Dragon Speaker E-Book

Elana A. Mugdan

• Herausgeber: Shivnath Productions
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Serie: The Shadow War Saga
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 552

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

An underdog hero.
A quest to save a dragon.
An unforgettable journey takes flight.
Born into a land of magic wielders without any powers of her own, Keriya Nameless isn't exactly hero material. Despite this disability, the goddess Shivnath tasks her with saving the last living dragon. Desperate to prove her worth to a world that has told her she's worthless, Keriya accepts the mission.
But darkness is stirring in the Empire of Allentria. An ancient and powerful warlord has broken free of his prison with one goal: to kill the dragon. Keriya has bitten off more than she can chew, and she must stay a step ahead of his forces if she wants to survive.
On a journey that tests her courage at every turn, Keriya has to decide what she believes in and who she wants to be. She'd better decide fast, because she discovers that she's at the center of an age-old war...
A war that will decide the fate of everything.

Contains: Fantasy violence

Leseprobe

Copyright © Elana A. Mugdan 2016

www.allentria.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Art by Jaka Prawira

Interior Art by Neiratina

ISBN: 978-1-5323-8794-4

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020925272

Check out the other books of The Shadow War Saga!

Learn more at www.allentria.com

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Table Of Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

EPILOGUE

BOOK II AVAILABLE NOW!

GLOSSARY & PRONUNCIATIONS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

“You are already everything you need to be.”

~ Arisse Chardreilas, Twelfth Age

PROLOGUE

Second Age, Year 942

GROUGE WAS A SECOND-RATE DEMON AT BEST, but he took pride in guarding his Master’s citadel. It perched near the summit of Mount Arax, so Grouge would be able to spot approaching enemies from leagues away . . . not that any enemies would dare approach. The fortress’s black walls rose from the cliffs of the volcano, and its arches, turrets, and spires were all laced with defensive wards.

Grouge was supposed to be guarding the citadel with his life—or, more accurately, afterlife—but he was secure in the knowledge that it was impenetrable. He curled his barbed tail around his squat, feline body, closed his black eyes, and rolled onto his side for a well-deserved nap.

A loud thud jolted him awake and he sprang to his feet, whiskers aquiver. He looked for the source of the disturbance, but the winding steps below were empty. No patrols circled the skies overhead either, which was odd because there were always patrols.

Just when Grouge had managed to convince himself everything was fine, a sharp edge pressed against his throat.

“Don’t make a sound.” A voice, soft yet resonant with power, breathed in his tufted ear. “Nod to show you understand.”

Grouge whimpered and nodded. The blade left his neck and his attacker stepped into view.

It was a human warrior, garbed in tattered brown robes that marked him as one of the rebels. Though he looked young, his head was haloed by a mane of white hair. Volcanic drafts blew back a few stray strands, revealing a pale face set with glowing purple eyes. He was a rheenar, one of the deadliest foes a demon could encounter.

“You were a manticore when you were alive, yes? Can you speak?” the man asked. Grouge nodded again. “Speak, demon. I won’t hurt you.”

“Yes.” Grouge’s fear of annihilation ebbed away, only to be replaced by the fear of what would happen when the Master discovered this human had breached the citadel’s defenses.

“I wish to meet with Necrovar. I come in peace.”

“You’ve a strange way of showing it,” Grouge muttered.

Surprisingly, the mortal sheathed his sword and raised his hands, as if in surrender. “There. Now, will you please bring me to your master? According to the rules of war, you must allow me to speak with him.”

Grouge hesitated. He didn’t want to admit it, but he didn’t actually know the rules of war.

A shudder whisked across his blackened withers as he considered the warrior. There was something off about the man’s angular visage—it was too symmetrical, too perfect. The more he stared, the more it seemed this human didn’t look human at all. Still, he’d asked nicely to be brought to the Master. He’d said he was there in peace. Nobody so polite would lie about their motives, would they?

“Fine,” Grouge grumbled, ignoring his misgivings. “Follow me, flesh-rat.”

He led the man through the citadel’s pillar-lined entryway, proceeding through heavy doors that parted for them with the grinding of stone. As soon as they were in the stronghold, they met a patrol squad.

The squad captain had once been human. Now, he was something both more and less than a human. He’d died and had been resurrected as a demon, complete with midnight flesh and vacant eyes, their scleras and irises swallowed by unbroken darkness.

“What’s the meaning of this?” the captain demanded. His troops gaped at the rheenar, shocked to see a rebel walking about freely in their home.

“I’m bringing this man to the Master,” Grouge replied nervously, his tail curling between his hind legs. “He has requested a meeting, as per the rules of war.”

“Necrovar is expecting me,” the human added.

The captain failed to hide the crease of fear on his brow. His pitch-black eyes flicked to Grouge. “Proceed, soldier. We wouldn’t want to keep the Master waiting.”

Grouge burned with curiosity as he led the man through the maze of halls. What made the flesh-rat so certain he would survive this visit? Granted, he was doing a good job so far, but what trick did he have up his sleeve?

“Why must you talk to the Master?” Grouge asked at last.

“I have something to offer him.”

Grouge wracked his tiny brain to come up with a suitably clever follow-up. “Why are you offering it?”

“Because he would take it from me anyway. Not all of it, but . . . ” The man trailed off, glancing away. The gravity of his statement was lost on Grouge.

They rounded another corner, and there it was. The arched entrance to the Master’s lair was engraved with jagged runes. Two demon direwolves stood guard on each side of the door, and the moment they spotted the intruder, they charged.

In an attempt to appear as powerful and commanding as the warrior, Grouge stepped forward and cried, “Halt!” The guards slowed to a walk, snarling and snapping their jaws. “This man is here in peace. He has requested a meeting with the Master.”

The direwolves grudgingly moved aside as Grouge and the warrior approached the door. Skeins of shimmering necromagic cobwebbed across it, and while demons could pass through without harm, Grouge wasn’t sure the human could do the same.

The warrior drew his magnificent sword and sliced through the dark threads. The necromagic fizzled and spat as the barrier vanished.

“Right,” Grouge muttered. “Stay here until I announce you.”

“I need no announcement. As I said, Necrovar is expecting me.” With a twirl of his cloak, the man vanished into the throne room.

Grouge considered fleeing. If the mortal had come looking for a fight, it would be best to get as far away as demonly possible. But the warrior had said he had something to offer the Master.

Though Grouge knew eavesdropping was rude—not to mention treasonous, when one was eavesdropping on one’s superiors—he crept through the antechamber on padded paws and peeked into the obsidian room beyond. Golden, claw-shaped brackets clung to the walls, clutching torches that illuminated the vaulted ceiling. Cast-iron urns of blue fire flickered on a raised dais at the head of the hall, flanking a great dragonbone throne. Seated on that throne was the Master.

