A castle waits, of twin-hued stone

To greet its master sadly home.

Castle Whiteshadow stood empty and silent. A cold breeze slipped around its walls, cloud shadows moved furtively over ebony and alabaster stone. On the surrounding cliffs, pine trees creaked and rustled, murmuring their ancient secrets to the unlistening stone.

Grand spires reached into the air, glittering in the sun, striving for glory like the snow-capped peaks around them. The castle was a monument to ambition, the final dream of two sorcerer brothers who had inhabited the valley for decades, mired in strife; their belated reconciliation finally realised as the newly rebuilt School of Magical Studies.

But its hallways had only ever seen one student, and its dormitories and stairways now lay dark.

The great white-painted oaken main doors stood open to the whims of the bluff. Leaves and sunlight spilled through; a large crow explored the foyer, its talons tapping on the polished marble.

The crow took off with a chagrined squawk as a shadow filled the entranceway.

Like a piece of the black walls come to life, the shadow stole silently into the foyer, leaving the crow watching curiously from the scaffolding.

Wind rushed through Ferrian’s pale blond hair as he crouched low over the Dragon’s long neck. Sunlight dazzled off her bright white scales, causing him to squint. Huge wings thumped rhythmically, their feathered ends subtly adjusting lift and speed as they soared through the clouds.

Ferrian turned to look over his shoulder. Mekka crouched behind him, his black hair and wings ruffling.

He was smiling. The Dragon flew much faster than he could, and he was enjoying the ride immensely.

Ferrian was pleased. His Angel friend looked much better than he had when Ferrian had rescued him. Indeed, a spark seemed to have reignited within him, as though his close brush with oblivion made everything seem newly wondrous.

Ferrian was glad to have him back.

Their visit to Sel Varence had been… interesting. Mekka had flown ahead into the city, leaving Ferrian to enter via the main gates, along with, so it dismally appeared, the entire population of the Coastlands. The gates were firmly closed, and guarded by a line of stern Blue Watchmen.

No one was getting in or out.

Squeezing his way to the front of the line, Ferrian had tried asking politely, but was disdainfully ignored. Almost everyone around him was pleading, offering bribes and threats and generally demanding to get in, and the guards weren’t budging. So instead, nonchalantly leaning against the rocky wall of the pass, he clicked his fingers, summoning a bit of icelight.

It was just a tiny, silvery light flickering on his palm, nothing serious. He played with it idly, bouncing it up and down like a ball, and almost immediately, a hush rippled through the crowd and a large space opened up around him.

Suddenly overcome with a profound change of heart, the Watchmen tripped over themselves to open the door, apologising profusely.

Ferrian was allowed to enter the city unhindered, though he left quite a commotion behind him. He winced as the door closed at his back; he hated drawing attention to himself like that.

But it was about to get worse…

The narrow street winding down the side of the canyon was steep, and lined with tall, old, rickety buildings. Every available space – alleyways, doorways, balconies, even rooftops – was completely packed with people. And where there weren’t people, there were carts, horses, dogs, cats, assorted other pets, and baggage. But more disturbingly, no matter how he tried to avert his gaze, folk began to recognise him.

Instead of trying to sell him things as he sidled through what could barely be called a street, they started shoving money and goods into his face. He had gone barely twenty yards before the whole crowd began to press in eagerly, pawing at his clothing, grabbing his arms, begging him for favours – everything from saving their starving children to defeating wraiths to changing the weather. Someone yelled that one of the Dragons had taken up its old residence in Ashen Cove, and could Ferrian go and kill it please, because it was blocking the sea trade route…

Their voices melded into a cacophonous blur that overwhelmed him. His ears buzzed; he felt slightly dizzy. Their hot, stifling bodies pressed around him so that he couldn’t move, the weight of their worries and hopes crushing him…

In a rush of panic, he threw them all aside, his personal shield crackling up around him in a white sweep of magic.

Coins and people fell to the ground, but no one dared touch him again as he walked away, leaving a trail of frosty footprints in his wake.

Ferrian had always wondered why Arzath was so hostile towards other people; but now he understood the sad truth:

Fear and violence worked.

But his stomach twisted with guilt.

