Chapter 2
Caelan
Lightning flashed outside the massive windows of the makeshift training room.
The subsequent thunder shook the leaded glass, adding a metallic clanging to the roar of the storm.
Caelan held a hand over his head, attuning his essence and summoning a light shower to cool himself off.
Water cascaded over him, soaking his hair and running down his face, bare shoulders, and chest. With a reverent sigh, he shook his wet hair out, relishing the sensation of the cool droplets on his skin.
Caelan and his father had wasted the morning sun sitting through the first of what promised to be many tedious council meetings.
Now, instead of training outdoors on proper grounds, the two men were crammed into a room together to avoid the nasty weather.
Someone had moved all the fine furniture aside and covered it with ghostly white sheets.
As if that will protect it, he thought, shaking his head.
“Ready for round two?” Lord Stormrider asked.
Caelan and his father had just finished the first sparring match of the day—both a bit stiff after the voyage from the Shadowed Isles.
The journey had been long but enjoyable.
They’d cruised by the coast, admiring scenic cliffs.
Caelan loved the fresh salty air filling his lungs and the sun warming his face—the fleeting freedom of the sea.
“Always, old man,” Caelan replied with a grin.
He’d lost the first match within minutes, but training together was one of the few things they shared without outright resentment.
Most of the time. It beat formal dinners, and he’d take training over council meetings any day—though he craved the boisterous late-night court parties to come.
Caelan picked up his short sword, flipping it across the back of his hand before securing his grip around the hilt. His favored weapon—aside from his magic—it was adorned with a bronze pommel, the stag’s head inset into the metal gleaming faintly in the dim light.
“Show-off,” his father muttered, falling back into his preferred fighting stance. His face showed no hint of amusement.
Caelan knew his father enjoyed the training, but the elder Stormrider always approached it with intense focus.
Caelan assessed his opponent—pressing forward and raising his sword—then shifted into a defensive stance to counter his father’s aggressive posture. Typical, he thought, blowing a strand of sand-colored hair out of his face. He took a deep breath. One, two . . .
“Go!” Caelan said, starting the match. The two men stepped sideways in perfect synchrony.
Their years of fighting together were evident in the way they started each match with this dance.
A step to the side each. A step backward for one, while the other inched forward to fill the void.
Caelan waited, knowing that his father would strike first. He tilted his head to the side, his eyes following the twitch of his father’s lips as a small cruel smile spread across his face.
“Come and get me, boy,” Lord Stormrider said.
Caelan faltered. Teasing?
His mind churned, wondering what had prompted this unsettling shift in his father’s behavior. It must have been a ploy to distract him. Caelan struck first.
The screech of steel hitting steel filled the air as Caelan’s sword bit into his father’s.
His father pressed his forearm guard into his blade and used his full weight to force Caelan back a few paces.
Another flash of lightning illuminated the room, casting colorful light through the stained glass windows.
It caught Caelan off guard, allowing his father to gain the upper hand.
“What do I always say?” his father asked, beads of sweat forming on his weathered brow.
“Expect the unexpected,” Caelan grunted. He found his footing and prepared to parry once more. Then raindrops plopped onto his forehead and nose. He refused to look up. Despite the afternoon storm raging outside, he knew it wasn’t a roof leak.
The sparkle in his father’s eyes gave him away—he was playing dirty, conjuring rain inside to mimic the stormy weather outside. The fight dragged on, with neither side gaining an advantage. Caelan was young and agile, but his father possessed the strength and wisdom of experience.
Just as Caelan was about to call for an end to the match, a geyser of water shot from his father’s palm and struck him directly in the chest. He fell backward, slamming his tailbone onto the hard marble and gasping for air, only to be met with the searing pain of water filling his throat and lungs.
He tried to roll away, but the torrent grew until it engulfed his entire body with water.
No. Please. Fear, plain and visceral, clawed at his mind. As much as he wanted to believe that he was safe, he couldn’t convince his body that his father wouldn’t kill him.
Helpless, drowning, he curled into a ball and prayed for the torment to end.
When it finally did, he convulsed before vomiting up a vile combination of water and bile.
He coughed and heaved, fighting to get air into his lungs.
Sweet oxygen filled his chest. Black spots flickered at the edge of his vision but faded as his breathing stabilized.
Stunned, Caelan traced the intricate gold-leaf patterns on the ceiling with his eyes, his mind reeling as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. His father would occasionally conjure rain or ill-placed puddles during their sessions, but he’d never used essence to attack during training.
