The cold breeze swept across Sorn’s face, chilling his skin as he sat upright upon a bed. The pale light of the rising sun stretched across the room, slightly illuminating it. It kissed Sorn’s face with a slight warmth that was almost comforting in the midst of the never ending cold. For a moment, he stared at the bright star that hung low in the sky, its light insistent, as if it knew him, as if it had always known him.

His gaze dropped. Across from him, seated in a chair, sat a burly man, fast asleep. The snores rumbled from his chest like heavy thunder. The man was a Marauder who had been assigned to watch Sorn. One of the decrees regarding Sorn’s temporary freedom commanded for an ever-watchful eye to ensure his compliance. And yet, now that the man lay in slumber, sprawled back on the chair with his face pointing to the sky, the weight of his gaze was absent, Sorn felt a curious freedom. He hardly realized that the promise he had made was already broken.

He thought back on the events of the day before—if it could even be called a day. A blur of faces, cold glances, and sharp words. He had been dragged from the center of the Council’s storm, removed from the heated deliberations that were so loud, even the walls trembled in fear of the booming voices. Oden and Serene had taken him by the arm, guiding him away from the middle, as to save him from any reckless act that could be caused by the heated emotions. The discourse could not go forever, and Oden’s proposal was finalized. It had been Oden who’d placed a cloak over Sorn’s shoulders, hiding him from the world as they were escorted out of The Goblet, and they made their way to the Marauder’s Hall.

The Marauders accompanying them on their way back—Bjorn and Serene—had introduced themselves, but their interest in him was fleeting. Once the formalities were done, they had paid him no further mind, their attention directed at their own conversations. Oden, though, had been different. His questions came sharp and intrusive. His words, methodical and deliberate, tried to pry into Sorn’s past and his identity. It was the same as when Keilan and Crystal had interrogated him, but Oden's approach was more intense, more calculating. It was as though he were a predator, picking at the bones of a carcass, searching for weakness.

Sorn had offered nothing. No answers, no clues, no piece of his story to satisfy his new companion’s hunger. Fifteen minutes, Oden had interrogated, only to be responded by an empty answer accompanied by a steady, unblinking stare. It had been a useless endeavor, for Sorn could not answer what he did not know. And after that brief eternity, the Marauder had finally relented, his eyes narrowing in mild frustration as the sun dipped low, casting the world into the night’s shadow. The four stopped before the Marauder’s Hall. It was a wide building of ice, filled with nothing but quarters for the Clan to reside.

Oden’s words were a confident promise. “Tomorrow, you will have your questions answered. Your doubts will be erased. But tonight, I would recommend you to rest.” And with that, they had left him alone with his newly appointed watcher in his room.

Sorn now rose from the bed, his bare feet meeting the cold ice floor with a sharpness that made him shiver. He moved carefully, lest the heavy sleeper before him stir, but the thought of waking the man seemed like a foolish one. It was the kind of thought that Sorn would learn to regret if the wrong person were to learn of this.

A set of clothes sat neatly on the bedside table—simple garments that seemed to belong to anyone and no one at once. He took them, his fingers brushing against the fabric. The clothing was foreign, quite unlike the uniforms he had already grown used to seeing. With a quick glance back at the slumbering Marauder, Sorn stepped from the room and into the hallway beyond.

Sorn moved slowly through the corridor, searching for a restroom. It took him longer than it should have, but eventually, he found a small, modest chamber, a flickering light casting long shadows on the walls. He closed the door behind him, stripped the remnants of his old clothes, and dressed quickly. When he was done, he stood before the mirror, the faint reflection of his own face staring back at him, a stranger that he would one day grow used to seeing.

When Sorn opened the wooden door, he was startled by a man standing right outside, waiting for him. He stumbled back a step or two, but the shock faded quickly. To his relief, the figure before him was no stranger. Oden stood with a grin that stretched wide across his face, a smile that spoke of confidence.

"You’re awake early," Oden remarked.

As he responded with a simple “yes”, Sorn studied the man. Though Oden was smaller than most of the Marauders he had seen, his frame still made him taller than Sorn by a few inches. Sorn’s gaze dropped to Oden’s left hand. Blood was dripping from the back of it, dark against the pale skin, a slow, steady drip that splattered onto the floor with each shift of Oden’s fingers. Sorn’s eyes narrowed, but Oden, seeming to sense the question before it was asked, put the bleeding hand on Sorn’s shoulder.

"Don’t trouble yourself over it," Oden said, his smile never faltering. "Just a bad dream I get sometimes."

Despite the vague dismissal answer, Sorn felt a sense of truthfulness to the answer. The finality in Oden’s response made Sorn refrain from asking anything further.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

They made their way back down the long corridor, passing by the room Sorn woke up in. Sorn’s gaze flicked briefly and he noticed the chair, once occupied by the man who had watched him in the night, was empty. A small pool of blood marred the floor beneath the chair. Sorn felt a prickling unease crawl up his spine, but he said nothing, letting the moment pass in silence. Oden didn’t take any notice of the room.

Making it outside after descending some stairs, Sorn once again felt the biting air. Both the interior and exterior of the Hall were empty, save for the silent sweep of snow that lay in undisturbed drifts. The cloak he had worn the day before was once again wrapped around his shoulders, heavy and comforting against the chill. He hadn’t asked where they were going—Oden hadn’t bothered to explain. But the Marauder’s promise of a day spent walking felt more like an obligation than an invitation.

