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Caera Denoir
I couldn't recall the last time I'd been in one of the Doctrination's temples.
The closest I could guess was back when I was a young girl, before I'd even manifested my Vritra blood. Corbett and Lenora had taken me to a few services that I could remember, but nothing that really stuck with me, either in how to worship our overlords, or how to act as if I were.
It's strange in retrospect, how little I interacted with the faith, I mused, keeping my mana signature compressed and my profile low. It probably was intentional.
I nudged the irritating realization back into my core. It made sense now why my adoptive parents didn't want me to be drawn into the sway of the corrupt vicars, especially after all I'd seen in the wake of the Plaguefire Incursion. But it still gnawed at me that I hadn't seen it.
"And your brother just so happened to have one of these 'visions,' " I mused aloud, continuing the thread of conversation that had sparked my thoughts about the Doctrination. My voice came out far more gravelly than normal. "Just as I was heading out to my meeting? That seems very convenient."
I brushed a lock of hair out of my eyes, noting its deep, moss-green color. Changed by the cloaking artifact Seris had given me, no longer was I Caera Denoir, but Haedrig: no-name ascender and altogether perfect instrument for laying the groundwork my mentor had entrusted me with.
Currently, I was about to meet with a gathering of nobles and unadorned in the depths of Fiachra: one of many such small groups that had become commonplace in the aftermath of the Second Dawn. Groups that wouldn't call themselves rebels, no. That was too strong a term. But people who were no longer content. People who were tired of the current order under the Sovereigns.
Afterward, I'd be heading off to Aedelgard for the crux of my mission. The thing I dreaded and desired the most. Cylrit Vritra—now publicly nominated as a Scythe in the last couple of days—would be there, and that was where all our plans began. Plans about what was stored beneath Seris' old estate. Plans about how I'd interact with her former Retainer. Plans about how I could protect my family and fulfill Seris' goals of rebellion.
Except someone had thrown a wrench into those plans. Someone with choppy brown hair, an air of teasing entitlement, and far, far too much willpower for me to deal with at the moment.
"It's not a coincidence. We agree on that," Circe Milview muttered by my side, her eyes darting this way and that. We were currently lounging on a decrepit roof within East Fiachra, observing the crumbling temple to the Doctrination not far away. "But I'm not just making it up, either. I need to be here. I wouldn't expect you to understand."
I needed to do a few things for this group. Spread the right rumors, nudge it in the right direction, give some measure of hope. But I had not planned in any way for this young woman to accompany me here. In fact, I'd only let her come along from Darrin Ordin's estate because of how she'd healed my brother after Scythe Melzri Vritra attacked him.
"Expect me to understand? But you said yourself that the visions your brother gets are different now," I shot back, disgruntled and uncertain of her intentions. Really, the only thing I knew about her was that she wanted to get in my brother's pants, and that she had a brother of her own that she cared for fiercely. That wasn't saying much at all. "It sounds to me like you don't understand, either."
Circe sighed in annoyance beside me, leaning past the cover of the wall and checking for the billionth time for our targets. The mask on her face did a good job of hiding her features, but I could tell she was just as uncertain as me. "You're right. Yeah. His latest fit was different. Before, Seth would always glimpse places we needed to be. But only one place at a time."
"But this last time, he got two visions," I muttered, restraining my intrigue. Questions about aether and the powers it wielded fascinated me. Something about watching Sevren dive headlong into every bit of experimentation he could manage rubbed off on me. That desire to see something I couldn't explain develop, grow, and change… "Two places at once."
What did it mean? I wondered, restraining my curiosity as it mixed with my dread. These forces were things we couldn't hope to understand. Terrifying and wonderful all at once. Circe hasn't said much about the other times her brother had these visions, but they're clearly significant somehow. Enough to make her pester me.
"He feels a sort of compulsion," the young woman said after a moment. "To be wherever those fits say he should be. And now that there are two, at least he's able to choose. And it doesn't matter if I understand it or not. I just need to do it."
