Of Blood & Aether Chapter Previews

The following excerpts are from Of Blood & Aether by Harper Hawthorne, releasing on April 17, 2024. 

Prologue

In a shattered realm—one long lost to the fading memory of the Ancients—a solitary tower stood upon the peak of a mountain range, cloaked in mist and shadow.

Amidst those jagged ledges, crumbling with decay, arose a single stairway hewn from the very stone of the mountain itself. Carved by the royal Shadow Priests, each step was inlaid with protective warding runes, enchanted so that only those who were chosen could traverse from the Gates of Hel to the very pinnacle of this umbral domain. 

The young prince had climbed nearly a thousand steps so far. It was no small feat—and with each step forward, he felt the weight of his crown grow heavier and heavier upon his brow. As they approached the summit, the atmosphere had grown deafeningly quiet. The only sounds that broke through the silence were those of boots against stone—the measured, reverberating footsteps of his father, his mother, and the kingsguard as they followed closely behind. 

When the prince took a brief moment to pause and catch his breath, he could hear the faintest howl of wind in the distance. A storm beginning to brew somewhere just beyond the horizon. 

“Go on, boy,” the Shadow King demanded. 

The boy was trying so very hard to be brave, having set his jaw and mimicked his father’s intense stoicism all day long. But now that they were just a few feet from the ceremonial chambers... 

“Father, I am frightened,” he confessed, head hung low with shame. Feeling the crown begin to slip, he quickly adjusted his posture, straightening his spine. Fates forbid he break decorum and show his cowardice.

“No,” the Shadow King replied. “You are not.” 

He did not look down at his son while he spoke, did not deign to lower his glacial gaze for even a moment. The regal, pale man simply stared ahead, emotionless eyes affixed to the Tower. As the boy—his heir—began to stammer out an apology, the King spoke over him. 

“Enough. There is no room for fear in our bloodline. You will proceed.” 

“Dagon,” the Queen whispered fiercely at his side. Her tone was admonishing as her dark brows furrowed over blue-gray eyes. “Have some semblance of patience. He is just a child.” 

“He is soft,” the King snapped back at his wife. “The Fates damn us with such weakness in our firstborn. A useless, tenderhearted fool—and while I am certain this ceremony will prove fruitless yet again, it must be done.” 

The command in his voice left no room for argument. “Be silent, Helena.” 

Over two centuries had passed since the first foretelling: that somewhere within the patrilinear bloodline of the ruling family of Hel, a savior would be born. A solution. A weapon. 

That night, under a full Blood Moon—not unlike the one that shone overhead this eve—the Crones had received the very first inkling of a prophecy. One that promised there would be an heir whose blood held the power to restore their crumbling empire and heal the plague that had decimated their people. 

The coming of this Catalyst was written in the stars, they said. And he would wreak havoc and vengeance upon those responsible for the blight that consumed their realm. 

One day, the Crones had promised, all would kneel before the Harbinger of Hel. 

The time had come for this young prince, just barely nine, to be tested as all who had come before him. 

It was sheer strength of will that kept the boy from trembling as he approached the massive entryway to the Tower, knocking thrice as he had been instructed. As the old rosewood groaned out the echo of his arrival, his hair stood on end. He toyed anxiously at the silver pendant around his neck, a failed attempt at self-soothing. Every survival instinct that the little prince had told him to run, to somehow escape, but he could not. 

He would not. 

He would honor his duty, and he would honor his Father. 

“Greetings, your Grace. Your Majesties,” a trio of voices called out in unison. “We welcome your arrival to the Tower of Scáth. You may enter.” 

Two members of the kingsguard flanked the young prince, pushing open the heavy tower doors so that he could enter. The chance to flee was long gone, and all he could do was step forward into the center of the circular chambers. Dimly lit sconces hung on the stone walls, and there was a dismal looking wrought-iron chandelier which hung several floors overhead. 

Three women stood before a large blackstone altar, their bodies and faces unknowable—obscured, somehow. The prince blinked several times, but he still could not ascertain if any of the three were short or tall, young or old, beautiful or haggard, though their presence was distinctly feminine. Darkly feminine, and deeply terrifying. 

Before the Crones stood a single basalt pedestal that housed two objects: A simple silver chalice, and an obsidian athame. The boy knew what was to come next. 

