Chapter One
Assignment
Six Years Before
The stench of death and decay haunts my senses long after we've departed the train.
No amount of breathing out can rid me of its cloying scent.
I curl my hands into fists to keep them from rising with the incessant urge to pinch my nose closed, though it would only capture the smell worse than it already has been imprinted.
My skin itches with the piercing sting of the midmorning sun imparting its beaming rays in an unwelcome greeting over my sickly pale skin, which so rarely experiences this type of treatment—it feels as if tiny needles are sticking me through the thin black fabric of my dress.
Wind whips the dark brown tendrils of hair from either side of my face, catching the strays in my berry red lip tint. My lungs depress to release a breath and I refuse to allow my fingers to extract the errant strands, aware they will only become entrapped, yet again.
I blink back at the brightness and stare out at the vast field of viridescent grass stretching past a seemingly unending forest, waiting for the jostling of the canvas flaps to relent from the reception tent, indicating that the rest of my Guards have finally deigned to join me on the gravel walking path.
Fray, my flying Guard, hovers just above the ground, taking the risk of showing off his talents now that we are free from the constraints inherent within the walls of the Palace. “Wow.” His moss green eyes widen upon meeting my own. “The blue in your eyes is so bright in this light, Tasch.”
The canvas settles as the last of my Guards join us to wait for our Imperial Army escort, when Hendry, my Lead Guard, takes his place to my left.
“Imperial Guard Fray.” Hendry’s voice is stern, behaving as if the Emperor is within earshot. “You know we are to refer to every being given a title by our Emperor with said title, followed by their given name, every time—”
“Yeah, yeah. Or else there will be consequences.” Fray waves in dismissal. “Normally I would. But there’s no one around to hear us.”
“Execution is not the sort of punishment you want to chance by letting your guard down.” Hendry glowers with his gaze fixed on Fray.
“Do not become so comfortable with the privilege we are afforded as Anomalies to believe His Majesty would ever hesitate to enact the same punishment he does on anyone else.” He straightens his uniform as Fray clears his throat.
“Besides, we are here on assignment. This isn’t the time for frivolities, like compliments. ”
“I wasn’t being complimentary.” Fray’s dark brows furrow.
“I was merely observing how her eyes are so much brighter in this rare bit of sunlight compared to the dim cast from the sconces we’re usually trapped around.
It’s not the same as the veiled sunlight we get with how dreary it is around the mountain. ”
Hendry forces out a breath in frustration, and not even his irritable mood can sully the relief I experience now that my assigned attendant will remain in reception. At least until her services are required later this evening.
“Fray’s an artist.” Cirrin, my healing Guard, addresses Hendry. “He can’t help but notice these things. He made a mistake. He will not do it again.” Cirrin turns to look up at Fray with his eyebrows raised and nods with an unusual air of solemnity.
Malin, my telekinetic Guard, moves closer to my right, as both he and Hendry cast their gaze to scan our surroundings.
“Someone is approaching,” Malin announces, sensing the energy from the being.
General Blace’s graying black strands dance around his broad forehead, adding a touch of whimsy to an otherwise grim visage. Followed closely by his similarly aged Imperial witch, who keeps her eyes trained on the ground while his rise to pin mine in greeting.
“Imperial Grand Witch Tasch, allow me to welcome you and your Imperial Guards, the honorable Anomalies, to Imperial Army encampment eighty-eight.” His voice is deep as he dips forward in a bow, first to myself, then to each of my Guards. “I trust your needs were provided for.”
I nod curtly, with a rare sense of amusement bursting through my chest as I send a tendril of my magic to seek the General’s current state.
Enjoyment tangles with my initial reaction, now that my magic returns with the evidence of just how uncomfortable he feels in my presence.
Though I must commend him, as he plays it off well, only barely shaking as he thrusts out a hand to gesture for me to walk beside him.
The straight path guides us through the center of the perfectly pitched rows of Imperial Army tents.
Their canvas exteriors ripple in the wind, bringing attention to the golden threads depicting a Dragon breathing a ring of fire around its head.
Our Empire’s sigil, a symbol of both strength and wealth.