Like His demons, He had once been something else: a human. There was no humanity left in Him now. His rotted, pitch-black skin was too taut for His horned skull, and His thin flesh ripped when His features moved too drastically, revealing pitted bone beneath. Pinpricks of yellow-orange light danced in empty eye sockets, serving as pupils. Like a raging wildfire or a bloodthirsty hurricane, He was a wonder and a terror to behold.

“. . . that is why you’re here, not for any noble, self-sacrificing reasons. Your hatred has destroyed you.” The Master spoke down to the warrior, who stood alone in the middle of the room. Grouge quaked at the sound of His rich baritone.

“I know what I’m doing. This is no mistake.”

“So you think,” was the snide reply. “I wonder what your mother would say?”

“I couldn’t tell you,” the warrior said stiffly. “For all I know, she’s dead.”

“Ahh . . . if you only knew the truth, Valerion.”

Grouge’s stomach plummeted. He’d brought Valerion of the Unknown Lands into the citadel, the evil, murderous lightmagic-wielder who led the mortal races of Selaras in rebellion against the Master.

Grouge was a dead demon.

“You’ve been stuffing your head with those stories your followers tell,” said the Master. “You so desperately want to believe you are the hero the world has been waiting for.”

“Do you want what I’ve offered, or not?” Valerion’s voice crackled with tension.

“Obviously I want it. And I will grant your request. When you die, I shall resurrect you—not as a demon, but as your own, true self.”

A chill raced along Grouge’s spine. What had Valerion offered as payment for such a reward? Grouge had paid dearly when he’d made his own deal with the Master, but for some reason, he couldn’t remember what he’d traded for a second chance at life.

“Then take it,” Valerion growled.

The Master’s eyes narrowed. “Why the rush?”

“Why the hesitation? If you do this, you’ll be the most powerful wielder in the world.”

“I am the most powerful wielder in the world.” There was no trace of arrogance in the Master’s voice. He was stating a fact.

“But this way, you could restore balance between the magics and bring us peace,” said Valerion. “Isn’t that what you’ve been fighting for all this time?”

The Master stood and descended from the dais, approaching the warrior with the fluid grace of a serpent.

“It is.”

He began to wield His magic. With a single gesture, He wrenched the shadows from their resting places. Valerion stood still as wisps of darkness encased him, his eyes glinting through the gloom like two purple stars in an empty universe.

The Master summoned the shadows from the antechamber next, and Grouge felt horribly exposed. A wintry wind filled the air, howling and wailing in horror. It was bright, it was dim, and then . . . it was silent. The shadows, exhausted, slunk back to where they belonged.

“You know this means I’ve won?” The Master sounded breathless. “If you sign a surrender treaty, I vow no more blood will be spilled.”

Valerion said nothing.

“Your stubbornness is of no consequence to me. I have what I need, and those who choose to fight deserve the deaths that await them.”

Still no reply.

“I could kill you, Valerion,” the Master murmured. “I should kill you.” But He made no move to do so.

Grouge stewed in anticipation. Why didn’t He strike down His most dangerous enemy?

“We are finished here. You may see yourself out, but rest assured, I will not be so merciful the next time we meet.”

“We won’t meet again,” said Valerion. His voice was weak, an echo of its former glory.

“No? Do you think you can hide from me, you foolish child? I own your soul now—you have no more magic. You cannot fight me.”

Valerion had given the Master his soul? If he had relinquished the source of his life and magic, how was he still alive? Without a soul, you were little more than a hollow husk, though Grouge had no idea how he knew that. This deal—a soul in exchange for a life—felt eerily familiar.

“I don’t need to fight. This war is over.” Valerion turned his back on the Master and strode away.

Grouge’s paws scrabbled against the floor as he tried to flee, but it was too late. Valerion entered the antechamber. The warrior’s calm eyes met Grouge’s terrified ones for a heartbeat. Then he was gone, off to fight his way out of the citadel with only his sword to defend himself.

<Grouge.> A voice sounded in Grouge’s head, as clear and cutting as if the words had been uttered aloud. The Master knew he was there. <Come in here, Grouge.>

Grouge had no choice but to obey the telepathic summons. His belly filled with dread as he crawled into the room and forced himself to look at the Shadow Lord.

“Well?” said the Master. “What did you make of that?”

“I . . . I think—I think it will serve you well to have Valerion’s magic,” Grouge spluttered.

The Master nodded, tapping the tips of His clawed fingers together. “For the first time in a long time, I am not certain I’ve done the right thing. Valerion has handed me victory. It doesn’t make sense. Did he say anything to you?”

“Nothing, Master. Except . . . when I asked why he was offering his gift, he said you would take it from him anyway—”

The Master grinned, ripping the skin around His mouth.

“—but not all of it.”

The Master stopped smiling, and that frightened Grouge too much to say anything else. He didn’t know how long the Master stood thinking. It felt like ten ages passed them by.

A shuddering noise broke the stillness, a noise that pierced Grouge to the marrow of his shadowy bones. It reminded him of a ceaseless dying breath slipping from someone’s lips.

The Master’s fiery gaze snapped to the far end of His chamber. A purple vapor was shimmering through His private exit. One curious tendril peeked into the throne room.

“What is that, Master?” Grouge whispered, his hackles rising.

“Someone is wielding against us.”

The Master strode forward. The vapor directed its attention toward Him, its aimless swirls coalescing into a focused point. The Master flicked His hand in a gesture of banishment, counter-wielding to dispel the smog.

It was not dispelled.

Grouge’s jaw dropped. He had never seen the Master magically bested. The Master tried again, waving His hand in an arc and contracting His fingers.

The vapor reared in a sinuous strand, a misty cobra preparing to strike. The Master gestured once more, retreating from His foe.

In that movement, Grouge saw defeat. The corded muscles of his body tensed and he catapulted from the throne room. He raced past the direwolves and careened through the warren of corridors.

He stopped when he reached the great hall. The vapor was there, too, and scores of demons were snared in its clutches. Where the mist touched them, they melted.

“Master!” One desperate demon cried for her sovereign as the lethal haze wrapped around her neck, turning her to slush. She was dead. No, worse than that—she was nothing.

Hugging the edge of the room, Grouge wove his way through a treacherous tangle of mist, the agonized screams of his comrades echoing in his ears.

“No,” he gasped, coming to another grinding halt outside. Glowing purple raindrops fell from the sky. Demons streamed from the citadel in a mass exodus, but the rain was melting them much as the mist had.

Grouge was trapped.