“In order for the ritual to begin, you must freely offer your blood to the Crones,” his mother had explained the night prior. 

“One cut against each palm, like this,” she’d said as she traced the sacral pattern on his hands with a gentle fingertip. “Can you remember that? Show me, my little raven.” 

He did remember, because he had practiced them for several hours before bed, repeating the motions alongside the words that he now spoke aloud, gripping the athame with sweating fingers. 

“With the hand of my Father, I offer the Crones my blood,” he said, refusing to cringe as the black blade bit into the soft flesh of his palm. He was no stranger to pain. “So that they may taste the truth of my bloodline.”

As he opened his fist above the chalice, several rivulets of blood trickled inside, and he could only hope it was enough. Wielding the athame now with his non-dominant hand, he continued the ritual. 

“With the hand of my Mother, I offer the Crones my aether,” he said, carving the next rune. “So that they may taste the truth of my fate.” 

This time, a quicksilver substance swirled alongside the blood from his palm as it dribbled into the chalice, and it was an effort for the boy not to sigh with relief. 

It had worked, he thought. He had done it right. 

“We welcome your offerings, princeling,” the Crones replied as one. 

As the trio stepped forward towards the pedestal, the boy could begin to make out their shapes—but just barely. They were still somehow shrouded from clear view, though they were only a few feet away. A silent attendant approached to wrap his hands in gauze before motioning him to step into the center of the room, the space between the altar and pedestal. 

It was said that the Tower stood at the intersection of every single leyline across the Shadow Plane, and that it was here where the veil between their realm and the Divine Source of All Life was thinnest. Only the Crones could survive an extended stay in this sacred space, both blessed and cursed to be bound to the leylines. Guarding them for eternity.

The boy glanced back at his mother briefly, who offered him a reassuring smile and a nod as he stepped forward and took his place. 

The Crones joined hands as they encircled the pedestal and chalice. He could see now that one pair of hands was soft and smooth as a young maiden, another more akin to the hands of a matron—delicately aged, not unlike his mother’s hands. And then there was the last pair, wrinkled and pockmarked, blue veins bulging as the owner gripped the hands of her sisters. They all began to hum and chant. 

“O Blessed Source, we welcome thee,” the Crones began, tilting their heads back, casting their eyes towards the heavens. “Through we of three, speak your will. We offer open arms and open minds, to chart the course of Fate. If the prophecy is to continue this night, let us know through the aether, through the blood that has been freely offered.” 

Though they spoke in unison, it was also discordant, somehow—grating upon the ears of the young prince. His skin prickled with discomfort as they raised the silver chalice to the skies, and then one by one, each of the Crones drank. 

When the final Crone had sipped the last of the sanguine liquid, she gasped—the cup slipping from her hands, dropping to the floor with a startling clatter.

“Could it be?” 

“Such Resonance!” 

The Crone with the eldest aura stepped forward then, towards the Shadow King, offering a slight bow of the head in reverence. 

“His blood sings true, your Majesty. He is the Catalyst. It is time to read what remains of the prophecy.”  

The King scowled for a moment, appearing almost displeased before offering a curt nod and turning towards his guards and his wife. 

“Leave us,” he commanded.

Though the Queen of the Shadow Plane knew her place, she hesitated—casting a pained expression towards her son. She had not prepared him for this. Even if she had known… there was no way one could ever prepare a child for what was to come. Her eyes drifted to the ornate raven skull that hung around his neck and she released a shaky exhale, still lingering. She could only hope it would be enough.

“Helena!” the King barked. 

With one final, apologetic glance at the pale, dark-haired boy who bore the eyes of his father, the Queen turned and left in silence, flanked by what remained of the kingsguard. Helena did not allow her tears to fall until she was well beyond her husband’s line of sight. 

The Shadow King took several slow, measured steps towards the Throne of Hel, the dark seat of power—his rightful place. It was not until the room was emptied, leaving only the Crones and his trembling heir, that Dagon deigned to speak again. 

“You are certain?” 

“Yes, my king,” they sang together, harmonizing with strange euphoria. “Yes, at long last, He has arrived! It is time!” 

After an immeasurable length of silence, the Shadow King nodded once more. 

“Proceed.” 

