Chapter 1: Rovan

Rovan knelt on the stone floor, sweat dripping down his bare back. The burning sun scorched his skin.

He bowed his head. Gritted his teeth. His threadbare trousers offered no softness against the hot stone, and the pain in his knees was agonising. But he couldn’t stand. He couldn’t leave. Not until he got what he needed.

Someone grunted beside him. Rovan glanced to the left, watching a fellow Penitent clamber up from the ground. The man rubbed his knees, wincing. His fleshy face was red, and his lips trembled. He gave Rovan a nod of respect, then waddled away, leaving Rovan alone in the Penance Chamber.

Rovan swallowed. Or tried to, at least. It was hard with the dryness ravaging his mouth. That other man had only been here for the last…well, how long? Rovan swore he’d just knelt down a few moments ago.

He squinted up. Above, the circular walls of the Penance Chamber gave way to an open hole in the domed ceiling. Runes lined the oculus, amplifying the sun’s rays and turning the room into a cauldron of stifling heat. More light shone through a stained-glass window that showed Starren the Mighty, first of the Wardens, decapitating a godsworn with a sweep of his sunblade. Shades of red and gold illuminated the scene, and as Rovan watched, Starren’s sunblade seemed to flicker. Or maybe the heat was just addling Rovan’s sight.

“Sul the Almighty.” He pressed his forehead against the floor. The heat made him want to scream, but he held himself silent with a shaking, trembling effort. “Please, guide me.”

The heat radiating against his skin was too much. He straightened up, gasping. Bile crawled up his throat and the room spun around him. He clenched his hands into fists, and repeated the mantra in a frantic whisper, over and over again. The words echoed off the stone, tumbling over each other, growing strange and distorted.

“Guide me…guide me…guide me…”

Blackness fringed the edge of his vision. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the heat against his eyelids. Just for one moment, and then he would force them back open…

“Child!”

He opened his eyes, gasping. Drool hung from his lips, sticky and wet. He brushed it away with an unsteady finger, almost jabbing his fingernail up his nostril. Heat flared against his chin. With a guilty start, he realised he was lying sprawled on the stone floor.

A gentle hand gripped his arm. “Child, are you alright?”

He rolled over. A Priest of Sul the Risen crouched beside him, wreathed in a dawn-red cloak, with a necklace of golden chains clinking and gleaming around her neck. Her wrinkled face scrunched into a worried expression.

“I’m fine,” Rovan croaked.

“Light save me, how old are you? Nine? Ten?” The priest dragged Rovan up off the ground and got him standing. “You’ve been here since dawn. Whatever mistake you’ve made, I’m sure Sul has granted you mercy.”

Rovan’s legs wobbled. The priest had to hold him up to stop him falling. Rovan winced. He wasn’t tormented by a sin he’d committed. He was tormented by a sin he planned to commit.

The priest tried to pull him towards the exit. “Come, let’s get you some water.”

“No!” Rovan pulled away, slipping from her grip. “Must…stay.”

“Until what?” There was sadness in the old woman’s eyes. “You’re no use to Sul dead.”

“I’m waiting.” Rovan dropped to his knees, and a wave of exhaustion swept through him. “For…a sign.”

“Child, you are repented. Do you hear me? With my authority as a Voice of Sul the Almighty, I say you are–“

Overhead, the sun dimmed. Rovan gaped at the sky. A cloud had crossed before the sun, dampening the scorching heat. A breeze kissed his face, blessedly cool.

“A sign,” he whispered, and he almost sobbed with relief, but held back his tears like a true Durcene man.

The priest yanked him up. This time, Rovan let her pull him away. Sul the Almighty had guided his hand. So he would do the thing he dreaded. Even it was a sin. Because there was a greater crime that needed absolution.

***

Brunson seized Rovan’s collar, pressing his knuckles up against Rovan’s throat. His hot breath washed over Rovan’s face. He reeked of garlic.

“You’ve got nerve coming back here, kid,” he hissed.

Rovan swallowed, which was hard to do with the collar of his robes squeezing against his neck. “Wait–“

The man slammed Rovan onto the edge of the jetty. The wind burst from Rovan’s lungs with a frenzied gasp. Before he could stagger back up, Brunson grabbed a fistful of his hair and dragged him over the side, plunging Rovan down towards the water. Icy coldness stabbed into his skin as his face shattered the surface. Water shot up his nose. Salty seawater slid down the back of his throat, making him gag. He coughed out a great flume of bubbles, and writhed, struggling to get back above the surface. But Brunson’s grip was iron. Panic spasmed through Rovan. He had to get up, or else–

Bruson yanked him back. Hair tore from his scalp with a painful twinge, and he gasped as he broke through the surface. Brunson dumped him back on the jetty. Rovan lay there, trembling, cold water dripping from his sodden robes. He winced. How was he going to explain this when he got back to the Temple of Sul the Almighty?

“Speak, boy.” Brunson sat on a crate and lit up a pipe. “Or it’s back into the waters with you.”

Rovan stumbled up, almost slipping on the puddle beneath him. “I’m a novice within the Temple of Sul the Almighty! How dare you–“

“How dare I?” Brunson blew out a puff of smoke, and his bushy eyebrows furrowed together. “Wear whatever robes you want. You’re a street rat, Rovan. An orphan no one wanted. That makes you even lower than me.”

Rovan stared down at the jetty.

“High Priest Tullen took me in,” he said in a quiet voice.

“Hmph. If he’s so great, why’ve you come slithering back here?”

Rovan glanced around the docks. Barnacle-encrusted boats bobbed in the slimy water, scraping against the rickety jetties. Squat, drab buildings crowded around the sorry affair, with clusters of surly-faced workers huddled under tattered awnings.

Oranas had a nice harbor, filled with gleaming ships for sunwardens, nobles, and the blessed few who were lucky enough to carry out their deeds. But that harbor was on the other side of town.

Here in the district of Carran, you were more likely to find the boats crammed full of mangy, stinking livestock. Carran gathered the lowest dregs of Oranas. Rovan knew that, because until last year, he’d lived here, clawing out a miserable existence by doing whatever Brunson told him to. Dragging cargo off ships, scurrying messages around town, mending ropes until his hands chaffed raw.

And then there was the thieving. He’d always had a talent for climbing, and Brunson had taken full advantage of that. Rovan wished he resented that. In truth, it had been so much easier than all the manual labour. So whenever Brunson pulled him aside from the other workers, he’d always felt a thrill.

That had all changed when High Priest Tullen came into Carran one autumn morning, flanked by a procession of priests. Tullen had seen the squalor of Knuckles Row: the dockside alley where Rovan and two dozen other children slept on a thin layer of old, scattered hay. Appalled by their poverty, he’d offered them all a place in the Order of Sul the Almighty. Lowly work as a novice, he’d warned. But honest work, he’d said. A chance to feed their spirits, along with their bodies. Rovan and Iker had leapt at the chance.

At the time, Rovan couldn’t have cared less about feeding his spirit. He only cared about stopping that ever-present gnawing in his stomach. But once he’d put on a few pounds–enough to finally hide his ribs–he’d found a calming satisfaction in the routine of morning chants and lessons about Sul and the Sunwardens.

When he saw a Sunwarden for the first time, on the Feast Day of Sul the Faded, he’d been twitching with excitement. So had everyone else. Even Iker, who hadn’t shown the slightest sign of being impressed when they’d first walked into the majestic Temple of Sul the Almighty. And when the sunwarden raised her hand to the sky, and summoned her sunblade with a shimmer of light, all the hairs stood up on Rovan’s neck, and his skin tingled.

Until then, he’d been grateful for the priests taking him in. But he’d never believed their preaching. In that moment, though, with the sunblade casting a golden glow over the warden–in that moment, he’d found his faith. And ever since then, he’d found so much more sense in the world.

“You forgotten how to speak, boy?” asked Bruson, yanking Rovan back to the present.

“Sul protect me.” Rovan swallowed. “High Priest Tullen has sinned.”

His throat tightened. Just saying those words made him feel like the sun was dimming. Like dark clouds were rolling over the horizon.

Bruson cackled. “You’re a right bastard, aren’t you, Rovan? Oh, I wish I’d known you could be this fun. Tullen pulls you off the streets, welcomes you to the priesthood, stuffs three square meals a day in your belly, and then you snitch on him? Ha! This is too good.”

Rovan clenched his jaw. “He’s sinned.”

“So you’re up on the pulpit now, eh? Deciding how we should all be living? Seems to me you’ve done your fair share of sinning, too. Or does Sul make exceptions for little snot-nosed thieves?”

Rovan thought about the burning heat of the Penance Chamber. His jaw clamped together even tighter.

“I’ve repented.”

Brunson leered. “Can’t Tullen do the same?”

