Clythia stared at the spot where the seer had been moments ago, now sprinkled on and around her like powdered sugar on bread. She gagged—pushing down the breakfast coated with bile climbing up her throat. With a flick of her wrist, she became pristine; with another, her essence scattered in the fabric of time and space.
When she reemerged in her bedroom, a deafening boom sounded. Without paying much heed as she transformed into her old self, she bolted out to investigate the source of the ruckus.
Flying minuscule toy dragons made from wood were whirling in the Grand Hall, zooming in and out, crushing and scorching anything in their paths. Portraits lay on the tiles, half burnt with their glass splintered; the canapé’s fabric melted under the heat, emanating a stinging smell of burnt leather. The air was turning gray, like mist from a cold winter, only warmer. Clythia coughed off the smoke.
The murky air revealed the red dragon inches away from her. She lurched backward, almost losing her footing. Orange flames danced past her, a mark away from her neck with biting heat—aiming at the statue of the wizard king Eris holding a bow. If the statue had been a shade brighter, the soot would have been visible. But like everything else in the palace, its darkness shone—unflinching, as the angry flames poured out of the dragon and onto its stretched arm and shoulder.
Servants were scuttling away from and towards the chaos, trying to put the fiery toys under control. Wands were shooting out sparks, and shouts of spells and hexes from the servants elevated it to what felt like a full siege.
The blue dragon was spitting fire at the banister leading to the first landing when Clythia snapped her fingers, and the fire ceased to dance as if it were captured in a painting, inches away from flaying the handrail. The dragon, along with his fellow troublemakers—red and green—froze in mid-air.
The servants craned their necks at Clythia, eyes bulged, and jaws dropped. Guilt and shame splashed across their faces.
“What in the hell is going on?” Anger was seething in her. She had left not more than two hours ago, and already the castle was on its tiptoes. Who would be daft enough to unleash these headaches and trigger her wrath?
Only one.
She was so caught up with the meeting and Tiyus that she had forgotten—
“Clen!” Her voice boomed, carrying menace.
The servants emptied out of the hall in a hurry.
A dark-haired boy, with full lips and brown eyes, tall—taller than Clythia had seen him last spring—waltzed in through the main gates as if he was without fault, whistling—mist swirling around him as he approached. His shoulders were broad, his muscles bunched, and his jawline edged. Year after year, Clen was leaving the soft features of boyhood behind and transforming into the man before her. But he would always be her boy. Despite her rage at the ruckus he caused, her heart warmed at the sight of him.
She blew out a sigh. “You fucking idiot.”
Clen gave her a broad, mischievous grin, splaying out his arms. Before she could scold him, he wrapped them around her torso, squeezing. His sweet scent of alderwood threatened to open the gates of a river in her eyes. She hugged him back and rapped his head with her knuckle—he yelped.
She pulled back. “Fix it.”
Rolling his eyes, Clen waved his hand, and the dragons disappeared into thin air; the mist retreated, and a pure gust washed away the scent of smoke. The portraits and canapé’ returned to their original glory as if someone had rewound them back in time.
Like Clythia, her son was able to perform magic without the aid of tools such as wands, staffs, or charms. After all, he was the heir of DavinSaw and a powerful wizard. Status in DavinSaw was earned by how much power one possessed; the higher the hierarchy, the greater the power lodged there. It helped that it transferred through generations—the reason why those at the top, remained at the top.
Clen was still in his school uniform, a brown cloak with matching breeches and a shirt etched with the Sravask’s badge of three red snakes crisscrossing in a golden chalice.
“These were my projects for a quiz,” he said, reaching into his pocket and revealing the three immobile dragons.
“That’s no reason to be irresponsible and lose them in the castle,” she flicked his nose, gaining another ‘Ouch’ from him.
“One day, you are going to be the heir of this kingdom. You need to stop acting like a child. How are you going to rule on the throne if you set the palace on fire?” she scolded him. He drooped his eyes to the tiles.
“Now, get changed and join me for lunch.”