The young prince could barely process what happened next, as he’d had no idea what to expect. Every heir to the throne had failed this test before—stronger men, better men, more ruthless men, more deserving men. All who came before him had apparently lacked the inexplicable qualities the Crones had been seeking from their blood. But bony hands, meaty hands, warm-yet-trembling hands took hold of his limbs, picking him up off the ground and laying him face down on the obsidian altar. 

He felt the aetheric power of the inlaid runes begin to activate, the thrumming of magick coursing through the air as his arms and legs were splayed apart and bound to each corner of the table with leather straps.

There is no room for fear in our bloodline, the prince repeated to himself, over and over. There is no room for fear in our bloodline. There is no room for fear, Father is right there, I am not alone. 

He was the heir apparent to the throne of Hel, and he would not cower from his duty.

That wellspring of courage ran dry once one of the Crones stripped him of his tunic, exposing his bare flesh to the cold stone and he began to writhe in discomfort. 

“Be still!” they commanded, and suddenly the boy could not move at all. 

Tendrils of shadow began to reinforce the leather bindings, locking his limbs in place. The youngest of the Crones flitted across the room, returning with a pot of black ink and what appeared to be some sort of stylus or quill... with a razor-sharp tip. 

In his panicked confusion, the young prince did not understand what was happening until the Crones began to carve into his back, starting at the very top of his shoulder blade. At first, it was not unlike the self-inflicted pain as he had cut into his palms for the offering. And then it began to burn. 

As one of the Crones continued to cut into him, pausing only to dip her tool back into the acidic ink, the others began to cackle and hiss out their morbid approval, drowning out his cries. They read the words aloud, as if his body were an open tome. 

“Betwixt the realms where balance has been upset, a debt must be paid. Those who have stolen life and spread filth will pay their due tenfold,” one whispered. 

“Vitality shall be restored to the Plane of Shadows. That which plagues us shall be banished within an age,” the other replied. 

The Shadow King tapped one foot with clear impatience. He knew this much already, they were simply reiterating the first foretelling. Thunder rumbled through the mountain as the storm drew near, yet another omen to be interpreted. 

“Yes, yes!” the Crones hissed in unison as a bolt of lightning shot through the sky. “One shall wield All, the other shall wield None.” 

The eldest Crone spoke out alone now. 

“He who has been chosen, this star-split soul, shall be the Catalyst to this prophecy of mirrored fates. He is our reckoning. The other, our deliverance. Together, they are our salvation.” 

“The other?” the Shadow King snarled, growing irritated. 

He paid no mind to his son, whose sobs had grown audible, instead focused on his own mounting frustration. Though he knew that the Crones spoke in riddles, that understanding did little to keep his temper in check. Very little ever did.

“What do you mean, the other? We were promised one Harbinger. One weapon.” 

“No, my king, no,” the youngest Crone crooned before succumbing to a fit of mad giggles, her wild eyes rolling back into her skull as she clutched at her temples with ink-stained fingers. A trickle of blood ran down her chin unceremoniously as she returned to the tattooing of the prophecy, their dark magicks interpreting the fate of the prince simultaneously as the story was cut into his flesh. 

“There is another…” 

“A Catalyst and a Conduit,” the others chanted. “All and none, all and one. Mirrors, my King. Mirrors. Not one Harbinger, but two—one yet to be reborn! Two fates entangled, another entwined. The Source, it gives and takes and gives and takes and gives and takes. They are life and death. They are the cycle, preserved. They are vengeance and mercy, incarnate.” 

“Mercy?” the Shadow King repeated, eyes narrowing. “There shall be no mercy for that which has been wrought upon our kind. Keep going. What is to come next?”

“Father, please!” the boy cried out, his voice hoarse, choking on a sob as the pain grew unbearable. This was agony unlike any he had ever known.

The flames within the room flickered, several candles from the chandelier snuffed out by the growing winds that were seeping through cracks and crevices in the stonework. 

“Silence, boy. I did not raise you to be weak. You will face your fate.”

The Crones continued to carve into his flesh, meticulous and unforgiving, the ears of all three seemingly deaf to the pleas of their crown prince. 

“Ah, yes, your Majesty. The threads of fate bleed ever so freely from the flesh. The path is clear. Our chosen Catalyst must find the Conduit before his ascension of the throne. Only then can destruction rain down upon the souls responsible for our suffering.”

