Esiland Evandal stood on a balcony of the royal palace. Below, hundreds of silver and red uniforms danced about the training yards sparring, casting, and shooting with spears and bows. Cloaks and long coats strained against belts in the wind, the fabric whipping behind their duelists like banners in the moor. The faint shimmer of mask shields clashing against another as small bolts of fire raced down the field bringing a semblance of light to the morning. Small flutters of snow drifted down from the mountain clouds, though it didn’t stick to the travelled ground.

At the other end of field, men on colgs practised with lances and spells, their riders wearing the only helmets in the field.

Esiland was no stranger to combat, be that on the duelling grounds or the battlefield. His father had seen him training in the greatsword and the lance, knowing that any good King was expected to lead his men personally on the field. And that had proved true, with Esiland leading from the top of his trusted colg on more than one charge against rebel lords in the south. It was only in the field of magic that he lacked, though if only because he was the first son.

So he knew firsthand that the shield mask wasn’t the ultimate defence for a soldier. They didn’t turn aside blades or arrows, the soldier instead relying upon enchanted cloth and metal armour to do so instead. Nor did it help when a rider was thrown from his colg to smash his expensive skull on the rocks and cliffs of the typical battlefield. Though cheaper than a solid helmet, they also required the talents of artificers and glyphworkers, and they ran the risk of degrading if they laid in storage too long. It was altogether a hassle to procure.

But that didn’t mean they were worthless. Esiland had seen more battles end in the skirmishing phase of hurled magicks than not, and quality shield masks were much better than bulky handheld shields when avoiding firebolts. They allowed the troops to carry bows and greatswords that were vital in destroying the close formations that formed once magic ran out, and they were lightweight and easy to use. And most importantly, they were a symbol to the troops, a reassuring protection in the fevered pitch of battle. The shimmers had so often lifted even Esiland’s heart as he’d watched them line up in massive blocks. And the new, stronger versions that had come out in the most recent years seemed to have even more promise than the old.

Today, however, his heart could only ache.

“Captain Taneri’s trained them well, hasn’t he?”

Esiland glanced to his side, where his son Enven stood. He was a scrawny boy, though perhaps boy was the wrong word for an eighteen year old prince trained in the arts of war. In another life, he would be training under a swordmaster and studying under the church.

That had been abandoned recently, as he’d taken up the mantle of heir apparent in the face of Endril’s betrayal.

“Our retainers move well.” Esiland said stiffly. “I still worry for the levies. Only the bowmen are acceptable. The spearwork is abyssal.”

“We don’t demand a spearman stockpile.” Enven joked.

“Perhaps that was a mistake.”

Enven shrugged and turned back to the training field, and Esiland’s thoughts turned as usual back to the last few weeks.

It’d been an unmitigated nightmare, one Esiland hadn’t imagined would be possible. And who would? He almost didn’t believe it possible that his second son, beloved of the church, would hatch a scheme so fell. No, Esiland had instead been ready to execute the Ostipers Endril had accused, fully believing that the corrupt senate would follow such an treasonous path. Assassination attempts were common enough, after all. Esiland himself had been the target of a few, each one narrowly failing on purpose to prove a party’s seriousness. It was almost a tradition in Verol, though a terrifying one. It didn’t often escalate to actual murder, and those that did were heavily punished.

But to actually kill an Evandal? And to slaughter dozens at the King’s own feast? That was unheard of. Impossible, even.

Until that night. That night had been worse than many battlefields.

Esiland shook his head in a poor attempt to dislodge the screams that echoed there. It was better not to remember that night, lest he wanted to be nonfunctional.

Vengeance. By the Star, I’ll have vengeance for my people. Esiland thought grimly. Even if it is my own son.

“It’ll turn out alright, father.” Enven said. “I’ll have Rogun run them through more drills. They’ll be ready for the thaw.”

Esiland shot his son a glance.

“It wasn’t too long ago that you didn’t care for the training yard.” Esiland said. “I seem to remember you avoiding morning drills to go read and waste time with that sparrow.”

