Chapter 6
He spent every day with Soraya, after that.
She was a terrible fighter.
A gods-awful disaster, when it came to her form. Her arms were too weak. Her legs were like sticks ready to snap. She’d trained her entire life inside the Citadel, and yet...she was perhaps the worst swordsman Arawn had ever seen.
And if it were possible, she was even more dismal sparring without the blade in her hands.
But one thing was different about her.
Soraya refused to quit.
Not even when she was bruised and broken from their sessions together. Not even when he growled at her and she cursed forbidden words at him, ones that meant penance. She always picked up her blade, or crawled back to her feet, and it was her, not him, that said, “again.”
He’d never seen anything like it.
They started sharing meals together, and Arawn forced her to eat more, and gain more muscle, and then he found himself inviting her to run with him in the snow before the sun set.
She claimed she hated him for it.
But she never stopped.
She never even asked to quit.
And as the months wore on, and they grew closer to their nomage march, Arawn discovered that it was her magic... god-sent gusts of wind...that would be what did the trick.
Soraya was small, but Arawn discovered that she could move faster, if she invocated and requested a push of wind at her back. She learned to wrap it around her arms, her fists, so that she could swing harder, follow through with a punch, until she broke his nose with it.
It was the first time he uttered a curse word aloud.
The first time in ages, he’d had to pay penance...and she smiled because of it.
Soon her size began to work to her advantage, for she could move faster than her opponents, especially the enormous Sacred boys, who were bred to be muscular giants. Arawn helped her choose new forms, new patterns...
And it was Soraya, of all people, that helped him learn how best to keep that magic blazing on his blade...though he had an inkling of a feeling it was really Kinlear, by way of a raven sent.
He helped her fight. She helped him study his invocations, and soon, it wasn’t her strength, but her god, that gave her the ability to face him in sparring...and win.
She was getting better.
She had a chance.
They were sixteen, close friends, when the call for battle came. When they stood in the snow together...about to march for the very first time into the Expanse.
Arawn Laroux had never seen true night beyond the confines of the Citadel.
Not like this.
He marched north with the other younglings, the snow so deep it would have been up to their necks, if the Watermages at the front of the line had not melted a path into the tundra so the ground forces could pass.
A sea of red nomage forces walked in front of him, their cloaks like a smear of blood; a beacon for the shadow wolves and darksouls.
Here we are, they said. Weak and powerless and ripe for the killing.
Come and devour us!
Sacred Realmist commanders lead them from the backs of roaring war bears. The nomage leaders rode on enormous draft horses, beautifully trained animals that weren’t near fast enough to outrun the shadow wolves when they struck.
It was an army...a force to be reckoned with, everyone armed and eager to end the darkness with it.
But as Arawn looked back at the Citadel, past the countless soldiers in red and white...
Not enough, he thought. Not nearly enough.
From here, he could see his own tower. He could see Kinlear’s window, but it was dark, a reminder that his brother was gone. If he died tonight, Arawn would never see him again.
And for a moment, as the snow poured past his vision, and he marched onwards into the coming night...
He felt like a boy again. He wanted to run back to that tower. To hide in the safety of his room and burrow deep beneath the covers, to be protected by a stronger and braver person than him.
But he was older now.
He was cleared to march into the war...
And there was no one coming to save him but himself and his magic.
For the first time in a long time, Arawn felt small.
Walls of frozen white rose on either side of him as he and the other younglings snaked their way through the tundra, heading north to the Snow Gates.
Towards the end of the gods’ protection, where the glowing dome of wardlight would end. And the war would begin.
And people around him would die a horrible death.
“You look pale,” said Soraya, breathless as she caught up to him. She was late to the marching call. He’d arrived an hour early.
Arawn flinched at her voice, even though it was familiar. A comfort in the darkness.
Her breath was a cloud before her, and snow had already gathered upon the dark strands of her hair.
It was woven into a warrior’s braid that ran down her back.
She wore Sacred whites, like Arawn, runes glowing a brilliant gold all over her.
They lit up her eyes, turning the amber almost molten, and—
He sucked in a breath. She had kohl lining her eyes, and for the first time, a thought fluttered into his mind when it came to her.