For awhile, he wandered the maze of the city aimlessly, trying to keep to back streets that weren’t so clogged with the suffocating heat and odour of humanity, but finding it an impossible task. Eventually, growing tired, he leaned against the side of a building in a narrow alleyway that was at least shaded from the sun, letting his shield down for a few minutes to rest.

Almost as soon as he did so, someone shoved a piece of paper into his hands. Ferrian looked up at once, but the river of people and carts shuffling in front of him was so dense that he couldn’t be sure who it was. He looked down.

The paper was, to his disappointment, nothing interesting; just religious propaganda recruiting for a cult called the Golden Dawn. Ferrian had never heard of them. The text was strange, enigmatic nonsense; something about a glorious new era of world peace and prosperity: that the creation of ‘New Arvanor’ was imminent. There was an emblem of a winged sword upon an upside-down half-sun drawn skillfully at the bottom.

The flyer was professionally produced with artful calligraphy on good paper, as though someone with money was backing it. No surprise the wraith-plague had inspired some opportunistic doomsayers. It was a little odd that someone was investing so much in such a scam, though. Ferrian shrugged. Crunching the paper into a ball, he was about to toss it onto the street, but felt bad about the copious amount of litter already strewn around, and shoved it into his jacket pocket instead.

Mekka eventually found him sitting pensively by the barge-choked canal running through the centre of the city, beside the market square. The Angel had been cleaned and stitched up by the same skilled physician who had patched his eye, all those years ago. An old man Mekka knew well and trusted; someone who didn’t ask questions, though his bushy eyebrow had raised quite far into his hairline at the sight of Mekka’s face.

They went next to Mekka’s old apartment – a tiny attic space accessed from a high window in the back of an alley – where the Angel had a change of clothes and equipment. No weapons, however, save a spare bow and quiver of arrows.

They went on a hunt through the market stalls and shops.

It was late in the evening when they finally found a less than reputable vendor loitering near a statue, offering to sell them two silvertine daggers. Both Mekka and Ferrian were quite certain that they were stolen, but pooled what money they had and paid the exorbitant price, not wishing to make more of a fuss than they already had.

They left the city as quickly as possible, after that.

Now the Barlakk Mountains passed beneath them, sunlit and sharp, like row upon row of ancient grey teeth crusted with snow beneath the floating clouds. The Valley came into view quite suddenly as the Dragon banked, descending in a graceful circular sweep over Castle Whiteshadow, over the sparkling waterfall and crumbling ruins of Arzath’s old keep, alighting finally on the edge of the eastern bluff before the black and white walls.

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Even before he slid off the Dragon’s gleaming back, Ferrian knew that something wasn’t right.

Standing on the bluff, wind playing with his hair and grey cloak, he stared up at the soaring towers. He should have felt glad to be home, but instead there was a strange uncertainty in his stomach.

Perhaps it was the quietness of the place; without the bustle of Grik workers, the scaffolding stood oddly empty and bare, like a half-formed skeleton. It was a huge castle; he didn’t really expect to encounter his guests straight away, or that they would rush out to meet him – though he thought Ben at least would have spotted them coming, as the boy spent most of his time outside, fishing and hunting.

But there was no one to be seen.

There was nothing to be heard, either, save the distant cawing of a single crow over the cliffs.

And the main doors stood wide open.

They had been that way for awhile, too – dead leaves were scattered over the threshold.

Ferrian reached over his shoulder and withdrew his Sword.

Mekka came up to stand beside him. “Something wrong?”

Ferrian nodded. Slowly, he walked forward until he stood before the open doors. The foyer was empty, save for sunlight casting a glorious blue and gold sunburst pattern on the floor.

Ferrian invoked his Mind Vision, sweeping it over the castle. He took his time, making sure he checked every part of the building.

It was completely deserted…

No. Wait…! There, in the foyer, directly opposite him, was a living aura. It was above ground level, apparently crouched on the mezzanine. Ferrian couldn’t tell who or what it was, but its aura wasn’t that of anyone he recognised.

It was brimming with fear and anticipation.

Ferrian’s eyes narrowed. A Grik? he thought. But no. The Griks were opportunistic, greedy and often incredibly stupid, but none of them were dumb enough to lay an ambush for a sorcerer…

Were they?