Three times, the boy lost consciousness to the pain as his blood mixed with ink and ichor. 

Three times, the Crones revived him with smelling salts, requiring his cognizance in order to complete the prophecy. 

“Wake up, my prince,” they crooned. “Your blood won’t sing unless you’re awake, little one. We’re not done yet. It hurts, we know. It always does, wresting the threads of fate away from the Source…”

None of their words made any sense to him, and yet he saw both malice and understanding glittering in the eyes of his father as he peppered the ancient women with questions. And every time the Shadow King asked for more, it was the prince’s flesh that paid the price. 

“How will we know when the next Harbinger is born? Where will we find him? How will we identify him?” the King demanded, his penultimate inquiries. 

Dawn was soon approaching, which would turn the Crones to stone until the next nightfall. Such was their curse. To remain so close to the Source came at great cost to what had once been three mortal women of Scáth.

“A seed shall soon be planted within the heart of our enemies, your Majesty. Bearing fruit that will leave poison on their tongues and burn the aether from their veins. In the realm where few can wield one, He must find the one who wields all.” 

The Crones began to grow weary, and their tender, whimpering canvas was on the cusp of losing consciousness yet again, but the Shadow King had one final question. 

“And you are absolutely certain that it’s him? This child? Of all the heirs who have come before him, this is who the Source has selected?” 

It was the eldest of the Crones who replied, her tone curt and clipped. They were offended to have their divine gifts called into question, as it was known: the Crones of the Tower always spoke true. Always. 

“Yes, your Majesty. We are certain. The blood can sing, but it cannot lie. The prophecy could not have been read from the aether of any other. The boy is our salvation.”

Slowly and meticulously, the eldest Crone undid the ties that had kept the child bound—both physical and arcane. He remained there on the table, light-headed and listless even as the stylus was put away. An attendant appeared out of nowhere to drench his wounds in some sort of black, foul-smelling medicinal liquid. It burned even worse than the ink had, and yet now, he didn’t even flinch. 

For once, the Shadow King experienced a small swell of pride towards his son. 

“All will kneel before the Harbinger of Hel one day,” the middle, more matronly Crone supplied, gently cupping the boy’s cheek as she offered him water. 

“Even you, my King,” the youngest of them added, a wicked gleam in her pitch black eyes as she handed the Shadow King a scroll of parchment. A copy of the prophecy for his records. 

“Even you.”

Chapter One: Arken 

Find yourself, Arken. You’re ready. It’s time. 

That haunting whisper caressed my ear again as I began to stir—a familiar, yet foreign echo carried by the salt-laced gales as I woke up to perfect darkness. Perfect darkness, and a thick, whorling mist in the air that felt… odd, somehow. A bit eerie. It was a touch too heavy on the inhale, the hazy vapor shrouding me in shadows. My skin prickled with an uncomfortable degree of self-awareness, the strangest sense that I was being watched.

What was… Where was I…?

“Ah, good. You’re awake. I thought I was gonna have to prod at ya with the broomstick again.”

I blinked. Oh. Right. I had fallen asleep on deck earlier, having spent my day lounging around like a cat in the afternoon sun. I had been perfectly content to laze about for hours on end, soaking in that late summer warmth and watching wispy clouds drift across an endless cerulean expanse. Now, there was only the silver light of the moon overhead, her glimmering halo glowing softly against a smattering of starlight. 

“In the middle of the night? That’s just rude, Conrad,” I groused, pushing myself up from the pile of potato sacks that had served as my makeshift bed.

“Storm’s coming.”

Well, that would explain the mist, at least. I tilted my head towards the deckhand as I proceeded to run my fingers through my hair, combing out the sleep snarls. Gods, I was in desperate need of a haircut. These soft brown waves were pretty enough, but they had grown much too unruly over the last few weeks. The length was nearly impossible to manage without access to a mirror. Slowly, I began to process the implications of the old man’s clipped observation.

“A storm? Here? Aren’t we just now passing Luxtos and Stygos?” 

“Aye.”

All of the research I’d done back home suggested that the Astral & Umbral Isles had some of the most mild waters in the entire realm of Aemos. If anything, we should have dealt with a few thunderstorms up north as we left Samhaven nearly six weeks ago, but we had gotten lucky. So far, we had experienced fairly smooth sailing. As smooth as one could hope for over such a long journey.

