Blood Rites (Veyer Krellion Short Story)

Veyer Krellion is not one to be nervous.

They have lived most of their life in pursuit of one thrill or another. Some (their parents, for instance) would call them reckless—recklessly disregarding their own safety and irresponsibly endangering their family name and legacy. To a certain degree, Veyer agrees with the assessment. It is in their nature to push back against restrictions, social or otherwise, simply because they exist.

The trait has served them well in some instances and failed them utterly in others. Considering where they are headed now, they will have to reign in their quick-tempered impulses. What their family found vexing and the Farans called endearing and the Guild branded tolerable… the Imperial court will no doubt consider undesirable.

You must mind your tongue in Erenvor, Veyer. House Nesarian demands nothing less than perfect obedience from its court mages. A single stray word to the wrong person at the wrong time will have circumstances more dire than you can imagine.

Ashani’s warning echoes in their mind, clear as the day they spoke those words.

I ask this favour of you because there is no one else I trust. The Axe of Athor is in the possession of the Imperial court. It must be observed, any changes recorded. You are Arathian, from a respected family. Of those of us who remain, you are best positioned to join the court and execute this subterfuge. That is the skill you are most proud of, no?

A flush creeps across the nape of their neck at the memory. Subterfuge is not what they would call it, though many did see it that way. Sathir, Calantha, Dravaden, Naro. Ten years of their life. Ten years of breathtaking sights seen, friends made, and lovers loved. Ten years of a journey they thought had no end, letting Nashira guide their way with a flippant toss of a coin. It was in Farandor—the beautiful, frozen country of dazzling fjords and glistening peaks, the country whose memory still makes their heart ache—that they were the most honest version of themself. The most genuine.

Naturally, that was when they were arrested, accused of being an Arathian spy, and held as a political prisoner. The irony of that final day still grates on them.

Veyer picks at a nail and peers through the window of their stalled carriage, a desperate attempt to curb the unexpected anxiety roiling in their stomach. The carriage has sat here, perched awkwardly on a steep slope, boiling in the afternoon sun while its path remains blocked by the swarming horde flooding the street. Angry shouts thunder in Veyer’s ears and they sink further into their seat, their serithan bunching awkwardly about them, embroidered silk sticking to their thighs.

They’ve always hated garments like this. They loathe how naked they feel beneath the fabric, exposed and vulnerable, the skirts tangled between their legs. On a different day, in a different place, they’d be pleased with how the flowing robe shows off their tattoos, but not here. Not in Erenvor.

Thank Metisara for their talents. An Arathian elf, marked with Faran ink… Guild mage or not, they would be mobbed the moment they stepped out of the carriage.

A shadow flickers by and something heavy knocks into the carriage. Veyer curses, the force nearly throwing them from their seat, and pulls themself up. They chance another glance out the window.

A flash of fists and nails and feet rolls past the carriage, a pair of degenerates locked in an angry brawl. Uncontrolled magic siphons off them, the colour cracking through the air like lightning. An undirected blast of Disruption magic hits the cobblestones and blows stone and mortar into the sky, the pieces thrown in every direction, crushing anyone in their path.

Blood splatters and Veyer flinches, turning away from the horror unleashed before their eyes. Screams pierce the air and the crowd surges, the rush of feet pounding against what remains of the road as dozens of bystanders scramble away. Desperate shouts fill the street and guards in Imperial red push laboriously through the crowd, the sun reflected painfully in their spear-tips. Another fight breaks out, and then another and another and soon the road erupts into dust and stone and blood.

Veyer swallows, their mouth as dry as the air outside. Panic twists in their gut, torn between the choice to flee and take their chances and the choice to stay and hide. They know how these things play out—or, at least, they’ve been told. Once a riot begins, there is little the guards can do to quell it. And with uncontrolled magic involved… the street could turn into a bloodbath at any moment.

Their carriage has gone unnoticed for now and the wards provide much needed protection from rampant magic. But they will not protect from grasping hands and pummeling fists. They’re a noticeable target, sitting here trapped in their finery. But if they leave and attempt to escape with the crowd, they could easily be the victim of the next person to accidentally shred a street apart.

