CHAPTER 3
THE CASTING OF THE ARCALON
The Shards of the Arcanth will be secured at the border where two House regions meet, its magic sustaining both. Earth to Sorrel and Durent. Water to Navyr and Lyra. Air to Hale and Caldris. Fire to Thorne and Fatàn.
– The Arcanth Accords, Articles III-VII
The next morning, Kara and Alys joined the other delegates en route to the Arcalon arena, the path crowded with a sea of cloaks of every colour – Durent amber leading the way.
The instructions had been clear. House formal wear required.
Creststone visible. No late arrivals. The great stone arena rose ahead of them – vast circular pale walls stark against the brightening sky.
Banners of the eight Houses rippled gently in the wind.
Around her, other delegates were chattering, full of nervous excitement.
A Navyrian next to her was loudly hoping that the Water trial would open this year’s tournament.
She spotted Henry walking ahead with the other Caldris delegates, all cloaked in ice-white.
He’d arrived last night by carriage. Not by valmare.
He hadn’t sought her out, and for that she’d been grateful.
There was a familiar face in the Sorrel delegation too – Anya.
She looked happy. Confident. Anya had left Hale at seventeen when her magic awakened – yellow, not emerald – so she’d sworn her oath to Sorrel instead.
It was unusual, but respected. It had to be.
Kara had watched her leave. Anya hadn’t realised how lucky she was.
“What’s wrong?” Alys asked shrewdly.
“Getting nervous,” Kara lied. Alys peered up at the arena, now looming in front of them.
“Don’t be nervous – it’s exciting! Plus you came second last time, so you know you can do it,” Alys assured her.
“That’s true,” Kara said.
Her team had lost by a mere two points. Her father expected better this year.
Together, Kara and Alys entered the arena, the gates guarded by Thorne soldiers, standing at attention, waiting for any excuse.
The stone stands were tiered in a circle surrounding them, raising so high the top benches were slightly blurred against the sunlight.
All unoccupied – the casting was a private ceremony.
But for the trials, there wouldn’t be one empty seat.
Seven Council chairs were held in their own box, raised above the rest to afford the best view.
There was an additional chair set slightly apart: for the Fatàn judge.
“I know they don’t sit on the High Council,” Alys said, eyeing Fatàn’s seat. “But I don’t understand why they don’t compete.”
“They’ve always said–” Kara began.
“That their foresight could bias them,” Alys finished. “I know. But you’d think they’d want a little fun.”
“Hmm, I imagine knowing how it ends takes the sport out of it,” Kara said.
The centre of the arena was filled with seven distinct podiums, all arranged in a circle, with the House crests flying from pillars behind each one.
They walked towards the green podium where the two other Hale delegates waited – Thomel, slight and nervous-looking, and Emric, dark-haired and stoic – and stood proudly before their snake and flower crest.
Anya climbed up on Sorrel’s beside her, all yellow with a crest of wheat. Henry was already on the Caldris podium on Kara’s other side. He nodded once, offering her a small smile before turning back to his conversation.
That’s it? By the Four Gods, how am I going to marry this man?
She should feel relieved that he wasn’t pushing her into public interaction before she was ready, but all she felt was a hollow ache. Kara looked away before the tears came.
That’s when she saw him.
He was entering last beside his comrades, dressed in Thorne black and crimson, too-long dark hair, and although she couldn’t see them, she knew – piercing ice-blue eyes.
The man from the market.
He walked towards the red podium. The Thorne soldiers guarding the arena straightened as he passed, a quiet ripple of deference following him as he climbed up alongside the three other Thorne delegates.
Kara’s stomach dropped.
Oh no. He’s not just a delegate.
That’s Sebastian Thorne.
He looked relaxed – if anything, a little bored by the proceedings. His gaze swept over in her direction, and stopped. Recognition flashed and he smirked – he’d caught her staring. Her cheeks burned.
She leaned towards Alys, her voice low and horrified. “You know the Thorne I bumped into at the market?”
Alys turned, distracted from fiddling with her bracelet. “Hmm?”
“It was Sebastian Thorne.”
Alys peeked over at the Thorne podium, studying him surreptitiously, and gave a small incredulous laugh. “You’re joking. The war hero himself?”
“Apparently. And he’s just as arrogant as I’d heard.”
Alys snorted. “And there’s a one in four chance you’ll be on the same team as him.” She regarded him with open interest. “Mmm, speaking of which, as we’re stuck with a Thorne either way,” Alys said cheekily. “This one is at least nice to look at.”
Kara gave her a look of pure exasperation. “You can have him.”
When Kara glanced back, Sebastian wasn’t looking anymore, but was deep in conversation with a pretty Thorne woman who was also competing.
A hush came over the crowd of delegates.
The High Council entered, led by her father, solemn faced and straight backed.
The other six Lords and Ladies followed behind; Evelyn Sorrel amongst them for the first Arcalon since her husband’s passing from Trimaara fever last year, the grief still present in the lines on her face.
Galen Caldris came behind her, a portly man with a jovial expression.
My future father-in-law. What an odd thought.
Last to enter was Lord Tobias Thorne. Sebastian’s father.
Now she looked closely, the resemblance was unmistakable.
His face was much more severe than his son’s, his long greying hair pulled back with a red leather tie.
His face was heavily scarred – battle wounds he wore proudly.
Across the arena, Sebastian straightened – only slightly.
