Volthorn's eyes were getting tired.

His gaze shifted from face to face in the crowd, zeroing in on every human male. He ruled out one after another. Not him. Not him. Not Rendhart.

Once, he thought he saw something—a distant face, half visible behind the throngs—but in a moment it passed, leaving Volthorn searching in vain. Had it been just an invention of his nerves?

After the longest half hour of Volthorn's life, the procession reached the Silvermoss River. There, moored at a dock, waited a magnificent boat sheathed in gold. The prow was carved into an exquisite angel, her hands holding a sword tucked to her chest. Her wings extended behind her to form the sides of the boat, until they gave way to carvings of fruit-laden trees. On the stern was an emblem of the rising Sun. The boat, named the Fortune Bringer, was reserved for only the most exceptional occasions.

As the procession reached the quay, Volthorn stepped aside, joining the perimeter of soldiers keeping the crowds back. Now that Adara was out on the dock, she was well out of range of a sudden attack. Volthorn breathed a little easier.

As the princess boarded the ship, a herald said in a clear, ringing voice, "Farewell, Crown Elect! May angels bring thee safely beyond, and safely back to us again."

The crowd took up the call in a rippling wave. "Farewell, Crown Elect! Farewell, Crown Elect!"

Adara took her place at the prow as the deckhands pushed off from the dock. The roar of the crowd reached its peak, reverberating up and down the Silvermoss, sending great flocks of birds rising to the skies.

"Farewell, Crown Elect!"

Volthorn surveyed the scene: The nobles dressed in their finery. The countless throngs with hope alive in their eyes. Adara, riding in regal splendor on a vessel of gold. For a moment, everything seemed perfect.

Yet everything was wrong.

The soldiers stationed in front of the crowd were not for ceremony or show. They were there to guard their queen in a time of war, a time when any throng could harbor an assassin.

Among the dignitaries, the ranks of foreign ambassadors were conspicuously empty. Embroiled in war with such a powerful enemy, Elandria had become a political pariah, devoid of allies.

Volthorn took a long look at the Fortune Bringer. Once its role in today's ceremonies was completed, the boat would be taken downriver to an enclosed dock. There it would be stripped of its ornamental plating, the gold melted down to buttress Elandria's nearly bankrupt coffers.

Volthorn's mind turned to the memory of a cold evening, seven years ago. He had stood on this same dock that day. But then his face had been covered with bandages, his armor broken, his eyes fixed on a shrouded body laid out on the ship's deck. There had been no cheers that day, only the pealing of bells and the haunting cry of a single herald: "Farewell, King Everborn, Crown Departed! May angels bear thee to the Halls of the Sun, never to return again."

Wrapped in the painful memories of the past, Volthorn watched the Fortune Bringer approach the far shore. The shouts of the crowd began to ebb as the throng lost its energy.

Then the shouts changed.

"Fire!"

"Smoke!"

People were pointing to the west. Volthorn sprang up a pile of boxes to get a clearer view. A pillar of black smoke was blossoming above the cityscape, maybe five blocks away.

The docks burst into commotion. Volthorn sprang off the pile of boxes and found a squad of soldiers. "Each of you grab an able-bodied civilian and take them to the source of the fire. Put it out."

"Yes, General."

He pushed them on their way, then fought his way through the crowd to another squad. "Patrol the streets around the fire. Detain anyone who you find alone."

"At once, General."

Volthorn spotted a horse tethered to a post outside a storefront. He ran up and untied it.

"I'm requisitioning this horse for military use," he announced to anyone in earshot, not waiting to see if the owner was among them before mounting. Luckily the horse was small enough for korriks to ride—he would have needed a stool to mount anything taller. Digging his heels into the horse's flanks, he galloped toward the pillar of smoke.

* * * * *

Several blocks away, Durrin Rendhart reined his horse to a stop before the city gates. The armor he had stolen clanked unfamiliarly as he pointed behind him. "Fire! Fire in the West Quarter!"

Several soldiers stepped out of the shadow of the gatehouse. "What was that?" said a soldier, identified as a sergeant by the insignia on his surcoat. "A fire?"

Durrin pointed at a plume of smoke just becoming visible two blocks away. "The armory is afire—but we can still save it with a bucket chain!"

"There's a pond just outside the gates," the sergeant ordered. "Korvan, Marv, search the gatehouse for buckets. Move!"

The soldiers sprang into action, two korriks running inside the gatehouse while two humans unbarred the heavy gates. Durrin dismounted, grabbed a bucket in one hand, and lead his horse with the other hand as he joined the squad of soldiers streaming through the gates.