A necrocrelai, one of the born-demons, ran by. It was Shädar, second in command to the Master. He wasn’t flying because he’d injured his bat-wings in the last battle with the rebels, and he was wielding to shield himself from the toxic deluge. Grouge raced under the protective necromagical shield and followed.

Shädar took the path to the summit of Mount Arax. His whiplike tail lashed, belting Grouge in the face as he struggled to keep up with the longer strides of the humanoid demon.

They crested the flat lip of the crater. Grouge spotted the Master standing alone at the edge of the mountain’s gaping volcanic maw, defying the wrath of the heavens.

An ear-splitting thunderclap sent Grouge into hysterics. He looked up and saw that the sky was opening—opening!—tearing itself apart, leading into an unknown void. Purple lightning crackled around the edges of the rift, illuminating the peaks and valleys of boiling black clouds.

“My liege,” Shädar growled when he reached the Master. “What is this? Are the dragons finally fighting us?”

“One dragon is.” An alien expression darkened the Master’s gruesome features. “Or two, depending on how you look at things.”

An arm of purple fire lashed from the hole in the sky, arcing toward them like a terrible, wayward solar flare. The Master wielded to repel it and the two magics met in an explosion that knocked Grouge clean off his feet.

“Try and claim me, Valerion,” the Master bellowed. “You will fail! I am the balance! I am omnipotent! I have your soul!”

He drew His sword and gestured violently with the weapon. Again, His movement had no effect.

“Master?” Grouge whimpered.

The Master was silent for a time. When He spoke, His words were barely audible: “I cannot wield Valerion’s magic.”

Shädar’s black eyes went round with panic. “What? Why?”

“If a soul is not complete, it cannot be wielded.” The Master’s expression contorted. The image of the almighty, invincible wielder crumbled before Grouge, revealing a broken human.

“That conniving, evil little monster. Valerion split his soul before coming to me . . . and she let him.” The Master’s lips curled in a snarl. “Shivnath,” he hissed with the vehemence of a curse.

Grouge never had a chance to ask who Shivnath was. A tingling sensation seeped into his body. He turned to find a tongue of purple flame had snuck up on him. The fire didn’t burn or melt him. It tightened around his middle and lifted him off the ground.

“Master! Help!” Grouge shrieked. But another fiery arm grabbed the Master, and though He struggled and wielded, His power was nothing compared to that of the unearthly energy.

Grouge and the Master were pulled toward the hole in the sky alongside thousands of unfortunate others. Grouge’s vision narrowed and dimmed as he approached the gaping fracture in reality. The world around him dissolved. Sound and touch faded.

Then everything was nothing. It was gone.

He was gone.

And after a moment, an eternity of waiting, suspended, neither conscious nor unconscious, neither living nor dead . . .

The rift in the sky reopened, and Grouge dropped down with the familiar inky blackness of necromagic, which was so unlike the cruel black void that had held him prisoner.

CHAPTER ONE

“Heroes are not born; they are made.”

~ Nyela Veridicae, Sixth Age

Twelfth Age, Year 607

Keriya Nameless took a deep breath to calm her nerves. She’d been disobedient plenty of times before, but what she was doing now was especially bad. She swept her flyaway bangs from her brow and put an eye to the crack between the ill-fitting storage room door and its frame.

The hall beyond was dimly lit. Diluted light drifted through thin windows onto a wooden platform where stood Holden Sanvire, Head Elder of Aeria. The immense stone tablet next to him bore the names of all the children eligible for the Ceremony of Choice.

A bubbling sensation, not altogether unpleasant, filled Keriya’s stomach as Elder Sanvire cleared his throat. This meeting would decide her future.

“First to be considered is Sven Aablum,” said Sanvire, his words echoing in the vast chamber. “I shall speak for Sven. His magic is strong. He’s expressed interest in being a Harvester, and we are in great need of Harvesters.”

None of the Elders objected, so Sanvire picked up a piece of chalk and made a mark next to Sven’s name, indicating he’d been deemed worthy. “Keep that in mind when you interpret Sven’s sign, Erasmus.”

Keriya craned her neck to catch a glimpse of Erasmus, the village Healer and—for lack of a better word—her father. He sat in a small alcove near the back of the hall, watching the proceedings. His silver beard, which stood out stark against his sepia skin, glinted as he nodded.

“I shall, Head Elder.”

His serene voice reminded Keriya why her mission today was so important. She wanted to make Erasmus proud. He had taken her in after her mother had died during childbirth, teaching her his trade. He had never been affectionate, but that suited Keriya just fine. She liked that Erasmus wasn’t sentimental. He didn’t coddle her. More importantly, he didn’t pity her.

Sanvire offered Erasmus a curt nod in return. “Next on the list is Selina Abersae. A hard worker, but she struggles with creation magic. Who will speak for her?”

Selina Abersae was eventually found worthy, as were many others; but when the Elders reached Fletcher Earengale’s name, nobody was willing to vouch for him.

Keriya anxiously twisted her fingers through her long hair, which she kept tied back on either side of her head. She prayed someone would speak for her best—and only—friend. In some ways, Fletcher needed this acceptance more than she did.

“The goddess Shivnath, blessed be her name, gave Fletcher’s father a vivid sign during his ceremony,” one Elder offered halfheartedly. “Fletcher may have the same—”

“Tomas Earengale was killed by the dark forest spirits on a salting expedition,” Sanvire interrupted. “He was unworthy, which means his son is unworthy. Besides,” he added snidely, “Fletcher’s magic is as weak as we’ve ever seen.”

It didn’t take much arguing before Fletcher’s name was stricken from the list.

Keriya’s spirits sank. Poor Fletcher. He would be so upset to hear he hadn’t made the cut. He might be given a second chance next cycle if his magic abilities improved, but from all Keriya knew of the subject, it didn’t work like that. Magical prowess was something you were born with—or not. Intentionally trying to increase your power would be as useful as intentionally trying to grow taller.

The Elders slogged through the rest of the names. The sun had long set behind Shivnath’s Mountains by the time they determined Brock Zyvlan was worthy.

“That,” said Sanvire, making his last checkmark, “concludes our work. We are dismissed.”

With the creaking of old bones, the Elders rose from their wooden benches.

Keriya’s heart thundered in her chest. She had known it might come to this, that she might be omitted from the list. She had to act. It was now or never. She stood and pushed through the storage room door.

“Wait! I’d like permission to speak.”

Outraged gasps filled the air as she ran onto the platform. Gazing at the field of livid faces, she was reminded again of everything that made her different. Compared to the warm, earthy coloration of the Aerians, she had pale skin, gray eyes, and waxen hair, which was white and wispy as snowflakes.

