Two men lay on the square that had become a battlefield, one father, one son. Arrows whizzed over their heads, claiming target after target. Their small army had nearly succeeded in taking back the Maeryn Crystal, an unusual stone that allowed communication between kings. Stolen long ago, it now was in the possession of a false king, a man who’d taken control of a kingdom he had no rights to.

That man was Torin.

The father, the son, and their men had approached this kingdom unannounced, unseen by their enemies, unseen by the thief who’d taken the crystal.

But the freedom from visibility they’d enjoyed by using the Cloakstone the father carried had vanished abruptly once he took his last breath. The magic of the stone had helped them evade capture, rendering them invisible, but now it hung uselessly against his armor, unclaimed by its rightful heir.

Morven, the son, lay injured and unconscious, his birthright all but forgotten, no longer hidden by the stone.

The sorcerer, Torin, walked slowly across the square, the Maeryn Crystal clutched in one hand. Torin held it out, then threw it gently in Morven’s direction until it hovered over his head, ready to strike.

To Torin, their attempt to take back the crystal was laughable.

But now, there was something he wanted more than the crystal, something around that old man’s neck.

He walked up to him, bent down, and ripped the Cloakstone from its chain. It was a mistake, Torin finding this rock, a treasure bestowed upon him unknowingly by those who’d fought to steal from him.

He turned to Morven, then stood up and kicked him in the gut with his steel-toed boot.

This was enough to rouse Morven, and he coughed violently, rolling over onto one side. The arrow that had bitten into his flesh was lodged in his chest, a powerful enough strike to pierce his armor, if not his heart. Slowly, he opened his eyes, taking in the sight of his father, dead after half a year of planning how to infiltrate the kingdom.

How completely they had failed.

“You have been mistaken,” Torin said. “Led to believe that you had a chance to wrest this crystal from me. I do not know who told you it was possible, but he was wrong.”

“It was she who told me it was possible,” Morven muttered between coughs. He raised his head slightly, staring around for his soldiers. Then, with a terrible knot in his stomach, he realized they were all dead. Or soon would be.

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“It matters not who told you about the crystal,” Torin said. “The point is that it belongs to me.” He held up the Cloakstone, its bright green color amplified by the setting sun’s dying rays. “As well as this trinket here. Tell me, how does this work? It disguises you, yes?”

He moved forward and stepped on Morven’s shoulder, ready to break it beneath his boot.

Morven looked up at the ancient wizard, up at the Maeryn Crystal that hovered above his head. He did the math, and quick thinking, or cowardice, dictated his next words.

“All you need to do is think it,” he said honestly. “Tell it what you want to cloak, and it will make it so.”

Torin frowned, then raised his eyebrows, interested. He turned and walked a couple of steps away, his back to Morven.

There was something Torin didn’t know, however: the stone would only work if freely given or handed down from one generation to the next. And, knowing this, Morven struggled up to his feet unnoticed.

“Cloak us all,” Torin said lovingly into the stone, his attention elsewhere. He held it to his mouth, close enough to kiss it.

But nothing happened.

He looked up and around, seeking Morven’s face and excuses. But he’d been too slow; a moment later, Morven attacked him from behind, throwing him to the ground beneath his heavy weight.

“Not today,” he growled in Torin’s ear, and before there was a chance for Torin to strike back, Morven snatched the Cloakstone from him and rolled away.

The stone was rightfully his now, and in an instant, he was gone.

Torin stood, and Morven, from his invisible place, saw him look around, suddenly panicked.

The Maeryn Crystal fell to the ground, and while Morven kicked himself for not having stolen it away, the truth was that he preferred his life over the possession of another powerful stone. His king would have to wait a bit longer before having the crystal in his arsenal.

Morven tried to be quiet, tried to soften his breathing.

But Torin was no fool. He held up his staff and sent a bolt of lightning through the air, hitting the stones on the outskirts of the square and ripping them to rubble.

Morven ran, leaving his dead father behind on the cobblestones. Leaving the dying men, who were now hismen, behind as well. He knew when he was on the losing side, knew that he would not be able to save any of them, maybe not even himself.

As he wound his way through the bodies that littered the square, he focused on one thing only: the gates ahead of him.

Torin noticed them, too, and a moment later, they began to close.

Morven ignored the shooting pain through his chest, ignored the slim likelihood that he would make it in time. But he managed to slip through the gates, and he didn’t turn back.

Knowing his target had escaped, Torin thrust his staff up over his head and shot a beam of light so powerful that it lit up the coming night as brightly as the morning sun.

He had lost.

And Morven, breathing hard, blood leaking down the thick leather he wore over his chest, burst into the forest and kept on running, free from the danger at last.

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