A few minutes after Clythia arrived in the dining hall—noting the guards arrayed at each corridor and entrance, and the servants busy serving the meal—Clen joined her, wearing a green tunic. His flip-flops slapping against the tiles with unnecessary volume, which he could have avoided if he was a compliant kid. But pestering his mother was an entertaining hobby for him. Asshole. She glared at him, but without a glance, he slumped into a seat beside her.
She was a bit taken aback by the flowing harmony of the servants and guards. They were on their tasks as if they had been waiting their whole lives for this. The general had heeded her orders, it seems. Good. But it wasn’t as good as the dark prince who had served her here, his taut muscles wrapping around the ladle as they had around her—
Clen snorted. “Who are you thinking about?”
"No one." Clythia said avoiding his eyes, with a new interest for the meal before her. A pork pie with stew, and salads with bread made of teff.
“Your face says otherwise” He grinned. "Is it Hypaxia?”
“What? Ugh,” Clythia scoffed. “I haven’t thought about her in ages.” That was true, but ‘ages’ was only one night, and ‘lover’—Tiyus, was not actually her lover... right?
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He pointed a fork at her. “That look is the same one you had when she wrote you a letter—before you read it. Plus, I have a keen sight when it comes to people.”
The precision of her son’s observation unnerved her. Was she that much of an open book?
Twenty years ago, Hypaxia had written her a letter. Before reading it, Clythia foolishly thought it was to rekindle their relationship, but the soulless goddess stung her heart once more. It was just an apology for giving her false hope and wishing her the best in life. Cruel.
Clythia huffed, “Keen sight my ass. Why don’t you use this keen sight of yours as a spy? Maybe go to Melop and sniff around with Casarda.”
At the mention of her name, his back stiffened, but in a blink, he retained his carefree poise.
“What was that?” she drawled, with a hint of amusement—pleased she had turned the tables.
He said nothing, avoiding her eyes and munching his food.
Clythia hesitated for a moment. Clen was an adolescent turning fifty-seven this year. He was bound to keep secrets of his indulgences, but she needed to know as a responsible mother and to drift off his speculating eyes of her.
“Are you fooling around with Pelta?”
Clen made a startled, choked sound. “What? Oh gods, no. Fuck no.”
Pelta was the daughter of Casarda, as breathtaking as her mother. Clen and Pelta used to play in the palace gardens as kids, and when they grew up—for reasons Clythia wasn't aware of nor cared about—they became distant.
"Yeah, that sounds like a yes," Clythia said, enjoying how his neck was turning an embarrassing red.
His fork clanked on the half-finished plate. "I swear, Mom, nothing is happening between me and Pelta. Stop acting weird."
Clythia chuckled. "You are the one acting weird."
"You know what?" Clen lurched to his feet. "I've lost my appetite."
"Sit," Clythia's voice was commanding.
Grumbling, he slid back into his seat.
“Finish.” As he hesitated, she said, “I will not repeat myself, Clen. You do not leave before finishing a meal. Stop being defiant and have respect for your culture.”
He returned to his meal with less vigor.
“Now stop pouting and tell me about school,” The edge in Clythia's voice softened.
She had missed him so much. The palace felt hollow without his presence. The sun that poured in through the stained glass seemed brighter, as if heralding the gem in her life. Clen.
Her son whirled to face her with new fire in his eyes. “Do you know that Nik killed Lon because he was cheating with Mari? She claimed she was bewitched by a love spell—of course, no one bought it but dumb Nik. So, he did nothing to her. And now we have a new Sorcery History teacher, and he is the most boring teacher I have ever met. I mean, history by itself is boring, and when he teaches, you could find yourself asleep in a grave, and not even Ilyana would wake you.”
Clythia snickered. “Poor Lon, he and Mari were a thing even in my day.” Clen gasped dramatically. “Oh yeah, she was in Wigmond and he was in Sravask, and they used to sneak out of school to meet. I always wondered how she ended up with Nik in the first place. I thought love would triumph over fortune—when I was young.”
Clen stared at her. “What changed your mind?”
“Age,” she said, without elaborating any further, and Clen didn’t press her.