“Permission denied,” Sanvire roared. “And you will be punished for this!”

Though she was shorter than average for a girl of fourteen, Keriya lifted her chin and stood her ground before Sanvire’s imposing bulk as he stalked toward her.

“I’ve never been allowed in any of your ceremonies,” she said, prepared to accept a hundred punishments if it meant getting on that list, “and you judged me unworthy to attend school, but I learned everything I need to know from Erasmus. I don’t always do as I’m told, but I shouldn’t be condemned for—”

“Of course you should,” boomed a grumpy Elder. “And you ought to have been condemned many times before now. Head Elder Sanvire, I move to whip her into penitence and lock her in the stocks until the ceremony is over—with a gag in her mouth.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Erasmus. “Keriya will accept your decision in peace.” He swept toward the podium to collect her, face set in a scowl, robes billowing behind him.

“The Ceremony of Choice is a time of new beginnings,” Keriya persisted. “You decide if someone is worthy based not on their past, but on their potential.”

“Your potential is zero,” growled Sanvire. “All of our professions require the use of magic, even the basest, tiniest grasp of magic. You are crippled; you have nothing.”

Her jaw clenched and her cheeks flushed. She’d known they would bring this up. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t let it hurt.

It hurt anyway.

“I could still do something useful,” she said. “I know you need more Harvesters. I could help with that. Or I could work with Erasmus. I know how to make medicines and—”

“And nothing, Nameless,” Sanvire snapped.

Keriya cringed away from the hated epithet. Nameless. That was all she’d ever be to them: a useless, powerless bastard child.

“You are the only person ever to be born without magic, and that alone makes you unworthy to hold a position in our society,” the Head Elder continued. “We hardly need to mention your inability to follow even the simplest of rules, or go into the shameful details about your parents.”

Keriya’s stomach was writhing in misery. Why had she thought this was a good idea? Her mother had been unwed and her father was unknown. She’d been born without a family name, and she lacked the one thing that mattered above all else.

Her fate had been decided long ago.

Still, she forced herself to hold Sanvire’s gaze. If she didn’t do this, she would regret it forever.

“Please,” she whispered. “All I need is one chance.”

“If you participate and Shivnath finds you unworthy, you will die in the forest by her divine will. Or you will return without a sign, in which case you will be named a Lower,” said Sanvire. “You’ll be made to live and work as a servant. Is that a risk you’re willing to take?”

“I’m willing to take it if you are,” she countered. “Even if I die, that wouldn’t be so bad, right?”

She was trying to be lighthearted, but her statement seemed to appeal to the Elders. They nodded to one another and conferred amongst themselves.

“I see you’re not in a joking mood,” she mumbled, fiddling with the loose, fraying sleeves of her brown wool dress.

Sanvire spoke privately with Elders Remaine and Fleuridae. That sent Keriya’s chest feel uncomfortably tight. Fleuridae hated her more than Sanvire did—if that was possible—and Remaine hated everyone.

“We have reached a verdict,” Sanvire announced at length, turning to address the room. “Keriya Nameless will participate in the Ceremony of Choice.”

Keriya’s mouth fell open. She’d hoped and wished and prayed this would happen, but never had she fully believed it would come to pass. The tightness in her chest burst, releasing floods of warmth through her.

“Remember, Shivnath does not make mistakes,” said Sanvire. “Your destiny is in her claws.”

Given his tone and his unpleasant smirk, Keriya figured the Elders were betting she wouldn’t survive the ceremony. That didn’t bother her. If anything, it made her all the more determined to succeed.

Brimming with jubilation, she jumped down the steps of the platform and ran to Erasmus, garnering affronted glances for her flagrant and inappropriate display of emotion. “Erasmus, I can participate!”

“I heard. Now it’s time for us to leave, Keriya. We’ve kept the Elders long enough.”

The Healer escorted her to the heavy oak doors at the end of the hall. Venomous whispers followed her down the aisle, but Keriya was impervious to the Elders’ scorn. Nothing could ruin this moment. She had taken the first step to becoming one of the Aerians.

For the first time in her life, she had been deemed worthy.

CHAPTER TWO

“The beginning is far ahead of us, but we will reach it in the end.”

~ Uhs Broadvayn, Twelfth Age

The rosy glow of morning was stretching across the sky and Keriya hadn’t slept a wink. She’d given up trying long ago and was reading to keep herself from worrying about the ceremony.

The dragon-god Shivnath is the ruler of all that is good and just, and the evil god Helkryvt is her worst enemy. The two have been locked in conflict since the time before time, Shivnath fighting for balance, Helkryvt for power.

In the beginning, Shivnath created Aeria by raising land out of the sea. She took stone and made it fertile; she took saltwater and made it fresh; when she was done, she appeared to her people and gave each of them a portion of her earthmagic. She allowed them to cross over from the wasteland beyond, and they built their village at the foot of her mountains.

Keriya drank up the words from her favorite book, though she’d read them countless times before. At the bottom of the age-softened page was an illustration of Shivnath, gleaming under the light of the beeswax candle that flickered on the table. She traced the dragon’s outline, wincing when she bent her fingers.

“Careful,” Erasmus said as he set a shallow clay dish before her. “You’ll make it worse.”

Keriya dipped her hands in the dish, sighing as aloefern medicine seeped into her wounds. Last night, the Elders had announced the names of those who were worthy to participate in the Ceremony of Choice, and her name was included. They’d also seen fit to whip her hands with a pine branch.

They’d claimed this was punishment for her intrusion on their meeting, but Keriya knew it had been to mollify the furious parents who didn’t want her participating with their children. She was used to the poorly disguised abuse; her arms and back were peppered with little white scars, all marks of disciplinary beatings past. Occasionally she did something to deserve it, like the time she’d filled Elder Sanvire’s rain bucket with worms. But mostly the beatings were for things like ‘not speaking with a respectful tone,’ ‘laughing too loudly in a public space,’ or ‘skipping.’

“You mustn’t cause trouble during the send-off,” Erasmus was saying. “Don’t speak to anyone. Don’t even look at Elder Sanvire. You don’t want to draw attention to yourself.”

“No problem,” she said dryly, knowing she stood out amongst the Aerians like a sunflower in a barren field.

Her eyes flickered again to the illustration in her book. “Do you think I’ll receive a good sign from Shivnath?”

She glanced up to see Erasmus pressing his lips into a thin line. After a crushing pause, he said, “You should be less concerned with Shivnath, and more with the Elders. If you return from the ceremony, you will have them to contend with.”

Keriya wilted in the face of the disheartening sentiment. “What do the Elders know?” she said in a low voice. “Bunch of wrinkled old trolls.”