“It was a hawk.” Enven said quickly. “But that was years ago. I no longer have the luxury of standing aside while my brothers manage everything. The burden has fallen to me, and I will make you proud.”

Esiland frowned. It wasn’t often that Enven sounded so sure about a task, or pursued something so diligently. A small candleflame in the darkness of the last few months, he supposed.

They were interrupted by a servant from behind, who handed Enven a letter before slipping back into the warmth of the palace.

“Lord Agos has supplied the ships as he said he would.” Enven said as he read the letter. “They’re following the coast up from Ostip and should be at the isthmus before the end of the month.”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

Esiland nodded. He didn’t quite know how to feel about the count, though he had been exceptionally helpful so far. He was certainly a shady man, if strangely persuasive.

“And the report?” Esiland asked softly.

“All converted merchant craft.” Enven said. “Maric says Agos owned part of the Sun Fang Company and the ships were produced in Ostip. All legitimate. No sign of Brepolese involvement, though it would’ve surprised me if there had been. We would’ve noticed ships being portaged across the silver road.”

“Unless they pulled it over the southshield.” Esiland mused. “No, then the Cyrstil sentinels would’ve seen it…”

Lord Agos had offered up almost forty ships after the guard had failed to catch the prince, all so that they could avoid the passes and catch the Minuan’s unaware. The only problem was that Lord Agos ruled over a landlocked country closer to Lotres than the Arguin, so Esiland had ordered an investigation. A part of him still wanted to believe Endril had been correct.

“Up the plateau mountains? Please, father. I think you’re being too paranoid about this.” Enven said. “What was that saying? Don’t look a gift colg in the mouth?”

“It is not normal for a single count to suddenly produce so many resources, Enven.” Esiland chided. “It is not paranoia to look into the suspicious. I would think such a lesson would be obvious after the last few weeks.”

Enven looked away, ashamed.

“Ah… of course. I’ll ask Maric to look into it again. I won’t fail you.”

“Take heart, you still have a few more years to learn. I’m not planning on dying anytime soon.” Esiland shook his head as the formation of colg lancers widened and lost their shape. “Enven, would you alert Captain Halri that his front men are slowing on the approach? It’s much too late in their training for the riders to frighten like that.”

“Yes sir.”

Esiland watched his son march off, cloak billowing behind him. He had no doubt that he would grow up to be a fine commander and king one day, despite the slow start. But would he be able to lead against his own brother? Actually, would Esiland? Lord Belvan was an old friend of his, his spiritual brother who’d helped him put down the revolts of his coronation and the raids of the Brepolese. How could he and Endril perform such treason? What demon had possessed them to fight against their friend and father? He couldn’t understand it, he didn’t want to understand it. If the proof and testimonies hadn’t been so stacked against them, their union would’ve made even Esiland falter.

But why had he done such a thing? Why kill his brother? Esiland couldn’t claim to be the most attentive father- he had a troublesome kingdom to run after all- but he had never seen them so much as fight amongst each other. And neither had Endril ever wanted for authority. Instead, he’d worked with the church and taken to his role as prince-captain handily.

Esiland watched as Enven strode across the field with a couple servants at his back. The cavalry captain stopped the exercises as he approached, listening to the prince’s instructions attentively.

At least Enven’s taken it well. It’d be a shame if-

Suddenly, a soldier on the pitch pointed up at the heavens, drawing the gazes of everyone there to the sky. Esiland joined them, finding that the falling stars of the Whitesky had begun. Soldiers and captains set aside weapons and stopped colgs to watch as the skies emptied themselves of light to divest upon Balmin’s Vale.

Ah, that was tonight, wasn’t it.

As they watched, a single star the size of an arrowhead broke off from the group. It streaked away like a bolt of white fire, directing itself right over the training field. As it passed, it brought a warm glow to the night that lit up the palace like a glass lamp. And in a second it was gone, the only evidence that it had happened being the small sparks of magic that gently floated down with the snow.

Esiland saw Enven look back towards the viewing balcony and wave, and Esiland raised his hand to acknowledge it. A grand omen, certainly.

Hopefully he’ll be a better king than I.

…

Luis bowed his head with the rest of the funeral.

