Chapter One
Above the city of Arvila, a hawk cut across the open sky, wings molding the air into an invisible path. It glanced from side to side. The sweeping planes below and the forest to the north were unfamiliar. And the scent of air was missing a certain essential quality, something that made the world it knew whole. The hawk shrieked and began to descend, not into the flourishing autumn landscape it knew so well, but somewhere entirely strange.
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Two-toned stones clattered to the floor of the castle wall. Around the game sat two guardsmen, few in years and possessing even less patience. With a smug smile, Dail Resher scooped up the pile and rolled the stones possessively around in his hand. “Four blacks,” he said. “I win again.”
Gavin Sayer, poised on the balls of his feet, sat back down with a sigh. “The white sides must be heavier,” he muttered, tugging at his collar. “That’s how they always end up on the bottom.” Armor, even light armor made more for show than protection, was never comfortable, especially this time of year. Not even a trace of wind had blown through the city for what seemed like weeks, and the two guardsmen felt the rewards of getting out of the sweltering heat and into what little shade the wall offered far outweighed the risk of getting caught, even by a man as strict as their superior. He brushed a curl of hair from his blue eyes and squinted at the sun. They had been at the game for two hours and no one had noticed. The corner tower gave a good deal of cover, and the rest of the guard was on the other side of the wall, in all likelihood doing the same thing as them. If only he could win a few rounds.
He glanced over to a group of barrels used for holding spare arrows and bolts, a glint of sunlight catching his eye. His spear, leaning on the barrels, seemed to mock him with its gleam of fiery light, telling him to give up this silly game and do something worthwhile. There was some truth in the thought. He had always been better at fighting, at least with the spear, than standing on the wall watching the clouds float by. It almost made him wish for a war, one legends seemed to be so full of. Gods. Men who could destroy entire armies alone. Mages who could move mountains and bring down flaming boulders from the heavens with a flick of their fingers. Even the darker things—demons, vampires, choking fog that could suck the soul right out of a bystander. All of it seemed so much better than this—this era where the only wars were with world-weary empires from the East and the occasional barbarian tribes from far in the North. Someday he was going to leave the castle. It was a childish dream, but one he hadn’t quite given up on.
Dail cleared his throat and thrust the stones toward him. He sat cross-legged with a standard-issue sword lain across his lap. It was an heirloom weapon, the same one his father had used when he had completed his service years ago. “You said that last time, too, but it was with the black side.” He grinned. “I guess you’re just cursed.”
Gavin blinked himself out of the daydream and let the pile fall into his hands. Time to lose again. Something suddenly darkened the playing field, spreading deeper shadows across the floor like spilt water. An ominous pit formed in his stomach. He glanced across at his friend and saw him staring above his head with widened, terrified eyes. Gavin swallowed hard and turned around.
General Volkner Zayin, commander of the entire Rodylian army and quite possibly the most terrifying man in the entire country, stared down through thick eyebrows, his teeth grinding in frustration. On his hip sat a sword, the well-worn grip attesting to the weapon’s unofficial nickname—Bloodbath. Zayin stroked the sword in contempt as he locked eyes with the two shirking guards. “The last time I checked, Sayer, Resher, playing halfstone was not an official duty of the Rodylian Guard. I’ll give you three seconds for you two to get out of my sight and get back to your jobs before I toss you over the battlement.” His eye twitched irritably, and he loosened Bloodbath.
The general was not a strict man, or so he said. He believed in the queen’s authority, his own authority under her, and the unrivaled majesty of the whole nation of Rodylia. And may the gods help whoever got in the way of him trying to complete his duty. Some of the older soldiers told stories of when he had bent a spear in half with his bare hands, and Gavin was sure that his old enemies in Taribre still remembered the Wolf of the West and his fierceness on the battlefield. The tedium of the peace times did not fit him, and he tended to take out his pent up aggression on unfortunate underlings—like Gavin.
Both Gavin and Dail had the ill luck of being recognizable to Zayin in more ways than one. Four years ago, when a majority of officers had traveled to the East for a treaty session, only the highest ranked soldiers were left behind to mentor the recruits. Hence, the then captain had spent six months with what he deemed “the most pathetic excuse for a regiment since before the War.”