“Watch your words. They’d banish you if they heard you speak that way.”

“Sorry,” she lied. She refrained from pointing out that if she were banished, she wouldn’t have bloodied hands and bruised forearms all the time.

“The sun is rising,” he said. “It’s time to go.”

Keriya snuffed the candle flame between her fingertips, but lingered over her book before closing it. She admired the delicate inked lines of the dragon god.

“I’ll show them all, Shivnath,” she whispered.

Keriya and Erasmus were the last to arrive at the ceremonial hilltop. The other participants awaited in shivering silence, huddled together against the morning chill. At their backs, the first rays of light broke on the crests of Shivnath’s Mountains, promising bright sun—a rarity for the gray and stormy Aerian climate. Before them, the evergreens of the Felwood loomed like an army of giants glaring at their next victims.

“Pst! Keriya!”

Keriya glanced over her shoulder and her face split in a grin. A skinny boy with tan skin and scruffy, dark hair was making his way through the crowd of onlookers, waving at her.

Fletcher Earengale ducked around a group of adults who shot him sour glares and joined Keriya. Public physical contact was forbidden, but Keriya leaned close and bumped her shoulder against his. It was part of their code, a secret sign of affection.

“You made it,” she whispered, taking her place at the back of the two-hundred-odd clumped participants.

“I wouldn’t have missed it.” Fletcher’s infectious smile overpowered his too-thin face, but Keriya noticed the tightness in his chestnut eyes.

“It isn’t fair. We should be participating together,” she murmured. “I told you, you should have come with me to speak for yourself.”

Fletcher lifted one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “My words wouldn’t have made a difference to the Elders. Besides, there’s always next cycle.”

“When I’m accepted into the village, I’m going to change things,” Keriya promised, watching as Erasmus walked to the head of the forest path to begin officiating the ceremony.

“Any idea what you want to be Named?” asked Fletcher. “Weaver? Baker? Crafter?”

Keriya snorted. “You’re the artist, not me. I can’t craft to save my life.”

By this time, Erasmus had reached his place. He stopped and turned to address his audience. “Congratulations, young Aerians. You have been deemed worthy to become part of our society.”

“You should go before we get in trouble,” Keriya whispered. Fletcher nodded and slowly backed away.

“Before you are accepted among us,” said Erasmus, “you must first receive a sign. You have seven suns to wander on your own, during which time Shivnath will send you a vision that will show what you are to become in life. You know of the darkness in the Felwood—many who have entered have never returned.”

“Keriya,” Fletcher said in a worried undertone, “promise me you’ll stay safe.”

“Of course I will.” Children were forbidden from entering the Felwood outside the Ceremony of Choice, but that had never stopped Keriya. She’d dragged Fletcher along on plenty of adventures in the supposedly deadly forest, and they’d always been fine. “I wouldn’t leave you to fend for yourself against the Elders, would I?”

Fletcher’s throat bobbed and he nodded. “Good luck.” With one last wave, he slipped away and vanished into the crowd.

“Shivnath is the master of life and death, and she may claim some of you as sacrifices,” Erasmus concluded in the background. “Your death will serve to appease her, and your survival will mark your transition into adulthood.”

“I know who won’t be coming back this time,” someone whispered from nearby.

Keriya’s spirits, which had lightened upon seeing Fletcher, sank like a stone through water.

Ignore it, she told herself, gritting her teeth.

“Hey, Nameless!” the whisperer continued. “It’s too bad you’re gonna die in the forest. We haven’t named a Lower in two cycles.”

Keriya shot a glare at Penelope Sanvire, daughter of the Head Elder. She stood a few heights away, surrounded by her friends, twirling a strand of curly black hair around her finger.

“Shut up,” Keriya growled through the corner of her mouth.

“Make me. Oh wait, you can’t.” A cruel smirk crinkled Penelope’s plump cheeks. “You have no magic.”

The fiery hand of shame tightened around Keriya’s throat, and she blinked to stave off the tears that sprang to her eyes. Those four words hurt more than anyone could know.

She wasn’t able to pay attention to the send-off, and she didn’t join in on the group prayer to Shivnath. She kept her mouth shut and her head down.

When the prayer was over Erasmus stepped aside, allowing the participants to enter the trees one by one. He presented each of them with a sheepskin waterbag, the only thing they were permitted to take on their rite of passage.

Keriya opened her mouth, but her voice stuck in her throat. Erasmus discouraged displays of affection, so she couldn’t find the words for a proper goodbye.

Erasmus had nothing to say to her, either. He handed her a waterbag and gestured for her to get going. She offered him a brave smile before hurrying into the forest.

A single footpath snaked through the Felwood—well-worn by the Salters when they traveled to the sea—but multiple game trails branched from it. While the trails were more dangerous, Keriya would rather risk running into wild animals than risk running into Penelope Sanvire.

At the first opportunity, she veered onto a narrow rut that meandered through the undergrowth, relaxing in the cover of the familiar trees.

She uncorked her waterbag and took a small drink. It was filled with water from Lake Sanara, which was said to have powerful healing properties. Though the lake had never actually healed anyone, clean water was essential for survival in the wilderness, and Keriya had to do everything she could to survive this ceremony. She would survive, if only to spite the Elders.

She walked until purple tendrils of twilight wended their way through the forest. Keriya had never believed the stories of the dark spirits that plagued the Felwood, but as a chilly wind stirred the leaves and shadows writhed on the ground, it was hard not to imagine evil things lurked behind every tree.

A branch snapped, deafening in the stillness. Keriya gasped and whirled around.

“Who’s there?” she whispered. There was a long, painful pause.

“I’m sure it was just the breeze,” she explained to a nearby shrub which seemed like it needed reassurance. She crawled beneath its branches to take shelter, piling handfuls of damp, smelly leaves over herself in the vain hope they might keep her warm. It took some time, but eventually she fell into a fitful, dreamless sleep.

Keriya woke to a misty drizzle at dawn and scrounged around for something to eat. Erasmus had taught her to identify edible mushrooms and berries, but there were none to be found. Hungry, wet, and still tired, she walked until it grew dark again. She found a rocky cave that kept her dry as she slept, but the uneven stone floor was the furthest thing from comfortable.

On her third sun of travel—another rare, bright morning—the trees thinned. A dull roar reached her ears, and finally, she was out of the forest. She had come to the edge of a cliff overlooking an impossibly vast body of water.

“The sea,” she murmured, her chest swelling with awe.

The roar came from waves crashing against craggy rocks below, scattering droplets that sparkled and drifted like jeweled dragonflies in the sun. A mist-wreathed, mountainous island loomed in the distance. It was the only interruption in the unbounded horizon, where the blue of the cloudless sky faded into the azure waves.

