-75 years later-

Dawn was just breaking over the green fields of the McKenna’s family farm. Seventeen-year-old Osric McKenna was perched on a branch of the old oak that stood on the edge of their land. It gave him an ideal vantage point where he could see movement in the grass, still wet with morning dew. The cloak around his shoulders did little to stave off the morning chill; with every breath Osric took, a cloud of white mist escaped his lungs. His fingers were frozen around the handle of his bow, arrow knocked in readiness.

After waiting patiently for Seraphim-knew how long, Osric caught sight of movement. It was a rabbit. He waited for it to hop closer to give him a clear shot. Unfortunately, it must have caught a whiff of his scent on the breeze; its entire body tensed, about to flee.

Stop, Osric thought. The rabbit froze. Osric let the arrow fly, finding his mark. There was a flurry of activity and alarmed birdcalls as nearby animals panicked, driven out of hiding. Osric remained where he was, silently cursing himself.

I did it again, he thought, stomach twisting with guilt.

Osric’s peculiar talent for controlling animals was not new. He was descended from a long line of warlocks, so he knew it must be a product of his magic- but he did not understand it. Osric was learning the noble art of Incanting, like his father. Whatever this strange power was, he knew he shouldn’t be encouraging it.

Once his nerves had calmed, the young man clambered down from the tree. He grimaced as he came upon the poor creature. The rabbit had been shot in the side, but it was still breathing. Osric steeled himself and gave it a clean blow to the head with his bow. It twitched for a few moments and then lay still. As much as he enjoyed the precision that hunting required, the killing part still made Osric uncomfortable. The first time had been awful. Little Osric had cried until he was sick, begging for the Seraphim to undo his evil actions. Only his father’s praise had dulled the bitter sting of tears.

“Good. Now you’re one step closer to becoming a man.” Morgan McKenna had told his ten-year-old son, ruffling his hair.

In the present day, the young man closed his eyes in thanks, standing over his kill. Those who followed the faith of the Seven Maidens spoke of the Here and Now, the Everafter, and the Void. If Osric were a believer, he would pray for the Maids to guide the rabbit’s soul across the bridge from the land of the living to the next world, passing over the darkness that swallowed souls gone astray. Osric, however, followed the teachings of a much older, wilder god. The Seraphim made no promise of an afterlife. There was only this world, the Realm of Men; the good and evil within, and magic to tip the scales in favour of the good.

Osric strung up the rabbit by its feet along with the others. He had already caught two more earlier that morning. On his way back to the farmhouse, he passed by the sandy paddock adjacent to the stables. The McKenna’s owned a single workhorse which they put to good use; but when no ploughing was needed, it was important that the animal took daily exercise. That was where Osric’s younger sister came in.

Sixteen-year-old Lana was driving the horse at a steady canter around the edge of the paddock. A series of small jumps were set up in the middle. Osric stopped to watch, appraising his younger sister's skill. There was no doubt that she was a good rider. Her posture was solid, back perfectly straight, and strong thighs tensed.

“Don’t you know that ladies are supposed to ride side-saddle?” he called to her in jest. She poked her tongue out at him. They shared the same eyes: dark brown verging on black, the same shade as the hair on their heads.

Once the horse was warmed up, Lana began the jump course. The first few were easy, but the difficulty soon increased, the jumps becoming wider, taller, positioned at odd angles. His sister ran the course a total of three times. Without fail, the mare pulled up at the third-to-last jump. It was an intimidating looking barrier; the jump was covered with leafy foliage, to appear far bigger than it really was. Osric could see his sister’s frustration mounting as the horse refused yet again.

“Oh, come on Marnie.” she sighed.

“Need some help?” Osric questioned.

“No, thank you. I can do this on my own.”

“Give over, I fancy a go.” he insisted, jumping easily over the fence, taking the reins from her.

Lana huffed but dismounted as asked. Her long, black hair had come loose from its bun; she retied the loose strands, feeling the damp sweat of a hard morning’s work on her fingers. Lana had already been up for two hours collecting fresh water from the well and mucking out the stables. In her opinion, it was harder work than shooting a few measly rabbits. She would gladly swap places with her brother, but her father wouldn’t let her handle a weapon. She leaned against the fence with her arms folded in silent challenge to her brother.

Osric took his time, patting the mare’s neck and whispering sweet nothings in her ear, before bringing her to a casual trot. He took her once around the paddock to shake off the previous failure, before lining her up with the first jump. Under Osric’s guidance, Marnie sailed over each and every obstacle with ease. Satisfied at his success, Osric dismounted and handed the reins back to Lana.

“It’s all in the handling.” He told her with a smile. His sister gave him a searching look, and Osric’s smile faltered. She had always been a difficult one to read. Lana bent down and picked up his catch.

“Shall we go in, then?” she prompted.

The pair made their way inside their home. As they entered the hallway, an overly enthusiastic canine bounded over to them. Alby was their family 'guard dog'; a mongrel rescued by Osric as a pup. He was terrifying to look at, with sharp teeth and pounds of lean muscle, but he was secretly the soppiest creature on the face of the earth. The young man knelt with open arms, letting the dog give him kisses. He grimaced and laughed as Alby’s slobbery tongue licked his mouth by accident.

Lana patted the dog on the head in greeting and stepped back, preferring to observe the frolicking pair. She was a perfect match for the portraits of the McKenna forefathers that lined the hallway. They were all pensive looking men with dark hair and eyes; they looked to be passing silent judgement upon anyone who dared step over the threshold into the McKenna's domain. Each man was a talented Incanter in his own right. Strangely, there were no portraits of their wives or daughters. Lana knew the reason for their absence. The McKenna’s claim to fame was their Incanting lineage, whereas warlock women were restricted to the lesser art of Forging- a school of magic for those unsuited to front line combat.

“No boy, that’s not for you!” Osric admonished, struggling to keep his fresh catch away from the canine’s eager jaws. Alby whined but obeyed his master’s command, ears flattening dejectedly as he sat back on his haunches. Osric smiled and scratched him under the chin. “Good boy.”

The young man then hung up his weapon and folded his cloak neatly, careful to remove his muddied boots before entering the kitchen. His mother was preparing breakfast at the counter, whilst his father sat at the table reading a book and enjoying a well-earned cup of tea. A pile of freshly chopped wood on the hearth was proof of his morning efforts. Osric presented his catch to his mother.

“Excellent. They will make a lovely stew for tonight.” Caitlyn McKenna praised, turning to her daughter. “Lana dear, can you help?”

Lana nodded and took up her place next to her mother. She rolled up her sleeves and took a gleaming knife from the rack, skinning the rabbits with ruthless efficiency. She hummed a ditty under her breath as she worked. Osric winced, in awe of her iron will.

“Doesn't that bother you?” he asked, gesturing to her bloodied hands. Lana shrugged.

It always puzzled her when her brother reacted so strongly to these things... but then, lots of things that people did confused her. Osric was her prime example. He always seemed to know what others were feeling, just by looking at them. He knew when to laugh, and when to cry; he knew how to comfort someone who was hurting. Last spring, their maternal grandfather had died. Owing to the family's particular beliefs, the funeral was a strictly private affair. They buried the McKenna elder on their own land, with Morgan reading the last rites. Osric had stood by their mother's side as she wept, a pillar of strength as he held onto her arm. Even their stoic father shed a few tears as he shovelled dirt onto the coffin lid. Lana had assumed an appropriately sad expression, but as she gazed down at her grandfather laying in the ground, she wondered why she couldn't cry too. Lana noticed that other people were the same as her brother. They didn’t have to pause and think about what to do, like she did. Lana didn’t understand it; couldn’t feel it.