My lips curved down into a frown at that. One of Seth's so-called visions had pushed her brother to simply stay in Darrin's Estate, and the sentry had made her brother sit still while she tackled the other one. Which meant she was stuck with me.
The last time Circe had followed one of those visions, she'd supposedly stumbled across a decimated squad of Wraiths. Wraiths. Those were supposed to be myths. Fairy tales, to scare children. Not real. And despite my better reasoning, I couldn't bring myself to dive headfirst into my next task with the gnawing suspicion that something comparable might be awaiting me.
"Do you even know what you're 'supposed' to do?" I asked, both to the sentry and to myself. I shivered in the mid-spring chill.
The young woman shivered, too. Staring down at the ominous temple, I thought I could see the memories playing behind her eyes. "I'll know it when I'm there," she responded quietly. "That's how these things work. Even if I can't see it now. Just got to have faith."
My eyes drifted up to the devastated roof of the temple, noting the shattered tiling and yawning holes in the ceiling. Toren Daen had clashed with Mardeth here during the Plaguefire Incursion. And in the end, his victory represented something earth-shattering to all of Alacrya. Something I was only now beginning to understand, as Seris instructed me to use it.
Toren's victory in this city was a rejection of the Vritra themselves. It was a rejection of their oppression, their power, and their ideals. And that included absolute, unwavering faith in their cause. In my mind, it also meant in any cause.
So why did this woman still cling so desperately to hers?
We stewed in silence for a time. Me, my nerves rising and falling as I struggled to prepare for what would come after this meeting. Circe, I thought, for whatever the meeting would bring in the first place.
My eyes shifted to the side as I noticed a disturbance on the roof. A rat scurried across the tiles, a tiny slip of paper held gingerly in its jaws. The little rodent squeaked as it reached me, sitting up on its haunches as it stared up at me expectantly.
Wade's getting better and better with his network by the day, I thought with admiration, taking the slip of paper from the little rodent's mouth. It's almost unnerving how well he took Alaric's lessons to heart.
I knew where Wade would be heading next, knew what he'd be helping my brother do. And though I felt my stomach curdle with worry—and no little guilt from how I was deliberately keeping him in the dark about my plans—I knew he'd succeed, despite the utter danger before him.
I scanned over the paper in my hand, reading off a list of names of people present at the upcoming meeting. Circe sidled up close, her eyes narrowing as she read the page, too.
"That puts us in the all-clear," I muttered, creating a single spark of soulfire over my finger. I let the page burn away as the rat scampered off, its mission complete. "Now it's time to make an entrance. I'll need you to stick behind me and be quiet. The key to this is presentation, and I can't let it go off-script."
I moved to the edge of the building, ready to let myself drop directly to the ground. Mana flowed along my limbs as I braced for the fall, my mind already on the future.
"Uh, 'Haedrig?' " Circe said behind me, sounding a bit more meek than usual, "I can't, well… I can't strengthen my body with mana."
I let out a sigh. These things were never easy, were they?
—
After descending the stairs instead with the young woman—in a distinctly uncatlike manner—we swiftly moved to one of the massive temple's side entrances. I spared a glance to either side, making sure I wasn't being watched, before swiftly approaching the doors. They were crafted of knotted, dark timber, imposing and dreadful, but not nearly as scary as they seemed at first.
With Circe by my side, I pressed my ear to the wood, enhancing my hearing with mana. I waited a few heartbeats, but I couldn't hear anything. Neither could I sense the mana signatures within. It seemed that those inside had decent wards set up, at the very least. Able to block mana signatures, sounds, scents, and presumably more from those who might try to spy.
I took a deep breath in, then let it out. In my Haedrig disguise, I was more lanky than lithe, but I still knew that posture and presentation were important. And though I could make a stealthy entrance akin to infiltration, the addition of Circe—alongside the relationship I needed to build with these people—meant that I needed to minimize the cloak and dagger aesthetic.
