“Alexious, I can’t do this anymore. How long has it been since we left Lyria?” one of his men muttered, pulling a ragged blanket around his shoulders. His lips were cracked from the cold, his breath coming in short clouds of frost.
Alexious looked at him with steady eyes. His own face was pale and drawn from the long march, but his voice held firm. “You knew what you signed up for. The night we left, every one of you swore on your ancestors. We swore to Portos, my grandfather, that we would not stop until Farmonia paid for cutting us off from what was ours. That oath still stands.”
He stood up slowly, the firelight throwing his shadow high on the cave wall. His men turned to him, their eyes hollow with exhaustion.
“Listen to me,” Alexious said, his voice carrying through the cave. “I know you have families waiting. I know you want to go home. If any of you wish to turn back, I will not stop you. You will not be punished. No harm will come to you. But this burden is mine, and I will carry it alone if I must.”
The men shifted uneasily. The storm howled outside, snow piling at the cave mouth. For a long moment, nobody spoke.
Then Marcus, Alexious’s oldest friend and captain, stepped forward. He drew his sword and raised it high. “To Alexious, in this life and the next!”
The words rang sharp and true. The rest of the men stirred, one by one drawing their swords, lifting them to the low ceiling of the cave.
“To Alexious!” they shouted together, their voices shaking the stone walls.
Alexious lowered his head for a moment, pride and sorrow mixing in his chest. These men were ready to follow him anywhere, even into death. He sheathed his sword and sat back down by the fire.
It had been almost three weeks since they left Lyria. The first week was steady and calm. But when they reached the mountains of Rafia, everything changed. A blizzard came without warning. Snow fell so heavy they could not see the ground in front of them. The skies were empty, the stars gone. Without the stars, Alexious could no longer guide their way.
For days, they wandered, circling the mountains with no sense of direction. Men collapsed in the snow, only to be dragged to their feet again. Food ran low. Sleep was broken. Every breath stung in their lungs.
That night, after the oath was renewed, they found a cave and huddled inside. The men fell asleep almost at once, too tired to eat. The only sound was the storm outside, screaming like a living thing.
Alexious sat against the stone wall. His cloak was wrapped tight around him, but the cold still reached his bones. His eyes burned from lack of sleep. His head felt heavy, but he forced himself to stay awake.
Then he saw it. A faint green light, far back in the cave. It was not bigger than a spark, but it flickered again, like a dying flame. Alexious blinked, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. It was still there.
He told himself it was exhaustion, that his mind was playing tricks. But the longer he stared, the clearer it became.
When the men were asleep, he stood and walked deeper into the cave. His boots scraped softly on the stone. The air grew colder, sharper. The light pulsed faintly, as if it were breathing.
Alexious’s heart beat faster. For weeks, he had pushed his men through storm and hunger. For weeks, he had prayed for a sign. Now, at last, something called on him.
Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the omen I was meant to find.
Then the pain struck. It was sudden and sharp, like an axe to the skull. His knees buckled. His vision blurred. His breath caught in his throat.
Through the haze, he saw it: a black figure moving in the green glow. It was tall and shapeless, but its eyes glowed faintly in the dark. They locked on him, unblinking.
Alexious tried to shout, but no sound came. His chest felt crushed. His body grew heavy. The last thing he remembered before everything went black was the figure’s gaze, watching him as the green light faded.
Back in Ser Ritchard’s estate, far from the storm, another fire burned. Arthus sat at the long oak table, his face pale with worry. A candle flickered between him and Ser Ritchard, dripping wax slowly down its side.
“I am telling you, we should wait at least four years before we begin Marvin’s training,” Arthus said, breaking the silence. His voice shook.
“Four years?” Ritchard frowned, leaning forward. “By then it may be too late.”
“He is just a boy,” Arthus said. His hands curled into fists on the table. “He doesn’t even know the world yet. He is too young for this.”
Ritchard’s eyes hardened. “He may be young, but the prophecy will not wait. None of us know when the witches will move again. None of us know when shadows will rise. I have prepared for this. When the time comes, Marvin must be ready. Toleem must be ready.”
Arthus lowered his gaze, his chest heavy. He wanted to argue, but the words would not come.
Before he could speak again, the door opened and a man hurried in, his cloak wet with rain. “Ser Ritchard!” he called. “A pigeon has arrived from the capital. It carries the king’s seal.”
Ritchard rose and took the scroll. He broke the seal and read quickly. His face darkened.
“Well?” Arthus asked, his voice rising.
“The king will be here in two weeks,” Ritchard said flatly. “He comes with his wife. He wants to see the child himself.”
Arthus’s eyes widened. “The king… here?”
“Yes,” Ritchard said. He folded the letter, his voice steady but sharp. “I expected this day, but not so soon.” He turned to Arthus. “We must hide Marvin before the king arrives.”
Arthus shook his head. “But the king is just. Why would he harm a child?”
“You do not know the Santorian line as I do,” Ritchard said firmly. “They are just, yes, but they are also hungry for power. Since the days of Arrakis, since Mancor, the Santorian kings have always feared what they cannot control. Envy runs in their blood.”
Arthus’s chest tightened. He thought of Elena, asleep upstairs with Marvin in her arms, unaware of the danger creeping closer with every passing day.
Ritchard placed a hand on his shoulder. His eyes were calm, but his grip was firm. “We have little time. Tomorrow, we begin.”
Arthus nodded, though fear still weighed heavy on him. “Then tomorrow it is.”