“I’ll head back down below deck if it gets too bad, then,” I promised, hoping to buy myself just a little more time in the open ocean air.

Technically, that’s where I should have been regardless. Below deck, alongside the rest of the passengers who had purchased their tickets from Samhaven to Pyrhhas. But somehow, I had managed to endear myself to the ship’s crew within about a week of our voyage, so as long as I kept out of their way, they let me sneak up here to my heart’s content.

“You should head back down now,” Conrad countered, his expression grim. “Before it even hits.”

The grizzled deckhand offered no further explanation, which was nothing new. He was the taciturn type. Still, I followed his gaze to where it had affixed itself just above the horizon, and then I understood. 

This was going to be one Hel of a storm. 

Though the skies were crystal clear overhead, whorling clouds had begun to gather in the east, and the full moon was wrapped in her stunning silver halo—a telltale sign of an incoming front. Not that I needed either of those signs to know that the inbound tempest was dangerous. Each breath I took was heavy with mist, salt, and a touch of pure aether as it crackled through the air like static. I could practically taste the rising fury of the elements. 

That probably should have frightened me. It did not.

“Come on, Conrad. You know that I can handle myself just fine up here.” 

All I received in response to that assertion was a scowl. 

“Please? I’ve always wanted to see an aetherstorm like this up close,” I whined, pouting in excess and batting my eyelashes for dramatic effect.

The old man let loose a heavy sigh, rubbing at his temples as he so often did when my stubborn side came out to vex him. 

“You’re a reckless one, little star-seeker. It’s gonna get you killed if you’re not careful. But fine. You can stay, for now, under two conditions.” 

I raised a challenging brow, but allowed him to continue without protest.

“One, let the record show that there’s no rescuing you if you fall off the damned ship. We’ll leave you behind and let you sink down into the Abyss in a heartbeat.” 

They would not, but I grinned and nodded in agreement regardless.

“Naturally.” 

Conrad held up a second finger, still scowling at me, clearly unphased by my enthusiasm.  

“Two, the next time I tell ya to go down below—you listen. No arguments.”

I made a face, displeased with any sort of clause against arguments. I was good at arguing. I liked to argue. But I did have to acquiesce that Conrad knew these seas like the back of his hand, and this was my first seafaring voyage… ever. All of the tomes, journals, and lectures in the world couldn’t make up for what I lacked in direct experience.

“Fine. But if you send me below over a light drizzle, you’ll never hear the end of it, old man.” 

Conrad chuckled. 

“You’re only gonna be in my hair for a few more days, Arken. I think I’ll survive.” 

That was true. After six long weeks of travel, we would soon arrive in Port Sofia, and I could finally seek entry to Sophrosyne: The City of the Gods. 

***

The storm hit within the hour. 

Angry gales of wind whipped past me so violently now that my skin felt raw, and the wooden planks beneath my feet were becoming dangerously slick. I had given up trying to remain on the prow, as my well-worn and now-sodden leather boots were not helping in the matter of my staying upright. 

All of that aside, the storm was gorgeous. I continued to marvel at the sheer force of the tempest, utterly fascinated while I clung to the mast of the ship with a desperate death grip. As the next roaring rumble of thunder rolled in, I was both enthralled and terrified. 

I was a smidge reckless, yes, but I wasn’t stupid. I knew this was risky, yet even in such adverse conditions, I much preferred to be above deck. I would take wind-chapped skin, rope burns, and a little bit of downpour over the stale musk and miserable wailing that awaited me below. 

A vast majority of the other travelers on board were the sons and daughters of the elite and noble families of Atlas—though noblesse, I was not. Most of them were aged anywhere from thirteen to somewhere in their early twenties, like me. Many of us also had the same final destination, but that was where our similarities seemed to end. My so-called peers had grown up in such comfort and luxury that stale food, occasional turbulent waters, and a general lack of privacy made for the most dire of circumstances. 

They were constantly worked up and whining, as though the last six weeks were the worst days of their lives. If they weren’t bemoaning their fates and cursing their parents for sending them to the Arcane Studium in the first place, they were bickering amongst themselves and hurling insults at one another over a myriad of House dramas. As if any of them played a part in the successes or failures of Atlassian politics. 