Rovan forced himself to take a deep breath. Brunson didn’t care for piety. Rovan had to ignore that and keep a cool head, or this would all go wrong.

“He’s had his chance,” Rovan said.

Brunson leaned back. He took one last drawn-out suck of the pipe, then stowed it away inside his battered coat.

“Alright. Say this hero of yours has been slaying babies on the altar. What’s it to me?”

Rovan winced. “It’s not like that. He’s a good man, just…greedy.”

Brunson gave a wolfish grin. “Sounds like a virtue to me.”

Rovan tried to ignore the jibe. “A few weeks ago, a rich noble passed away.”

Brunson yawned. “How awfully tragic.”

“She owned an emerald mine in the northern provinces, but she had no descendants. So she passed ownership of the mine to the temple. Last week, the first shipment of emeralds was delivered to High Priest Tullen. He said he was going to pass them on to Durcene’s treasury. And, sure enough, there was a big shipment sent off a few days back. But when I was in his study recently, I saw he’d kept a bag for himself.”

“And? Nothing wrong with a healthy slice of commission.”

“Don’t you understand?” Rovan bunched his little hands into fists. “Priests aren’t supposed to have possessions! Priests aren’t supposed to want possessions.”

Brunson narrowed his eyes. “Lower your voice, boy. Unless you want another swim in the sea.”

Rovan unclenched his fists. he hated it when people called him a boy. He was ten years old. Hardly a child. But he needed Brunson’s help, and that meant he had to stay composed.

“So your precious priest is skimming jewels.” Brunson inspected the dirt under his fingernails. “What do I care?”

Rovan’s heartbeat quickened. What he was about to suggest could get him kicked out of the Order. But he’d come this far. And Sul the Risen had given him a sign in the Penance Chamber. That had to count for something, didn’t it?

“Tomorrow, during morning chants, I need you to organise a crew to cause a distraction outside the temple. While you’re doing that, I’ll sneak into High Priest Tullen’s study and take the emeralds. I’ll need to keep one, as proof of his sin–but you can have the rest.”

Greed glimmered in Brunson’s eyes. “And how many emeralds are we talking about, here?”

“I don’t know for sure. But the bag’s about this big.” He showed Brunson the size. “Maybe forty, fifty gems.”

Brunson gaped. He stared at Rovan, like he was waiting for the joke. Rovan stared back, deadly serious. Brunson shook his head, grinning that wolfish grin, and chortled. He spat on his big, gnarled hand, then stuck it out.

“Pleasure dealing with you, Rovan.”

Rovan winced. “Sul, forgive me.”

He reached out and shook Brunson’s hand.

Chapter 2: Zora

As the deer ambled into the forest glade, Zora raised her bow. She curled her fingers around the rawhide string and pushed her shoulder blades together to pull the bowstring back. 

A weathered hand touched her arm. “Not yet.”

Zora flinched. In the sparseness of the forest, her father’s whisper sounded like a shout, but they were downwind of the glade, and the deer couldn’t hear them. Her father wouldn’t make such a mistake. There was a reason why he’d never failed to bring game back to their village.

She lowered the bow. Her father had an uncanny knack for hunting, but she’d yet to prove herself. And today, they’d struck out into the valley without her father’s bow. It was all up to her, and the bow that still dwarfed her, even though it was built for a nine-year-old’s frame.

The deer sniffed the air. Zora resisted the urge to crouch behind cover. The bush before them should be enough, and any sudden movement would only expose her. Her father had drummed that lesson into her head.

Satisfied that it was alone, the deer leaned down to nibble the dewy grass. He was young and lanky, with antlers little more than stubs, and fur stretched tight over his ribs.

Zora glanced at her father. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Patience,” he whispered.

She rolled her eyes.

The deer kept munching on the grass, oblivious to their presence. Zora fiddled with her arrow’s fletching. She’d glued the feathers by herself. Despite her father’s praise, she knew the fletching was crooked. Still, he hadn’t said anything to her yet. One lesson at a time. And if today’s lesson was about patience, she’d be a willing student.

Something snapped in the distance. The deer’s head flicked up, and his body stiffened. Before Zora could even think to raise her bow, the creature bolted away, trampling through the underbrush with wild abandon.   

Zora gaped. After hiking for hours, that was the first deer they’d seen. And now he was gone.

She glared up at her father. “Why didn’t you let me–”

He pressed a thick finger to her lips, cutting her off. His sight lingered on the open glade.

A hulking stag lumbered into the clearing, with his eyes narrowed in suspicion. He circled the hoof-prints left by the smaller deer, then snorted. A faint cloud of steam puffed from his nostrils.

Zora’s father lent down towards her ear. “Aim for the neck.”

She felt a buzz of excitement. Her heartbeat quickened. She took a shallow breath in and a long one out, the way her father had taught. Then she raised her bow and dragged the string back.

The damp air was still.

The forest was quiet.

The deer was barely forty paces away.

She glanced again at her father. Dappled sunlight drifted across his face, throwing a pattern of shadows and light over his skin. He nodded. Zora made one last adjustment to her grip—and then she loosed the arrow.

The bowstring slapped against her leather wrist guard and the shaft whistled through the air. It stabbed into the deer’s foreleg with a meaty smack. The creature reared into the air, screaming, then bounded away, crashing through the forest.

Zora sagged. She’d missed. A shot at forty paces, and she’d missed!

“Come on.” Her father unsheathed his knife. “It can’t have gone far.”

New energy surged through Zora. He was right. With a wounded leg, the deer would struggle to run. They set off together, sprinting through the forest. All caution was gone. Now, all that mattered was staying on the deer’s trail.

As they ran, her father pointed out signs of the creature.

“Broken branches, over there.”

“That moss is trampled.”

“Pawprint in the mud.”

“Fur on that thornbush.”

Zora tried to follow what he saw, but they moved too fast for her to absorb everything. Instead, she just focussed on keeping up. Her father’s long strides ate up the distance with ease, and he vaulted over fallen logs with effortless grace.

“There!”

He skidded to a halt at the top of a leaf-strewn hill. Down in the muddy ditch below, the deer lay on its side, trying to crawl. A broken arrow stuck out from its blood-soaked leg. When it saw Zora, the creature wailed.

Together, Zora and her father slid down the slope. Well, her father did, gliding over the brown leaves and crumbling dirt. Zora’s descent was more of a barely controlled stumble. She tripped over at the bottom, splattering into the muddy ground with a wet squelch. Groaning, she picked herself up, wiping mud from her face. 

The deer mewled. He tried to stand, but collapsed back into the mud with an exhausted thump, and he lay there, thrashing, as Zora and her father closed in.

Zora glanced away, swallowing.

“Face him,” her father said in a gentle voice. “See what you’ve done. Learn from this.”

Something about her father’s deep, rumbling tone stilled her panic. She turned back to the anguished deer. Her arrow had torn a ragged wound in his leg, and his fur was matted with a dark brown sludge of dirt and blood.

“No creature deserves suffering,” her father said. “Next time, aim better.”

He offered Zora his knife. Zora reached out to grab the blade. When her fingers wrapped around the worn leather grip, her hand trembled.

“Like I showed you,” he said.

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Before she could lose her nerve, Zora pounced onto the deer’s back, mounting the creature with her knees on either side. He tried to gore her with his antlers, but she gripped the antlers and held them down. She slipped her father’s knife underneath his neck, then yanked it back up until the steel pressed against the drum-tight skin of his throat. Blood pulsed and thumped behind that wall of fur. Gritting her teeth, she yanked the knife aside and it ripped the deer’s throat. Blood gushed onto her hand, sticky and warm. She fell away and scrambled backwards on her hands and knees. The deer spasmed. But his struggles were brief. By the time Zora rose to her wobbly feet, his limbs were sprawled in an unmoving tangle, and the light had faded from his eyes.

“Clean the knife,” her father said.

Zora staggered forward and grabbed the knife. In the heat of it all, she hadn’t even noticed dropping it beside the deer. She wiped it on his fur. The fur didn’t mop away all the blood, but when she gave the weapon back to her father, he seemed satisfied.

She gazed down at the animal. She’d seen plenty of dead creatures before, and she’d watched her father hunt enough times. Still, doing it herself…felt different.

“Zora,” said her father. “Look at me.”

She gazed into his gentle blue eyes. This last winter, a few streaks of grey had snuck into his shaggy, blonde hair, and the creases lining his face had deepened, but he was still big, and broad, and as unmoveable as an oak. The tightness in her chest faded away.

“It’s good that you feel unsettled.” He rested his big hand on her shoulder. “A life should be hard to take.”

She gave him a weak grin. “I don’t have to carry him, do I?”

“One day.” Her father hoisted the deer onto his back. “For now, you’ve done enough. Let’s get back to the village.”