Keriya felt small, but it wasn’t a bad feeling. There was more out there. The world was a larger place than she’d believed.

So maybe, she thought, as her heart leapt at the thought of new people and faraway lands, there’s a chance I can find a place in it.

She spotted a path that led to the shore and descended to the soft sand. Though the sea was beautiful, she was far more interested in the island. Something about it seemed strange, perhaps even magical.

Keriya was seized by the idea that she’d been destined to come here, that this was where she would find her sign. She waded into the water, obeying the island’s siren call.

Then the sunlight vanished.

She snapped out of her reverie to discover that ominous clouds had rolled in. Keriya wheeled around and sloshed toward the shore. She was in past her knees—what had she been thinking? She didn’t know how to swim! Had she thought she could just stroll over to the island?

The water tugged against Keriya’s shins as an immense wave rose and crashed on her. She crumpled beneath it and hit the ground. Her face scraped against the sand, which no longer felt soft, but sharp and abrasive. She struggled to rise, but a ruthless undertow dragged her from the shallows.

Keriya kicked and flailed. She managed to surface for one more inadequate breath before another wave wrapped her in its arms.

No, no! This was all wrong—she was supposed to survive, to prove she deserved a place in Aeria. It couldn’t end like this. She had promised Fletcher she’d be safe. She couldn’t leave him alone in Aeria.

She clamped her mouth shut and fought to keep her head above the whitecaps, drawing short, searing breaths through her nostrils.

As if guided by Shivnath herself, a black wave swelled and forced Keriya underwater, pushing her into the midnight depths. Her heart, which was flinging itself against her ribs, doubled its frenzied pace as the light faded.

This isn’t happening! It can’t! I won’t let it!

Her white hair swirled around her like spectral seaweed, spiraling upwards weightlessly even as her legs grew heavy. She clawed at the water, trying with all her might to climb to the surface. She could do it. She had to.

Shivnath, Keriya prayed, help me! If you let me live, I’ll always behave. I’ll do whatever the Elders say. I’ll never put poison ivy in Penelope Sanvire’s bed again!

Her entreaties grew more desperate, but if Shivnath was listening, she wasn’t doing anything about it.

Keriya’s lungs were on fire. Her body spasmed of its own accord and she opened her mouth. Frigid liquid stung her nose and flooded her lungs. She tried to cough and found she couldn’t—her throat was constricting in an effort to keep the saltwater out.

The chilling shock of drowning brought one last surge of desperate hope. Keriya had done as her body required: she had breathed.

She kicked again with renewed vigor . . . but something was wrong. Her brain was no longer communicating with her legs. Or her arms, she realized, as she tried to lift them.

Keriya went still and her vision grew dark.

Shivnath . . .

She didn’t have time to finish her last thought before she died.

CHAPTER THREE

“Choice is not the same thing as freedom.”

~ Gorkras Shädar, Second Age

She was surrounded by darkness. She didn’t know who she was, where she was, or how she’d gotten there. Her mind was blank. She was an empty shell, bereft of feeling, desire, or purpose.

The darkness pressed on her weightlessly, infinite and absolute. Worry tickled the corners of her pleasantly vacant brain. She turned to get some sense of direction and found herself facing a phantom shape shrouded in shadow. The figure, which was four times her size, gazed at her with eyes so black they banished all memory of light. Purple slitted pupils slashed their sable depths.

“We meet at last, Keriya,” the phantom whispered.

That name—her name—sparked recognition. Tiny drops of her identity came trickling back, filling the nothingness within her.

“How do you know my name?” said Keriya.

“I know everything about you.”

A deep, primal instinct filled Keriya with the desire to run, but a deeper curiosity overpowered it.

“Who are you?” she asked.

The phantom raised its head and a sourceless, fey light spread across its body. Wonder bloomed in Keriya’s chest. One stray recollection returned to her, flaring like a flame on a pile of dry tinder: she was sitting at a table in a hut, reading a book. She was looking at a page with a picture of a dragon.

That dragon stood before her now.

“You know who I am.” Shivnath’s voice resonated in Keriya’s chest, making her ribcage hum and her heart quiver with fearful excitement. It held the promise of greatness and the threat of destruction all at once.

No picture could do justice to the god’s grandeur. Her dark emerald scales were each edged with a lustrous sparkle. Pearly spikes marched along her spine from the tip of her tail to the base of her reptilian skull, where they met noble horns that curved out and down. Muscular wings protruded from her shoulders, ribbed with clawed fingers like those of a bat.

“I’ve been trying to decide how to deal with you for a long time,” Shivnath admitted. “There was always some reason I couldn’t do as I pleased.”

Keriya swayed as her unblinking gaze swept Shivnath’s lean frame. “Why’s that?”

“All gods are bound by magical laws, and as such, I am unable to meddle in mortal affairs. I may perform earthmagic that indirectly affects every creature in my domain, but I cannot tamper with individual mortals and their problems.”

“Aren’t you tampering with me right now?”

“I’m good at finding the loophole in every rule. But I am not here to talk about the binding laws. I am here because you are dead.”

Keriya furrowed her brows and stared at Shivnath for a long moment. Then she let out an incredulous snort. “That’s not possible.”

“Isn’t it?” said Shivnath, offering a smile that held all the warmth of a glacier. “Why would I lie to you?”

The laughter died on Keriya’s lips.

“You lost your memories when you left your body. I shall return them.”

A rush of visions surged through Keriya’s mind, vivid enough to blind her from her surroundings and so vibrant they made her head ache. She jerked backward to escape the deluge, but the visions burned into the backs of her eyes. She saw her lonely childhood. She saw herself entering the Felwood. She felt herself thrashing in the water. She tasted the burning salt. She was sinking, suffocating. And then . . .

“Oh . . . I’m dead?” It was the strangest feeling. Terror gripped her, yet at the same time she felt consumed by a numb, almost complacent hopelessness. In her struggle to make sense of it, her first instinct was to argue.

“If I’m dead, how can I be talking to you? Seeing you? How can I perceive myself?”

“While your body may expire and rot away, there will always be an essence, a tangle of magicthreads—your soul—which can never be unraveled,” Shivnath explained. “It is what makes you who you are.”

Keriya hugged her arms to her stomach. She couldn’t be dead, could she? Of course not. She was alive and breathing—at least, that was what it felt like.

But Shivnath would never lie to her.

“I have a question for you,” said Shivnath. “What possessed you to leave my domain and enter the Chardons’ territory? Why did you go into the sea?”

“I’m dead,” Keriya murmured in a hollow voice.

“We’ve already established that. Now answer me.”