“So,” Oden said, his voice light, as they walked along the snow-dusted path. The crunch of their boots was the only other sound in the stillness. "Anything you’d like to ask me?"

Sorn glanced sideways at Oden, but there was no telling what lay behind that wide, too-pleasant smile. The question that had been gnawing at him for an entire day slipped seamlessly from his lips before he could stop it. “What’s going to happen to me?”

Oden took a moment to respond, his face now painted in a more serious manner. “I thought that was made clear in your Trial. In fourteen days, the night of the Prophecy will fall upon us. It happens once every fifty years, so I’ve never seen it myself. Some old man from the Pythia Clan reads the stars, makes his Prophecy, and it’s said that it always comes true. The Pythia are a strange lot. They never show themselves, always holed up in their watchtower on the outskirts, staring up at the sky.”

Sorn’s brow furrowed, but he kept walking. What did any of this have to do with him? Was there any guarantee that Sorn would be involved in the Prophecy?

Oden seemed to read his thoughts without needing to say a word. “As for you, your involvement in the Prophecy is almost a certainty. Not just because of who you are, but more importantly because you fell from the sky.” Oden’s eyes twinkled as he talked. He was clearly enjoying this conversation. “Like I said before, what happens in the sky is pretty important to us, and your descent has got many people whispering that you’re tied to whatever the Prophecy has to say.”

Sorn’s mind raced to keep up with the information he was receiving. “And what does that mean for me?”

“Simple,” Oden replied, his grin slipping into something more knowing. “If the Prophecy sees you as a threat, you’re dead. If it doesn’t, then you’ll be allowed to prove yourself in the Tournament. Survive it, and you’ll be accepted as a Marauder. Fail, and–” He shrugged. “Well, you die.”

Sorn felt a shiver upon hearing those last words, but something also bothered him. “Didn’t you say the Prophecy always comes true?”

“I did.”

“Then if it says I’m a danger, wouldn’t it be pointless to try to stop me?”

“It’s not that simple. If the Prophecy deems you a threat, that’s enough reason to end you before you prove it right. But if the stars say you’re meant to do something, then we can’t change it. Not even if we wanted to.” He let the weight of his words settle between them, “That’s why there were some who wanted you dead on the spot. Because the Prophecy doesn’t care about what doesn’t exist. If you’re alive you’re guaranteed to be part of it. If you aren’t, then you’ll be on nobody’s mind.”

Sorn was beginning to understand the stakes, but there was still a lot he didn’t know. “I see,” he said, his voice distant. He was grateful to Oden for keeping him alive so far. Sorn wasn’t a threat. That’s what Sorn would like to think at least. But still, the thought of dying before he ever had a chance to live made his chest tighten with a cold fear. “If you don’t mind, could you explain the Tournament to me?”

Oden had kept silent as he watched Sorn think, watching him like a hawk. “The Council you saw yesterday are the ones running the whole thing. The Tournament is the most important event here, as it always follows the night of the prophecy. It’s the only thing that gets any real attention in this dreary Fortress. The Tournament’s always been a heavy influence regarding who the next Council will be. Varian, the Iron Stag as well as Lyra, the Silent Chord were the winners of the last Tournament. And now, with the Promised Day coming in only three years, it’s more important than ever.” Oden’s voice carried more weight as he spoke these words. “This year, the Tournament is going to decide the future of our militia. Our strategy, the next generation of leaders will all be part of the result the Tournament brings.”

Sorn had heard from Crystal before of the Promised Day, the day when the raised bridges would lower, and the Elementals would travel from their isolated islands to clash in a race for Seraph’s unparalleled power.

“The Tournament’s rules are different this year too,” Oden continued. “The minimum age to participate has been lowered. It used to be twenty-five, but now? We’ve got a mere fifteen-year-old boy participating.”

As Oden ended his sentence, the duo arrived at a strange ice statue. The sun had fully risen, its beams now raining slight warmth on Sorn’s back. They had left the roads of the interior area. Now in the outskirts, the snow was much deeper, and Sorn could feel his shoes sinking with every step.

The statue they stopped at was massive. Nearly double Sorn’s size, he looked up at the beautiful artistry. Oden smiled at Sorn’s interest. He looked at the statue with less enthusiasm, as this was something he had seen hundreds of times before. The face was one of a male’s but the features were still soft, almost androgynous. Long hair fluttered from the skull of the statue, frozen forever in a dance. The robes were luxurious, its design unlike anything Sorn had ever witnessed.

“This was made by the Third Emperor many centuries ago,” Oden explained. “Aelon, the First Emperor had a great love for Seraph, the Champion of Light. The Third Emperor, Andreas, was inspired by his Grandfather’s stories and he made this masterpiece upon his passing.”

The statue sure was impressive, but Oden seemed far more disengaged in this conversation than any prior one. Sorn had deduced that the Marauder loved to talk from his previous enthusiasm, but with this knowledge he decided that this analysis was to be changed. Oden loved to talk about things he was interested in.

Sure enough, Oden began walking, motioning for Sorn to follow him. “Come, there is more history for you to see. The Frost Archives shouldn’t be too far away.”