Chapter 3: Rovan

A wordless rumbling vibrated through Rovan’s chest as the chant began. The sound echoed off the temple’s walls, magnifying the noise, building the sound into a roaring crescendo that shook dust from the old stone walls. Joy swept through Rovan as his voice feel into harmony with the other disciples.

In that moment, he vanished. In that moment, he had no voice. And his voice was magnified by four hundred mouths, all at the same time. He closed his eyes, savouring the feeling. Letting that sublime harmony carry him away.

But then he thought about Brunson. About the deal he’d struck. Rovan tried to ignore the memory, but it had hooks in him now, and there was no escape. He opened his eyes. He kept chanting, but there was a bleakness in him now. He looked up at the shafts of sunlight spearing down through the dusty air, falling upon the raised dais where High Priest Tullen stood, clad in resplendent golden robes, leading the chant.

Rovan looked back down at the mosaiced floor underneath his knees. He picked at an upraised tile. Just a little fragment of blue enamel, when viewed from this close. Not like when you stood on the raised gallery, near the grand entrance door, and saw the glorious portrayals of Sunwardens, all spread out along the temple’s floor.

Why did he feel so dour? He was doing Sul’s work. Sul had given him a sign, when he’d knelt in the Penance Chamber. He should feel grateful. How many people were so lucky to be guided by Sul Himself?

Rovan lifted his head to look at the shafts of sunlight falling from above. So what if he felt like this? Feelings didn’t matter. Only duty mattered. And with that realisation, he felt his body fill with a new sense of purpose.

He glanced at Iker. The boy knelt beside him, garbed in the same plain grey robe as all the other disciples spread throughout the temple. He certainly looked pious enough, with his head bowed, and his lips moving along in time with the chant. Still, he was just mouthing the words.

Rovan shook his head. Iker was his closest friend, but sometimes the boy could be so dense. How could he not appreciate the wonder of the temple, of the sunwardens, of Sul? He thought about nudging Iker, but that would just draw attention to both of them. Instead, he chanted louder. If Iker wasn’t going to participate, Rovan would just have to chant loud enough for them both.

A scream sounded in the distance. It cut through the chant like a knife, turning their harmony into a discordant mess. The novices all turned as one, robes slithering against the mosaic floor.

“What was that?” Iker muttered.

“I don’t know,” lied Rovan.

A wagon burst through the entrance door with an explosion of broken wood, flinging splinters into the air. It tipped onto its side with a thunderous crash. The wheels screeched as it slid, gouging deep scratches into the beautiful mosaics. Novices scattered to the side, screaming. But with so many of them all crammed in together–kneeling shoulder-to-shoulder, so that there was no room for Sul the Slumberer to pass between–they couldn’t all get out of the way. The wagon smashed into a clump of novices, tossing them aside. After it screeched to a stop, a driver toppled out the broken door, groaning.

A plume of fire billowed up from inside, spewing acrid smoke into the air.

“The perfume!” The driver scrambled up, eyes wide. “The lantern–it must’ve smashed!”

All around the wagon, novices picked themself up, wincing. At the front of the vehicle, the carriage shaft had sheared off; the break must’ve sent the wagon careening into the temple. Or at least, that’s what everyone else would hopefully believe.

Rovan’s heart hammered. It hadn’t felt real. Not until this moment. At least no one had been crushed under the carriage. The worst injuries he saw were a few dozen broken bones.

“Everyone out!” yelled High Priest Tullen. “Get away from the fire!”

The disciples swelled towards the exit. Someone slammed into Rovan’s back. His sandals skidded on the floor and his arms windmilled frantically, trying to keep himself from toppling over. Somehow, he kept upright. Iker wasn’t so lucky. He toppled to the ground, squawking. Disciples tripped over him, shins thudding against his back. Rovan barged through the press and hauled Iker up.

“What the fuck is happening?” Iker said, eyes wide.

“Language!” Rovan gave him a gentle push, sending him towards the door along with the rest of the crowd. “Go!”

Iker gaped. “What about you?”

He had no more time to protest, because the relentless flow of disciples was already heaving him away. Rovan strode the other way, fighting upstream. Elbows clipped his face and crunched into his ribs, almost knocking him down. But he endured the scowls and the bumps, fighting through the crowd.

He pushed past the last disciples and burst out into the low walkway that ran along one side of the chamber, with tall marble columns separating it from the main floor. No one was here, on account of one dislodged carriage wheel jamming up the walkway at the far end, blocking the route to the entrance door.

He glanced back at the cart. Flames towered into the air, growing wilder as he watched. Heat slapped into his face. Smoke obscured the ceiling and clouded everything with a thick haze. Maybe two-thirds of the disciples had gotten past the carriage and out the door, but the rest where still struggling around. Someone smashed a window with a tinkle of glass. Bodies piled out through the opening, like worms through a hole.

Rovan winced. That window had held a beautiful stained-glass portrait of Mavran the Crafter, building temples from pure sunlight. He should’ve been more careful when telling Brunson what to do. This had all gotten out of hand.

He dashed up a staircase, up into the smog. The acrid stench made him choke, made dizziness swoop through him, made the whole world turn into a spinning mess. He dropped to the floor, wrapped his robe around his mouth, then rose and stumbled on through the gloom. He shoved through a heavy door, toppling into a mercifully clear-aired hallway. He slammed the door shut, gasping. Smoke trickled around the seams, but hopefully it would hold the stench at bay.

Rovan raced through the temple’s hallways. Distant screams echoed through the passages, making him flinch. He’d done this to heal the Order. To drag a sin into daylight, to rip out a thorn. But what if his cure was worse than the sickness?

He reached a door, then paused. A deep breath to compose himself. Then another, because the first one hadn’t helped much. He smoothed down his grey, shapeless robes, pushed through the door, and emerged in the antechamber outside High Priest Tullen’s office.

Two honour guards stood in the room, clad in golden robes. Feathers decorated their raised cowls, giving them the look of watchful hawks. Strips of bright cloth and swirled carvings inlaid with silver decorated their ornamental spears. The details may have been ornamental. But there was nothing decorative about the glistening steel tips.

“What are you doing here, novice?” asked one of the guards.

“High Priest Tullen told me to fetch something from his office, to make sure it’s safe from the fire.”

“So that’s what it is, then? A fire?”

“Yes, sir.”

Rovan’s mouth was dry, but he resisted the urge to gulp. Thank Sul he had his hands clasped behind his back. That way, the guards couldn’t see how clammy they were.

The guards uncrossed their spears. “Step inside.”

Rovan bowed. “Thank you, sirs.”

The back of his neck prickled as he walked past the guards. He kept expecting them to reach out and grab him.

“Rovan!”

He froze, one hand on the handle. He glanced back. Iker stood in the antechamber, looking puzzled. The guards frowned down at him.

“The High Priest sent you, too?” Rovan asked.

Iker’s gaze flicked up to the guards, then back down to Rovan. “Yeah.”

“Come on, then.”

Rovan opened the door to the study. His heart slammed against his ribs so hard he thought they’d break. But the guards just let Iker walk on through. They both stepped into the office. The instant the door was shut, Rovan slumped onto his haunches, panting like he’d run a thousand leagues.

“What are you doing?” Iker whispered.

Rovan wanted to yell at him for following. Instead, he forced himself to take a deep breath.

“You remember those jewels? The tribute from the emerald mine?”

“Sure.”

“High Priest Tullen didn’t pass them all on. He kept a few dozen for himself.”

Iker gave a soft chuckle. “Damn, that sly dog.”

“Watch it. That’s still the High Priest you’re talking about.”

Iker rolled his eyes. “If you’ve got so much respect for him, why are you planning to steal his jewels?”

“I’m not stealing–well, alright, I am. But only so that everyone knows what he did.”

Iker’s face had an eager gleam as he surveyed the bare office. There wasn’t much to it. Just a sturdy, functional desk, a few cupboards, a stained-glass window off Sul the Almighty on one wall, and a door leading out onto a balcony beside it. A long tapestry decorated another wall, showing a map of Durcene, marked with notable spiritual locations.

“So where are they?” Iker asked, trying too hard to sound casual.

“We’re not keeping any for ourselves.”

“Surely one couldn’t hurt…”

Rovan ignored him. He strode behind the High Priest’s desk and opened a drawer. Inside, a plain hessian bag rested atop old papers. Rovan tugged the bag open. Green light glittered off the emeralds inside.

Beside him, Iker gasped. “Well, look at those. Maybe Sul does exist after all.”

Rovan opened his mouth to reprimand his friend, but before he could talk, someone spoke outside the office.

“The novices have already come to secure your items, High Priest.”

Rovan’s stomach clenched. He exchanged a worried glance with Iker.

“I didn’t send any novices here.” The High Priest’s voice was thick with suspicion. “Get them out.”

