The Summons #2
Since her return to the summit a week ago, everything between them had felt strained—ever since the kiss. She still spoke to him, but there was a border now, carefully drawn. Any glance too long, any word too warm, and she turned skittish, as though avoiding his gaze would erase the memory.
Collin was desperate to talk to her, to ask—just once—what she felt that day in the woods. But how did one begin a conversation like that?
So... did you like it? The kiss, I mean? Or were you just too polite to pull away? Wait, you kissed back... didn’t you? Or was that just wishful thinking?
He had no answers, only questions that twisted themselves into late-night rewrites of that moment.
Had he ruined their friendship? Quite possibly.
Did he regret it? Not even a little. Would he do it again, given the chance?
In a heartbeat. The kiss lived in his mind like something sacred—sweet and dangerous and lingering.
He sighed quietly and turned back to the others, letting the square’s tension fold around him like damp cloth. Whatever awaited them, it was near. And Nic, now mock-dueling Uriah with a stick, seemed determined to wring the last bit of levity from the waiting.
Despite the weight pressing in on the square, Nic and Clive's banter tugged a few smiles out of the group. They spoke of swords and steel, riffing on design and balance like scholars of war trying to forget they were about to be tested like criminals.
Collin admitted he’d always wanted a dagger, though he doubted he'd ever afford one.
Aries, arms crossed and gaze distant, muttered that he wished he had more time to forge blades for beauty rather than for bureaucrats.
Clive and Dragonfly fell into a focused discussion on arrowheads—flint versus antler versus bone—each material dissected like it might save their lives.
Uriah, River, and Niall listed the blades they dreamed of wielding. River’s answer: anything that didn’t reject him on sight.
Then the town clock struck noon.
The conversation died mid-sentence.
A few minutes later, the doors to the meeting hall creaked open and a line of captains emerged. They wore their authority like armor—silent, severe, utterly unamused. The murmurs ceased. The square held its breath.
Captain Sol strode forward, every step slow and deliberate.
He wasn’t the tallest, nor the youngest, nor the most classically imposing, yet somehow he out-ranked the others in gravity alone.
His shoulder-length gray hair swayed faintly in the breeze.
His face was hard-etched stone: deep lines, sun-darkened skin, and eyes like sharpened flint.
Collin had never exchanged words with him, but he didn’t need to. Sol was the man who’d signaled the execution of six men years ago—Collin had seen him through child’s eyes on that bloody day. That memory had never dimmed.
“You have been summoned,” Sol announced, voice cutting clean through the silence, “to have your skills assessed.”
The statement hung heavy. The pause that followed was longer than necessary.
“You are expected to perform your very best,” he continued. “Anything less will not be tolerated.”
The dread rolled through the crowd like a wave. Even the air seemed to curdle. Sol’s gaze roved over them like a hawk’s over a trembling field mouse, and Collin had to suppress the urge to duck.
“You will be divided into groups,” he said. “You will be evaluated individually.”
He motioned. Twelve captains stepped forward. Arms crossed. Eyes unreadable.
“You will listen for your name,” Sol went on. “You will meet your assigned captain in the designated location. Do not move until dismissed.”
A young captain stepped forward and shook out a parchment, the scroll fluttering like a banner of doom.
“I am Captain Kyle. The following candidates will report to the courtyard...”
Everyone tensed. The hush was palpable. Even the birds seemed to fall silent.
Collin listened, heart thudding too loud in his head. What if he ended up in the wrong place?
“Here we go,” Nic muttered beside him. “Roll out the guillotine.”
“Don’t,” Aries hissed with his jaw gritted.
Names were read—slowly, deliberately. Each one like a dropped stone in a still pond. Dragonfly. Helen. Lekyi. A few others shuffled in stiff silence.
Nic leaned toward River and whispered, “If he says ‘Nic of Stargazer Creek,’ pretend you don’t know me. Just start screaming and point at someone else. Uriah looks suspicious—he’ll understand.”
Uriah elbowed him without taking his eyes off the captains. “I hope they pair you with the one who smells like boiled cabbage.”
Another captain began reading. More names peeled into the square, each followed by the silent breaking of a small human spirit.
“I feel like we should be drawing straws,” Nic whispered. “Or playing spin-the-sword.”
“Or choosing champions,” Aries added grimly. “I vote Collin. He’s got the drama for it.”
Captain Sol’s voice rose above the rest, “Collin of Chroma. Meeting Hall.”