So I simply opened the door, slipping inside
It was dark inside the temple, unnaturally so. As mana flooded to my eyes, strengthening my vision, I was able to make out more of my surroundings. We were in a short passageway bordered with stone and decaying mosaics, not far from the main chapel. The air felt preternaturally thick, stifling. As if, having been forced to surrender the rest of its treasure, the fist that had onced gripped East Fiachra clutched this last, singular place of power all the tighter.
Immediately, I felt the point of a blade rise up against my chin, nearly close enough to draw blood. A dark-clad figure stood close, their mana signature kept carefully composed. Dark steel chainmail melded to their upper body, accentuating the deep gray leather. Dark hair streaked with silver fell in a ponytail to their shoulders, and their bright blue eyes glimmered with intelligence.
Behind me, Circe squawked in surprise, then fear. A near-identical clone of my ambusher down to the chainmail kept a mace primed to cave in the Sentry's head.
"Take one step more, and you die," the young man said, unwavering and certain. He'd seen true combat before. "Explain your purpose."
The last sentence was said in perfect tandem with my attacker's twin, their mingling tones threatening and laced with killing intent.
Bered and Numar Frost, I thought, my eyes flicking coolly down to the pale blue runes inscribed on the steel pressing into my throat. I slowly raised my hands in submission, showing that I was unarmed. They've grown significantly as ascenders since I last heard about them…
Training in secret, then? Was Uriel of Highblood Frost preparing for the coming storm, too? Pushing his illegitimate sons to such lengths of power?
"I would say that I have important information for you," I muttered irritably, doing my best Sevren impression. With my reedy hair and sullen eyes, I thought I did a wonderful job. "Tell Highlord Morthelm to call you off, if he wants to make a difference at all."
Both twins tensed simultaneously at my mention of their little collection of scavengers and scoundrels' leader. I'd heard rumors that their mind-linking spellforms had upgraded to emblems, but nothing much after. Wade's information network hadn't pierced deep enough into Highblood circles to expose those kinds of secrets. I'd have to learn if these two were here under their father's orders, or on their own.
"You're quite calm for having a sword pressed to your throat," one of the twins said lowly, his body coiled like a spring ready to burst. "But your friend here isn't. We aren't taking you to anyone until—"
"You two, what's wrong?" a familiar voice echoed in a guarded tone. "I felt your mana spike and decided to investigate. I thought you could use some backup…"
Dima Varigan, lover of Darrin Ordin, paused as she stepped into view, fire mana warping around her. Recognition flashed in her eyes as she spotted Circe. After all, the young girl had been living with Darrin for over a month.
"Circe," she said, sounding guarded, "what are you doing here? How did you get here?"
Circe's eyes darted to me. She didn't even know what she was doing here, just blindly following her brother's visions. She didn't even know the details of what was going on, only that we were going to interrupt a gathering of Fiachrans.
Think like Seris, I repeated to myself. How would my mentor act, here?
"It was me who brought her here," I said, raising my arms in submission as the Frost Twin pressed his knife more firmly into my throat. "Your young charge wanted to join in on your meeting—and I thought that I'd bring her as a sign of good faith."
My eyes flicked down again to the blade pressed toward my throat. "I have information that Lord Morthelm—and all the others you're meeting with—would appreciate. Something from the top about why there hasn't been any message from the Sovereigns for weeks on end. Answers, though you won't like them."
With a pulse of mana, I let my cloaking artifact deactivate, my disguise of Haedrig melting away. Shoulder-length, moss-green hair deepened in shade to a long, deep navy. My height changed ever-so-slightly, my features sharpening from the intentional, grungy look of Ascender Haedrig.
The Frost Twin who'd been threatening me—I thought it was Numar—nearly jumped out of his skin as the change overtook me. On instinct, he pressed his sword forward toward my throat, but I was already reacting.