I really couldn’t stand it half of the time, and so I had made a habit of spending as much time as possible on deck. I tried to make myself useful where I could… or at the very least, I seemed to keep the crew entertained. 

“You can’t avoid them forever, star-seeker,” Conrad had reminded me the other day. While I got along just fine with the other sailors, he and I talked the most. We had bonded over my interest in his hand-drawn star maps, and how the sailors charted their courses based on known celestial bodies. Thus, the nickname. 

“Can’t say I like the brats much either, but you’re all headed to the same place, are ya not?” 

On one hand, he was correct: Almost everyone on board was on their way to Sophrosyne as a prospective student, hoping to be accepted into the Arcane Studium. On the other hand, Sophrosyne was the largest city in Atlas. Surely I could find more like-minded company, if I so chose? 

But that’s hardly what I was looking for. 

There were quite a few things that I was looking for in Sophrosyne, but connections weren’t really on the list. I had other priorities. Priorities that I had avoided thinking too hard on as of late, lest my nerves eat me alive.

I focused my attention back on the weather, though the winds were growing so strong now that the storm was almost equally as anxiety inducing as everything else. The onslaught of saltwater was starting to feel like pins and needles cutting into my skin. I could hardly see a thing, blinded by the downfall and angry ocean spray—when suddenly, a massive flash of Light aether came out of nowhere. It was followed almost immediately by thunder, not a low rumble this time but a sharp crack, as if the very skies were being split open.

Shit, I thought to myself. I could feel the residual aether in the air intensify, which meant that the lightning had struck far too close for comfort. I hadn’t seen where it landed, but my suspicions were confirmed when I heard Conrad bellow out an order. The one that I had promised not to disregard. 

“Arken! Go. Now.” 

I waited for a break in the waves before I let go of the ropes, and took one last gasping breath of fresh air—choking on the rain as I dropped back down to the cabins below. 

***

It was quieter down here than I had anticipated, but not by much. Those who were not yet sleeping were shivering and bickering over blankets, and they paid me no mind as I sought out a familiar corner in the bunks. Sighing, I wrung as much moisture out of my hair and clothes as I possibly could by hand, before wrapping myself up in a threadbare blanket of my own. 

The lightning continued to surge through the skies every few minutes, always followed by that vicious thunder, like the maws of the Abyss were opening up and groaning beneath us. The waves were getting choppy, and I had to push myself up against the wall as the ship began to heave and rock violently in various directions. The worse the storm got, the more of the young ones woke up and started to cry out in terror. 

Too much. 

It was all becoming too much. I had never done well in tight spaces, but the incessant whining, the erratic nature of the storm, the stale air, thick with the musky scent of far too many body odors combined... I grit my teeth, and every time the ship would jostle and jerk, my muscles would tense up in an effort to steady myself and avoid being flung across the cabin. I was too damp. It was too warm. My hair and clothes were sticking to my skin, rubbing and itching and gods, the children. They just kept screaming. 

Every sensory detail was becoming more uncomfortable than the last, driving me to the brink of madness. There was a reason why I would have rather braved the storm. 

I couldn’t breathe. I should have stayed home. It wasn’t worth it. All of the knowledge, all of the answers, all of the arcane expertise in the world wasn’t worth the crushing pressure in my skull. Wasn’t worth the weight on my chest threatening to—

Breathe, Arken, I reminded myself. Breathe. 

As I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, I pushed the pungent taste aside. Instead, I focused on the subtle buzz of aether in the air, tugging it towards me—drawing it inward. I felt the warmth bloom in my chest as my Resonance stirred to life, heeding my call as I gathered the Light aether from all around me. Claiming it. On the exhale, I looked down at my fingertips, resting on both knees, and marveled at the way they glowed softly, illuminating this dark little corner of the cabin, just for me.

I had been doing this since I was a little girl and still, the comfort that my Resonance brought me was unparalleled. It was a gift—and a somewhat rare one, at that. Something I hoped to hone further at the Studium, gods willing.

That comfort was cut short by the grating sound of Percival Zephirin’s voice across the cabin, decrying our doom with a degree of entitlement that only he could possibly muster at a time like this. 

“If we die on this godsdamned ship, my father will have your heads!” the lordling shouted up towards the deck above.