A sudden shriek interrupted the young woman's musings. Caitlyn had just gone to plate Morgan his bacon and eggs, only to find a jam-jar of insects on the table. The man jumped at his wife’s cry; he laid down his book and gave his son a disapproving look.

“Oh, sorry! These are for the little one upstairs.” Osric apologised, snatching back the jar. He had found an injured hedgehog in the thicket during his morning hunt the day before. The poor creature had barely opened its eyes. Osric was hoping to tempt it back to life with some juicy grubs. His mother smiled and let out an exasperated sigh; Morgan simply closed his eyes and took a sip of tea.

“Why bother? It’ll probably die anyway.” Lana commented offhandedly. That got Morgan’s attention. He looked at his daughter sternly over the rim of his teacup.

“Lana, do not say such things.” he rumbled. “To be a Sister- to be a warlock- is to be a protector of life. You know that.”

“Do good, give hope, prevent evil. I know.” Lana recited robotically, resuming her work. Her anger betrayed her, and the knife slipped from her hand. She tried to save it from falling, but only succeeded in diverting its course towards her mother’s bare foot. It all happened in a matter of seconds- but thankfully Morgan had been watching.

“Confine.” At the command word, a silver light encased itself around the knife. It hung suspended in the air, the blade point millimetres from his wife’s foot. Morgan continued to mutter the command word. If he stopped, the spell would break; such was the nature of Incanting magic. The seasoned warlock was so well practiced, he only needed a single word to produce the desired effect.

Caitlyn cringed and moved out of the way, and Morgan released the spell; the knife clattered loudly onto the wooden floor.

“Sorry.” Lana offered sheepishly, retrieving the fallen implement.

“Accidents happen.” her father dismissed, turning to his son. “However, you should have been ready. Are you simply slow, or are such simple spells still beyond you?”

“I didn’t see it in time.” Osric replied stiffly.

It was a lie, of course. Osric had seen it, and he knew exactly what to do, but he had no spell in his repertoire to cast. Not that he would ever admit that to his father. Caitlyn opened her mouth to speak up in her son’s defence, but let out a sigh instead. Osric was already seventeen. He was too old for mothering. Morgan let out a dissatisfied sound and returned to his book. His arm shook slightly as he picked up the heavy tome, and a shadow crossed his face. Morgan pressed down hard on his arm until the tremors ceased. Osric pretended not to see.

“I’ll be upstairs getting ready.” the young man announced, averting his eyes. “It’s almost time for us to leave, right?”

“Oh, Holy Everafter, you’re right!” Caitlyn remarked, checking the time on the grandfather clock that stood in the corner. It was nearly eight. The Royal Guard were due to arrive in the town square at nine sharp for a special announcement. The McKenna family already knew what it was: the time of the Gauntlet was near.

Osric excused himself from the kitchen and headed upstairs to his chambers, jar of insects in hand. His room was neat, almost unnaturally so for a young man. Years of his father’s discipline had drilled the importance of routine into Osric. His bedcovers were neatly folded, dirty clothes tucked out of sight in the washing basket, and study desk in the corner clear of debris. He set down the jar of insects. Above the desk, a set of magic books sat on the shelf, their pages barely turned. Osric was filled with guilt whenever he saw them. They were all volumes on Incanting magic.

Osric glanced at the full-length mirror in the corner, and then to the clock on the windowsill.

I have a little time…

He walked over to the mirror, taking a few moments to appraise his reflection. Osric wasn’t particularly tall, but years of heaving bales of hay to-and-from the stables were starting to pay off. His chest was broad to match his built shoulders, with strong, sturdy legs. Trysk was located in the northern quarter of the Empire where weather extremes were common; Osric’s forefathers had endured scorching summers and freezing winters, blessing them with tanned skin that darkened heavily in the summer months. The boy’s face was plain, but certainly not ugly, possessed of a strong jaw and heavyset brow. He looked almost too serious, much like his father.

Osric picked up one of the soft pillows from his bed, debating whether he should put them down on the floor, just in case. He quickly decided against it. That would be admitting defeat before he’d even tried. The young man raised both hands and closed his eyes, calling his Blessed Name in his mind.

Candour the Dutiful

The Seraph Mark on his forehead began to grow hot with magic, and Osric felt a tingling sensation in his limbs as the holy power filled him up. He was a boy of only nine when the Seraphim had first revealed themselves to him. He still remembered the vision with vivid accuracy; a several-winged figure surrounded by light had reached out its hand, voice whispering in an ancient tongue that filled him up and made him whole. Osric opened his eyes and stared hard at himself in the mirror. His dark eyes were determined, Seraph Mark peeking out beneath his jet-black hair. In that moment, he was filled not just with power, but also with hope.

Maybe this time.

Then the feeling changed, just as it always did. The room around him suddenly lost focus, like he’d drunk one too many ales. The world was tilting on its axis, and Osric was slipping down, and down…

He met with familiar darkness. The inky surroundings seemed to stretch in all directions. It was not obvious which way was up or down. The ‘floor’ that Osric was standing on felt solid, at least. There was no light or life, save for the calming, blue aura that surrounded his ‘body’… if Osric could even call it that. The clothes he had been wearing were gone, as were his limbs. Osric could only see the aura that formed a vaguely humanoid outline around him. It was like he was a ghost; although curiously, when Osric pinched himself, he still felt pain. A thin chain was shackled to his left ankle, tethering him to through the 'floor' to… somewhere. Osric sighed in disappointment. This strange place was all-too familiar. Whenever he tried to use his magic, this was where he ended up.

I don’t want to be here, he scowled.

No sooner had he thought it, than he felt an insistent tug at his ankle. The chain was pulling at him. Osric braced himself for the inevitable. He fell to all fours, unable to fight the pull as he was dragged under.

Osric woke up in his room. He groaned softly, feeling a bruise forming on his head and arm where he had fallen. He regretted his stubbornness; those pillows would have been welcomed right about now. The boy sat up gingerly, glaring at his reflection. The Seraph Mark on his forehead was still aglow, the magic in him slowly starting to ebb away.

I’m not done yet.

Osric struggled to his feet and raised his hand. It took all his willpower to ground himself, so that he didn’t pass out again. He recalled the sacred phrase his father used for his incantations, taken from the holy text- the Seraphic Record.

“In times of peril recall thy Name bestowed; draw forth thine strength and confine the will of evil!”

As usual, nothing happened. There was no flash of silver light at his fingertips, no great power in his voice. Osric lowered his hand, trying to reason with himself. It could take years for Incanters to find the holy passage that resonated with them.

So what if he could already recite the entire Seraphic Record from start to finish? He wasn't a failure, or anything...

In the mirror’s reflection, Osric caught sight of the Seraphim’s wooden crest on the opposite wall, the highest object in the room. Underneath stood a table laden with offerings; a plate of fresh fruit that Osric had picked himself from the family’s orchard, three gold coins in a bag, and a tiny vial of his own blood. Taking pride of place was a copy of the holy book itself, the Seraphic Record. Silver markings glistened on the cover; the divine language of the Seraphim, revealed to the Old King during the War of Realms.