Rovan vaulted over the desk, knocking papers aside. He yanked a cupboard, making it crash down behind the door. The guards tried to open it from the other side, but the cupboard held the door firm.

“Out onto the balcony!” Rovan shouted at Iker.

The boy scrambled out. The guards shoved at the door again, forcing the cupboard back with a shrill scrape of wood.

Rovan turned and jumped over the desk again. He grabbed the bag, but fumbled, and a handful of emeralds bounced onto the floor. He winced. No time to clean them up. He unhooked the tapestry from the wall, then darted out to join Iker on the balcony, which overlooked a courtyard two stories below. Wind slapped into his face, carrying the scent of smoke.

“What’s the plan?” Iker asked.

“This.” Rovan rolled the tapestry into a long rope, whipped it over the side, then tied the end to the stone balustrade. “You want to go first?”

“No way! That’s not even touching the ground!”

“The drop’s only two levels. Come on, you can make it. Remember Relen Street?”

Iker grinned. “Yeah.”

“That was a much bigger fall, and we were both fine.”

“Yeah, but onto hay! Not stone.”

“Think on the bright side. This time we won’t have to smell like dung afterwards.”

Iker laughed, and Rovan did, too, harder than he expected. He’d tried to forget about the thievery of his old life. But look how that had turned out.

He gave Iker the bag. “Hold this.”

Before he could think twice, he swung over the stone balustrade and slithered down the twisted-up tapestry. Wind whipped him around, spinning him like a leaf. He’d almost reached the end of his makeshift rope when a ripping noise sounded from above.

He looked up. The tapestry had torn two-thirds of the way along its length. Only a few threadbare strands held it together.

The strands snapped. Rovan fell, his guts lurching in his chest from the sudden weightlessness. He slammed into the ground and rolled over, gasping with shock.

“Rovan! Are you alright?”

He picked himself up, wincing. Pain lanced through his ankles, but he hadn’t broken any bones.

“I’m fine. Come on, throw the stones done and start climbing. I’ll catch you.”

Iker dropped the bag of emeralds over the side. Rovan caught them. Iker swung one leg over the stonework, then paused. He looked back at the door leading into the study.

“Hold on, Rovan, I’m going to grab a few more.”

“No, don’t risk it!”

But Iker was already racing back towards the door. Before he could get inside, it slammed open with a bang. One of the guards stormed out, grabbing Iker.

Iker writhed. “Let me go!”

The door banged again as High Priest Tullen strode outside, frowning at Iker. When he looked over the side of the balcony and saw Rovan holding the emeralds, a guilty expression flickered across his face.

“Throw up the bag, child.” Tullen gestured at the honour guard, who held his spearpoint to Iker’s neck. “No one needs to get hurt.”

“Don’t do it!” shouted Iker. “Run, Rovan!”

Rovan glared up at the High Priest. How dare he threaten Iker like this, after his sin had so clearly been exposed?

“Let him go,” said Rovan. “You’ve betrayed the Order. You’ve betrayed Sul!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, child.” Now, the High Priest was all snooty disdain. “I took you both into my Temple. I saved you from a life of misery on the streets. I was so proud of your transformation, of your new-found faith, Rovan. Don’t toss that all away now. Throw up the bag, and you’ve done nothing wrong.”

Rovan felt a pathetic flash of pride at the fact that the High Priest remembered his name. The feeling vanished right away. There was no going back from this now.

“Like Relen Street, Iker.”

He hurled the bag into the air. Not towards the High Priest, but towards the guard holding Iker. The bag soared up into the sky, curving through an arc that would miss the balcony and drop back into Rovan’s hands.

The guard let go of Iker and lunged out to grab the bag. Iker rolled over the balustrade, sliding down the tapestry. The fabric ripped, sending Iker plummeting. He shrieked. Rovan tried to catch him, but that just knocked them both down onto the ground. Rovan stumbled up, and Iker did the same, groaning.

“You alright?” Rovan asked.

Iker spat. “No.”

Sunlight glinted above. Rovan looked up as one of the guards raised his spear, about to throw. Iker shoved him in the ribs, knocking Rovan aside. The spear bounced off the stone where he’d been standing.

“Run!” Iker yelled, sprinting away from the temple.

Rovan took one last look up at High Priest Tullen, who was glaring down from the balcony. Then he dashed after his friend.

Chapter 4: Zora

“How did you know?” Zora asked.

Her father turned towards her. “Know what?”

He held the deer slung across his broad shoulders. They’d been walking back to the village for hours, but he’d shown no sign of fatigue despite the heavy weight. Zora wondered if she’d ever be that strong. He was far from the youngest man in their village—the greying hair near his temples and the wrinkles around his eyes made that clear. But she’d yet to see anyone else best his strength.

“How did you know another deer would come?” she asked. “After you told me not to shoot the first one.”

“There were larger hoofprints running through the glade, so the territory belonged to a bigger deer. Besides, that little deer would’ve only fed half the village.”

Zora hadn’t even noticed the bigger hoofprints. Next time, she resolved to look more closely. 

“What if the bigger deer never came?” she asked. 

He smiled. “We would’ve kept walking. Sometimes you must lose the little games to win the big ones.”

They crested a hill. Daw’s Crossing came into view below, shining in the late afternoon light. Thatch-roofed houses stretched across the banks of the Lullin River, with puffs of smoke swirling up from the chimneys. Somewhere in the village, a hammer clinked against an anvil, and the water wheel creaked and shuddered as the spinning timber blades sprayed a fine mist into the sky.

Zora and her father strode down the hill. As they approached Daw’s Crossing, the smell of fresh bread wafted through the air. Her stomach rumbled. After all the trudging through the forest, she was starving. Her father hadn’t brought any food with them. He’d said an empty belly was the best motivation a hunter could have.

The village’s name came from a wooden bridge that early settlers had built across the fast-flowing river five generations ago, back when travellers frequented the town. Nowadays, people travelled on bigger roads and better bridges. None of them came near here. The tavern’s sleeping rooms had long ago been turned into animal pens, and the grand stone landing podium built for visiting dragon riders hadn’t been graced by a dragon for decades.

Still, the villagers kept cleaning the podium every morning. Zora didn’t know why. She’d never even seen a dragon. Or many other travellers, for that matter, and even merchants hardly visited. Out here, close to the border between Elatia and Durcene, Daw’s Crossing might as well have existed in its own little world.

As they approached the village, Greig the cartwright was the first to notice their return.

“Ah! A successful hunt, Uther? We’ll eat well tonight!”

Her father smiled. “Zora deserves your praise, not me.”

Greig gaped at Zora. “That animal’s twice your weight! Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

Zora blushed. She was so used to hearing praise for her father, so it felt strange, to get that praise for herself. Strange, but not unwelcome.

More people greeted Zora and her father as they strode through the village. All of them thought her father killed the deer, and when they discovered she’d done it, they reacted with shocked congratulations. The other children seemed especially amazed. That made Zora smile the most. Daw’s Crossing had no kids around her age, so she mostly spent her time with her parents—but it was always nice to get respect from the other, much younger children.

Still, the respect came with a certain anxiety. Maybe she was all smiles now, but when it was time to hunt again, could she kill another animal now that she knew how hard it was?

Everyone applauded when her father dropped the deer onto the butcher block in the village square. Villagers set to work skinning and carving up the meat, while others piled fresh logs onto the central fire.

Zora’s mother strode into the square, raising her eyebrows. “Uther, are these stories true? I’m hearing that you’ve been challenged by a superior hunter.”

His eyes glinted. “Clearly, my reign is over.”

Her mother stepped in closer, and Uther drew her in for a kiss. When they were done, she bent down and hugged Zora.

“Well done,” she whispered. “I hope it was tougher than you expected.”

Zora relaxed into her mother’s embrace. After what she’d been through today, this was just what she needed.

“It was.”

The villagers skewered the meat and hoisted it over the fire. Warmth sprung from the flames, and the pleasant scent of woodsmoke calmed Zora.

Her father slipped away from the crowd to amble down to the river. After giving her mother one last squeeze, Zora followed him. By the time she caught up, her father was standing on the pebble-strewn riverbank, staring across the Lullin.

“Whenever they cook meat, you always leave,” Zora said. “Why?”

She’d never asked about this before, but today felt like a day for firsts. She certainly didn’t want to leave the cookfires—not with everyone so eager to congratulate her—and her father’s departures sat at odds with his constant willingness to help. He’d built houses, mended boats, ploughed fields, and repaired carts, but he’d never offered to help with the village’s cooking.  

Her father gazed at the afternoon sun. Zora didn’t know how he could do that without blinding himself. It was still a few hours until dusk, and if she stole even the slightest glimpse, she knew the light would explode behind her eyes.

“Do you know how mother talks about my life before I came to Daw’s Crossing?”