Beautiful.
“Scared, Prince?” she asked, smiling.
Not just smiling, but grinning ear to ear, even though they were about to march into true war. Even though countless would fall in this very battle as the Snow Gates grew closer, the dark obelisks already visible in his sight. He could feel the thrum of thousands of marching feet in his chest.
“Of course I’m scared,” Arawn said. “Aren’t you?”
Shouts rang out as the last bits of daylight fell. And in the distance...a mighty rumble shook the earth. The shadowstorm was alive.
Soraya laughed, while others begged for mercy and prayed. “Why would I be scared? I had the best trainer anyone could ask for! And besides!” She pointed skyward. There was a fresh penance mark on the back of her hand. “We march in the shadow of the gods’ chosen!”
He looked up at the sound of a war eagle’s cry...just in time to see them falling from the cliffside. His father, King of Lordach, was right at the front of them.
Draybor was pressed close to his eagle as he dove down, down, following the curve of the cliff’s face. He was an arrow, a blur of gold feathers and white cape and magic. Fire swirled like a shield before his eagle, wind stirring it into a deathly gale.
And then Draybor and his magic faded from view as he pulled up on his war eagle, and they leveled, their talons nearly colliding with the nomage forces before they soared right of Arawn’s head with a mighty screech.
His aerie followed, so low that Arawn could feel the whoosh of their enormous bodies just over his head.
They pulled up, and soared through those Snow Gates.
Right over the Expanse, where the first line of ground forces had already stepped into the dark.
All around Arawn, soldiers began to shout. A drum was played somewhere in the line of forces. He could hear it in the distance, or perhaps that was his heart.
Beat.
He marched onwards, hefting a borrowed blade in his hands.
Beat.
The first tendril of the Acolyte’s magic struck beyond the wards.
Beat.
The raphons rose in the distance. He could hear their screeching from here, and magic exploded as the Riders began their attack.
Beat.
A war bear nearly shoved Arawn to the side as it marched past, carrying runed shields and extra arrows for the archers.
Beat.
The shadow of the Snow Gates fell upon him. Arawn could feel the power, the thrum of the gods’ protection in him and through him...and then he felt it peel away as he stepped through the purple glow, into the Expanse.
The drum stopped.
The world became a blur.
And the war began.
He ran. He ran like hell was at his back, as the others in front of him ran, not even knowing what he was running towards. Snow stung his vision as he searched the white world before him for an enemy. For something to place his magic, his—
“DARKSOUL!” someone screamed.
A snowdrift exploded to his right as a beam of spiraling dark power -- darksoul magic – slammed against the ground forces. So fast, he hadn’t seen where it came from.
Where was the enemy, where was—
Another blast to his left.
Bodies went skyward as darksoul magic struck the battlefield, leaving a smoking black scar in its wake.
He saw something blur past his vision – a figure clad in black robes, claws where its fingers should have been, beams of purple and black power spiraling from it.
And then there was screaming, and hot blood that sprayed Arawn’s face, dripping down his chin, and a youngling he’d known – now he couldn’t even remember her name – was suddenly thrown in his path.
He reached out to help her up, but...
But her eyes saw nothing.
Dead, Arawn realized. She’s dead.
His ears rang.
This wasn’t the training room anymore. There was no padded mat to soften his fall, no instructor to stand at the side and correct him as he went. And he stood frozen for a moment, feeling like he was walking inside a dream.
Was this what Kinlear felt, when his monster hunted him?
He looked down slowly, his body going in and out of focus.
He had a sword in his hand.
He had magic in his veins.
He vaguely remembered that he should use it.
“ARAWN!”
Soraya’s voice, a sound he knew, a sound to bring him home.
Then Soraya’s face was right before him, blurred from a blizzard of white that danced between them. And gods, she was lovely, and he’d never realized it before, never—
He blinked.
She was covered in blood.
Not hers, his mind whispered, and he thought he felt himself smile. It was black, from a shadow wolf or a darksoul – had she already fought a darksoul?
“Fight!” she screamed at him. “You have to fight, Arawn!”
He heard her words like they’d come from underwater. Like he was drowning, and she’d sank to the bottom with him.