Banishing his Mind Sweep, he paused, considering. It isn’t a wraith, at least… But where were all of his guests? And where was Arzath? His master would not have tolerated a Grik or any other stranger inside the castle.

Something had happened here. And this thing was either the cause of it, or taking advantage of the situation…

Mekka had positioned himself on the other side of the entryway, in the shadows against the wall, regarding Ferrian quietly.

“Inside,” Ferrian murmured. “On the mezzanine.”

The Angel nodded.

Gripping his Sword, Ferrian swept boldly inside. “I know you’re up there!” he declared loudly, his voice ringing through the spacious room. “Whoever you are: show yourself!”

Something dark moved on the balcony. There was no reply, but a curious clicking sound that etched itself unpleasantly on Ferrian’s brain. He frowned. I know that sound…

Mekka was poised to act, curved silver daggers in each hand, dazzling in the coloured light. At a nod from Ferrian, he spread his black wings and leapt onto the mezzanine, vaulting over the balustrade and giving chase.

Ferrian watched him disappear into the stairwell. Not a Grik, then, he thought. It was far too quick. But whatever it was, he was confident that the Angel could handle it.

He headed towards the dining room, noting that the door here stood open, as well.

He made his way slowly through the long, white, high-ceilinged chamber. This room was the heart of the castle, the common room, a place for gathering and talk as well as meals. But now it was silent, gloomy and cold. No lanterns were lit. The hearth had burnt out and not been reset. A draught stirred the banners on the walls; they shifted like colourful ghosts.

One of the dining chairs was tumbled, broken, into a corner, and a cutting knife lay on the carpet.

Ferrian bent and picked it up. The flutter of dread in his stomach tightened into a hard, awful knot.

Though he had already Mind Swept the entire castle and seen nothing but the single mysterious figure on the balcony, he approached the kitchen warily.

The kitchen was cold, as well: the ovens unlit. Something had been cooking on the stove, but it had boiled down into a congealed, burnt, mouldy lump. Ingredients for a meal were set out in Luca’s organised way over the workbench, most of them having dried out or gone rotten. A tuber was half-chopped on the cutting board.

A sickening feeling rose in Ferrian’s throat. Luca would never have let food go to waste like this…

Placing the knife carefully back on the bench, Ferrian took his Sword in both hands and turned towards the door at the far end of the room, beside the pantry. That door led to a back corridor that accessed the garden courtyard and rear stairwell.

The eastern stairwell: the one with a secret escape route.

This door to the kitchen was open, too. The draught passing through it seemed chill as ice.

Ferrian stepped through.

He saw Luca immediately, lying on the floor halfway down the corridor, and all Ferrian’s blood seemed to leave his body in a rush. No…

Breaking into a run, he stumbled to his knees, his Sword clattering to the floor beside him. The Centaur lay in a huge pool of dried blood; he had been dead for some time. A gruesome wound punctured his back and chest, as though a massive spike had run him through.

Worse than that – far, far worse: the wound was oozing a black, viscous substance with an oddly metallic sheen…

Oh, Gods. Trigon.

Luca had been killed with a trigonic weapon. A wraith would have simply stolen his soul with a touch and left an undamaged body.

Feeling sick, Ferrian dropped his head into his heads, squeezing his eyes shut to fight off a mingled wave of dizziness, nausea and disbelief.

Luca. He had been so kind, such a gentle and considerate person. How could he have died so cruelly? Who did this to him?!

There was a slight scuffing sound. Ferrian lifted his head to see Mekka on the stairs. The Angel’s face was solemn. He came forward to kneel on the other side of Luca’s body. “One of your guests?” he whispered.

Ferrian nodded numbly. Clutching at his Sword, he staggered to his feet. “E-Everine,” he stammered. “Ben. Araynia…”

Hawk. A horrible, insane thought sliced through his mind. Had Hawk turned into a monster? Could he have done this?!

“Whatever happened here occurred at least a week ago,” Mekka was saying. Rising swiftly to his feet, the Angel went to the back of the stairwell, which was littered with broken white stone and a torn red banner. “Someone smashed through the wall here. There’s a passageway beyond.”