Zora nodded. Her mother was born here, in Elatia, but her father had travelled from Durcene. He’d never said why he left. She’d learned not to ask questions, and so had everyone else in Daw’s Crossing. Her father was a caring husband and a good hunter who put food on everyone’s table, and that was enough. Still, Zora had always wanted the full story. Would he finally tell her now?

“It has to do with that.” Her father sighed. “That’s all I can say. When you’re older…maybe we can talk about it then.”

Zora looked down and chewed her lip. “Alright.”

Her father picked a flat stone up from the riverbank. He ran his thumb across the rock.

“I know you’re disappointed, but some things should stay buried.”

He hurled the stone into the river. It skipped across the surface, spraying water into the air.

“Look at me, being morbid on a day like this.” He shook his head. “We should be celebrating! Our village will eat like royalty tonight, and all because of you.”

Zora grinned. “I’ll be replacing you soon.”

“Ha! Don’t get ahead of yourself, young lady.”

Footsteps scraped against pebbles. Zora turned to watch her mother approach, wearing a look of concern.

“Uther, a stranger just arrived in the square. He’s asking for you.”

Zora’s father tensed. “A stranger? Did he give his name?”

“No,” said her mother. “He looks like an ordinary traveller, but his accent…I think he’s from Durcene.”

Her father clenched his jaw. His gaze darted towards the boats resting on the riverbank.

Zora frowned. A man from Durcene? Her father used to live there, but she’d never met anyone else from that country. The border was only a dozen leagues away, but the mountains made passage difficult. What would a Durcene man be doing here? And why was her father worried?

Her mother chewed her lip. “You don’t think—”

“Stay here with Zora. Near the boats. We might have to leave fast. I’ll be back.”

He strode back up the bank, heading into the village. Zora tried to follow, but her mother held her back.

“Your father said to wait.”

“What’s happening?”

“I’m sure it’s—”

Zora slipped from her mother’s grip and scrambled up the riverbank.

“Zora!”

“I’m just going to watch!”

Her mother tried to catch her, but Zora was too fast. She raced back into the village, with each step sending her bow and arrow case thumping into her back. She crouched down at the edge of a hut and peered around the corner. After a moment, her mother joined her.

Her father strode into the middle of the square. A few paces away, a tall stranger stood near the cooking fire, wrapped in a long travelling cloak, with his back was towards her father.

“Can I help you?” Zora’s father said.

The stranger stiffened at the sound of Uther’s voice. He turned. In the same motion, his cloak slipped from his shoulders. Underneath, he wore a white military jacket and white trousers, which both glowed in the afternoon sunlight. Lines of gleaming gold embroidered the fabric, matching his short-cropped blond hair. Muscles bulged under the fabric, and the man’s shoulders were almost as broad as her father’s. He carried no weapons, apart from a small knife in his belt. And yet the villagers all took a backwards step away from him. Everyone except her father.

The stranger dropped to one knee and bowed.

“Master.”

Behind Zora, her mother sucked in a deep breath. “Oh no.”

Zora’s head spun. What was happening?

“Stand, Eredan,” said her father. “I’m not your master anymore.”

Eredan’s face twitched as he stood. “You swore an oath.”

“And I renounced it.”

“A sunwarden’s oath cannot be broken.”

Behind Eredan, a few villagers’ hands drifted towards their swords. One man shrugged a bow off his back.

“Why are you here?” asked Uther. “The other wardens accepted my decision.”

“The others were wrong.”

“Dangerous words for an apprentice.”

“I’m an apprentice no longer.”

That gave Uther some pause. “Who?”

“Idella.”

“She was a good woman.” Uther bowed his head. “From the light she came—”

“And to the light she has returned,” finished Eredan.

“You carry elundrul now. That sunblade has some history.”

“I’m aware.”

“You have your own blade. Why come here?”

“We need you back, Uther. War is coming, between Durcene and Elatia, and if we’re to defend ourselves, we need every sunwarden we can get.”

A deathly silence had captured the crowd while the two men spoke, but the mention of war sent the villagers muttering with uneasy whispers.

“I’ve heard no talk of war,” said Uther.

Eredan gestured to his surroundings. “My apologies. I forgot that this place was such a bustling hive of information.”

“Why would Queen Rascara lead Elatia against Durcene? That would only destroy both nations.”

“Power cannot tolerate power. You taught me that. Queen Rascara wants more elixir for her dragons, and the only place she’ll find that is in our country.”

“Your country.”

“So you’re an Elatian man, now?”

“I’m a man of Daw’s Crossing. There’s no need for any allegiance beyond that.”

“Don’t make me do this, Uther.”

“I’m not making you do anything. Your choices are your own.”

“Damn it, Uther. Just come back. Please!”

Eredan’s voice trembled. Not with rage, but with fear. Uther’s gaze swept across the other villages. He glanced over his shoulder, and his gaze fell upon Zora and her mother, peering around the corner. Uther clenched his jaw.

He turned back to Eredan. “I’m not returning.”

Eredan scowled. Was Zora imagining things, or was there a hint of wetness in his eyes?

“I’m sorry, master.”

With a flash of light, a glowing sword appeared in Eredan’s left hand. Zora squinted. It was as if Eredan held the sun itself. The sun, moulded into the shape of a deadly sword. His eyes, too, exploded into a gleaming, golden brightness.

The villagers yelped in fright. Most scrambled away, but one man raised a bow, wearing a grim expression. He loosed an arrow.

The broadhead punched into Eredan with a meaty smack. Eredan grunted. He looked down at his chest. The bloodstained arrow stuck out from bellow his breast pocket.

With his right hand, Eredan seized the arrow. Zora gaped. Surely he wouldn’t—

Eredan yanked the arrow through his chest. Blood spurted onto the cobblestones, and villagers shrieked. Zora waited for him to fall, but he just looked up at the sun, and his whole body flashed with a golden radiance. When the light faded, his wound was gone.

Eredan turned to face his attacker. The bowman’s face was pale. He went to load another arrow, but before he could pull the drawstring back, two beams of golden light erupted from Eredan’s glowing eyes, sizzling through the man’s neck.

His body thumped into the ground. A moment later, his head followed. Faint whisps of smoke rose from the charred wounds.

The villagers screamed louder. They stampeded out of the square, knocking into each other, falling to the ground, covering their heads to avoid being trampled. Fear surged through Zora. She wanted to move, wanted to escape, but she couldn’t pull herself away. Her father had to run. He couldn’t just stand there!

Eredan whirled around. His eyes shone with that deathly golden glow, and twin beams of light shot towards Zora’s father.

Uther raised his arm. A shield of shining light appeared before him, blocking the beam with a crackle of energy. The light faded, and so did his shield.

Eredan stumbled back, blinking. Zora frowned. There was a shakiness to Eredan’s steps. Had shooting the light beams blinded him, somehow?

Eredan pressed his eyes shut. When he opened his eyes, his gaze was clear again.

“I’m glad to see you’ve still got it, old man.”

Uther didn’t respond. He just took a small vial from his pocket, swallowed the contents, then lowered his hand to the side—and with a flash of gold, he summoned a glowing sword of his own.

“Leave now, and I won’t hurt you,” he said.

Eredan smiled. “What makes you think you can hurt me?”

He sprung towards Uther. Their blades clashed with a spark of light.

A hand touched Zora’s shoulder, making her yelp. She turned. It was her mother. In all the chaos, she’d almost forgotten about her.

“We have to go,” her mother said.

“We can’t leave him!”

Her mother’s lips pressed together. “Uther can fend for himself.”

Zora glanced back. Uther and Eredan’s blades struck each other with blinding speed, casting sparks into the air with each blow. Zora had never seen her father wield a sword. But he fought better than any warrior she’d ever seen, delivering each strike with pounding force.

Another beam of light shot from Eredan’s eyes. Uther ducked underneath, and it struck one of the thatch-roofed huts. The thatching erupted into flames with a ghastly woosh. Heat slammed into Zora’s face. She gulped. Her mother was right. They had to escape before a stay beam hit them.

Her mother dragged her up. Together, they sprinted down to the riverbank. When they passed the burning hut, a numb disbelief filled Zora. She’d played with the girl who lived in that hut, before she grew up and moved to another town. And now the hut was on fire.

Zora and her mother reached the riverbank. They skidded down the pebbles, scrambling towards the boats.

“That one!” Her mother pointed at a lightweight raft. “Push it into the water!”

They slammed against the raft. It slid over the pebbles with an eerie screech. Zora strained. They just had to get the raft into the Lullin River, and the fast-flowing current would do the rest.

Doubt raced through her mind. Should she really leave her father like this? She still had her bow, and her arrows. Maybe Eredan could heal, but even if she only distracted him, it could give her father the upper hand.