About four hundred people, the majority of them wearing white, stood around the clearing and watched as the priest ignited the bonfire. The tower of wood was almost as big as a building, with enough white branches to constitute a minor forest.

Almost eighty bodies were interned within. Eighty poor souls who had died to either the cultists, the demon, or the resulting fires. Eighty people who would never see the stars again.

“And pray lightly, for it is not the fallen who are the unlucky ones. For they now entreat with…”

Luis bit his lip and tried to ignore the sermon.

What did he know of death? Of loss? How could he stand there and say that they were lucky? For what? For having the privilege of burning alive? For being stabbed in the dark? For falling from the cloudwalk to smash against the cobbles?

Around him, people wept and sobbed openly. A father just a couple years older than Luis’s own stared blankly at the flames as they caught and spread through the pyre. A captain gripping the ripped cord of a shield mask stood beyond him.

Smoke curled up into the sky as the stars of the Whitesky filled the heavens. Only a few looked up to admire them.

They had debated on whether they should continue with the normal funeral or not, with some thinking that burning the bodies was perhaps insensitive, but in the end tradition won out and the kindling had been gathered. Certainly they couldn’t bury them like the savages of the east, or leave them open to the sky to rot like they did in Mistre. Neither of those methods were guaranteed to get their souls to the Star, the priests had said.

Luis wasn’t so sure. Surely it didn’t matter what happened to their bodies, right? Surely the Star would receive their souls regardless so that they could help it search for the last Lmenli. Anything else just wouldn’t make sense. But the priests would always have their way, especially in Minua. For the shadow of Celrion’s peak, there was to be suffered nothing else. Not that was an uncommon experience. Even in the hills of Luis’s family home they-

Damn it. Not here. Luis shook his head, dismissing the coming memories. Thinking about them won’t help a thing.

The fire finally spread to the last of the wood, and the smell of fresh pine filled the air. A false smell borne of incense, of course. Burning corpses didn’t smell anything like that, Luis knew.

Above, the streaks of fire continued to dash across the sky, as if the souls of the dead themselves had joined them.

Tomorrow, Luis would be headed back up the mountain and back to classes. Back to those damnable classes and useless lessons. It was altogether a worthless endeavour, as far as education went, but Luis wasn’t about to complain either. Graduating from here would enable him to sign up for a knightly order as a squire or to apply for countless jobs among the Veroline cities. Every noble needed scribes and engineers for their petty skirmishes, and no trademaster would ever take on a protege who couldn’t read storm tables or plot a course. Some of the dukes and counts even hired on captains from the academies to serve as officers, especially the royal army. Most still used their family for many positions, but it had been getting more common to get a peasant to do it.

Luis, however, was not aspiring for any of those paths. He wasn’t a peasant, after all. Not in the normal sense.

“As we go on in the coming months, know that we are blessed. So little we lost! The Star has seen fit to grant us a saviour from evil! A snow mage, Demonbane, has come to us. So don’t cry in mourning, but in remembrance! And know that we…”

Demonbane.

Luis can’t say that he ever expected something like that from little Saphry. When he’d seen her on that roof with that frozen sword, he had almost been struck dumb. How had she even gotten up there? And watching her plunge a Lesser Emberwyrm off the rooftop and into that fountain… he hadn’t been sure if his eyes had really been working. A true power had come to the world, one he’d only heard about in legends and myth.

People started murmuring around him at the priest’s words. Most were still sad, or mournful, but more than a couple were hopeful. Luis heard whispers of ‘starborn’ and ‘saviour’ between them, and a dozen other monikers that seemed to fit more to the heroes Harkiz or Cearnos. Certainly not fitting of a noble girl three fourths their height.

A larger cluster of white stars streamed across the sky, diverting even the priest’s attention for a while. It burned over the city and fled just south of the Horn of Norni. The land for a moment seemed to shine white with the radiance of the sun before dying out and returning to the normal light of the Whitesky. The flutesong of the Everstar filled the air.

A good omen for the future, certainly. A good omen indeed.

I’ll make it right. Luis thought. I swear it.