Keriya drew a ragged breath and gave herself a shake. She examined her newly returned memories, struggling to rearrange them.

“I saw something,” she said slowly. “An island. I wanted to go there. I thought it was magic, though I’m not sure what magic feels like. It just felt . . . different.”

“You are an interesting creature,” Shivnath mused. “I’ve decided that having you dead is unacceptable. Thanks to certain powers of mine, I have the ability to restore life, and thanks to certain loopholes in the binding laws, I will give you back yours. However, before I do such a thing, I would ask that you do something for me.”

A surge of relief, so strong it nearly shattered her, swept through Keriya. “Yes,” she said, covering her mouth with shaking hands. “Anything!”

“What do you know of the far side of my mountains?”

“Only that it’s a wasteland.”

“Wrong,” Shivnath replied flatly. “Beyond the mountains is a land called Allentria, and Allentria is on the verge of war.”

“What’s war?”

“Ah, to live such a sheltered life as an Aerian. War is a state of violent conflict between two or more opposing factions.”

“Like an argument?”

“A big argument.” The corners of Shivnath’s scaly lips twitched as if she wanted to smile. “Ten ages ago, my brethren sought to destroy the most powerful dark force our world has ever known—and they failed. This was Necrovar, the physical manifestation of evil. His war has lasted since the dawn of mankind, for humans are inherently evil.”

Keriya frowned but, reflecting on how the Aerians treated her, decided she did not necessarily disagree.

“In the Second Age, Necrovar took human form and began his conquest. He attacked the mortal nations before setting his sights on the creatures who posed the biggest threat to him: the dragons. Then, at the height of Necrovar’s power, as he was poised for victory, he was defeated by the leader of the World Alliance.” Shivnath paused before she spoke the name: “Valerion.”

“Valerion,” Keriya echoed softly.

“Valerion begged the gods to help him end the war, and we agreed. Using his magic, we bypassed the binding laws that keep our power in check. We wove a spell that imprisoned Necrovar in a place where he could no longer hurt us, a parallel universe called the Etherworld. In order to preserve the magical balance, the spell also imprisoned the dragons.”

Keriya waited in breathless silence for Shivnath to continue. The god’s nostrils flared. A subtle change came over her sculpted features, like twilight creeping across a valley.

“But the spell was imperfect, for one dragon escaped it. And now Necrovar has grown powerful enough to tear the magicthreads that separate our world and his prison.”

“Ah,” said Keriya. There was the catch she’d been waiting for.

“He will return to finish the war he started. He intends to kill that dragon, while the Allentrians seek to use it as a weapon. I cannot allow either of those things to happen.”

Keriya nodded. “Of course.”

“So, to save the dragon, I need you to go to Necrovar in its place.”

Keriya paused mid-nod and stared at Shivnath. “I’m sorry, you want me to . . . ?”

“That’s right.”

This seemed like a dangerous sort of adventure—which was admittedly the best kind—but while the idea of it appealed to Keriya, she knew she was in no way fit for the job.

“I’ve read enough stories to know where this is going,” she said. “I’m guessing you need me to fight Necrovar for you?”

“More or less.”

“You do know I’m powerless, right? I don’t have any magic.”

“I know exactly what you are, which is why I will weave some of my magic into your soul.”

The words pierced Keriya’s haze of confusion. A lightness spread through her, suffusing her limbs with sparkling warmth. Magic. She was going to have magic! And not any old magic, but Shivnath’s magic.

“Be warned that I will not allow you to freely access the power within you. It will be veiled until the right moment. Then it will be gone forever.”

The elation drained from Keriya as quickly as it had come. What good was magic if she couldn’t use it whenever she wanted?

“Magic is not to be abused,” Shivnath growled, as if in response to her thoughts. She bared a set of impressive, gleaming fangs. “It is not a tool for your foolish human whimsies.”

“I—I’m sorry,” Keriya stammered, cringing before the dragon’s wrath. Shivnath wasn’t anything like the benevolent, loving guardian the Aerians claimed her to be.

“You trust what the Aerians say, do you?” Shivnath sneered. Yes, she was definitely reading Keriya’s mind. “They know nothing. You cannot trust anyone, Keriya. The sooner you learn that, the better.”

“Then how do I know I can trust you?” she asked, trying to inject some levity into the increasingly unnerving conversation.

“You don’t.”

A chill trickled down Keriya’s spine. “Shivnath, that was kind of a joke.”

“I do not joke,” Shivnath told her stiffly.

“Right. I’ll keep that in mind.”

There was another stretch of silence. Keriya opened her mouth, and one question of the millions she pondered slipped out, unbidden.

“Why should I do this?”

The words hung in the air between them, ringing in the stillness, and at once she wished she could take them back.

“Why should you do this?” The god’s voice was no longer cold and angry; now it was slow and calculating. She drummed her talons on the invisible ground. “You mean aside from the fact that you will remain dead if you don’t?”

Keriya winced. Why couldn’t she have kept quiet? It wasn’t like she had a choice in the matter.

“There is always a choice, Keriya,” said Shivnath. For the first time, a glimmer of compassion softened her hard face. “The trick is not to choose the lesser of two evils, but to rise above the evil once chosen. The ninth binding law states that I cannot force you to do anything against your will. You alone must decide where to go from here.”

It wasn’t so much the advice, but the unexpected kindness with which it was given, that made Keriya relent.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I asked that. I didn’t mean it.”

“Oh, I think you did . . . but that’s all for the best. I expect you’d want to do this because if you save that dragon, you will be a hero. Heroes are important and powerful. They are brave and they do great deeds,” said Shivnath. “And the best thing about heroes is that everyone loves them. Isn’t that what you want?”

Yes, sang a tiny voice in Keriya’s head. But wanting something and deserving it were two very different things.

“Why me?” she whispered.

“Because,” said Shivnath, “I chose you.”

This was not the grand explanation Keriya had hoped for, nor the cryptic prophecy she had expected. It seemed to be the truth—albeit a truth so simple that it couldn’t be the whole story.

“If you consent, I will weave my magic into your soul. You should know that it is a painful procedure.”

“I’m not afraid of pain.” That was a lie, but Keriya would gladly brave pain to gain power.

Shivnath raised her paw and drew her claws through the air. A rip in the void appeared, as if she was tearing the fabric of space itself. It led to some unknown place: a world beyond worlds, outside of time and beyond comprehension. From this opening, a shimmering purple vapor misted toward Keriya. It settled on her skin, cold and damp, and soaked into her.