She stopped pushing. “I have to help him!”

Her mother kept heaving. “This is helping him, Zora. With us gone, he won’t have to hold back.”

A huge bang sounded from the village square. A body flew overhead, slamming onto the river’s edge with a crunching thump.

A horrible sense of recognition made Zora’s throat tighten. It was her father.

Zora’s mother released the boat and sprinted towards the crumpled body. “Uther!”

Zora stayed still, frozen with shock. Bones stuck out of her father’s skin, and cuts lacerated his body. He’d fallen right on the shoreline; blood poured down into the raging waters, turning the river into a foaming red mess. His sword was gone.

Zora’s mother dropped to her knees beside her father. “Uther!”

Groaning, he reached up to touch her face. “Nevena…”

Uther’s head tilted back. As he stared towards the sun, his body glowed. With a sequence of sickening snaps, his body knitted back together: bones sliding beneath the skin, wounds closing over, scars smoothing away. He stumbled up and summoned his sword once more.

Her mother winced. “Uther, your eyes…”

His gaze shifted to Zora. She caught a glimpse of golden light swirling around his iris with violent force before he turned back to her mother.

“I know I’m close to shattering the eclipse.” The words escaped his mouth through gritted teeth. “But there’s no other way. And you and Zora must leave.”

His legs wobbled. He almost fell, but Zora’s mother held him steady.

“So this is why you broke your oaths.”

Eredan appeared at the top of the riverbank. A gash on his forehead leaked blood down his chin, staining the crisp white of his uniform.

“You could have picked any woman in Durcene.” Eredan shook his head. “And you sacrificed everything for a common Elatia villager.”

Uther staggered in front of Zora’s mother. “Don’t make her part of this.”

“Grant me your blade and I’ll let her go.”

Uther hesitated.

“No!” said Zora’s mother. “He can only take it when you die!”

“Yes.”

“There’s no way he’ll let us go! We know too much!”

Eredan frowned. “We?”

His gaze flicked to the side—and fell upon Zora, who was still crouched beside the raft. Her stomach clenched. She had to move, she had to dive away, but her legs were locked in rigid terror.

Eredan’s face twitched. He looked back at Uther, weighing the odds.

“Sul forgive me,” he said.

Eredan’s eyes glowed. Uther shouted and dove towards Zora, casting a shield of light before his outstretched hand. But when beams of light erupted from Eredan’s eyes, they didn’t shoot towards Zora. They shot towards her mother.

The light punched through Nevena’s chest and speared down into the river beyond. Steam hissed into the sky. Nevena gasped. Her legs buckled and she collapsed onto her knees. With a strangled gurgle, she slumped onto her face, and moved no more.

A hollow feeling cut through Zora’s stomach. As if the light had sliced through her, too. She ran towards her mother, but Uther blocked her path, grabbing her with his big hands.

Zora raged against him, but he held her firm. She glared up at him. How dare he hold her back when her mother needed help! And yes, she needed help because she was still alive. She had to be. Even if she lay on the rocks in a tangle of limbs, with two burned holes of scorched flesh sending smoke swirling above her body.

But when Zora saw her father’s expression, her struggles ceased. His face was locked in a rictus of fury, and his eyes burned with the might of a roaring flame.

He charged at Eredan, roaring in a strange language. Eredan’s blade came up to block the attack, but Uther’s blow landed with such thundering intensity that Eredan skidded backwards. Twin beams of light shot from Eredan’s eyes, but Uther deflected them with his sword, sending the light back into Eredan’s chest. Eredan screamed. Uther’s next blow almost beheaded him, but he jumped backwards, and instead the sword tore a shallow gash across his chest in a spray of blood.

Eredan slipped on the sloping riverbank, tumbling down the pebbles. He rolled to a stop just before the water’s edge. Groaning, he stumbled up.

Uther leapt, turning the jump into a crushing overhead blow. Eredan parried, but the strike knocked him down to one knee. Uther hammered at him again, and again, and again, and on the fourth strike, he smashed Eredan’s blade out of his hands. The sword bounced on the rocks.

Uther raised his blade for the final blow. He held it above his head, chest heaving with exertion. A tear rolled down his face. Down below, Eredan glared up at him. He stuck out his chin.

“Do it, then. Choose this light-forsaken village over all the oaths you swore.”

Uther’s sword trembled. He glanced at Zora. Coldness seeped through her. He had to kill Eredan—had to avenge her mother—but she couldn’t stop thinking about the deer she’d slaughtered, and how hard it was to cut the animal’s throat. Her father never hesitated when it came to animals. But how much harder would it be to kill his former apprentice?

Zora didn’t know what she wanted to happen. And as the anger in his eyes turned to grief, she realised her father didn’t know, either.

Eredan lunged, tackling Uther. A wet squelch echoed through the air and both men crashed into the ground. Uther’s blade flung into the sky. It clattered to the rocks beside Zora, sending sparks flying.

Eredan rolled off Uther. A tiny knife was buried in her father’s throat. Uther gurgled. He tried to turn to face the sun, but Eredan clambered back on top of him, clamping his hand over Uther’s eyes. Uther writhed. He tried to throw him off, tried to see the sun, but Eredan held on, grimacing. Uther’s nails clawed at Eredan, making Eredan scream, but he didn’t let go.

He slammed Uther’s head into the rocks, again, and again, and even when Uther stopped clawing him Eredan kept wailing, and now tears were leaking down his face to mingle with the blood and the dirt on his tattered uniform. And as her father flailed with useless desperation, adrenaline shot through Zora, and she finally found the energy to move.

She yanked her bow off her shoulders. With shaking fingers, she nocked an arrow. She took a shallow breath in and a long one out, just the way her father taught.

Keeping one hand over Uther’s eyes, Eredan yanked the knife from her father’s neck. Blood spurted from an artery. As Eredan raised the knife for a final blow, Zora loosed the arrow.

Everything seemed to slow. She watched, breathless, as the shaft soared through the air. The metal tip gleamed in the afternoon sun, and the fletching rippled in the wind.

The arrow missed.

Eredan stabbed Uther’s heart. Her father convulsed with one last, violent spasm, and then his hands flopped onto the ground, deathly still.

The roar and crash of the river faded away. The sun’s heat grew chill against Zora’s skin. All she saw was her father, lying mangled and bloody on the rocks. All she heard was the desperate thumping of her heartbeat.

Eredan tipped back his head and howled at the sun. But to Zora, his howls were like distant murmurs in the breeze. She heard nothing. Saw nothing.

Her parents were gone.

She staggered forward. Eredan kept screaming that wordless, anguished scream, heedless of her presence. She stopped before her father’s blade. Blackened scorch marks crusted the rock beneath the sword, and the blade glowed with the rage of a fire. As she watched, the glow faded. Instead, the blade began to pulse. Almost as if it was calling her. She reached down to touch the hilt.

Light burst before her eyes. She fell backwards, away from the blade, and all the muted sounds roared back to life, slamming into her ears with ruthless intensity.

Eredan finally looked at her. His gaze darted down to the blade, then back to her.

“No!”

His eyes glowed with that deadly light. Zora dove aside, splashing into the river. Eredan’s light soared over her. 

Icy coldness stabbed into Zora’s skin. She lifted her head above the water and grunted as a wave slapped into her face. Through blurred vision, she glimpsed Eredan crouched beside her father. He tried to shoot another beam towards her, but the light spluttered out from his eyes, and he sagged onto all fours. He turned towards her father’s corpse. Muttered something she couldn’t distinguish.

And that was the last she saw of him before the raging water clawed her under and dragged her away.

Chapter 5: Rovan

Rovan and Iker sat atop an abandoned watchtower in the district of Carran, staring at the sunset. Rovan leaned back against the crumbling bricks. Normally, he loved this time of day. Seeing streaks of red and orange thread across the sky…feeling a gentle breeze wafting cool air over his skin…the bells ringing out from the Temples of Sul the Revealed…usually, the sunset relaxed him. But it was impossible to relax now.

“What are we going to do?” asked Iker.

Rovan shrugged. “I don’t know.”

They couldn’t go back to the temple. High Priest Tullen would’ve found a way to blame Rovan and Iker for the emeralds. He probably had guards prowling for them right now.

They couldn’t go to Brunson, either. Rovan had promised him the jewels, and Brunson didn’t take kindly to broken promises. It had been a risk even coming to Carran, but he’d thought they’d be safer here from Tullen’s guards. Rovan and Iker had climbed up this abandoned watchtower often, in their younger years. It had never failed as a hidden refuge. Still, they couldn’t stay here forever. Tomorrow, they had to do something. Rovan just wished he knew what.

A black dot appeared amongst the clouds.

Rovan nudged Iker. “Do you see that?”