The sergeant stopped the last two members of his squad. "Stay here and don't let anyone in or out. If this was an act of arson, we can't let the perpetrator escape."

Durrin dropped his bucket and swung back into the saddle. He edged his horse away from the gate. "I wouldn't worry too much about the perpetrator escaping, sergeant," he said.

The sergeant turned toward him. "Why's that, soldier?"

"Because," said Durrin, giving a two-finger salute as he turned his horse toward the highway and dug his heels into its ribs. "I already did."

* * * * *

Volthorn found a set of buildings smoldering, the fire nearly extinguished by several bucket brigades already at work. An officer, spotting him, ran through the crowds to meet him.

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"What burned?" Volthorn asked.

"An armory, General. Second biggest in the city."

"Who was over the watch today?"

"I was, General. We normally have ten men on guard at all times. But with the procession's need for soldiers, we only had three today. A fire started around the back, behind the smithy. By the time we spotted it, it was out of control."

"Arson?"

"Must have been, General. There was no source of open flame around." The soldier removed his helmet and took a knee. "I should have been more vigilant, General. I hereby resign my commission."

I should have been more vigilant.

Fire. Falling glass. A flash of lightning.

I should have been more vigilant.

"You'll do no such thing," said Volthorn. "You were understaffed and had no warning. Now put that helmet back on and get to work salvaging what weapons and equipment you can."

"Yes, General," the captain said.

Volthorn surveyed the smoking scene. It had rained throughout the last week, so the buildings and their surroundings were not very dry. A regular arson's fire could never have spread so quickly. This had to have been a pyromancer's work. And Volthorn had a prime suspect.

A griffin landed next to him. "General. The co-regents seek your counsel. They want to know whether it is safe to proceed with the coronation ceremony."

"Is everything quiet on the far bank?"

"It was when they sent me."

Volthorn's thoughts turned to the river. The normally well-trafficked waterway was empty of boats due to the day's festivities. If Rendhart had meant for the fire to be a distraction so he could do additional harm today, he'd have difficulty finding a way to cross the river. Or was this a coordinated assault with other operatives? Could Rendhart have gotten in touch with Calamarvan agents so quickly? Volthorn thought for a moment, weighing the contingencies, estimating the odds.

"Tell them I recommend they proceed as planned," Volthorn said. "Whoever instigated this, let's not give them the satisfaction of disrupting today's ceremony."

The griffin bowed, turned, and launched into a running takeoff. Volthorn stepped into the still-smoking ruins, examining the extent of the damage. He had just picked up the charred haft of a spear when a human officer marched up to him. "General Volthorn, sir!" he said, saluting.

"Report," Volthorn said, turning the spear over in his hands.

The captain swallowed. "The human you sent orders last night to watch for. I was just informed that he slipped out the West Gate a few minutes ago, right after the fire started."

Volthorn snapped the spear in half with a sudden crack. "Was the gate not being watched?" he demanded.

The captain nodded vigorously. "It was, sir. But he was wearing an officer's uniform, most likely stolen. In the confusion when the fire was spotted, he slipped out the gate and galloped off. The sergeant on duty didn't have any mounts or swifters on hand to chase him, and by the time they had a griffin in the air, he had disappeared."

As the news fell, pressure began to build up in Volthorn's chest. He strode to the wall of the building, pressing a hand against the masonry and digging into it with his claws, channeling his anger into the rock.

"We await your orders, General."

Volthorn fought to clear his thoughts. What did this mean? What was Rendhart's intentions? He pieced together a possible narrative for the events of the morning. Rendhart, finding himself suddenly freed, had tried to leave the city, just as Magistrate Cymer had predicted. But finding that Volthorn had set a watch for him, he had started the fire as a distraction, creating an opportunity to slip out the gates.

Volthorn suspected that though escape may have been Rendhart's primary goal, destroying an Elandrian weapon depot and casting a cloud over the coronation had likely been icing on the cake for the man.

Eventually, Volthorn loosened his grip on the wall and turned back to the captain. "If he slipped out the gates, then he won't commit any more mischief in the city today. That's good enough for now."

"And for later?"

Volthorn mentally tallied the forces present in the city. Most would need to leave immediately for the front. He had so few to spare. "My guess is he is returning to Calamar. Dispatch a flight of griffins to scan the roads heading west for the next fifty miles. Later today, I'll have messages sent to all the border patrols to keep an eye out for him."

Volthorn turned, staring to the west. "You will not escape again, Rendhart."