Osric wondered sometimes what the Old King would think, if he could see how far his descendants had fallen. The warlocks of old were heroes. They had defeated the demonic horde that threatened Men’s very existence. In the wake of their great victory, temples were erected in worship of the Seraphim, and those with the gift of magic were celebrated the world-over. A thousand years later, those same temples had been gutted and repurposed to serve a new, artificially engineered faith, whilst practitioners of the old ways were driven underground by royal decree. Thus, young warlock Osric knelt before his gods in secrecy, questioning his ability, his heritage; everything that made him a man in his father’s eyes.

Better get on with it.

The young man bowed his head and began to mutter under his breath. The words of Affirmation came easy, as they always did- the words his father had taught him.

“Holy Seraphim, I pray to you this day to affirm my faith and give thanks for your protection. I accept the sacred task that you have appointed to me as your chosen vessel. Everything I do and everything I am, I dedicate to you: my work, my wealth, and my life. Where there is darkness, I will seek the light. Where there is evil, I will restore the good. I swear to defend my fellow Men in accordance with your holy will. I pray your wisdom will guide my hands, my thoughts, and my words today. Praise be to the you the Mighty Seraphim, Defender of the Light and Uplifter of Men.”

As Osric reached the end of his spiel, he hesitated. His broad shoulders curled inwards, and he suddenly looked much closer to a boy than a man.

“I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong.” He admitted with difficulty. “Please… help me.”

Osric couldn’t remember the last time he’d humbled himself before the Seraphim. For a moment, he thought he felt the Seraph Mark on his forehead grow warmer, but it could easily have been wishful thinking. The boy shook his head and sighed. Right now, he needed to focus on what he could do.

Osric retrieved the jar from his desk and rummaged underneath his bed, pulling out a shoebox. Inside was the injured hedgehog. The box was lined with a soft, woollen scarf that Caitlyn had knitted for her son; the fragile creature was curled in a ball on top. Osric offered it a juicy worm, nudging its wet nose.

“Come on. Let me help you.” He encouraged. The hedgehog did not respond. Its breathing was shallow, and its eyes remained stubbornly closed. Osric couldn’t help but feel a stab of resentment. He could end a life from fifty paces with a well-aimed arrow. Why was saving someone so hard?

Just then, Osric was distracted by a distinctive knock on the door- two quick taps, a pause, followed by two more. That was his sister’s knock. He made his way over and opened the door. Lana had swapped her muddied jodhpurs for a respectably conservative dark purple skirt and white blouse.

“A skirt. Must be a grand occasion.” Osric observed. She gave him a deadpan stare.

“It’s not like I have a choice.”

Her parents insisted that Lana dress appropriately for the occasion. She would be in the presence of the Royal Guard, after all.

“Just give me five more minutes, and I’ll be down.”

Lana stuck her foot in the door, preventing her brother from closing it in her face.

“I heard a bang. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, just dropped something.” Osric muttered, avoiding her gaze. Lana looked over his shoulder; her dark eyes swept across his tidy room.

“Oh yeah, like what?”

“What is this, an interrogation?” he shot back, the tips of his ears burning red.

“We both know you’re a terrible liar. Why do you bother?” Lana rolled her eyes, stepping over the threshold. He scowled at her.

“Oh please, come in.”

Lana ignored him, peering down at the semi-conscious hedgehog in the shoebox.

“Trust me, it would be kinder to kill it.” She turned to her brother, face impassive. “Do you want me to deal with it?” Osric snatched the box away from her protectively.

“No way. You heard father. We’re warlocks; we’re supposed to protect life, not end it.”

“You’re just too proud to admit defeat.” Lana gave her brother a sly look. “By the way, how is your Incanting coming along? Learned any new spells?”

“None of your business.” He replied, stowing the shoebox back under the bed.

“That well, huh?”

“Shut up.” He shot her a glare. “How about you- ready to join the Sisterhood?”

For a warlock girl, there was only one place to receive magical instruction: Sanctuary Prima, the headquarters of the White Sisters. Lana had no difficulty in securing a place; the Sisterhood always had room for new members. Only one in a thousand were blessed with magical blood, and of those, even fewer actively honed their gifts. Traditional warlock families like the McKenna's were a rarity. Lana would soon be leaving town for the capital city.

In answer to her brother's question, the young woman pulled out a curious metal instrument from her pocket that looked similar to a quill- except the body was covered in silver markings. It was called a bloodscribe- a Forger’s principal ‘weapon’. Lana grabbed a piece of parchment on his desk. Her eyebrow twitched as the magical tool bit into her palm, drawing blood instead of ink. With a practiced hand, she began to write in the broad, sweeping strokes of Ancient Seraphic.

To the Unblessed masses, Lana's actions would surely appear barbaric- nay, demonic. Only lunatics and murderers left messages in blood. In fact, this was a simple act of necessity. All magic operated on a principle of limitation; it was the Key Precept, laid down in the first pages of the holy text. There were three broad classes of spell-craft that a warlock might study, but the Seraphim granted affinity to only one: Incanter, Forger or Tamer. Once a warlock child identified their class, using their magic safely required sacrifice. Forgers sacrificed their strength by drawing blood from their bodies; Incanters sacrificed communication to chant their curses, whilst Tamers exchanged their freedom of movement to chain down the enemy, leaving themselves open to attack. These strict limitations were the Seraphim’s way to protect Men from themselves. As long as a warlock obeyed the Key Precept, they could use magic without fear of permanent injury to their minds or bodies. Vylaic magic was a different beast. It was far stronger than its Seraphic counterpart, granting the user power beyond their wildest dreams- but the cost was permanent, and steep. Still, there would always be weak-minded, power-hungry Men, prepared to make deals with the forces of evil to gain power... even if it killed them.

Lana straightened up from the table, her spell complete. Osric tried to decipher the Marks on the page. He had never been a natural at reading Ancient Seraphic, although he could recite from the holy text by heart thanks to his father’s tutelage. The series of commands read:

Spherical > Smooth > Densen > Harden

The crimson markings turned silver, and then began to glow. Lana grabbed the parchment in hand and crumpled it into a ball.

“Catch.”

She threw the paper ball at her brother’s face; thankfully, Osric’s reflexes were quick enough to catch it. He let out a curse at the impact. The ball was now solid and smooth, weighing heavier than marble in his hand.

“I’d say that I’m doing alright, wouldn’t you?” Lana quipped. Her display had the desired effect. Osric glowered, embarrassed by his inadequacy.

“Whatever.”

Before the pair left for the village square, Caitlyn handed Osric a bag of monies- her husband’s income from the farm- and a shopping list as long as his arm. He couldn’t stifle his groan.

“Don’t give me that.” she warned him, wagging her finger. “It’s a royal occasion; there’s bound to be some lovely produce for sale. Besides, knowing you, you’ll run straight home as soon as the announcement is over. You need to get out more.”

“I get out plenty.” he objected.

“With other people, Osric.” his mother replied tartly, turning to her sullen daughter. “That goes for you too, young lady… wait, aren’t you forgetting something?” Caitlyn’s honey brown eyes zeroed in on her daughter’s neckline.

Lana blinked, looking down at herself.

“Am I?”

“Your token!” Caitlyn tapped her upper arm, where a gold token was pinned to the sleeve of her dress. The token showed a pair of hands clasped in prayer.

“Ah.”

Once a girl came of marriageable age, she wore a symbol of the Maidens around her neck to tell prospective bachelors which virtue she aligned with. Once married, she would pin the token to her sleeve instead of the neckline, indicating she was no longer on the market. It was a crude indication of compatibility. More importantly, it was a social display. A young woman who ignored the custom might have her faith questioned. Lana hated wearing it. After all, she was a proud heretic, a disciple of the Seraphim, just like the rest of the family… all except her mother, that was. Caitlyn McKenna did not have so much as a drop of magical blood in her veins.

