10. Callum
Callum
Before me, the sword sits half buried in the icy-cold, pebble-ridden dirt. Greer and Elorie warned me that it can’t be moved, but I still tried. The ground is unforgiving, the blade barely wobbling when I tug. It’s frozen. The key to a lock that I can’t seem to wake.
For three mornings in a row, I’ve knelt at this blade, gripped the cold hilt, and tunneled into the core of myself in an attempt to summon a fleck of magic to open a Gate. But the magic in the blade doesn’t appear for me like it did for Elorie. The blue river running through the silver is unmoving.
Quiet.
All around Alyssium, it’s cold. But here, where the blade sinks into the ground, the icy cast of something else lingers. Shadows deepen no matter what time of day. As if the blade swallows any light or swell of magic.
“Come on.” I grip the sword again, my fingers locking tight.
Closing my eyes, I envision driving deeper, and I plummet. The breeze whips my hair against my ears. Its whispers prickle the back of my neck.
I fall and fall, so deep into my being that I’m at the pit of where my magic hides, looking up at myself. But the blade does not wake.
“Callum.” My eyes fly open, and I release the sword.
There’s no one here. Yet among the dark, spidery tendrils wound deep in my thoughts, someone called for me. It’s probably the wind playing games with my mind again. It’s as much a friend as it is foe, haunting me with reminders of something I can’t quite put my finger on.
I dip my chin, defeated. The birds’ chant echoes through the forest. The blade, dull as ever, sits before me. A beacon of what I cannot do—of all the ways I’ve failed these past few months.
Intricate designs decorate the hilt. I run my finger over the careful pattern. I thought nothing of them when I first approached the sword, but this close, I can make out the constellations. Dots tie the threads together in the shapes of runes. Some I know, while others are foreign.
My thumbnail slips into the grooves, and when I pull back, I notice it’s flecked with crimson.
Elorie’s blood.
I scrape my nail into the crevice again, and something hums. Only, the purr does not come from the blade or the realm—it’s everywhere. The blue vein brightens, swimming as steady as the river that cuts through Mal Remere.
Magic swims.
The village is bustling when I storm through the gates.
For months, I’ve struggled with one loss after another. Failed those who have needed me at every turn. So when I finally unlocked the blade and felt the wind flicker beneath my palm, my adrenaline surged.
I should have known Elorie’s blood was the key. It always has been. Which explains why the magic inside the sword slumbered for years, hanging on the mantel at her father’s house, only to come alive when she grabbed it with her bloody hand the day he died.
The moment I stirred what little blood remained in those grooves, it came alive. Unfortunately, there’s not much left. Time and weather have left me with only a scrape to work with.
“You did it?” Greer guesses the moment she spots me coming.
Her eyes set on the gates behind me, where a pulse of static stretches from the sword, beating like its very own heart.
“I figured it out. I can open a Gate.”
Greer’s relief is fleeting as another thought sweeps through her. “That’s good news, but I haven’t found the rings. Letia and I searched the Guard quarters top to bottom today. They aren’t there. And I doubt they kept them hidden in a human’s home.”
She glances around the square, her voice dropping.
Villagers bustle back and forth as they gather their things.
Elorie explained our plan before she went into the prison, but the humans don’t know we haven’t found the rings.
That if we fail in this task, there’s no way they can come with us when we leave the island.
“What if the Guard didn’t keep them here, Callum?” Greer’s voice is nearly a whisper. “If the Crown was that desperate to hide them from the humans, they might have had the rings brought to the palace. What if they’re gone?”
“They aren’t.” I motion Greer inside because this isn’t the place for this conversation.
Letia is packing because, like Elorie, she has hope we’ll figure this out.
Her house is a mess, with cabinets open and items strewn about.
Everyone has been told to only bring what they can carry because we don’t know what awaits us on the continent.
Weapons are a priority, but Letia has made room for the occasional keepsake.
If we do find the rings, the humans may never return here.
“I’m guessing you have good news.” Letia’s eyebrows lift as she takes in Greer’s smile.
“Callum woke the magic in the sword. It’s finally ready.”
“Good because I found something.” She shoves a scarf into her bag and grabs a journal from the table.
“Emual was the last Fae to mention having seen the rings. He notes that the Fae didn’t trust them in the hands of the humans, but it sounds like he didn’t trust them in the hands of the Fae either.
He kept them from the Guard, never returning to the Ley Court after coming here.
Eventually, Emual suffered the Beating because of it, and he worried in his final days how to protect this secret after he was gone, knowing the rings would only reignite tensions between the humans and Fae if they were discovered. ”
Letia’s finger moves over the page as she reads a passage from Emual’s journal.
“Unrest swells. Possibility worsens the resistance. To Sarrow the rings must go, and in Sarrow, it will set them free of this battle.”
“What does that mean? He sent the rings to Sarrow?” Greer’s eyebrows pinch as she reads the page.
“If that’s the case, they’re lost to us. The Arch to Sarrow didn’t just close; it fractured. And even when it was open, few dared breach it because it was rare the After would let them return.”
Letia shakes her head. “I don’t think he meant Sarrow as in the place, per se.
He was referring to death. He didn’t trust the rings in the village since they would tear apart trust between the humans and the Fae, so he thought it best they remain lost to those who were left. He took them to his grave.”
“Fae aren’t buried.”
Her lips purse. “Some were when the humans first came here. In the Mortal Realm, it’s common.
Customs only changed as the ground grew colder, making grave digging impossible.
So the humans adopted the rituals of the Fae, eventually believing what they did: that if the bodies weren’t burned, their souls wouldn’t move on to the After.
But Emual had a grudge against the gods.
He mentioned it a few times through his journals, so I don’t believe he would have wanted to be burned.
I think Emual was buried, and that he made sure the rings were buried with him. ”
I flip through the pages, skimming the scrawled handwriting, dulled from years of ink sitting on paper. The truth is right here. I can’t believe I didn’t see it.
“Do you know of a Fae graveyard on the island?” I ask. “In all my time hunting, I don’t remember any grieving pillars apart from the ones marking the empty graves of fallen humans.”
“There wouldn’t be grieving pillars in a Fae graveyard. It’s a human custom, and we all know how Fae feel about those.” Her teeth grit, and I don’t blame her irritation.
After all we’ve learned in the journals, I’m surprised her trust in us hasn’t soured as well. The Fae treated the humans on Alyssium as horribly as the prisoners.
Greer frowns. “How do we find a graveyard that’s not marked?”
“Just because the graves aren’t marked doesn’t mean the graveyard isn’t.” Letia reaches for her cloak, throwing it over her shoulders. The white fur hugs her cheeks, covering her golden hair. “I have some ideas of where it might be.”
Letia takes the lead with the determination of the girl she was before she lost her family. Villagers ignore us as we pass through town and venture out into the forest.
The wind howls through the trees, and it’s a strange comfort to be back in this fragile place.
Where the ground beneath our feet could give at any moment.
The sky could break open and decide we’ve lived enough.
Unlike in the Ley Court, Alyssium has been on the brink of destruction for centuries. Every moment could be the last.
Fae look down on human lifespans because they don’t understand the urgency of being mortal. They don’t see how every second is important when they’re limited to so few. In my century here, life and death cycled more than once. I saw just how precious things are when they are temporary.
Letia leads the way, shivering. My fingers stretch, momentarily forgetting how deep my magic slumbers, so I can’t cast a shell around her to hold back the elements and keep her warm.
And yet, at a distance, the sword pulses. A reminder that we’re running out of time. I hope Letia is right; I hope Elorie finds her way out. Or may the gods help us all.