,” she answered, her voice like a melody.

  Faythe’s face blanched. She was convinced the form in front of her was nothing but a mind trick triggered by the stones.

  “We don’t have long. The veil can only be opened for a few minutes at a time,” Aurialis continued softly.

  “How do you know my name?”

  “I have been watching you and your companions for a long time. Nothing is chance; nothing is coincidence. Your destiny has led you here, and you must trust your instincts and the people around you to guide you.”

  Faythe shook her head. “I think you’re mistaken—” Her objection was interrupted as the Spirit continued.

  “No, Heir of Marvellas. You are exactly where you are meant to be.”