“Do I really have to?” she tried. Caitlyn looked at her, disappointed.

“Priestess Anna will be there.”

A spark of interest flickered behind Lana’s dark eyes. Her mother’s words were both a carrot and a stick. If the Priestess was attending, she would have some very special items for sale. Lana would have to play the part of dutiful believer to get what she wanted.

The young woman stomped her way upstairs, retrieving the blasphemous token from her bedside table. She fastened it around her neck and checked her reflection in the mirror. Aside from the obvious, she and her brother could have been twins. Lana had the same serious countenance, with heavy set dark eyes and thick eyebrows. She wore no makeup or jewellery, the developing curves of her body hidden by her loose clothing. Lana’s only feminine signature was her long black hair. She had washed in a hurry, removing the grime of her morning labour, and it now hung poker straight and gleaming to her waist. The token around her neck was that of Harna, the Maiden of Diligence, represented by a seven-spoked wheel. Lana’s mother had questioned her choice at first.

“Hard work is of course a virtue dear, but from a young man’s point of view, Harna’s symbol can be a little… intimidating.”

To which Lana had simply raised an eyebrow, and asked:

“So?”

Her mother did not push further. Above all else, Caitlyn McKenna only wanted her children to be happy. Her gentle nature was reflected by her own token of Bunae, the Maiden of Kindness. It was one of the most popular choices. Lana knew that her mother had been pursued by several suitors before Morgan won her heart. Lana doubted the same would ever be true for her. That was fine, though; she didn’t want suitors.

Downstairs, Osric was standing ready by the front door with Alby at his side; their parents were waiting to see the pair off. Lana joined them.

“Be sure to keep the dog under control in front of the Royal Guard. We don’t want any unnecessary attention.” Morgan instructed, nodding at Alby. Osric quelled the urge to roll his eyes. Alby was never any trouble- he always listened to what Osric told him to do. “Oh, and keep an eye out for that little ratface Artair White. Don’t let him start sniffing around your sister,” Morgan added. Lana did not flinch, but she eyed her father in dislike. Osric awkwardly mumbled an affirmative response, making haste to leave.

The siblings made their way along the dirt road towards the village square, with Alby padding happily alongside them. They did not speak, the crunch of their footsteps on gravel accompanied by the sound of birdsong in the thicket. The quiet did not last long. On arrival in the square, they were met with a scene of joyful chaos. It seemed like the entire world had turned out to hear the royal announcement. Bunting in the royal colours of burgundy and gold hung from dwelling windows, matched by the flags carried by the village folk, who were dressed in their best clothes for the occasion. Capitalising on the free footfall, the local merchants had set up stall, creating a labyrinth of pop-up tents and tables. Only the pristine, white steps of the courthouse remained untouched. The courthouse itself was an imposing black and white marble structure; the house of the King’s justice. It was upon those steps that the Royal Guard would deliver their address. At the other end of the square stood the old belltower and adjacent temple. Like all the others across the Empire, it had been refurbished several times; but Osric and Lana could see the rivets in the stone above the temple doors, where the Seraphim’s crest had once hung proud. Right now, though, they had more earthly concerns.

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

“Holy Seraphim, you’d think the King himself was visiting.” Osric commented, eying the throng of people with dread. Lana snorted in agreement.

“We should get this over with before the Royal Guard turn up.” She held out her hand to her brother in request. “Give me half the money and we’ll split the list.”

Osric wavered. As tempting as the offer was, he’d been given clear instructions not to let his sister wander.

“No. You heard mother- I have to keep an eye on you.”

“Oh, please.” Lana rolled her eyes. Her brother was far too obedient. “If anyone needs looking after, it’s you.”

“Shut it.”

Thankfully- or perhaps not- a timely interruption put pause to their bickering.

“Lana? Lana McKenna?” a clear, feminine voice called out. The young woman stiffened, forcing a smile on her face as she turned her head.

Sure enough, Her Holiness Anna, the village Priestess, was waving to her from a nearby stall. She was accompanied by several of the village girls who were assisting her. Their stall was cleverly arranged. Pitchers of free lemonade and sweet treats were on display to tempt people in, so they wouldn’t immediately flee when they saw the price list. There were twinkling fashion accessories, various tools for the home, and stunning bouquets marketed as ‘Everlasting Flowers’; and Lana's personal favourite, stacks upon stacks of books. All were emblazoned with the White Sisters’ crest. An excited crowd had already gathered. It wasn’t often that the simple folk of Trysk saw such quality merchandise. They were fortunate that Priestess Anna was on such favourable terms with the Sisterhood.

The woman rose to her feet and sidled out from behind the stall to greet them. She was a homely sort, with a freckled face and flyaway brown hair that threatened to escape her wimple. Like all Priestesses, she wore the traditional, plain robe and ceremonial necklace of the Seven Maidens.

“And young Osric too, I see! It’s so good to see you both!” Priestess Anna enthused. Lana silently endured as the woman fussed over her, combing out her thick, black hair with her fingers and planting kisses on both cheeks. She was glad to see her darling brother suffering the same treatment. The questions from the Priestess came thick and fast, giving the youngsters no chance to answer. “Are your mother and father well? It’s a shame I barely see you, stuck on that farm all day- you must come by the temple more often.”

“Absolutely.” A silky voice chimed in, raising Lana’s blood pressure. The village girls were giving each other small nudges and giggling in the most irritating way, sneaking glances at Osric with greed in their eyes. The eldest of the bunch, Meredith, was the speaker. She was tall and pretty, a few years Lana’s senior; her naturally dark skin was a few shades lighter than Lana’s, speaking to her privileged background as a magistrate’s daughter. You would not find Meredith out working the field on a hot summer's day. Her chest was buxom, with glossy hair and a pearly-white smile. “It’s good to see you again, Master McKenna.” She greeted formally, dipping into a curtsey before the dark-haired young man. Osric blinked. He vaguely recognised her.

“Oh hello, er…”

“Miss Kelly– but please, call me Meredith.” She prompted, her smile flickering for a second. This was her third time introducing herself. The young man clicked his fingers in recognition and gave her an apologetic smile.

“Ah, that’s right! Sorry, I’m rubbish with names.”

Lana zoned out as the pair exchanged small talk. Osric was sporting an awkward smile, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds at the horde of people that was steadily growing. It was clear that he wanted to leave.

“I’d like to collect my order.” Lana interjected crisply. Meredith paused in her conversation and threw her a furious look for interrupting.

“Oh. You’re here too.”

Lana gave her a deadpan stare and made a show of looking down at herself, eyes widening in faux surprise.

“Well, look at that, so I am.”

“Meredith.” Priestess Anna admonished gently, turning to Lana. “Of course, child. Here.” The woman reached beneath the desk and pulled out a small, nondescript looking book with a dark blue cover, handing it over to Lana. The crest of the White Sisters was printed on the spine. As the book exchanged hands, Lana shivered, feeling the touch of magic against her fingertips- not that Priestess Anna could feel it. She tucked the book away into her satchel. It was her latest addition to her collection of magical texts.

“Same again for next month?” the woman presumed.

Lana nodded, and reached into her pocket, handing over a sealed letter and a handful of silver coins from her purse. She trusted that Priestess Anna would pass on her order directly to the Sisterhood, without asking any questions. Osric witnessed the coins exchanging hands, feeling uneasy. His sister somehow always had money to spare; even though he was the one entrusted with the family earnings. Osric had no idea how she made her money, but despite his discomfort, he wasn't about to go tattling to his parents. They were siblings, after all.