I pressed my leather gauntlet against his blade, stopping the runed edge short from sinking into my neck. With a simple sweep of my foot, I broke the young man's balance, sending him tumbling to the floor. To his credit, even caught off guard, the mage knew how to brace his fall correctly. When he hit the ground, breath leaving his lungs, he was already tensed and ready for an adjusted thrust of his blade. Nearby, Circe screamed.
Too slow, though. I pinned his arm to the ground, staring him in the eyes as my now-long hair fell across my face. The pale blue irises were pinpoint with surprise as the room held its breath.
A slight smile stretched over my face as I looked up at Dima. Bered had moved from Circe, his mace now poised threateningly near the back of my head.
"Hey, Dima," I said leisurely. "Long time no see. Sorry about this, but I don't take well to nearly having my throat cut."
Numar tensed beneath me, his eyes joining his brother's in focusing on Darrin's lover. It was a little eerie how quickly they acted in concert, taking mental cues and showing practically no reaction to being disarmed and put in a vulnerable position.
"Lady Denoir…" Dima said, lowering her hands. She'd raised them in preparation to hurl a spell at me, no doubt expecting a threat. She knew me only as Sevren's adopted sister, and we'd talked a few times, but not enough to fully establish trust. "What is going on?"
"Exactly what I said before," I said with grave confidence, still keeping Numar's wrist pinned. My head momentarily swirled with the weight of the message I would deliver, wondering if Seris' guess was right. If these people could handle the truth. I wasn't even sure I could. "Sevren and I got some information from the very top. And considering what's happening here, we thought you'd need to know it."
Dima vaguely gestured to Bered, whose mace still hovered perfectly over the back of my skull in silent threat. "She's a friend," the woman said slowly. "Though I'm wondering why you felt the need for a disguise."
So my face can't be tied to this place, I thought. So none of you will be drawn into what I'll be doing after this meeting. But aloud, I kept a cool air. "Highblood Denoir doesn't know I'm here," I said seriously, pushing myself to my feet. I brushed a few locks of stray navy hair back behind my ears, remembering the phantom sensation of my hidden horns. "I'd like to keep it that way."
Dima's brow furrowed, but she slowly nodded a ways down the hall. "Okay. Don't draw any weapons."
I spared Circe a single nod, before offering my gloved hand out to Numar Frost. "No hard feelings?"
The ascender glared at my hand for a second in a way that told me that there was some lingering resentment from getting put on the ground. But then the dark-haired striker released a deep breath that seemed to contain whatever anger he'd kept inside, before taking my hand.
"Lady Denoir," he said with annoyed respect. His identical brother stepped nearby, his mace finally lowered. "The rumors don't do your skill credit."
"And you're both stronger than anticipated," I replied honestly. "The Relictombs have hardened you both."
"Still not as strong as Toren Daen. One day, we will be," Bered muttered. "But you, go. We need to keep watching this entrance."
Circe perked up a little at the mention of Toren's name, looking intently at the twins; but before she could fall into another fit of questions, I started following after the blonde striker as she marched back down the corridor. The thin sentry was forced to follow after me, her eyes darting this way and that as the mosaics judged us both from the sides.
The girl visibly shriveled in on herself whenever the beady red of the Vritra paintings spied her, seeming to feel guilt for something I couldn't understand. I didn't curl inwards as she did. I could never afford to let those curdled-blood eyes draw any sort of reaction from me. Instead, I offered the errant sentry a pat on her shoulder.
"Keep up," I offered sympathetically, before following after Dima.
At some point, I'd crossed over the boundary point for the dampening wards, opening my senses up to the mana signatures and sounds that permeated the air. Suddenly, it didn't feel so claustrophobic in the temple halls. The awareness of other living people ripped the power from the Vritra's accusing gazes.
"—And I'm saying something clearly happened. This is taking too long for a routine check," a feminine voice said.