* * * * *

Across the river, Princess Adara stood still, once again ringed by a circle of silence. Unlike the shrine in the palace, this circle was ringed not by stone walls, but by trees. And rather than the silent statues of the dead, this glade held a circle of living beings, of various races, each dressed in white. Sunlight streamed into the glade from directly overhead.

At the far end of the glade waited Cymer. The old avir stood wrapped in a white robe tied with a golden sash.

"Adara Everborn," Cymer said, his voice resounding with a strength that defied his age. "Daughter of His Highness King Arvanon Everborn and Her Highness Queen Illanya Everborn, may they dwell in the Sun."

Adara took a deep breath. "I am ready."

Cymer nodded. "I stand before you now not as Elandria's chief magistrate, but as a High Mage of the Luminant Order."

Adara nodded.

"When you stepped into this glade, you left Elandria," Cymer continued. "You left time and space itself. For this clearing is a holy circle, a sanctum of the Luminant Order. This Order is more ancient than the Everborn house; more ancient than Elandria. More ancient than the world of Zenitha itself. It is the Luminant Order, and the power of Light that it wields, that your mantle of queenship comes from."

On a small golden table next to Cymer sat a trio of glittering objects: a horn of oil, crafted from silver; a scepter, molten from gold; and an intricate crown, forged from a pure white metal called eternium. Adara knew that crown well. It was the crown her father had worn: the Everborn crown, fashioned eight centuries ago at the very edge of the world.

At a signal from Cymer, the others in the glade began singing a wordless song, its harmonies winding through the stone pillars and the trunks of the towering trees. With the music came Cymer's voice, singing loud and true and free.

"Light is my order, and Cymer my name,

Serving the Father who rules in the sky.

He now anoints thee queen of thy people,

To stand in the stead of the ones who did die."

Adara mouthed along as Cymer spoke, missing not a word. This song she knew by heart. She had read it, pondered it, every night for the past two weeks.

Adara knelt before Cymer. The old mage unstopped the horn of oil, letting its earthy fragrance wash over Adara as he let seven drops fall onto the crown of her head. She felt the cool drops of oil soak into her hair as Cymer continued his song.

"Wisdom I give thee: the prudence of yore,

To govern; to rule; to direct; to decry.

Courage I give thee: the braveness of heart,

To know when to fight, or to speak, or to fly."

Cymer placed the scepter in Adara's right hand. Its golden sheen gleamed in the noonday light.

"Queenship I give thee: the burden of rule

Trust in this mantle to guide and sustain.

Look to the Light! Its precepts obey,

Seek for the Eldest to counsel thy reign."

Cymer raised the crown of eternium, its jewels catching the light and sending sparks of red, blue, and green throughout the glade.

image [https://i.imgur.com/wc4eT1P.png]

Adara Everborn's coronation. Generated by the author via Midjourney and touched up in Photopea.

Adara bowed her head, feeling the weight of the crown settle upon her.

"Make thy decisions with patience and sight,

Fathom the thoughts, and counsel impart.

Know who to trust with the care of thy life,

Speak with the power to sway deed and heart."

Cymer's voice rose to a crescendo, resounding off the trees. For a moment, it seemed Adara could hear a mighty chorus of voices joining with him, though she knew he sang alone.

"Stand with thy forebears of centuries past,

Anointed with power and wisdom and might,

Rule as you serve the Father of Stars.

Adara thou art, so shine with the Light!"

At the last word, Cymer clapped his hands above his head. Light flooded the glade, seeming to originate from his hands, yet filling the whole glade evenly, leaving no shadow. For the briefest of moments, Adara thought she saw the glade filled with luminous beings, dozens of them, circling her in rank upon rank. Each wore robes of dazzling gold, with glistening wings tucked behind them. Some held staffs, some scrolls, and others gleaming swords. She could almost hear their voices, raised in a mighty joyous shout that exceeded any mortal cry.

Then the light faded, Adara blinked, and the scene was gone.

Cymer let his hands fall to his sides. The chant faded away, returning the glade to silence.

"Rise, Queen Adara," Cymer said.

Adara stood. Her eyes searched the glade, looking for any sign, any echo of the fleeting vision she had glimpsed. Finally her questioning gaze met Cymer's. The old avir smiled, and in that smile, she knew that he knew what she had seen.

"Always remember what you were shown today," the old avir whispered. "Trials are coming. There will be times, not far off, when all seems lost and you are surrounded by only enemies. But remember today. Remember that you are never truly alone."