“We’ll be going, then.” Lana declared.

Priestess Anna was not impressed. The McKenna youngsters were an awkward pair. Most days they were nowhere to be seen. On the rare occasions they ventured into the village, they stuck together like glue. In her mind, it wasn't healthy; young things like them should be out exploring the world and making friends. Lana, in particular, gave her cause for worry. It seemed that the young Maiden-in-waiting could not help but draw attention to herself. As the moral authority in Trysk, it fell to the Priestess to monitor her charge and help Lana maintain a semblance of normality, until it was her time to depart for the capital. That was the sacred duty she was charged with, unbeknownst to her innocent mark.

Priestess Anna disguised her frown with a smile and gestured behind the table, where a spare stool beckoned.

“Oh, why the rush? There’s still some time before the Royal Guard get here. Why don’t you stay here until then, Lana dear? We could use an extra pair of hands.”

“Sorry, we have things to buy.” Lana replied stiffly. The Priestess did not waver.

“Well, there are two of you. I’m sure your brother can handle it.”

“No objections from me.” Osric agreed, thrilled by the prospect of getting rid of his sister. He ignored Lana’s glare as the Priestess thrust box of silverware into her arms. Osric eyed the gathering crowd, wishing he could swap places with her. At least Lana would be safe, sitting behind a table. He had to make his way through that in one piece. Alby let out an encouraging yip at his side. Osric looked down, faintly heartened, and scratched the dog behind the ears.

“Let me guess, you can smell food huh? Come on then.”

Lana was green with envy as her brother walked away, abandoning her to her fate. Still, there was no use crying about it. The time would pass quickly if she worked hard. Lana did just that, polishing the silverware until it gleamed. The other girls gossiped and giggled as they arranged the bouquets, removing any damaged flowers. Soon, a pile of discarded cuttings lay idle on the table.

“I don’t understand. What’s his problem?” Meredith complained to her friends, talking of course about Osric.

“I guess he has some brains after all.” Lana muttered, occupied with her task. Meredith shot her a poisonous look. She spotted Lana’s half-open satchel. Before the girl could protest, she reached inside and pulled out her new book.

“Look at this- knitting patterns.” She sneered, thumbing through the innocuous text before discarding it, creasing the formerly pristine pages. Lana did not react. “No wonder he’s such a weirdo- he’s related to you.”

"Funny, I didn't know you could read." Lana gave her opponent a saccharine smile. Meredith looked as though she might burst a blood vessel. “Come to think of it, if you two got married, we’d be sisters-in-law. Wouldn’t that be just wonderful, Mrs McKenna?”

Lana turned away and lovingly uncreased the pages of the mistreated book, savouring Meredith's horrified expression.

Osric, meanwhile, was fighting a completely different battle. His mission was simple: get the items on his mother’s list as quickly as possible and retreat somewhere he could breathe. Unfortunately, with his broad frame, it wasn't that easy. He kept bumping into his countrymen, muttering apologies as he pushed his way through the crowd. People kept treading on his feet; voices shouted in his ear. Osric could feel his chest constricting. He needed a distraction.

That was when he heard the lilting voice of somebody singing. A brave soul had dared to ascend the courthouse steps- and it surely wasn’t a member of the royal entourage. A scrawny youth with corkscrew red hair was belting out a pub shanty to the crowd. He was wearing a threadbare shirt and battered shoes, tapping a saucepan that hung from his neck with a wooden spoon. The boy’s enthusiasm and charismatic grin quickly drew a crowd of listeners. Artair White didn’t have much, but he knew how to work with what he had.

The young man's electric blue eyes swept across the crowd, landing on Osric. Artair gave his friend a salute in greeting. The two had met several years ago, when Osric had caught the redhead trespassing on their land. Osric had been in the middle of hunting, armed with a bow and arrow, when the redhead came sauntering out from the orchard with bulging pockets. On being caught, Artair had grinned shamelessly, mouth stained red with berry juice, claiming to have lost his way. Rather than chasing him off, Osric had taken pity on the starving boy and led him back to pick more fruit. The two had been friends ever since- much to Morgan McKenna’s chagrin.

“I have come to court your daughter,

For her beauty is so fair.

I have treasures, I have standing,

I have gold beyond compare.

I will grant her all she dreams of,

All my wealth and all my land.

If with gold a Man can buy it,

So, it shall be her command.”

Artair scanned the stalls as he sang. If Osric was here, that meant his sister would surely be present too. He soon spotted Lana sitting with Priestess Anna. A warm tingle filled Artair’s chest. She wasn’t looking at him. The young woman kept her head down, hard at work as she replenished the merchandise on the table, shiny black hair falling forward like a curtain. Artair raised his voice a little louder, willing the girl to look up. Unfortunately, Lana remained oblivious. The redhead continued his efforts, singing through his entire repertoire of drinking songs, until his voice grew hoarse, and he was forced to stop. He basked in the crowd’s applause and gave them a dazzling smile, thrusting his cap under their noses for donations. He was frustrated, but not surprised, when most of them turned their backs. Artair looked down at the handful of pennies in his cap. That wouldn't buy him even a single bottle of liquor.

So much for the value in honest work, he thought spitefully, the smile never fading from his face. He looked up as Osric approached him, hand outstretched in greeting. Artair ignored it and clapped his longtime friend on the back. Osric grimaced at the smell of stale sweat that clung to the redhead. He also caught the distinctive whiff of salt, as Artair's curly hair tickled his nose. The Great River ran just outside their village. Artair spent much of his time bargaining with the Nomad ferrymen that passed through on their voyages to the capital. Osric was very grateful when Artair finally released him.

“Nice job.” Osric commended. “How much did you make?”

“Ah, well… you know what people are like. Doesn’t matter. I enjoyed myself.” Artair assured, turning to the mongrel at Osric’s feet for distraction. Alby revelled in the attention, rolling over so Artair could scratch his belly. Osric frowned at his friend’s answer. He dug into his pockets and pulled out some small change for Artair to take. The redhead’s smile became slightly pained; he waved off the other’s kind gesture.

“Nah. Keep it.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Osric forced the coins into Artair’s hand. The redhead grudgingly pocketed the change, a flush of humiliation creeping up the back of his neck.

Don’t look at me like that.

If it was anyone else, Artair wouldn’t think twice about accepting the money. After all, how often in life did the offer of a free meal come along? Artair was a man who would take what he could get… but Osric was Lana’s brother. For as long as he was reliant on handouts, Osric would never consider Artair a serious marriage prospect for her.

And on the topic of lovely Lana...

Artair cocked his head at Osric.

“So, is your sister here?”

He already knew the answer of course. This was a test.

“Uh… no.” Osric tried.

Artair’s smile grew brighter, though his heart sank. Artair understood that his friend was in a difficult position. Osric was responsible for guarding his sister’s chastity. Friendship between men had its limits when it came to matters of social standing. Still… it hurt. No doubt Osric’s father had coached him. The McKenna patriarch had never liked the look of Artair.

“Oh really? Then where is she?” The redhead questioned casually.

“Um, at home.”

“Doing what?”

“Washing her hair.”

Artair was amused. If Morgan McKenna was coaching Osric, he needed to do a better job. He didn’t let the mirth show on his face, continuing to toy with his friend. It was petty, but it brought him a little satisfaction.