Then he went on and on about his time in Sravask: about the blossoming romances, the fights that broke out, the mean teachers and the kind ones, and about the pranks he pulled on one of them, which made Clythia laugh at first, then take on the gait of a responsible mother and scold him for it. Even after the table was cleared, they were chatting like old friends who had met after a long time, catching up on what she had missed in his life.
“What about you, Mom? What’s new? I have heard the magic has changed now. No one in school was affected yet, but the city was in chaos for a while.”
"First show me your grades." The light faded from his face. "I expect better from last year. If those muscles of yours aren't proof of your Weaponry marks, I will kill you."
Out of thin air, a blue-black scroll appeared on the table, tied with a red ribbon.
"The real one." Clythia said with a bone-chilling tone, glaring at him.
He blew out a sigh, and the first scroll vanished as another materialized in its place. It was the same as the former for the naked eye, but the magical luster was visible to advanced witches or wizards like Clythia, marking it as the authentic copy.
She tugged the ribbon and the scroll splayed open.
Sravask Military Academy
Name: Clen Hoverlow
Status: Heir of Ilyana's seat and DavinSaw
Class Year: seventeen
Subjects**************************************Score
Elemental magic----------------------------------455/500
Sorcery History------------------------------------357/500
“357!” Clythia snapped her head towards Clen. “You are the prince of DavinSaw. You are supposed to know everything about sorcery. Do you have any idea how Sorcery History could be as important as every other subject you are taking?”
Clen opened his mouth, but a raise of her palm sealed it shut.
“I don’t care if your teacher drags you to an eternal slumber. You don’t need a teacher to study! Back in my day, we didn’t care if a teacher did their job or not. We studied hard enough with little or no help. It’s a military academy, for fuck’s sake—you can’t expect to be spoon-fed!”
Clen was looking everywhere but at his mother.
Weaponry---------------------------------------------475/500
She grunted in approval, her rage dying down as quickly as it came. “You’ve improved your weaponry skills. Good. I won’t be going easy on you then.”
“Going easy?" Clen gasped. "You almost killed me last time. Your spear was inside my arm.”
“It would have been inside your heart.” Clythia said without looking up at him.
Clen mumbled something like ‘being the son of a cruel hag.’
Alchemy-----------------------------------------------498/500
Her brows rose at her son. “I’m not surprised, given your affinity for blowing things up. I can’t believe you are old enough to take this class now.”
It felt like yesterday when Clen was a boy, forming his first words and steps, playing in the mud—his princely status discarded, and starting school at the age of ten, crying to be anywhere but there, as though it were a torture chamber.
Tinkering and Innovation-----------------------------469/500
Bead Magic--------------------------------------450/500
Advanced J.H.N----------------------------------------320/500
“I can explain,” Clen said abruptly, fidgeting under her fiery gaze, before she could say anything.
But the ember of her rage didn’t last long. As if someone had doused her with cool water, she became void of emotion. She blinked; a strong scent of brimstone invaded her nose.
Nothing mattered.
No one mattered.
And she was just a feather floating over the ocean of the universe.
She began to drift away from her seat—away from the ground’s gravity and towards the skies. The dining hall bled away into an inky canvas with stars drizzled on it. She was hurtling towards something essential, and the stars became whirls of rays against dark smoke.
With a loud thud, her feet were planted on a meadow, like a cat thrown from a height.
A wolf the size of a two-story building towered before her. His lightning-blue eyes were peering at her. His fur was as dark as the sky, swaying with the cool breeze wafting through the meadow.
Then her memories returned to her fickle mind, as if she was jerked out of a deep slumber. Clythia was still sitting in the dining hall—at least her physical body was. Clen probably freaked out by her frozen demeanour.
Out of all subjects, how could he possibly be getting a low score in Advanced Jinxes, Hexes and Necromancy? What kind of leader would he be if he couldn’t curse his enemies properly or raise skeletons to fight his battles? He should be ready by all means necessary. The golden age of Zyvern was coming to an end.
The wolf groaned. That snapped her out of her thoughts and directed her annoyance at the distraction.
Prime Glythia.
King of Makefort and werewolves.