"No sounds of battle have reached us," the voice of an older man retorted. It echoed across the vaulting ceilings and open air that I knew was just ahead. "If what you're worried about is intruders, don't be. It wouldn't make sense for them to step foot here. The wards held up are the best sense-disrupting devices money can buy. Hells, not even a tempus warp can get a lock on here. If someone wants to ambush us, they'd fail."
Oh, he really didn't skimp on expenses for this little meetup, I thought with genuine surprise. Wards capable of blocking tempus warps aren't necessarily difficult to get, but to use one on a rundown temple?
Dima, Circe, and I finally reached the main hall of the Doctrination's temple, and I had to stop myself from instinctively cringing inward, just as the sentry did.
The weather outside was starting to warm up as spring ran its course, but inside this hollow box, the chill remained, rooted like a weed that wouldn't leave. Glass stained with the red of blood and black of decay darkened any light that dared to enter from the sides, trying to keep out any sort of hope these folks might feel. The long, looming ceilings of the temple all seemed to center on a distant point: the judging, cold eyes of the basilisk in human form, lording over its worshippers from a hundred small tiles with exquisite judgment.
My eyes drifted down from the appraising gaze of the Vritra-in-effigy, noting a singular point just below it. Shattered and cratered inward, the wall bore a singular, deep hole.
Memories flickered in the recesses of my mind. Of a shattered estate and desperate battle. Of blithe and plague and raw power coursing through the world as a vicar sought to join his Sovereigns.
Mardeth died there, I thought, goosebumps trailing along my skin. Toren staked the Vicar of Plague to that very wall. Denied him his victory, before the very eyes of the Vritra.
And as awareness of the victory of the downtrodden over the oppressed washed over me, the chilled atmosphere that seemed to grip this dark and empty box vanished. Perhaps light couldn't enter through the windows high above, but the sun cast rays down through holes in the roof, peppering the ground with little spotlights of warm yellow. The shattered pews made way for more mundane and comfortable chairs, and seated all around the temple, those very downtrodden convened for a purpose.
"If someone wanted to ambush you," I said aloud, letting my voice carry over the gathered people, "they'd certainly have a difficult time. But you could stand to invest in some better exit plans. You're right that tempus warps can't teleport in here—but neither can you teleport out."
That was an annoying quirk about wards like this. I'd heard rumors that the Instillers in Taegrin Caelum were working to try and mitigate the issue, to allow only certain keyed tempus warps to bypass keyed wards, but it was still far from completion.
Highlord Rentom Morthelm leaned heavily on a cane, his dark eyes watching me cautiously from the steps of the altar. All around him, familiar and unfamiliar faces gathered to watch me. I recognized a few of the unads present from the night of the Plaguefire Incursion, but the mages—while I knew their names—were strangers. They milled about small cookfires that produced no smoke, paused in the act of ladling out soup and bread. Behind them, crates marked with the sigil of Highblood Morthelm contained packages of food yet to be handed out to the poor folk of the slums.
"Lady Caera," the old highlord said with restrained respect. "We weren't expecting you."
I panned my gaze across the many fearful non-mage folk of East Fiachra, feeling disconcerted by how they stared at me. Most had stopped in their eating and speaking and merriment, seeing me as a symbol of what they hated. I wasn't yet used to that. The fear. "That was by design," I said after a moment, scanning the crowd for my target. "Now, I know that this gathering wasn't just organized by you. Is Lady Morthelm here, too?"
Highlord Renton's face darkened, and he slammed his cane into the steps. The metal cap echoed with his projected anger, his sideburns almost seeming to flare. "You've interrupted private negotiations," the man fumed, "and without explanation, demand to see my wife? This is unbefitting of your blood, Lady Denoir, and I will have an explanation."
Dima stepped to the side, her arms folded as she stared at me, silently asking the same question. Circe Milview clung nervously to my side, uncertain of the dozens of unadorned arrayed near the front of the temple.
"A meeting unsanctioned by the Sovereigns, gathering souls together that the Great Vritra wouldn't want to convene," I said slowly, making sure to project unflappable coolness. The focus of the mages scattered about the room slowly became laced with killing intent. "If I were to report this place to the Supervisory Offices, it could ruin your house, Highlord Morthelm."