“On such a big day? It seems like all the other girls are here. Shouldn’t she be out mingling?” Artair gestured to the other ladies in the crowd.

“I, er-”

Osric was saved from further questioning as a bugle call rang out across the village square. The town crier proclaimed their esteemed guests’ arrival. The crowd exclaimed and waved their flags as the Royal Guard rode through the village gates. From their vantage point on the courthouse steps, Artair and Osric had a clear view of the soldiers. They rode on shiny steeds, bearing the royal colours. There were five men in total; three ordinary soldiers led the pack, dressed in uniform and light armour. Two more brought up the rear. These men were dressed differently. They wore no armour, only tunics and cloaks, but the material was made from the finest velvet, their cloaks secured with silver fastenings. One was dressed entirely in black, the other in royal blue. It had been ten, long years since Osric had last glimpsed them, but he recognised them immediately.

“Sentinels.”

They were gifted warlocks beyond compare, sworn to serve the King. Only three were chosen once a decade; it was the highest honour a warlock boy could hope to achieve. Of course, the common folk had no idea of the Sentinels' magical links, thinking them glorified bodyguards- but those with magical heritage like Osric knew the truth. As a small boy, he had sat on his father’s knee by the fire, listening to tales of the War of Realms. Morgan spoke with such longing and pride when he talked of the Sentinels- the last living remnant of the glory days. The McKenna elder himself had competed in the Gauntlet, many years ago. Little Osric swore to himself that he would succeed where his father had failed. He would make his father speak of him with such pride, one day.

Osric and Artair quickly vacated the steps for the soldiers to deliver their speech. One of the soldiers dismounted from his horse and stepped forward to address the crowd. He was very handsome, with sandy blonde hair and twinkling eyes. He wore a plate of mail over his chest, but his shirt sleeves and trousers clung to him in all the right places. Osric had no doubt that he had broken many girls’ hearts. As the man’s gaze swept across the crowd, he briefly locked eyes with Osric. The warlock’s stomach flip-flopped.

Oh no.

At seventeen, Osric should be looking for a respectable young lady to marry. His mother kept asking him over dinner if any of the village girls had caught his eye, whilst his father wanted the White Sisters to find him a suitable match. There was just one, small problem. Osric wasn’t interested in young ladies. The moment of tension was short lived, as the soldier’s attention moved on. Osric wished his traitorous heartbeat would slow down, as he tried to focus on the man’s words and not the fullness of his lips.

“Citizens of the Empire, we bring fine news to you from His Majesty, King Donel of the House Hanbar!” he proclaimed in a booming voice, arms outstretched in welcome. “The time has once again come to select the next generation of His Majesty’s Sentinels. Six months from now, that ancient and noble contest known as the Gauntlet shall begin. Any man worth his mettle may compete. It matters not to His Majesty your class, your creed or wealth, only your ability to protect the life of your King.” The soldier paused, his tone becoming increasingly serious. “Make no mistake, this is no contest for the faint of heart. The Gauntlet is a race. You will be thrown into the wilds, beyond the protection of the King’s law. You must cross the length and breadth Morellia and make your safe return. Only the first three to finish will be crowned the winners. Those worthy few shall receive all the privileges owed to them: influence, honour, and wealth beyond measure- it is yours for the taking. All you need to do, is win!”

Raucous cheers followed his words. The villagers of Trysk were hardly well-off; they were a humble people whose forefathers had worked the land for generations. Such riches and rewards were almost beyond their comprehension. Their faces shone with hope and greed. Osric clapped politely along with the rest, but he felt uneasy. It was not what the soldier had said, but rather what he had left out that gave him cause for concern.

Morellia lay beyond Great River, where the Empire’s borders ended. It was officially classified as a penal colony for exiled criminals, and therefore strictly off-limits to citizens of the Empire. In truth, there was a darker reason that it was forbidden. The Vylae, although nominally defeated by the Old King, were never banished entirely from the Realm of Men. They were driven back and contained beyond the river by warding spells, whilst satellite Sanctuaries were erected as guard posts. Only those with the Seraphim’s Blessing could hope to cross into that cursed land and return in one piece. For any ordinary Man, the Gauntlet was a suicide mission. Osric looked around at the ecstatic faces of his fellow villagers, his heart sinking. They had no idea... but he couldn't warn them. Any public mention of magic was forbidden on pain of death.

The soldiers began distributing flyers to the crowd. The notices detailed the time and date of the Gauntlet. Contestants were instructed to attend Sanctuary Alta at dawn, on the date of the autumn equinox. The flyers also contained several advertisements. For the right price, it was possible to hire a professional trainer for the Gauntlet. Osric pocketed the flyer without thinking further on it.

Speech concluded, the soldiers mounted their horses and made ready to leave- but a figure blocked their exit. One of the villagers was standing in their way, a sealed letter in hand. He had the typical rugged appearance of a northerner, with a wiry black beard and thick eyebrows, hands wrinkled from days of hard work in the field.

“You are from the Royal Guard, aren’t you?” the man queried. Osric didn’t recognise him. He knew none of his neighbours’ names or occupations. The handsome soldier, hitherto all-smiles and welcoming words, now wore a sour expression.

“Out of our way, sir.” he commanded.

“Please- take this to the King.” the man beseeched, holding out the letter. The royal entourage made no move to accept it.

“What does it say?”

“It’s a petition.” the man explained, running his hand anxiously through his black beard. “My wife has gone missing. I need help finding her. I've written to Lord Althan, but heard nothing."

Lord Althan was the regional Lord of the Empire's northern quarter, belonging to one of the five noble houses that governed the realm: Althan of the North, Hanbar of the South, Fenrik of the West, Savalai of the East; and finally, Tanza of the Tanza Isles. In practice, the regional Lords held little decision-making power. Theirs was an administrative role, enforcing the King's laws and collecting their subjects' taxes, levied centrally from the seat of power in the capital. Only in matters of royal succession did the Lords sit up and take notice.

The soldiers exchanged exasperated looks.

“I understand your distress, sir.” the blonde leader replied, contempt dripping from his lips. “However, I rather think the King has rather more pressing concerns than solving the mystery of a runaway wife.”

The other soldiers tittered. The bearded man shook the letter at them, infuriated by their flippancy.

“It’s not just her! There’s a full list of names right here!”

He was not alone anymore. Several more villagers had stepped forward from the crowd, and now stood in front of the Royal Guard. They rattled off the names of their missing sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, the young and the old- but the soldiers were having none of it. The handsome leader’s hand dropped to his waist, where his sword was sheathed. It was a clear warning.

“Stand aside.” he commanded.

A thick tension had settled in the air. Osric did not like where this was going. He started looking for a way out but found himself trapped in on all sides. He suddenly realised that Alby was missing.

“Or what- you’ll cut me down in the name of the King?” the black-bearded man challenged, stepping up to face the armed youth. His opponent did not shy away, lips stretching in a cruel smile.

“Well, you do seem rather eager for the taste of another man’s sword, just like your dear wife.”

Enraged, the older man drew back his closed fist, about to take a swing at the soldier, when a white blur leapt forward. Alby sank his teeth deep into the villager’s arm before the blow could land. The dark-haired man let out a yell of pain, trying to wrestle the mongrel off, but Alby was a large dog with strong jaws.

“Alby!” Osric cried, trying to push his way forward. Then, just as quickly as the attack started, it stopped. Alby released the man and stood still, looking around in apparent confusion as his tail wagged innocently. The man had fallen onto the courthouse steps, cradling his bleeding arm. His fellow villagers crowded around him in concern; the letter lay crumpled and forgotten on the floor.