Crouching at the entrance of the no-longer-hidden passage, he examined the dusty floor. “Several sets of footprints, and wheelchair tracks.” He looked up at Ferrian. “At least some of the others managed to escape.”

Ferrian said nothing.

Mekka got up and moved across the stairwell, stepping carefully around Luca’s body. He put a hand on Ferrian’s shoulder, his face stern. “Do not blame yourself for this.”

Ferrian swallowed tightly. “Did you find… the intruder?”

Mekka shook his head, scowling in frustration. “Whatever it was, it was damnably quick.” He folded his arms. “It disappeared into the upper corridors. I found a window left open. Either it escaped, or wanted me to think it did.” His scowl deepened. “It is playing with us.”

“We have to find it,” Ferrian said, his hand tightening on his Sword. “We have to find whoever did this!”

Mekka looked back at the dark, ruined opening in the stairwell wall. “I am going to investigate the passage,” he said.

“Mekka…” Ferrian warned, sudden fear for his friend gripping him. “Luca was murdered with a trigonic weapon…”

The Angel’s handsome face was grim, but unafraid. He flipped his silvertine daggers out of their sheaths. “I will be careful.” Before Ferrian could stop him or offer to go instead, he had vanished into the black depths of the mountain.

Staring at the hole, alone in the silence of a castle that now felt like a tomb, Ferrian backed away until he hit the wall of the corridor. He took a deep, shuddering breath, closing his eyes again, unable to look at poor Luca’s ruined corpse any longer.

I wasn’t here. The accusatory words crawled agonisingly through his mind. My friends were attacked in my own castle… and yet again, I wasn’t around to protect them…

Ferrian used his Sword to dispose of Luca’s body. It was a difficult decision to make, and took him a long time to work up the will to do it. But after what had happened to Requar, he couldn’t be sure that Luca wasn’t going to come back eventually as a wraith, even if buried.

Cremation wasn’t an option, as it would leave the trigon intact, and Ferrian didn’t want a trace of the foul stuff lingering anywhere in the valley.

He was left with no other option but to banish Luca from the world, from this reality.

As though he had never existed.

Ferrian and Mekka moved the body carefully on a makeshift stretcher, further down the valley to a secluded grove of pine trees away from the path, to carry out the sad task. With a flash of magic it was over, and the Centaur was gone. Mekka watched silently from the edge of the trees.

Afterwards, they spent the rest of the afternoon building a cairn to mark the spot. Ferrian vowed to return one day and affix a plaque to it.

Luca would not be forgotten.

The Winter closed in around them as they worked. Ferrian barely noticed, until he saw Mekka hunched into his wings and covered in snowflakes as he dug stones out of the snow.

He told his friend to go back to the castle. Mekka refused, but Ferrian insisted until he relented. He finished the cairn on his own, then sat down and stared at it, the snow piling up softly around him. Mekka and the Dragon left him alone.

He hadn’t expected to come home to this.

I’m so sorry, Araynia, he thought sorrowfully, brushing tears from his face. You came here for my help and protection, not more grief…

The others probably thought he had abandoned them. Were any of them still alive? Mekka had found no more bodies in the tunnel, but he hadn’t searched very far as the passage ran for miles through the mountains. Even Ferrian had never explored it to the very end.

He hoped that Arzath was with them. He hoped the sorcerer cared enough to help his friends survive, and hadn’t just left them to their fate to save his own sorry skin…

A deep fear clutched him, like icy hands around his heart, forcing him suddenly to his feet. I don’t have time for this! he thought angrily. I don’t have time to sit here feeling sorry for myself and Luca! I have to find my friends!

He found himself shivering, his breath puffing white before his face, the temperature plummeting as dusk settled in. The spaces beneath the trees were filled with deep blue shadow, contrasting with the snow-blanketed ground. Pulling his hood up against the self-inflicted cold, he turned and hurried into the trees, heading downhill, searching for the path.

Gloom shrouded the pines, matching his mood. It was becoming hard to see, the trail all but obscured by snow. He stopped to summon an icelight.

The blow caught him completely unaware, scattering his thoughts and magic, pitching him forward into snow and blackness.