One which every citizen must proudly display over our left side chest in honor of the Dragons who grant us power to rule over this land.
Camp gives way to a clearing, where the Temple of the Dragon is the only permanent building.
Imposing, with the head of a Dragon carved atop its roof and wide paws with thick claws adorning the bottom of the front two columns.
With its arched entrance left wide open, a subtle glow beckons to all who wish to pay their respects to our benefactors.
However, the doorway to this temple only seems to contain darkness.
A deep, inky well that calls to me, despite the lack of light within it.
Gooseflesh rises along my skin once I tear my gaze away from its depths, needing to give proper attention to the hundreds of soldiers who have assembled in our honor beside the gray stone Temple.
Soldiers who collectively stare beyond our heads, refusing to make eye contact in a show of respect for the Anomalies.
They wear matching fitted black uniforms with the only adornment being our sigil over their left shoulder. The plainness indicating their rank, since only those who ascend to higher roles, like my Guards, are afforded the honor to customize their daily uniform.
General Blace and his witch come to a halt, and we follow. He holds out a hand to indicate the soldiers standing before us.
“The sorcerers present themselves in Imperial Army formation, where every segment is representative of the form of magic His Majesty has sanctioned them to perform in service to our Empire.”
I nod, as expected, then allow myself to inspect them more closely.
Force sorcerers stare past me from the front section, followed closely by telekinetics, healers, flight, and speed.
Each having earned their place in our Imperial Army after training in the form of inborn magic they proved strongest in the year they entered our Imperial school system.
That formative first year, where sorcerers must learn to subdue every other kind of inborn magic, forcing all but the strongest to become dormant.
We walk before the witches serving alongside the sorcerers, who are required to gather separately and to whom General Blace pauses to gesture, though with less enthusiasm.
“The witches serving in our Imperial Army require no such distinction, of course.” His voice is monotone, sounding almost bored. “However, I hope they have properly honored you with the neat rows they have formed, beginning with the strongest in influence making up the front.”
I nod to the witches, whose stares seem much more pointed, narrowing their eyes to focus somewhere behind us.
They stand shoulder-width apart in matching plain black uniforms nearly identical to the sorcerers’, except for the extended hem on their shirts.
Since every witch in our Empire is required to only practice influence, there is no need for them to organize themselves similarly.
Our purpose as witches is to support the sorcerers in strengthening their magic.
We are responsible for attuning, absorbing, and modifying their emotions, so they might best provide for our Empire.
Regardless of what inborn magic we might wield, nor the toll this practice has on our mind, body, and soul.
Forced to disregard our own needs, since a witch is only as valuable as her contribution to the whole.
“Glory to the Dragons!” the soldiers chant in unison.
“To whom we owe everything!” we return, before slamming our jaws shut, allowing an eerie silence to envelop us.
My magic thrums, reaching out to siphon the emotions it detects rippling out from the sorcerers’ chests.
Their feelings seek me in the absence of witches modifying their emotions so they can focus on honoring us—bursting from their vessels in what appear to be magical threads.
They weave a colorful tapestry only I can see due to this strange, inherited ability.
Passed down through my mother’s side for generations, if anyone is to believe a thing that crawls out of that witch’s mouth.
Tangles of coral and rose, umber and emerald blend before me in my mind’s way of detecting their distinct feelings.
Ranging from anger to envy—an emotion I imagine must come from the misunderstanding most hold for me in my position.
Falsely believing the Emperor affords me immense privilege with this role no one seems to recognize as the prison it is.
Though only witches wield the ability to send emotions straight to my being, I take pity on the sorcerers and siphon their overwhelm, which sink like a stones, sitting heavily in the pit of my stomach.
My legs feel weighed down as we plod on past the last of them before closing in on the Temple of the Dragon.
The enormous shadow swallows our solemn forms as the towering building looms alongside us.
An urge, an itch, something from within, compels me to turn and look inside it, and no matter how hard I try to resist—no matter how much I fight to keep my gaze fixed on the path—my neck pivots until I become entrapped, staring into the depthless void of the wide, darkened entrance.