Not since . . .
Caelan held his hand out in front of his face, examining the scarred flesh that bubbled across his palm and onto the back of his hand.
Even now, a shiver ran down his spine, the phantom pain of his skin melting a reminder of his lost innocence.
The unwelcome memory forced its way to the forefront of his mind.
Caelan had been a boy, no older than twelve—running around the manor at Veilkeep, chasing girls and distracting them from their chores.
His father had summoned him for an extra training session at dusk.
A gap-toothed smile spread across his face upon discovering a boy his own age standing next to his father.
“This is Rurik,” his father said. “He’s here to help with your training.”
Lord Stormrider whispered into Rurik’s ear, and the boy’s mouth fell open, his amber eyes becoming saucers. Caelan could almost smell the acrid fear rolling off him—his father often had that effect on people.
As soon as Caelan stepped forward, arm outstretched to shake Rurik’s hand, the dark-haired boy cowered. At Lord Stormrider’s gaze, sharp as daggers, Rurik held out a shaking hand, palm up. A ball of fire flared into being, burning bright against the darkening sky.
An Embrathi.
“You must learn to defend yourself from every form of magic,” Lord Stormrider said. “Fire, as your elemental opposite, is the most logical place to start.”
Caelan fought the urge to run as that same fear that had overcome Rurik began crawling under his own skin, filling his veins with ice.
Instead of fleeing, he gathered every ounce of his courage and stood his ground.
He went into a defensive stance, a practiced movement that was as familiar as his own heartbeat. He gave Rurik a slight nod.
Hit me.
The blast was blinding, and Caelan shielded his eyes against the light. Pain seared through his hand before he could quench the flames with his own magic. His water soothed the blistered flesh, but not his frightened spirit.
“Father, please!” he called out, cradling his injured hand.
“Again,” Lord Stormrider commanded, not satisfied that his lesson had been learned.
Any semblance of trust between Caelan and his father had gone up in smoke that day.
“Get up,” Lord Stormrider snapped, bringing Caelan back to the present. “We’re in the den of our oldest enemies. Who knows what they have in store for us? You must be prepared for anything.” He reached down, offering an outstretched hand to his son.
Caelan took it, clambering to his feet, his limbs heavy.
His father was right—the Evensongs couldn’t be trusted.
They were betrayers. Liars. He’d grown up on bedtime stories about their deceit and how they’d turned Serendith against the Stormriders, exiling his ancestors from Valoria.
Lord Stormrider had spent his life rebuilding their political power, just so Caelan would have a seat on the Council of Magi. Maybe even more.
“Sit,” Lord Stormrider ordered, sauntering across the room to a table.
Caelan glared at him but obeyed, collapsing into a chair across from his father.
“You know why we’re here,” his father said, pouring himself a glass of crimson wine. He didn’t offer any to his son.
Caelan nodded, folding his arms across his aching chest. “I know.” His throat burned as he croaked out the words.
“What do you think of the girl?”
“Never met her. Just seen a portrait,” Caelan said. “Does it matter what I think?” He raised an eyebrow.
“No. But it will be easier for you if you can remain . . . unattached.” Lord Stormrider took a deep swig of the wine.
Caelan nodded again, chest tightening. “I know. When?”
“The end of the week.” His father’s mouth became a tight line.
Caelan’s heart skipped a beat. So soon. I’d hoped to have more time before . . .
“Understood, sir. Anything else?”
His father leaned forward, causing his chair to creak. “You are the key to our success. I’m counting on you.” He paused, his eyes searching Caelan’s face for any sign of weakness. “Will you stand with me, son?”
Caelan schooled his features, ensuring that his father found nothing there to criticize. He couldn’t stomach the look of disappointment that he’d grown so familiar with over the years. “You can count on me, Father. I won’t let you down.”
Caelan waited, the clinking of his father’s wineglass against the table the only other sound in the room. When he finished, Lord Stormrider strode out of the room and closed the heavy door behind him, leaving Caelan utterly alone.
Caelan’s hands shook as he snatched his sword from the floor, the wet metal ice-cold against his skin.
With a desperate heave, he hurled it at the drenched silhouettes of the ghostly furniture.
The clatter of steel echoed in the empty room.
But it wasn’t loud enough to drown out the scream trapped in Caelan’s mind.