Gavin snapped up his spear and scrambled to his feet; Dail did likewise. “This game isn’t over,” he muttered to Dail. Gavin nodded a quick salute to Zayin and sprinted in the opposite direction of his friend. The general wasn’t kidding, he knew that much. At the other end of the wall, once Zayin was nothing more than a scornful dot, he took a few deep breaths and looked out at the city, Arvila, the capital and once-grandest city in the West.
Sprawling streets, becoming thinner and more plentiful as they reached the slums, lay in geometric patterns of rectangles and circular plazas. Hundreds, maybe thousands of years ago the best architects in the country planned the layout of the city, one that would be the envy of the rest of the world. Sculptors came from as far away as Lodan’s Wall to add their works to the newly-built castle and palaces, in hopes that their memory would last as long as the stone from which they were carved.
Today, Gavin couldn’t help but feel that the grandeur of the old days had weathered away with the statues’ faces. Arvila was still beautiful in its own way, but it was just a city now, not a center of culture or anything to be copied by visionaries, not like Druth. It had become mundane, but for the presence of the monarch. Merchants and artisans made their homes near West Gate, near the Road, where the most of the traffic came through. Kings Street, the widest in the city, spread from there to the gate of the castle walls. In the northern part of the city lay the slums, the dirty part of town where thieves, murderers, the poor, and other unsociables made their homes. The only signs of commerce in those parts were the occasional tavern or beaten-down old inn.
The area nearest the castle walls held many of the servants’ quarters, his mother’s among them. Gavin tended to avoid his childhood home as much as possible. Not because of unhappy memories, but because of the lack of any significant memories at all. Being forced to join the guard five years ago had been the only remotely interesting thing that ever happened to him.
A hawk whistled over the city, swooping down near one of the warehouses near the quaters. Gavin mouth twitched into a smile—at last he had something to watch aside from the people going about their business below. A dark shape, hidden by what looked like a cloak and the haze of distance, scurried out of the same warehouse the hawk had alighted on and into another alley. Gavin watched for a second longer. Most of the buildings around that part of town were supposed to be abandoned, extra storage houses that never got around to being used. At the very least, it was illegal to use one without a permit. Should he find Zayin? It would make it seem as if he was trying.
He took one last glance in the direction of the warehouse, making sure he would be able to point it out once again, and it erupted into flame. A bright light shook Gavin’s consciousness and forced him to shield his eyes. A split-second past, and he heard a sharp, prickling boom. He stumbled backward, trying to recover his shaken balance.
He panted, watching the flames disappear into smoke, adrenaline clutching at his heart. Gavin shook his head and rushed back to the tower where he and Dail had been playing halfstone mere minutes ago—only to slam into the general as he leapt out of the spiral staircase. Zayin gruffly pushed Gavin aside with one hand, as he walked to the wall, barely even acknowledging him. The battle-hardened man’s forehead was knit with confusion and shock as he looked at the smoldering remains of the warehouse.
“You see anything?” he grumbled.
Gavin was mute, too entranced by the billowing smoke to speak. What could have done something like that? Once before when he was much younger, he had seen a mage create flame out of thin air; with a sharp pop, the same mage had incinerated a piece of straw. The spectacle with the warehouse has been similar, but exponentially more terrifying. He absently wondered if anyone had been killed.
“Sayer!” Zayin snapped. “Answer the question.”
“There was a man,” Gavin finally. “I think he ran outside right before it happened.”
Zayin crossed his arms. “You’re a witness.” It wasn’t a question, more a statement of a fact he was deeply disappointed with. Because of it, he would need to speak to the guardsman, not just yell at him for being a buffoon.
The general rubbed his eyes. “I need to organize the men for a search. Sayer, you go to the audience hall and wait there. Don’t do anything stupid.” He left down the winding staircase leading to the courtyard. If the out-of-practice soldiers still remembered what to do in an emergency, a legion would be waiting for orders.
The audience hall. Gavin rubbed the butt of his spear in agitation and, a few moments later, followed Zayin.
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Thanks very much for reading. Any suggestions/criticisms are completely welcome. I also had some trouble thinking of a title, so this is one probably only temporary.
I thoroughly enjoyed reading this. 