What a poorly-crafted threat. If we were to die in this storm, so would the ship’s captain and crew, leaving no heads to roll. Regardless, his outburst left some of the younger Resonants in shambles, and the cacophony of wailing intensified. 

Gods, I hated that man—the sniveling heir to the House of Gales. Not that the others on board were much better. Why had I even subjected myself to this fresh Hel? I felt more isolated on this ship than I ever had in the Brindlewoods. Maybe Conrad was right, and this was all I had to look forward to…  

But no. That couldn’t be. Amaretta had come from the Studium, after all. There would be more to Sophrosyne than just brats and bickering. There had to be. And so with every deep inhale—and each slow, measured exhale—I remembered my purpose and why the destination was almost certainly worth one relatively brief, uncomfortable journey.

You’re ready, Arken. It’s time.

As my breathing fell into a slow, comfortable cadence, I closed my eyes again and allowed my anxious mind to untether from these dank quarters, instead falling into the comfort of my memories. 

Memories of pine, of moss, and of sunshine.

Chapter 2: Kieran

I entered the holding cell at a leisurely pace, casually examining my fingernails. 

A man was currently shackled to the wall in said cell, struggling against his chains and spouting off a colorful slew of profanities, but I paid him no mind. Instead, I turned my attention to the man in uniform who had been threatening the captive’s life just before I walked in. Deep within the catacombs of Sophrosyne, the stone felt damp and dark—downright dreary compared to the brilliant light of the city.

“Report,” I barked at Hans Deering, my second-in-command. 

“The fucker refuses to give us any answers. Claims his information was good the first time around. Can’t be bought, won’t name a price for the truth.” 

My eyes flickered briefly towards the man in chains: Alistair Corvus—an old informant of mine. 

“Now, now, Corvus,” I purred, meeting the prisoner’s beady, frantic eyes. 

I slowly withdrew one of my daggers from the holster at my hip, and gently ran one fingertip across the edge of the blade. 

“Everything has a price. It’s just a matter of if you’ll pay willingly, or if we take it by force.” 

“You won’t do shit, Aetherwhore,” the prisoner seethed. “I already know that your precious Elders won’t allow you to kill me, and even if I did have the intel you wanted, I would take it to my grave.”

“Despite popular belief, that can be arranged, Alistair,” I shot back.

“Errr. Captain, he’s Pyrhhan,” one of my lieutenants hedged.

“And?”

“And so we need to defer to the House of Embers on sentencing. Per the Elders.”

I knew that, of course. This entire conversation was for show, crafted with the intention of making Corvus sweat. 

“If that’s the case, why have we not handed this fine gentleman off to the Pyrhhan Guard?”

“We tried to arrange an exchange of the prisoner, and their response was that without documented evidence of his involvement in the kidnappings, he is to walk free. No transfer necessary. Lord de Laurent’s direct orders.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. That part was news to me. 

“Well then,” I mused. “If the illustrious Lord of Embers wills it, I suppose our hands are tied. We’ll have to let him walk free.”

“Kier—I mean, Captain—you can’t be serious,” Hans sputtered. I shot him a warning glare as he temporarily broke character, forgetting his assigned role as the honor-bound guardsman that Alistair Corvus expected him to be. “We know he was involved, we just don’t have the—”

“We have our orders, Deering,” I replied sharply, unlocking the prisoner’s shackles. The warning in my tone was only partially for show. Sometimes this asshole forgot that I knew my way around a godsdamned interrogation scene, even if it was rare for them to call me in for one these days. I had trained my men well. 

Corvus’ entire body sagged in relief as I released him, and he rubbed at his chafed wrists as I gave him about three seconds of respite. Within a single breath, I let my Shadows gather, and with a flick of my wrist, bound the man against the stone wall again. He cried out in panic. 

“Hey! The fuck is this? They said—” 

Tendrils of stygian smoke began to tighten around his wrists and ankles, keeping him in place far better than the steel ever could. 

“Oh, don’t you worry your pretty little head, Alistair,” I replied, a wicked smile spreading across my face as I took pleasure in his discomfort. “We’ll release you. Eventually.” 

My commander would nail my balls to the wall for this little song and dance once he caught wind of it all, but so be it. I trusted my men, and if they said that Alistair Corvus was tied to the disappearance of a young boy, snatched from the safety of our city? The bastard was guilty. The Lord of Embers could get fucked.