I let my words hang like a gallows noose for a single heartbeat, making eye contact with the part-leader of this little meeting. Before we could come to blows, however, I withdrew an item from my dimension ring. A letter, penned by Seris herself. "But I'm not here to stop you. I'm here to offer what help I can."
I tossed the letter through the air with perfect precision, the paper an arcing falcon. And though Highlord Morthelm lacked a mana core—something he'd been constantly pressured on from all sides by Highblood opportunists looking to tear down a weakened house—he showed remarkable deftness in snatching it from the air.
The room held its breath as he looked down at the letter, then back at me. "What is this?"
I shuffled slightly, my mind reeling away from the implications of everything listed on that paper. The casualties on the other continent. And how all of it had come together at the High Sovereign's behest, and how in turn, Toren had shattered Agrona's plans at the last minute.
"Rumor had it that the massacres the Dicathians suffered were from the asura of Epheotus," I said slowly, enunciating each word. "An inside job pinned on our leaders, done to paint Alacrya as villains and conquerors, instead of as liberators."
I licked my lips, forcing my fingers not to twitch. "That paper has proof to the contrary, and the numbers."
Lord Morthelm's fist clenched nearly hard enough to crumple the paper, but he didn't open it. He just kept staring at me, intent and angry. Instead, it was someone else who stepped forward from the crowd.
Baela Morthelm was a beautiful woman. Many on the stage of Alacryan politics—especially those outside of Sehz-Clar—tried to deny her this, but it was never truly about her looks or her ability to fit into highblood society. Because she looked truly beautiful, clothed in an elegant yet simple dress, wearing as little jewelry as her station would allow. With dusted cheeks and dark hair tied up into a bun, she looked every bit the noblewoman. Nobody would be able to tell that she'd once struggled in the pits of the slums, merely another toiling worker covered in dust.
Ever since Renton Morthelm had taken the woman to wife in the wake of the Plaguefire Incursion and adopted her son into the esteemed house of Morthelm, their house had been assailed from all sides by rivals sensing weakness.
Because it was about her lack of magic. It always had been.
The unadorned woman stepped up beside her husband, nervous and confident both. She kept close to him, before gingerly taking the letter from his hands. "I see what you want us to do, Lady Denoir," she said quietly, pinning me with a stare. "But I have a question for you. Did you ever meet Greahd?"
I was immediately taken aback by the question, but I didn't let it keep me down. "The Mother of Fiachra," I said instinctively. I looked at the cookfires, the food, the people, remembering all that I'd learned in these past few months. That woman had inspired the people of this place to push forward, and she'd been punished for it.
That was why they had to act in secret, now. Because as the war drew on, the oppression only grew worse.
'"I was there during the Plaguefire Incursion, Lady Morthelm," I said honestly. "I saw her speak, saw her rally your people to the cause. Without her, this city would be in ruins."
A young boy—perhaps only six or seven—clung to Baela's dress, missing a couple of his fingers. Though he was tidily groomed and dressed in nice clothes, I could tell he had seen hard times.
"It would be in ruins. And it was because of her cookfires and community that we listened at all. And now… Now we're trying to keep the tradition going. Even as she's gone." Baela was silent for a moment, her shoulders hunched. "Why are you here, Caera Denoir?"
The greatest question. The one I'd been waiting for.
"There are dozens of little groups like yours all across Alacrya," I said, stepping forward. "People who've seen that things needn't be how they are. That there can be something better. And I represent someone who has seen the same. Especially in the aftermath of this war." I pointed at the letter still in Lord Morthelm's hands. "Read that, and you'll see that it is the only path forward."
A ripple went through the crowd at my words, nervous glances cast toward the eyes of the basilisk mosaic. Fear was suddenly alight within the gathered crowd as they stepped away from their cookpots, their hands trembling from how they held their stew.