Enough that she noticed. The Fatàn judge walked in slowly behind Tobias Thorne, hooded and mysterious. She raised her hands.
“Welcome, champions of Vallenna,” the judge said, her smooth voice sounding clearly around the arena.
“We stand here now in the 76th Year of Fire, a time of transformation. Over three hundred years have passed since the Arcanth was shattered into the four Shards: Earth, Water, Air and Fire. Our ancestors forged the first Arcalon in honour of that decision, and in celebration of the unity of our realm.”
She paused, surveying the delegates.
“You are not here by chance. You stand here as the strongest of your Houses – chosen not for age, but for skill, courage, and magical aptitude. The Arcalon seeks not the eager, but the capable. The eight magics are known. What is not known is the strength of those who wield it. You have been selected by your Lords and Ladies, and watched now by all of Vallenna.”
She walked to the stone basin set before the Council seats.
The Vessel of Threads. It was filled with a dark swirling liquid – the ingredients a mystery to all but Fatàn.
She pulled back her hood, revealing long white hair that spilled over her dark robes, and pulled a drawstring pouch from her pocket.
“Now, we hand ourselves to Fate.”
The judge poured soil – and a quiet magic hummed, lighting the Sorrel and Durent podiums in a dark amber glow.
Water came next, and a soft blue light shimmered around Navyr and Lyra.
She breathed over the Vessel and mint-white magic danced around Caldris and Hale.
The hairs on Kara’s arms stood up. Air, her element.
Finally, flame erupted over the Vessel, and crimson red light surrounded Thorne.
Kara watched as Sebastian looked at it with mild interest.
A moment of silence. Then the judge spoke, under the watchful gaze of the High Council. “Let the Threads speak, who will be first?”
At her words, multi-coloured ribbons of light burst from the Vessel, purple, yellow, blue, green, orange, white and red.
They shot towards their respective Houses and wound themselves around the wrists of the ones chosen.
Thomel was pulled forward from their podium, his wrist wrapped tightly in green.
He gave her a small nod as he passed. The same happened for all the other Houses, many watching the magic in wonder.
The first team, one from each House, gathered to the far left of the arena, the coloured threads releasing delegates’ wrists to unite above them, making a golden number one in the air.
She noted, with discomfort, that neither Henry nor Sebastian had been picked for the first team.
The Fatàn judge nodded her approval and stepped over the Vessel once more. “Let the Threads decide, who will form the second team?”
The ribbons shot out again. Alys’s wrist glowed green. Henry’s, white. The second team formed, under a golden number two. Kara let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. The performance postponed. For a few days anyway.
“The Threads will now give us the third choice,” the judge’s voice echoed.
The red strand danced around Sebastian, but veered away, binding the woman beside him.
Emric’s wrist was wrapped by the green, and Anya’s yellow joined him under the glowing number three.
Kara closed her eyes for a moment. When she looked up Sebastian was grinning at her.
Well, that’s just perfect.
The last threads erupted from the Vessel on the judge’s command, and snaked towards the one delegate left standing on each podium. The warm green ribbon coiled itself around her wrist and she watched the red one wrap around Sebastian. All seven gathered beneath the golden number four.
“You didn’t have to join the Arcalon just to spend time with me, Healer,” Sebastian said as they drew closer.
Then he winked. He actually winked. Arms folded, blade at his hip, eyes on her.
She mashed her lips together and turned deliberately away, but she could still feel his amusement.
Alys was stood across the arena, Henry by her side, her shoulders shaking with barely suppressed laughter at the sight of her stood with Sebastian Thorne. Kara sighed inwardly.
Thanks, Alys.
The rest of Kara’s team was a strange mix, that was for sure: An older man from Caldris with quiet composure.
A young, wide-eyed girl from Lyra. A short, dark-skinned man from Durent, weathered and strong.
A motherly looking Sorrel woman with dark hair, and a roguish-looking young man from Navyr, with wind-tangled ginger dreadlocks and sea-worn leathers.
He looks more pirate than delegate.
“The Threads of Fate have spoken. May the Four bear witness,” the judge announced as she took a seat.
Her father rose, voice solemn. “Delegates. The casting is complete. For Vallenna, the Arcalon has always been a reminder of what binds us. Sorrel, who feed us. Navyr, who chart the seas. Hale, who heal our wounds. Durent, who raise our walls. Caldris, who guard our knowledge. Thorne, who bear the sword. Lyra, who give us our song. Fatàn, who guide and shield us. Together, we are whole.”
Pride swelled in Kara at his words. All the Houses and their people carried their share.
Her father’s face darkened. “Be warned, this year, the trials will not be softened by restraint. Vallenna is strong, this is true, but strength must be proven. You will show us what it means to stand for this realm.”
Confused glances and anxious murmurs followed his words.
Kara searched her father’s face for clarity.
He had mentioned nothing of this. He met her eye and for a heartbeat – and only a heartbeat – his composure cracked.
Regret, maybe. Then he was stone again. The Council had decreed this, and Alaric Hale would never bend in public.
Her father gestured sharply for the noise to die. “Take this day to bind yourselves. Speak together, show your magic, forge unity. For tomorrow begins the first two trials. May the Four guide you.”
She knew exactly what he expected of her.
Do my duty. Make him proud.
As soon as he’d finished, the murmurs began again, sharpening into disbelief. Kara wasn’t surprised.
This didn’t sound like a celebration of Vallenna’s unity.
This sounded more like a call to war.