Irida stood on the balcony that had once been hers. It still was hers, but it no longer felt so; and very soon, it would belong to someone else. She gazed up at the sky. Awnn, Apera’s capitol, was always the most beautiful in these moments, after the moon had fallen from the sky but before the sun bled crimson over the horizon. The world was cast an enchanting silver-grey, scattered with clouds that swirled like curls of molten ore. Normally, she found moments like these peaceful. This particular morning, the grey seemed only to mirror the Ether above, the force that had created all there was, and the force that would presently welcome Irida back. She mused, as she watched the sun rise, watched the grey give way to morning reds. She had always held that the Ether was insentient. Powerful, yes, but much more like a hurricane, or an earthquake than like the gods of old. Nevertheless, now that she was faced with re-joining it, she found herself unnerved… uncertain. If there was indeed judgement to be had, as some held, what fate was there to await her?

            History had already begun to immortalise her. She’d heard the stories of the bards, the ones that floated from perfumed courtyards. She’d also heard the derisive tales that flowed freely in dive taverns. Saviour, destroyer, healer, killer, very little was truly objective; and even less was accurate. The bard song never made mention of the cost of her achievements. She had invented a new magical discipline, it was true. That it had ended a bloody war was also true, much as the tales of the commonfolk would claim that no good at all had come from her deeds. Even so, the bards’ tales didn’t account for the death and the horror that even necromancy, the weapon of her creation, could not balm. Certainly, the fractured, impoverished state of Apera now at least was partly due to her interventions.  

            Bryant was indisputably her fault. She had unleashed a mad king on her country, and then armed him with the means to be more dangerous than any tyrant before him. Usually, tyrants eventually died. Her fingers brushed against her collarbone, finding bare skin where her silver pendant normally hung. Her lips quirked in grim amusement. After a lifetime spent foiling death, she felt unnerved without her necklace as it finally caught her. She had given it to her daughter. She hoped that Tynan might wear it and think of her mother, but the girl was very young. It was likelier that to her, Irida may as well never have existed, never have loved her. She brushed her tears away crossly with the back of her hand. She’d said goodbye to both of her children, and she’d already cried. Everything was taken care of, there was no mourning left to do and no tasks left to complete… save her final one.

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            She turned and sat inside at the desk she’d lost so many hours of sleep to. Taking a quill in hand for the final time, she took her time to write the letter.

            Dearest Bryant,

When I finished the stone, I did not confide the true nature of its workings. It is capable of keeping you alive indefinitely, and making you nigh impossible to slay. To do so, of course, it must be activated. As you are aware, my blood and its inherent magical properties, act as the switch.

Tonight, I have deactivated the stone.

I have left your service. I am sure you will look for me, but my love, I’d advise you not to waste your resources. You will not find me.

I created the stone under duress, for a king I have grown to loathe.

I have taken it away for the sake of the boy I once loved, and whom I will always regret having a hand in killing.

For the sake of your children, your subjects, and all who might look to you as an example, I beseech you – forget this obsession of yours, and be that boy again. He would have been a kind king.

            Yours Always,

            Irida    

            P.S Abrianna died long ago. Helping you to behave as if that were not so was the greatest disservice I ever did either of you. Make it right.

            She set down the quill and looked once more to the sky, now aflame with the sunrise. Closing her eyes, she stood, held her arms out to the day and cast her spell. When the maid came hours later and discovered Irida and her children missing, she was alarmed. When she discovered the note, she took it immediately to the king. There had long been whispers about the state of Irida’s mental wellbeing, but for her to disappear was unthinkable. Frantic, King Bryant Arsyde combed the castle for her. After that, he combed the rest of the city. There was no trace of her, for Irida Amaya had never left the room. After weeks had passed without a trace, the king finally admitted defeat. He posted a reward for any whisper of his mage, or either of her two children but he held out little hope. Eventually, a maid went into Irida’s chambers and, grumbling under her breath, scrubbed a stubborn ash stain from the floor.