Gray couldn’t keep the smile off his face as he followed Cyril and a very sleepy Kester and Laoise down a marble hall towards one of the dorms in the guild.

He adjusted Torryn on his hip, who was flat out asleep and drooling on his shoulder. His wispy hair was mussed from sleep.

Stop grinning, Gray told himself.

They were still in the middle of a dangerous storm, and no one had returned from the mountain. Every mage and person they passed looked grim. Gray couldn’t go walking around, smiling. Not right now. And there was coiling anxiety deep in Gray’s stomach, underneath the huge relief in his chest.

Gray had the job.

He was going back to Krydon. He was going to make everything right. He would do this.

Gray trailed behind Cyril and the kids, down a series of steps and into a quiet wing of the guild, and into a cosy room with four beds piled with pillows and blankets and a cheery fire crackling in a fireplace.

-

Raised voices woke Gray.

He was so comfortable; the bed was so warm and soft that Gray didn’t move.

Barin’s arguing with the head cook, Gray thought. Too much garlic in the stew again.

He stayed still, his breath deep and slow, and his eyes closed against the gentle sunlight streaming through the window. Something tugged at his mind. And then it pulled hard at his magic.

Gray bolted upright in the bed, blinking against daylight.

The sensation pulling at his magic, it was raging. Those raised voices were Killian and Baldwin. They cut off suddenly. Someone slammed a door. Footsteps echoed off marble.

Gray scrambled out of the bed and had a second to take in the room - three empty beds, the king’s kids were gone, a muddy trail of half-dried footprints covered the polished floor, burnt out logs in a dark fireplace, a cloudless blue sky outside the window and a view of a city covered in debris from the storm - before the doors flew open.

Baldwin Auguste stood on the threshold, his haughty face stark against his silvery braid and flowing robes of midnight blue. He was followed by a large entourage. He threw a bundle of black clothes at Gray.

‘Get dressed,’ he said, ‘and come with me.’

His magic was huge, his energy was icy rage. Things must not have gone well last night.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Gray glanced down at the clothes.

The clothes were dark, close fitting, and battle-worn. And not new, Gray realised. It’d been pulled out of the wardrobe of someone else, and that someone else had worn these a lot.

They were built for movement and not remotely like the complex and layered robes traditionally worn by mages. Flex panels sewn into the joints. Leather guards for the forearms and shins, scuffed from action.

‘Fighting blacks for training,’ said the king. ‘They should be your size. I’m organising other clothes for you, they’ll be ready by the end of the day.’

Fighting blacks?

After last night, Gray’d expected an argument, a severe talking-to, something like how the king had raged at Killian and Longwark the day he’d killed Darcy. Even something worse.

Not this.

Gray got into the clothes, laced up his vest over the top with steady fingers, steady breath, and had no choice but to shove his feet into his still damp prison-issue boots.

The king beckoned Gray with two sharp fingers, and Gray strode down the corridor, following the king at a distance, hurriedly tidying his hair. But the king snapped his fingers, demanding Gray walk nearer.

‘This is Mali,’ the king said tightly, pointing out one of the mages from the entourage. ’She’ll train you in control.’

Gray glimpsed a small mage with a lip ring, a wary expression, and a very fast stride. She wrenched her stressed gaze from the king to Gray. He nodded at her.

‘This is Daremid, he’ll be your instructor for runic warding, and that’s Hunark, she’ll teach you thaumaturic weaponry …’

The king continued to introduce the entourage, one-by-one, as they tore through the halls and stairs at top speed.

Close quarters combat.

Tactical warfare.

Ranged combat and mobility.

You have three days.

‘You will train in my office,’ the king said, ‘where I can see you, at all times. You will not practice outside of my office or where anyone else can see you. You are not to go telling anyone what you are doing, what you’re being trained in, or who your instructors are. You will not tell anyone anything. Is that clear?’

‘Yes,’ said Gray.

‘Good.’

‘What happened to your kids?’ Gray said tentatively.

‘Killian took them back to the consort palace,’ said the king.

A very lethal edge to his tone told Gray Killian was in some deep strife.

‘Killian’s OK?’ said Gray, knowing he was pushing his luck, but he had to ask, he had to know.

The king maintained an icy silence.

Mali stepped forward, her voice low. ‘Killian killed the sorcerer Rikkie Cuppage last night, one-one-one.’ She was breathless. ‘Winning a one-on-one fight against a sorcerer is unheard of.’

‘It’s not unheard of,’ said one of the entourage.

‘When’s the last time someone defeated a sorcerer one-on-one?’ Mali said.

‘A long time ago, but it’s not unheard of, and Rikkie Cuppage was a hack of a sorcerer.’

'A hack of a sorcerer?' said another. 'Are you listening to yourself?'

‘What he did,’ said Mali, raising her voice, ‘was absolutely incredible, the man’s going down in history as a legend. This is what he used to be like, before-’

‘Thank you, Mali,’ the king said.

Mali immediately fell back.

‘What about Ellery?’ Gray asked the king, keeping his tone careful. ‘You got Longwark? Who was out there-?’

The king halted.

He waved his hand, and within a blink, the entourage rapidly disappeared down the stairs.

And the king shoved open the closest door and pointed Gray in.

The room was a small classroom, packed up to the side, like Gray’s school back in Krydon did over the summers. Desks and benches lined up against one wall. A rolled up carpet, tucked against another.

The king closed the door behind him, his movements precise and controlled.

‘We need,’ said the king, his voice pure ice, ‘to finish our conversation.’