"Do you have any idea of what you imply, Lady Denoir?" Lord Morthelm hissed abruptly, taking a few steps forward and limping down the stairs. "Rebellion. This is not a place of rebellion, but of peace. It's a place of community. What you're saying would bring—"
Lady Baela laid a single hand on her husband's shoulder, quieting him. His eyes still gleamed, though, with that familiar fear. The fear for those you loved. She gently took the letter from her husband's grip, inspecting the outside. "You won't find what you're looking for here, Lady Denoir," she said after a moment. "We're too busy looking toward the next day. The next bit of food. The next bit of warmth or drink or shelter. And though we can help the world, we aren't rebels. And this isn't the Plaguefire Incursion."
Seris' words ran through my head at this rejection. She'd expected it. "Oppression can be a comfort," she'd said, staring out the window with a faraway expression in her eyes. "It can be easier to accept the boot grinding on your back, because the strength required to put your feet beneath you is that much more."
Yes, Seris had expected people to reject us. And despite Lady Morthelm's well-meaning words, she was wrong. She hadn't read the letter, hadn't seen the numbers. People turned to statistics.
These people had no recourse beyond rebellion.
My eyes turned to the far wall, where Toren Daen had slain Mardeth of the Doctrination. He was the key to all of this, and the ultimate reason I was here. I opened my mouth to speak, ready to make the necessary case.
"Toren Daen," someone muttered quietly beside me, breaking the train of my thoughts. "That's where all of this really starts. Toren Daen."
Circe Milview stepped forward, her gaze darting around as if she could absorb everything at once. "You don't have hope," she interrupted, suddenly very loud. "You don't have power. You feel weak."
The eyes of everyone in the temple centered on the young girl abruptly, mine included. I saw faces shift with disdain, annoyance, and more. Lord Morthelm's eyes narrowed. Baela frowned. "And who are you?" Lord Morthelm said with distrust, his chest puffing out. "An attendant of Lady Caera?"
"You don't think you can win," Circe continued, ignoring Lord Morthelm's words. "The entire reason you're here is because you already are rebels! Every single one of you! Because you thought that staying here and giving soup was more worthwhile than whatever the vicars said about strength! And Toren first showed you how, by nailing that wretched priest to that wall!"
The sentry thrust her finger forward like the sharpest of daggers, pointing past and beyond Highlord and Lady Morthelm. The crowd shuffled, their focus drawn. So quickly.
She had an air about her, an unnerving surety that made heads—which had just been hung low—slowly raise as her voice enraptured them. People's hands clenched, their eyes darting to their loved ones, and I realized with a sudden twist of my stomach that I hadn't accounted for this. Circe had gained the ear of the room with only a few words.
"Toren Daen is dead," someone called out from the crowd. I didn't recognize the speaker, couldn't even begin to pinpoint who or where they were. But as the words flowed through the crowd like mist, I could almost see all the candlelights lit by Circe's words snuffing out.
With a sudden worry, I laid a hand on the sentry's shoulder. With what we had planned, her words were a good thing, the way it would lead into the final reveal. But I felt a coiling worry in my stomach that made goosebumps trail along the back of my neck. "Circe, what are you doing?"
I was suddenly struck by how deep her eyes looked, darker than her hair. Deeper than the black of all the castle windows. "Caera, don't you see?" she whispered, her hand gripping mine. "Every single one of these people… They all knew him. Every person here that we've seen… The Frost Twins, Lord Morthelm, you, me… Everyone here knew Toren. It's not a coincidence! Everyone is here for a reason."
That was the point, I thought with irritation, feeling the speculative gazes of everyone here on the sentry. Our plea for rebellion rested on the edge of a knife, and my curiosity in letting this mage accompany me might ruin it all. Seris organized for all these people to…
But then I paused, thinking about it more. Alaric and his contacts had certainly worked in concert with my mentor to try and get these like-minded groups together, but he hadn't called for the Frost Twins. Nor had he called for Dima, as far as I was aware. And there were a few other mages in the crowd: a woman with bronze skin whose hand had been severed. A man with a spear and full plate armor. And more whose eyes flashed with recognition as Circe's words echoed out, whose heartbeats rose as she spoke Toren's name like a rallying cry.