The name rang out like a verdict. One clean note cleaving through the square, and suddenly, everything inside Collin went still.
His heart—already hammering from the long wait—seemed to miss a beat, then slam back into motion twice as hard.
His ears rang. Not from the voice, but from the way the world seemed to shrink around it.
The sunlight dimmed. The sounds of the square faded.
Only the echo of his name remained—carved into the air like a brand.
This was real. No escape now.
“Nic of Stargazer Creek, clocktower.”
Nic’s eyebrows shot up. “Ah. My time in purgatory has come.”
“No jokes,” Uriah muttered.
“That was a statement of resignation.”
He clapped Collin on the shoulder. “If I don’t make it out, you can have Amare. Just don’t name your next goat after me. That’s all I ask.”
Laughter died in Collin’s throat. He wanted to throw up more.
The rest of the names followed—Uriah, the twins, River. Every name carried weight, each one a reminder that no one was safe.
When the last name echoed out across the square, silence once again descended.
For a full breath, no one dared to move.
And then, “Get moving!”
Captain Eric’s voice cracked through the air like a whip. Collin flinched, along with everyone else. The crowd scattered in a sudden rush of limbs and stolen breath, wordless and wide-eyed. Heading to their faits.
Nic caught up beside Collin, sword in hand, whispering in a rush, “This better not be one of those tests where they ask if you’d run over a goat to save a princess. Because I’m going to have questions.”
Collin didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He just clutched Lumen with sweating fingers and followed the others into the unknown.
Inside the cavernous meeting hall, the stone walls swallowed their footsteps.
Lekyi was already there, pacing near the long table where a row of weapons gleamed faintly in the dim light.
A minute later, two others arrived—James of Greenswood, the immaculately dressed son of a steward, and Tym of Chroma, who looked one startled breath away from fainting.
No one spoke. They stood in a loose ring of uncertainty, shifting quietly, eyes flicking toward the stone floor or the sealed doors. The guard who’d followed them in gave no instructions. He simply stood watch, arms folded, gaze like frostbite.
Collin studied him briefly—did men become guards because they were born joyless, or did the uniform slowly strip the warmth from their bones?
Minutes dragged like hours.
Then, at last, Captain Sol entered. He crossed to a list tacked by the double doors, scanned it, nodded once. The hardness of the move settled like a stone in Collin’s gut.
Sol turned and shut the doors behind him.
The thud echoed like a closing tomb.
The dread wasn’t loud. It didn’t scream.
It crept, slow and deliberate, cinching around Collin’s ribs like a belt pulled taut by an unseen hand.
The windows were locked—tight, expressionless panes—and the exits sealed with a kind of finality that made his breath feel borrowed.
He wasn’t one to fear closed spaces, not usually.
But this wasn’t just closed. It was cut off.
The air had a strange weight to it, heavy and unmoving, as if time had stopped to watch.
Then it stirred—the old shed. That forgotten corner of childhood. The slap of cold against his skin, the dark pressing in, the door stuck, and the silence stretching. Hours spent wondering if anyone would notice he was gone.
Sol paced slowly across the vast room. His boots struck the stone with unhurried weight. No one breathed too loudly. And then, without a word, he vanished through a narrow door at the back of the hall.
“What do you think they’re going to do to us?” James asked under his breath, voice hoarse with worry. His white-blond hair and sharp green eyes gave him a patrician air, but just now, he was simply a scared boy hoping someone had answers.
“No idea,” Clive whispered. “Whatever it is... I’m hoping it doesn’t involve running. I haven’t done laps since winter.”
James opened his mouth again, but the guard’s voice cracked through the air like bone snapping. “Silence.”
James flinched like he’d been slapped. Clive stiffened but said nothing.
Niall sank into a wooden chair with a sigh meant for quieter rooms. The scraping sound on the stone made Collin’s skin crawl. Every noise felt amplified—as if the building itself disapproved of them.
Collin leaned back against the wall. His palms were slick with sweat. He shoved them into his pockets and closed his eyes, counting his own breaths. It didn’t help. His heart thudded like it wanted out.
Ten agonizing minutes passed.
Then the door at the far end opened with a flood of sunlight, a golden blade slicing into the gloom.
Dust swirled in the air like tiny fireflies.
“Lekyi of North Town,” came the voice—deep, resonant, final.
Lekyi grabbed his sword, Solus, from the table and strode forward, expression hard as cut stone.