For one wonderful instant, her body surged with energy. Magic, sweet and delicious, lived within every fiber of her being. It wormed its way through her veins until it burned her from her skin to her core. She felt she might explode from the sheer volume of power coursing through her. Though she was already dead, she feared this would destroy whatever was left of her—her soul, as Shivnath had called it.

But the feeling faded and she remained intact. The rip in the void shrank to nothing, mending neatly. All that was left of the pain was a memory and an itchy feeling in Keriya’s eyes. She blinked and rubbed them until they watered.

“It is done,” whispered Shivnath. “Time for you to return to your world.”

Keriya didn’t feel any different, but she knew that somewhere deep within her a great power was waiting to be set free. Though she couldn’t feel it, knowing it was there gave her courage.

A sphere of light materialized before her, and a shoreline swam into view within its depths. A small figure lay on the beach, bedraggled and limp. Keriya recognized it as her own body and her gut clenched. She wanted to live again, to leave the darkness of death far behind.

The light grew, swirling around her and wrapping her in white-gold tendrils. Keriya’s heart was overflowing with things she wanted to say, but all she could manage was, “Thank you, Shivnath.”

Shivnath tilted her head. “Thank you, Keriya.”

Keriya awoke to the kiss of a soft breeze on her cheek. She pushed herself up on her elbows, blinking against the brightness. A laugh bubbled out of her—she was alive again, sprawled on the sandy beach! The sun had never felt so warm, the air had never been so fresh, and her world had never been so beautiful.

Now she had to make good on her end of the bargain. She had to go to Allentria, find Necrovar and . . . what? Kill him? Shivnath had been vague on the details.

Thinking about it, she had to laugh. If she were the Elders, she’d lock herself up for being crazy. She must have passed out in the sea and washed ashore. Maybe it had all been a dream.

“Obviously it was a dream,” she muttered, rising and trudging toward a tidal pool. She knelt on a barnacle-speckled rock and leaned over to splash water on her face.

She froze.

“My eyes!”

Her reflection floated on the surface of the pool, above the rocks and algae, but her eyes were no longer gray. They had turned a vibrant, luminous shade of purple. She tilted her head this way and that, clutching at her cheeks.

Cold pressure built in Keriya’s chest as she and her reflection gaped at each other. This would solidify the Aerians’ worst suspicions. They would banish her. They might kill her. Nobody had been accused of witchcraft in ten cycles, but she remembered the public execution of the last woman who’d been found guilty of using dark magic and consorting with evil spirits. Her screams still sometimes found their way into Keriya’s nightmares.

Keriya desperately squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. They were still purple. The same shade of purple as Shivnath’s slitted pupils.

It hadn’t been a dream. Everything had been real. Her shaking hands strayed from her face to her chest, as if trying to sense the magic locked inside her. She couldn’t feel it, but knowing it was there calmed her.

A sense of purpose and power stole through her. She was going to become a hero. She was going to do as Shivnath had asked.

She would have to kill Necrovar.

CHAPTER FOUR

“The eyes betray the soul.”

~ Moorfainian Proverb

Roxanne Fleuridae gathered her dark, wavy hair into an elegant twist and secured it with a ribbon. She pulled on her finest green dress and leggings, which complemented her hazel eyes and hugged her slender form. Finally, she crushed some rose petals in a bowl and dabbed the paste on the warm-brown skin of her wrists. She was ready for the Ceremony of Names.

She had ample time to spare before the ceremony, but was too nervous to sit around and wait. She needed a distraction. Since her father was meeting with the other Elders, she was free to leave her hut.

She drifted through Aeria in a trancelike state, reflexively dodging Penelope Sanvire and her group of sycophantic friends. They were a nasty bunch, and they always caused trouble. Eventually, her feet brought her to the grassy plateau where the Ceremony of Choice began.

Roxanne had returned from the ceremony last night, but she hadn’t seen a sign during her sojourn in the Felwood. No dreams had come to her. No visions had gripped her.

People who didn’t receive signs didn’t have futures. Without a sign, she would be given no name in tonight’s ceremony, and without a name, she would have no place in Aeria. She would end up as a Lower, one of the village slaves.

She’d have to lie to Erasmus. The Healer interpreted the signs the worthy children received and granted them names accordingly. Surely she could concoct a clever, believable story, something that would earn her a good name and trade.

Originally she’d hoped to be named a Hunter, one of the brave souls who ventured into the forest to catch game and kill off wild predators. Now she would settle on anything. Even becoming a boring Harvester or a simple Sheepherder was better than being named a Lower.

“Roxanne?”

Roxanne jumped at the sound of her name. Sitting by the head of the forest footpath was a small boy with scruffy brown hair and an overlarge nose. His drab garments, almost the same shade as his fallow skin, were threadbare and poorly made.

“Oh!” she said. “Flint, isn’t it?”

“Fletcher, actually.” He smiled as he stood and approached her. “What are you doing out here?”

“I can take a walk if I like,” she snapped. “What about you? You’re not allowed here, either.”

“I was waiting for Keriya. She’ll automatically be named a Lower if she doesn’t return before moonrise tonight.”

Roxanne raised one of her finely sculpted eyebrows. She recognized him now—he was one of the Earengale boys. He was bullied almost as much as Nameless, for his magic was so weak he could barely use it.

“I wouldn’t bother,” said Roxanne. “She’s probably dead.”

Fletcher didn’t respond, though it was clear the same thought had crossed his mind.

Roxanne decided to return to town since she didn’t feel like talking. To her irritation, Fletcher followed as she walked away, trotting after her like a little lost sheep. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” she said curtly, though home was the last place she wanted to be. She paused at the crest of the hill to let Fletcher go his own way. Instead he hovered by her side.

“What do you want?” she moaned.

“Nothing,” he said, his chestnut eyes widening. “I thought we were leaving.”

“I was leaving,” she clarified. If her father saw her consorting with the likes of Fletcher, she’d be in trouble. “So if you’ll excuse me, I . . .”

She trailed off, and Fletcher scrunched his nose in confusion. “What’s wrong?”

Roxanne pointed over his shoulder. She couldn’t believe it. There, limping out of the Felwood, was Keriya Nameless.

“Keriya!” With a delighted laugh, Fletcher ran toward his friend. Roxanne followed out of sheer curiosity. She was shocked the girl had survived the ceremony—the Felwood was a dangerous place even for people who had magic to defend themselves.

Keriya spread her arms to embrace Fletcher, but he slowed to a halt before he reached her. Roxanne stopped a few heights from them because it had become clear that Keriya was not alright.

“What happened to you?” whispered Roxanne. She wasn’t easily rattled, but snakes of fear coiled in her gut as she gaped at Keriya’s newly purple eyes.

“That’s a bad omen if ever I saw one,” said Fletcher.