Osric put his fingers to his lips and whistled loudly; the noise carried above the crowd, and Alby’s ears twitched in recognition. The dog obeyed its master’s call and came padding back to Osric’s side. The young man knelt, cringing at the sight of blood around the dog’s mouth. He stared into Alby’s brown eyes, trying to understand. Alby was a good dog. He’d never bitten anyone before. Just then, a sneaking suspicion came to Osric’s mind. The young man had spent years studying Incanting magic, and he was familiar with Forging from his sister’s studies, but there was one warlock class that he knew precious little about.

The young man rose to his feet, returning his focus to the Royal Guard. Unsurprisingly, the soldiers were in a hurry to leave. The Sentinel dressed in black- the Incanter- was almost out of sight beyond the gate, but his kinsman in blue lingered. He had taken down his hood. Osric judged that he was a man in his late twenties, or very early thirties. He must have won the Gauntlet at around Osric's age, having almost served out his decade-long term. The Sentinel seemed to sense Osric’s stare, turning his head sharply in his direction. As their gazes aligned, Osric felt a shiver go through him- and not the pleasurable kind. Although the man’s face retained the semblance of youth, his eyes did not. They were the kind of eyes that had seen far too much too soon. He bowed his head and pulled his hood back up. Osric watched the entourage ride away through the village gates, his gaze fixed on the man in blue robes. That man was a Tamer- a warlock who could bind and break the souls of Men. Osric looked down at Alby. Could the Tamer control animals too?

"Oi, is that your dog?" Someone demanded. Osric turned. The group of villagers surrounding the fallen man had closed ranks, bristling with hostility.

"Yes." Osric admitted. One gestured to the man's bleeding arm.

"Then what are you going to do about this?"

"I want that savage creature put down." the injured man spat, pointing at Alby. Osric was taken aback. He stood between the angry villagers and his canine friend.

"It wasn't Alby's fault!" he objected.

"Then whose fault was it- yours? You're supposed to be the master." another man challenged, squaring up to Osric and jabbing him in the chest. "Hand over the dog."

Osric's father had always warned him against anger. It was an ugly emotion that robbed Men of their self-control and turned them into beasts. Now though, the cool resentment that he was used to carrying began to simmer.

"No."

Osric's hands curled into fists, sizing up his opponent. The villager was several decades his senior and skinnier too. Osric had never fought a man before, but he fancied his chances. Unfortunately, their standoff was interrupted.

"Hold up, hold up everybody! I know how we can solve this!" the redhead swooped in, deft fingers diving into Osric's trouser pocket and pulling out the coin purse.

"Oi!" Osric fumed. He tried to snatch it back, but Artair was too quick. He tossed it at the feet of the injured man on the steps.

"Will this do?" the redhead beamed. The man emptied out the silver coins into his lap and grudgingly nodded. "Excellent! Then it's settled. Come on Os, let's go!"

Artair steered his stocky friend away by the elbow before he could object, with Alby padding along behind them. They quickly lost the angry mob, disappearing into the crowd.

"See? Gold is always the answer, my friend." the redhead proclaimed.

Osric said nothing, a distant look in his eyes. His fingers were resting in Alby’s fur. With the confrontation averted, he felt... empty, as if he had been robbed of something. In a way, he had been. Artair had paid off his aggressors. Osric had wanted to fight. He wanted to punch them on the nose and scream the ugly truth in their face. He wanted to make them see.

"You shouldn't have paid them."

"You're lucky they accepted it." Artair countered. "An injury like that can easily get infected. Even the King himself can't bribe death."

Artair was right. Forget the King- not even the most talented warlocks could cure illness. Healing was a power the Seraphim had put beyond their reach.

“Well, would you look at that. She must have finished washing her hair." Osric blinked and looked up. Artair was pointing directly at the stall where Lana was sitting, a mischievous grin on his face.

"Artie, wait!"

The redhead was off like a shot before Osric could stop him. Being so scrawny, Artair easily slipped between the gaps in the crowd. Osric… not so much. The brunette gave clumsy chase, bumping into people and treading on toes, until he found his path blocked. A wooden cart stood between him and the Priestess’ stall, piled high with jewel fruits. The fruits were valuable imports from the Southern Isles, with a distinctive tang and blue skin that glimmered like gemstones. Artair was standing on the other side. His blue eyes settled on the piece of wood that was wedged against the cart’s wheel, preventing it from tipping over. Osric followed his gaze.

“Artie, don’t you dare-”

His warning landed on deaf ears. The redhead kicked the wooden plank free, and Osric lurched to grab the cart as it fell, a cascade of fruit landing at his feet. The crowd erupted into jeers and hoots of laughter. The ruckus caught the attention of the merchant.

“Clumsy oaf!” the man bellowed, spotting the red-faced, burly lad holding onto the cart. The skinny redhead slipped away unseen as Osric was accosted. “You had better pick up every last one!”

Artair grinned to himself, feeling only slightly bad. All was fair in love and war. The Priestess’ stall was right in front of him. Artair’s mouth watered at the delicacies on offer. The young ladies waved invitingly to the passing crowd; the menfolk were particularly susceptible to their charm. Meredith was the most effective, pouring them each a cup of lemonade and handfeeding them morsels of cake, her smile as sugary as the sweets on offer. Artair was tempted himself- but he wasn't here to eat. He turned his attention to the serious-looking young lady seated at the end of the table. Lana was taking a well-earned break, nose buried in her book. Artair stealthily approached, waiting to see if Lana would turn around. She didn’t. Then he pounced, swiping the book straight out of her hands. She let out a noise of surprise.

“Artie! Do you mind?”

Artair flicked through the pages, blue eyes alight with interest.

“I was singing earlier but you didn’t notice me then either. What could distract you from this angelic voice and supremely handsome face?” He wiggled his eyebrows at her. “Knitting patterns, eh… fascinating stuff.”

“Give it back already.” She sighed, the hint of a smile on her face.

“Certainly, milady.” He bowed and duly returned the book. Lana hugged it to her chest. Sure enough, a handful of silver coins slipped out from the pages, falling into her lap. She secreted them into her pocket before the other girls could see. Thankfully, they were too busy giving Artair hostile stares to notice. Artair removed his cap and gave them all a winning grin.

“Well, hello ladies. You’re looking especially lovely today.” The village girls cringed in unison, drawing back from the raggedy boy. The redhead pretended to browse the items on display, his light fingers wandering across the merchandise. Priestess Anna was watching him carefully.

“Can I help you, Master White?” She prompted. Artair gestured to the plate of cakes and accompanying lemonade on the table.

“These are free, right?”

Priestess Anna nodded, stifling a groan; she knew exactly what was coming, but she could hardly deny him. The poor boy was skin and bone. The women looked on with disapproval as their stock of freebies disappeared into Artair's many pockets. His overcoat had several compartments sewn onto the inside. Artair stuffed the last cake into his mouth and grinned at Meredith, chewing open-mouthed. He nodded towards the pitcher of lemonade.

"I'll take one." He held out his paper cup to her in request. The girl laughed, tossing her shiny black hair over her shoulder in contempt.

"I don’t think so."

"Why not? You served everyone else."

"Obviously because it's you." Meredith sneered. Artair couldn't hide his flinch.

"I'll do it." Lana piped up dispassionately before Priestess Anna had to step in. The village girls turned to stare at her. A couple of them tittered.

"Be my guest." Meredith simpered, passing across the pitcher of lemonade.