Iker squinted at the black dot. As they watched, dozens more dots appeared amongst the clouds. A cry rose from the city’s defensive wall.

“Dragons!”

Shouts echoed through the city. Rovan and Iker gaped at each other. Dragons? Rovan had always known the creatures lurked in Elatia, beyond Durcene’s borders. But he’d never seen one in person before.

“What do we do?” asked Iker.

A bell tolled from a nearby tower. After a moment, other bells copied the noise, spreading the clanging throughout the city. Rovan’s eyes widened. Four clangs, and then a break. That signal meant the city was under attack.

“We get down.” His mind raced. “And we get to the sewers.”

Other parts of the city had proper underground shelters, but in Carran, the sewers were their only option. 

He glanced towards the sunset. The dragons were closing the distance with every moment.

“Sul protect us,” he muttered.

Rovan and Iker scrambled down the side of the tower. Below, a few people frowned up at them, but everyone was too busy running to safety to care.

Rovan gulped. Descending this fast on a crumbly old watchtower was a bad idea, but what other choice did they—

Iker’s handhold snapped. Shards of old ceramic sprayed everywhere. Rovan stretched out to grab him, but then Iker’s feet slipped, and his friend plummeted down to the street below. He hit the paving stones with a loud crunch.

“Iker!”

Rovan rushed down the last stretch of the tower. When his boots hit the ground, he raced over to his friend.

“Are you alright?”

Iker rolled over, grimacing. “I hurt my ankle.”

“Better than your skull.”

“I don’t know. My skull won’t help me run.”

Rovan swallowed. He had a point. If dragons were attacking, their safest bet was to hide underground. But the nearest entrance to the city’s sewers was a long way from here.

Distant roars shook the skies. The hairs stood up on Rovan’s neck. That sound made him feel so helpless and small. And against the dragons, he was.

“Come on.” He hoisted Iker up. “We’ve got to reach the sewers.”

As he helped Iker limp down the street, Rovan gritted his teeth. They were moving too slowly. At this rate, they’d never make it in time.

“We have to run,” he said.

Iker winced. “Alright. I’ll try.”

Rovan let go of Iker. The boy tried to break into a jog, but within two steps his leg gave way and he sprawled onto the ground.

“I’m useless.” Iker’s head drooped. “Go save yourself.”

“Don’t be stupid. I’m not leaving you.”

Rovan’s voice wavered. If he was caught in the open when the dragons arrived…

“I can’t run!” said Iker.

“Maybe not. But I can.”

He yanked Iker up and slung the boy over his shoulder. He grunted. Rovan staggered down the street, Iker bouncing on his shoulder, and somehow managed to break into a shambling jog. Fresh hope surged through him. They were going to make it!

He rounded the corner, and his hope vanished at the sight of the dragons. The huge beasts plunged the city into shadow. Mounted atop each dragon was a rider, clad in dazzling armour, with sparks of magic swirling from their hands.

Rovan almost stopped. If it was just him, maybe he would’ve. Who could hope to survive against these monsters?

But it wasn’t just him. Iker needed Rovan. The thought of that spurred Rovan on, and he kept running. At the far end, people were tugging at the sewer grate, trying to pull off the cast-iron steel.  

In the distance, Durcene soldiers scrambled up ladders to mount the defensive wall. Swords slid from their sheaths with scrapes of steel, and archers cranked back gigantic crossbows.

“Launch!” shouted an officer.

Arrows shot into the sky. A few dragons screamed as the arrows found their mark. One shaft tore through the thin membrane of a wing, sending the beast spiralling down towards the city. It crashed into a building with a ground-shaking thump.

Still, more dragons kept sweeping over the defensive wall. Flames roared from the sky. Buildings burst alight.

Fires bloomed up all around Rovan and Iker. Heat slapped into Rovan’s cheeks. He tried to block out the screams and just keep running.

“Almost there,” he said.

“What’s the point? Without sunwardens, we’re already dead. And there’s none of them in this stupid city.”

“They’ll come. They have to!”

Ahead, the clump of people slid open the sewer grate with a noisy scrape. They cheered. A wave of relief swept through Rovan as he watched them slide into the sewers. He could already smell the noxious fumes rising from the tunnels, but he’d rather face those than the dragons.

He staggered to a stop beside the grate. Wincing, he set Iker onto the ground. Pain burned through Rovan’s shoulder and his whole body trembled.

“Thanks.” Iker’s face was pale. “I don’t deserve—”

“Never mind, just get down the tunnel.”

Fresh fumes rose from the sewers. Rovan’s eyes watered. He’d spent nights in the sewers before, but they’d never smelled this bad. Living in a temple had made him soft.

Iker slid into the darkness. Rovan grabbed his forearms and lowered his friend down.

A deafening growl sounded from his right. Rovan turned. A dragon swooped low across Carran, spraying fire onto the buildings. Purple gas leapt from a ring on the rider’s hand. When people breathed it in below, boils exploded across their faces and they collapsed to the ground, convulsing in agony.

The dragon soared towards Rovan. Triumph gleamed in its huge eyes. Rovan froze. The dragon was looking right at him. 

No. Not him: the entrance to the sewers. The open entrance.

He caught another whiff of the sewer’s fumes. Horror filled Rovan. The sewer system ran all through the city. If a dragon ignited the gases trapped down there, it could rip this place apart.

He glanced at the sewer grate. No. Too heavy to slide back over.

“Let go,” said Iker. “I’m almost touching the bottom—”

“No!” Rovan strained to pull his friend back up. “You have to get—”

A roar cut him off. The sound rumbled in his stomach, shaking his very bones. Darkness engulfed him. Rovan looked up as the dragon passed overhead. Fire leapt from the creature’s maw.

Greased by sweat, Iker’s arm slipped from Rovan’s grip, sending Rovan falling back away from the sewer.

Iker yelped. “Rovan—”

Fire rushed down into the sewer. The trapped gas exploded with a deafening bang, slapping Rovan backwards. All through the city, buildings and streets ruptured into fragments, and plumes of fire arched into the sky.

Rovan curled into a ball. He squeezed his eyes shut while debris rained down around him.

When he finally worked up the courage to open his eyes, an eerie ringing keened in his ears, like the clang of a never-ending bell. Rubble littered the street. Something sticky clung to his head. He touched the back of his skull. When he looked at his fingers, they were slick with blood.

Rovan crawled towards what remained of the sewer. The dragon had turned the entrance into a ragged crater, piled high with broken stone. Fires raged between the broken rubble. Rovan tried to crawl into the crater—Iker had to be down there somewhere, just waiting for him—but the heat drove him away.

His throat tightened. No one could have survived that.

The ringing in Rovan’s ears dropped away, and the sound of the world returned. Screams echoing through the city. The slap of crossbows sending feeble bolts into the sky. And the roar of a dragon, growing louder.

Rovan looked up. Above, the dragon plunged towards the street once more. Bile rose in Rovan’s throat. He was too exhausted to move. Too exhausted even to stand. As death swept towards him, he could only glare. 

The dragon roared. Fire billowed towards Rovan. He wanted to keep his eyes open. Wanted to keep starting at this monster with defiance. Despite every instinct to look away, to close his eyes, he kept his gaze fixed forward. As the fire rolled closer, he gave a grim smile. Maybe defiance would be victory enough.

A man in a white jacket fell from the sky, landing in a crouch before Rovan. He raised his hand. A sphere of golden light shimmered into existence, surrounding them both. Flames struck the light with a muted thump. Fire raged against the golden sphere, but the light held firm, until the flames faded, and the light was all that remained.

Through the translucent bubble of light, Rovan watched the dragon soar overhead. The beast circled them. After that display, it looked hesitant to swoop back in.

The light vanished.

The man turned towards Rovan. “Are you alright, boy?”

Gold embroidery lined his crisp white jacket. Beneath, hard-packed muscles strained against the fabric, and thick, cordlike veins ran along his bulging forearms. He held a sword. A gleaming, golden sword, made from pure light.

Rovan gaped. He was so busy staring at the man that he almost forgot his place.

Trembling, he bowed. “L-l-lord Sunwarden.”

The sunwarden gave a sharp salute. “Take cover. I’ll handle this.”

Rovan sprinted away and slid into a half-collapsed house. The walls had caved in on themselves. Hopefully that would provide some cover.

A roar rattled Rovan’s stomach. He peered through a gap in the broken walls, right as the dragon dove back down towards the sunwarden.

Twin beams of light sprung from the warden’s eyes. The dragon twisted, but the beams still struck the monster’s chest, carving a burning scorch mark across the scales. Bellowing, the beast swooped low towards the warden, extending its claws. Rovan shuddered. Each talon was taller than him.

The warden rolled, dodging the scathing blow. As he rolled, his blade sliced along the dragon’s belly, opening up a fresh gash. The dragon shrieked. As it flapped into the air, great drops of blood leaked from the wound, splattering onto the ruined street.