My blood ran cold, a sneaking suspicion radiating from my mana core. I gripped Circe's arm tighter, moving close to whisper. "We need to move," I said, suddenly worried that all of this had been a setup. A ploy to get all of Toren's allies into one place. It was too perfect, and that meant that the young woman was right. This was a set-up. "This isn't what we thought it was."
Circe ripped her arm free of my grip, striding forward. She ignored me entirely, a slight, near-maddened smile on her lips. She raised her eyes to the ceiling, her eyes narrowing. "I didn't try. Ever since I failed that first time after the Second Dawn, I didn't try," she said gazing through that singular, gaping hole in the roof, where sunlight streamed in. "I didn't want to risk it. It scared me too much. But this is Fated! This is why I am here, because everyone else has known the same as me!
"Toren Daen isn't dead!" Circe called, her words rippling through the nervous crowd. She thrust a hand toward the sky, her fingers outstretched as if she might catch the sunlight between her fingers. "He found a way. A path that showed we couldn't just content ourselves with servitude."
And then her hand brightened with light. A light I'd seen once, so long ago, deep in the estate of my adoptive parents. A light that scintillated between shades of magenta and violet, easing along the yellow rays of the high-above sun. My horns ached ever-so-slightly as I stared at that light, my jaw threatening to unhinge and fall to the floor.
Seris had spoken with such surety when she said Toren would return. Such conviction. But at that moment, as I gazed upon the flickering not-fire misting between Circe Milview's fingers, I realized that deep down, I hadn't fully believed her.
"He really is alive," I muttered, my mouth feeling dry like cotton, my shoulders loosening as I stared at that familiar light. I felt suddenly boneless, weak in a way I couldn't put into words. "Great Vritra."
Shouts of surprise and alarm went through the crowd as the young woman held her clenched fist up, backlit by a distant, rising star. "The Sovereigns call themselves gods because they give you magic," she said, her arm glimmering with the refractive light of aether as it flowed through her. "They say you should stay on the ground and serve. But there are other ways to strength! And anyone can wield it. Anyone!"
The crowd didn't roar like a mob. It didn't break out into raving or screams or violence. But as they all saw that familiar light, the whispers rose in between the ocean waves of anger and desire. Anger at the Vritra. Desire for more.
"Look, Momma!" the boy at a starstruck Baela's side said, jumping up and down and pointing. "It's the light! The same as Mister Daen's!"
Lord Renton Morthelm, though, didn't stare at the light. He was too old and jaded by politics to be swayed by a simple trick, no matter its implications. Instead, the old man stared at me, his eyes narrowed and accusing. And as Circe stepped toward the crowd, her hands still blazing with dawnlight, I saw all the accusations in his eyes.
Do you know what this will do? Those eyes said, somber and dark. Do you understand what you've brought here? Do you know what will come of it?
People parted around me as they rushed to the waiting Milview. Mothers with their children, a subtle hope in their eyes that they might be able to give their children magic. Unadorned, covered in scars and lesions. Men limped forward, hope gleaming in their eyes that they might walk on two legs again.
When I'd first come here, I thought I knew what all of it meant. I thought I had known what would come of it. But as Circe knelt down, healing the first man who had reached her, I realized that I had not an inkling of anything of what I had unwittingly allowed to unfold.
And another question gnawed at me. If we were pawns of Fate, strings to be pulled about and dropped, what did that say for everything we had ever done? If what Circe thought was true—that there was some guiding force pulling us all here—then the control that the Vritra emulated ran that much deeper in the world than I had ever fathomed.
Fate, it seemed, had allowed these people their sufferings. And in turn, it gave them a convenient escape.