Lana met Artair's gaze and gave him a half-smile. He answered with a wink. As Lana leaned forward to pour Artair's drink, she ‘accidentally’ bumped against the table, violently jolting it. The pitcher fell on its side, spilling its contents everywhere. Meredith jumped backwards, letting out an unladylike shriek as the lemonade splashed her feet.

"Oh, sorry!" Lana exclaimed, turning wide-eyed to Meredith. The pretty young lady was not appeased. Her brand-new slippers were ruined.

“You wretched cretin! Do you have any idea how much these shoes cost?”

Lana rolled her eyes. The McKenna girl was in an even worse state; her white shirt was completely drenched. The other girls on the stall scrambled to clean up the mess. Priestess Anna looked over Lana with a critical eye.

“My goodness, you can’t possibly work like that.”

“I suppose.” Lana agreed, feigning disappointment.

"Your brother is around somewhere, isn't he? He should take you home."

That was Artair’s cue to step in, removing his cap in sincerity.

“Oh, I know where he is Your Holiness! I'll take her to him."

Before Priestess Anna or any of the others could object, the redhead had already spirited Lana away from the stall. He dragged her down a side alley just off the main square; the two of them paused to catch their breath, leaning up against the stone wall.

“Absolutely masterful. A real clean operation.” He teased, nudging her in the ribs.

“Oh, shut up. It worked, didn’t it?” Lana shot back, shivering. Her wet shirt had turned translucent, and the wet material was freezing against her skin. Artair looked away with a blush and shrugged off his overcoat, pulling it around her shoulders. It was sleeveless and filthy, but it offered some warmth. Had Lana been a more considerate person, she might have noticed the material of Artair’s shirt riding up as he moved, revealing purple and blue bruises. Unfortunately, she was not that person.

“Come on then- what did you get? It had better be good.” she demanded.

They both knew that Lana’s little performance with the lemonade had a greater purpose than ruining Meredith’s shoes. In answer, Artair held up one of the discarded flower cuttings. It was a pastel pink rose with a broken stem, too short for a bouquet, but it was enchanted with a Forging spell that stopped it from withering. Lana was disappointed.

“That’s not going to sell for much.” She pointed out. The redhead grinned at her.

“Good thing it’s not for sale, then.”

In a daring move, Artie swept her hair aside and tucked the broken stalk behind her ear. Lana blinked.

“Good job I got something, then.” She reached into her satchel and pulled out a tiny, silverware spoon. She handed it over to Artair. The redhead was pleasantly surprised. “They put me on silverware duty.” She explained. “The rest of them were too busy chatting to pay attention. I figured I was owed a little reward for my hard work.”

“You’re learning.” He praised.

“Yeah well, I have a good teacher.” Lana smiled back. “How much do you think you can get for it?”

“Hard to say." Artair looked down at the spoon in contemplation, pulling a face. "You know the Nomads strike a hard bargain.”

“Well, you got a good result on the last sale.” Lana pulled out the silver coins from her pocket- the same ones that Artair had dropped into her lap earlier. She counted six, which meant that Artair had managed to get twelve silver pieces in total. Not bad, for a single gold earring. “At least, your father can’t complain.”

It had been their business model for years. The pair stole merchandise from Priestess Anna, which Artair then sold below market value to the Nomad ferrymen that passed through the village. They split the profits fifty-fifty. Lana saved the money to purchase her magic books, whilst Artair afforded himself the luxury of safety and a hot meal.

“Right.” the redhead agreed. Lana didn’t notice the awkward note in his voice. Artair reached for her hand. "Come on, let's find your brother."

The sorry pair emerged from the alley and made their way back through the fray, attracting stares and whispers as they went. They found Osric sitting on the courtyard steps with his head in his hands, a bag of goods at his feet, and Alby sitting loyally by his side. He looked exhausted. The young man raised his eyes as the pair approached.

“Artair White.” he rumbled with fury, advancing on his ‘friend’. “Do you know how many of those fruits I had to pick up? Two hundred and thirty-three. I had to put them back one at a time.”

“Impressive that you counted.” The redhead grinned.

“I’m going to kill you.” Osric promised.

“Well, that’s one way to get into Morellia, but I’m not sure the King would fancy a murderer protecting him, so you may want to hold off.” Artair drawled, eyes glinting. He knew all about his best friend’s ambition to join the Sentinels. Osric rolled his eyes.

“Funny.”

“Can we go home already?” Lana piped up. It was then that Osric noticed her dishevelled appearance.

“Holy Seraphim, what happened?” he demanded. Artair spoke up before she could answer.

“Ah, there was a little accident over at the stall- completely my fault. I was a clumsy sod and knocked over the lemonade. Thought I’d better come and explain myself.”

Osric’s dark eyes appraised Lana. He saw that she was wearing the redhead’s filthy clothes. That wouldn’t do.

“Put this on.” He instructed his sister, pulling off his own- much cleaner- tunic.

“I’m fine with this.” She protested, pulling the raggedy shirt closer around her shoulders. He gave her a stern look.

“I’m in charge, remember? Mother will throw a fit if she sees you looking like an urchin.” Lana grumbled under her breath but did as she was told. Osric did his best to shield his sister from onlookers as she changed. Then he spotted the pink rose nestled in her hair. “What’s with the flower?” he questioned suspiciously. His sister was not the gardening type.

“Oh, Artie gave it to me.” she replied easily. Osric glanced over his shoulder, where the redhead was loitering with his back turned.

“That was nice of him.”

Osric handed back the threadbare shirt to Artair.

“I’ll be taking Lana home now.” he informed, in a tone that brooked no argument- or at least, it would have done, were it not Artair White that he was speaking to.

“I’ll come with you.” He offered, beaming. “I can explain to your old man what happened. I’d hate for you to get in trouble.”

“Worry about yourself.” Whatever punishment Morgan would meet out, they both knew it wouldn’t hold a candle to the hell that awaited Artair at home. A shadow passed over the redhead's face. “Look, I’m not blind, Artie.” Osric warned quietly, looking over at his sister. Lana was rifling through the bag of goods Osric had bought, not paying the boys any attention. The redhead was not intimidated. His posture remained relaxed, hands in his trouser pockets.

“Neither am I.” Osric frowned, wondering what exactly his friend meant. The redhead leaned in to give Osric a cordial pat on the back. He murmured into his ear. “Those soldiers were really something, huh? You couldn’t take your eyes off blondie.”

Osric felt a lead weight drop into his stomach. Artair pulled away, an easy smile playing about his lips.

“…I don't know what you’re talking about.”

Osric bade the redhead farewell and placed a hand protectively on the small of his sister’s back, guiding her away. Before he could escape, Artair called out to him.

"Os!" Against his better judgement, Osric turned back. Artair had pulled out a deck of cards from his pocket and waved them temptingly at him. “If you fancy a drink tonight, I’ll be down the Seven Sins. Give your old man the slip and come join me. If you’re brave enough, that is."

"…I'll think about it."

What his friend didn’t understand was that it wasn’t a question of bravery- it was a question of duty.

Osric and Lana made their leisurely way back down the dirt path towards the farm. Osric looked down at Alby, his muzzle still red with blood, reminded of the man in blue with the wizened eyes. Osric banished the thought.

He was an Incanter. He would master his craft and win the Gauntlet. Once his time was served, he would marry a noble young woman befitting his status and be blessed with many children. His family heritage would continue. He would do his duty. He would become a man his father could be proud of.

And as for happiness?

Well, no Man could have it all.