From atop the dragon, the rider leapt from his saddle. He plummeted down, drawing his sword as he fell. Rovan frowned. Had he been thrown loose? No, he’d jumped. But why—

 A circle of crackling purple light opened up on the street, behind the sunwarden. Up above, another matching circle opened below the rider. The rider fell through the higher circle, and emerged from the portal down on the street, with all his vertical speed turned into an explosive forward dive. The sunwarden spun and raised his blade just in time to deflect the rider’s sword.

The rider landed, skidding on the ground. On his hand, a ring sparked with energy. Gas poured from the ring, obscuring the warden. Rovan’s eyes widened. He’d seen that poison wreak havoc through the streets, and now the gas had caught the sunwarden unawares.

Light flared inside the cloud. The warden emerged with steady, measured steps. His eyes glowed with light, bright as the midday sun. A single boil marred his handsome face. He glanced at the setting sun and his body flashed with light. When the glow faded, the boil had vanished.

The rider charged, and the warden met him. Their blades clashed in a flurry of blows, too fast for Rovan to see more than a blur. He leaned forward, entranced. 

A gust of wind sent dirt swirling through Rovan’s half-collapsed home. A shadow flittered across the street. He looked up. The dragon had circled around behind the sunwarden—and was diving in for the attack.

A portal appeared behind the rider. He leapt backwards, vanishing through the portal, and dropped from another portal to land on his dragon’s back.

Before the portal blinked away, the sunwarden dropped his sword and dove through. He fell from the portal above the dragon and grabbed the monster’s spiked tail. The dragon thrashed, trying to throw him loose. But the sunwarden held firm. He clambered along the tail, dragging himself along one spike at a time.

Rovan’s heart hammered. What was the warden doing? He was two hundred feet in the air, at the mercy of the dragon, with no sword—

Down on the street, the warden’s sunblade vanished with a flash of light. It reappeared in his hand. With a grunt, he stabbed the blade down into the dragon’s back. The dragon spasmed with pain. Its wings seized up and the monster plummeted, smashing into the street with a thunderous crash.

The warden hurled into the air. A deafening screech pierced Rovan’s ears as the sliding dragon carved ruts into the ground. It slid to a halt. With a final shuddering thump, the beast rolled over onto its side.

Rovan leaned forward. The sunwarden had done it. He’d slain the monster!

The rider untangled himself from the saddle. He stumbled forward to press his forehead against the creature’s snout. Tears streamed down his face. A shrieking wail tore from his mouth, and his whole body trembled.

Grim satisfaction spread through Rovan. This man had slaughtered Iker, along with hundreds of innocent people. He deserved this pain.

The rider whipped around. His eyes were red and bloodshot. His gaze fixed upon something further up the street, and he stalked away from his dead dragon, drawing his sword with a scrape of steel.

Rovan followed his gaze. He gasped. The sunwarden lay in shadow beside a mound of rubble. Blood stained his white jacket. Even from this distance, Rovan could tell his leg was broken. And now the rider was striding towards him, with murder in his eyes. 

“Come on,” Rovan whispered. “Get up. Get up!”

He remembered when the warden healed by glancing at the sun. Couldn’t he do that again?

Then Rovan realised: the warden lay in shadow. He couldn’t see the sun, and his body was too broken for him to stand.

The warden clawed at the ground, trying to drag himself free of the shadow. Rovan’s stomach clenched. The warden moved with painful slowness. He wasn’t going to touch the sunlight before the rider reached him.

The rider strode past Rovan’s hiding place. Rovan shrunk back, wincing as the murderer’s footsteps crunched closer, closer, closer…and then faded away. Rovan’s heart pounded. The sunwarden needed his help. No one else could save him.

Rovan stood. An oddly weightless feeling flowed through him. His mouth was dry. His hands shook. But the sunwarden needed him, and that had to be enough.

He sprinted out of his hiding place and charged towards the dragon. The rider gave a startled shout. As he ran, Rovan glanced over his shoulder. The scowling rider stopped walking towards the sunwarden. Instead, he sprinted back towards Rovan, closing the distance with bounding strides. Rovan turned back to the dragon. His heart felt ready to explode against his ribs, and the hairs on his neck stood on end. At any moment, the rider’s blade would slice into his spine. But Rovan was committed, now. And reaching the dragon was the only way to survive.

The dragon’s eye loomed before him as he approached; a great glassy orb of amber, stretched wide and unseeing by death. Rovan jumped onto the monster’s head. For one instant, he half expected the creature to rear to life and swallow him whole. But as Rovan landed on the beast’s snout, the dragon stayed dead. Behind him, the rider bellowed.

Rovan scrambled along the creature’s back until he reached the saddle. A shining metal shield was attached to the saddlebags. Rovan tried to yank it free. The straps didn’t budge. He glanced back. The rider was moments away from reaching him.

Rovan yanked again, but the shield stayed firm. The rider leapt onto the dragon’s head with inhuman grace. He strode along the creature’s spine.

“How dare you defile Faradid, you little Durcene shit.” Spittle flew from the rider’s mouth. “A quick death is too good for you. I’ll make your execution last days.”

Rovan swallowed. Times like this made him wish he didn’t understand the Elatian language. Ignorance would’ve been a blessing.

He glanced past the rider. Off in the distance, the sunwarden had collapsed in a heap, several feet away from the shadow’s edge.

As the rider closed in, Rovan thought of Iker. He thought of all the capers they’d pulled off, all the frantic escapes they’d managed. All the moments when Rovan had been feeling bleak and one joke from Iker had turned his day around. Even the times when they’d been in the temple together, Rovan trying to pray, and Iker trying to distract him.  

All those moments were gone now. Gone, because of this man, and his dragon.

Fresh strength surged through Rovan’s body. He yanked at the shield, and it broke away from the saddle. Rovan stood. He held the shield up, and the setting sun reflected off the metal, bouncing onto the sunwarden’s eyes.

The warden’s body flashed. His bones knit back together. Fresh skin stretched across his bleeding wounds. He pushed himself up and staggered from the darkness, out into the red-tinged evening light. The rider’s fist swung at Rovan’s head. Twin beams of light erupted from the sunwarden, stabbing into the rider’s back. He collapsed, screaming. The sunwarden’s beams continued, burning into the rider’s skin with that deathly heat until the rider burst into flames.

He thrashed, trying to grab Rovan, but Rovan stumbled away. He slid off the dragon’s back. The sunwarden extinguished his beams of light and strode up to the rider. With a flash of light, the warden summoned his sword. And with a swift chop, he ended the rider’s screams.

 Rovan stared up at the sunwarden. Swirls of golden light raged around the iris of his eye. He took a small vial from his belt, drank the glowing contents, and the swirling light grew calmer. His sword vanished, and the light faded altogether.

Roars echoed through the street. Dragons rose throughout the city, and their great wings thumped against the air as they flew away. Beams of golden light shot into the sky, harrying them as they fled. Other sunwardens must’ve arrived. Just like Rovan had promised Iker.

His throat clenched. Iker…

Tears welled up in his eyes, but he wiped them away. He couldn’t show emotion, not before a sunwarden. And even if he’d been alone…well, he didn’t want to feel anything right now, anyway.

The sunwarden crouched before him. “You saved my life, boy. What’s your name?”

“Rovan, Lord Sunwarden.”

“That is a good name.” The warden stood. “Visit the Temple of Sul the Returned. The priests will care for you. Now, I must join my fellow wardens, for we have work to do. May the sun always shine upon you, Rovan.”

“And you too, Lord.”

The warden strode away.

“Wait!” said Rovan.

The warden paused. He turned back, frowning. Rovan swallowed. One didn’t stop a sunwarden like that. What was he doing? He should just shut up and bow, but words were rising from his mouth, unbidden.

“I want to help,” he said.

“It’s my duty to defend Durcene. Not the responsibility of a child.”

“I mean…I want to fight. I want to be like you.”

Rovan winced. Why had he said that? To become a sunwarden, you had to be born into the highest caste of Durcene society. They spent their whole lives preparing, and even then, only a handful became wardens. It was unthinkable for a lowly street boy like Rovan to ask for the privilege. A society needs order. For him to dare upset that was blasphemous.

The sunwarden stared at him for a long time. Then he finally spoke.

“Do you know Elmsway?”

Rovan nodded. He’d never visited, but he knew it was forty leagues west of Oranas—a journey of three days by foot.

“Be at Elmsway’s Temple of Sul the Revealed in two days, and I’ll consider you to be my initiate.”

Rovan gasped. “Thank you, Lord Sunwarden!”

The sunwarden nodded, then turned away. “Find the priests there. And tell them you were sent by Eredan.”

THE END OF PART I.