Documented evidence… Seriously? Did he expect the culprit to scribble out his dastardly plans in a secret diary or something? There had been no witnesses, save one. This prick. 

“Lieutenant Fairchilde,” I called out to my third, who was standing guard outside. “Send a note off to Fen, let her know we’re in need of a cleric. Preferably one of her more… discerning acolytes.”

Right on cue, Jeremiah let out an irritated groan. He was a far better actor than Hans. 

“I tire of these games, Captain. Can we not just send for the Overseer and be done with it?” 

At the mention of the notorious Elder, our captive began to writhe in panic, just as I’d hoped. I glanced back at him and chuckled softly. He was right to be afraid.

The Overseer was said to be one of the oldest of the remaining gods—and that he could wrest any thought he wished straight out of your head and replace it with one of his own. If we were to request his presence, this investigation would be over within the next thirty seconds… but where was the fun in that? 

I cocked my head to the side, watching Alistair struggle. 

“You seem more afraid of the Overseer than you are of us. A smidge short-sighted, don’t you think?” I asked, spinning the dagger between my fingertips for creative emphasis.

“He’s an Aetherborne, Vistarii. Of course I’m more afraid of that bastard. He is a god. You’re just a… a bootlicker. A sadist and a filthy godsdamned Conduit.”

“I am technically only one of those things,” I argued with a casual shrug. “And what you fail to understand here, Corvus, is that the Overseer would be a mercy.”

I waltzed up to the man with measured steps, close enough now that he could strangle me, if only the poor bastard wasn’t bound in place by my arcana. 

“Sure, your own mind may incriminate you enough that you rot in the prisons of Pyrhhas for the rest of your days… but it really is a humane method of information retrieval, all things considered. He would just pluck the details we need right out of your ugly head, and leave your mind, body and spirit intact. I won’t be quite so kind.”

Malice glittered in Alistair’s eyes as a bead of sweat slipped down his grimy temples. There were dark circles forming under his eyes. My men had most assuredly done a number on this man long before I’d arrived, and yet he still hadn’t cracked.

“And unfortunately for you, the Overseer is, ironically enough, overseas at present. So let’s try again, shall we?” 

As I tightened my left hand, the aetheric bindings on his wrists began to dig into the man’s flesh—I could feel it in the resistance of the arcane energy. With my right hand, I slid the dagger so softly against his grizzled throat that it could’ve been a caress, had it not drawn the slightest trickle of blood. 

“Who actually took the child?” 

The coward before me said nothing. 

“Come on now, Alistair,” I crooned. “Give me what I want, and we can make this quick.” 

“What do you care, Vistarii? What do any of you even care?! The brat isn’t even Pyrhhan, and he’s sure as shit not from Sophrosyne. Just some over-privileged snotrag from Vindyrst,” Alistair snapped.

Be that as it may, the Elder Guard had a commitment to the safety and well-being of anyone behind our walls. It didn’t matter where they came from—Sophrosyne was a melting pot, filled to the brim with students and visitors from across the realm. I raised a brow as the asshole continued to try to appeal to my sense of reason.

“I mean, do you even realize what atrocities that little shit’s father has committed against his people in the mountains? Of course not. All the while, the courts and Houses are doing fuck all about it with their thumbs up their arses, playin’ politics!”

It was then that I realized that even though my men had confirmed Alistair Corvus’ status as a Pyrhhan citizen, there was the slightest hint of Vindyrst in his accent. 

So this was personal. That was going to be a problem. It was difficult to alter the minds of men who thought their actions were justified, no matter how heinous their ideas of retribution were. Difficult, but not impossible. Glancing down at the blade in my hand, I liked my chances.

“So you thought that the child needed to pay for the sins of his father?” I challenged through grit teeth. I knew where this conversation was going, and had already lost my patience for it. 

“The way I see it, we’re just culling the problem before it becomes another one.”  

Yeah. There it was.

“Wrong answer, my friend. Wrong fucking answer. Because the way I see it, the ‘problem’ in question? The one you’re trying to ‘cull’? Is just a child. He’s only eleven. An eleven year old kid.” I spat. “And for that?”

I shoved the dagger into his thigh and pressed one hand over his mouth to mute the agonized screams. One of Fen’s clerics would be on their way soon enough. 

“For that, Corvus… I will break you.” 

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