They squeeze their eyes shut, chewing their tongue, desperately hoping the sensation will provide a distraction. Unlike many of their peers in the Guild, they are not a combat mage. They are not trained for battle. They have never seenbattle. Though they could theoretically weave an illusion about themself to make them unnoticeable, they are hardly in a mindset where they could even try.

They can’t even think of casting magic. Every attempt has it slipping through their fingers like water.

Damn it all… Why couldn’t we use a Pallaedrion like every other respectable city?

The thought roars in their mind, but they already know the answer. Erenvor’s Pallaedrion network failed that morning, sabotaged by dissenters. The Imperial court was kind enough to provide a warded carriage and a driver instead. Controlled solely through magic, of course, not unlike the Velantian ferries. But knowing where this has led them, Veyer wishes they had refused the gesture, turned their back on the whole blasted city, and walked right back on the ship.

Think, you fool. You can either stay or you can go. Worrying yourself sick over it won’t improve your lot.

Looking for something—anything—to keep themself occupied, Veyer brushes a sweaty hand across their brow and twists their dark hair into a knot at the nape of their neck. Heart hammering in their chest, they reach into their sash, searching for the dagger once gifted to them in Naro.

Their fingers close over empty air.

The dagger was left in Diradan Tower on Oshiro’s advice. They wouldn’t be allowed to bring it into the Imperial city, and certainly not the palace. What did he say, again?

Best leave anything dear to you behind. Especially the sharp, pointy kind. You never know when it could be used against you.

Not once did Veyer ask how long Lethalis intended for them to be in Erenvor. They hope it’s not for long—a year, maybe two. Despite Ashani personally requesting their help, it was Oshiro who shoved the whole affair down their throat afterward. Some infuriating nonsense about how it was their duty to go to Erenvor. As the youngest member of Lethalis and the only native Arathian left…

The memory makes Veyer’s blood boil.

You’re doing this for Ashani. You owe them, remember?

But as the crowd tears through the street, erratic magic singeing the air, Veyer thinks they have asked far too much of them. The carriage rocks terribly to one side, a shout bellows from the front, and a sickening crunch resounds from the front. Veyer freezes in terror, their mind frozen with the realization that their driver may have just been killed.

“Fuck,” they whisper. “Fuck…”

The carriage door tears open, wrenched clean off its hinges. Veyer shrinks to the far side, pressing up against the window as emerald magic sputters between their fingers. The act is desperate, an urgent attempt born out of terror to throw up an illusion and weave themself out of sight and mind.

Not fast enough.

Clawing hands seize their arm, dragging them off their seat. Veyer resists and pulls back against the iron grip. Sharp nails dig into their skin, tearing lines of blood down their arm. They hiss in pain and twist sideways, grunting as they roll onto the carriage floor, their teeth jarred.

Breath knocked from their lungs, they raise their head and stare into the wild eyes of their attacker. Grey eyes gleaming faintly red, sparks of conjured lightning crackling around their head. A brown serithan, torn and muddied, the sash already stained with blood.

The man sneers, his lips pulling back into a horrifying smile as he looks Veyer up and down. He lingers on their elegant serithan, embroidered and bejewelled to fit the tastes of the Imperial court. It is the most expensive item they have ever owned.

“Emperor’s bootlicker,” he spits, his unrestrained magic now streaming off his arms, his face, his eyes. Veyer has never seen the like; even the Guild novitiates know better than to tap into their powers in such a way. “Out you come—”

Veyer bears their teeth, hissing and scrabbling, fighting with every fibre of their being as the man drags them face-first from the carriage. Their foot hooks something—the bottom of the seat? They don’t know what—and halts their progression. The man heaves, cursing, and releases his grip. Veyer collapses over the side, half in and half out, dark hair flying into their eyes as their head hangs inches from the cobblestoned road.

“Fucking noble d—”

The man chokes. A hideous wet stickiness showers the nape of Veyer’s neck and the pungent tang of iron fills their nostrils. They gasp, chest heaving, and pull themself upright, shrinking onto the floor of the carriage as they take in the sight before them.

A spear tip thrusts through the man’s throat. He gurgles, choking on his own blood, eyes wide with terror, hands spasming at his sides. With a rough, horrific crunch, the spear removes itself from his throat and he collapses, dead on the ground.

“What a waste,” a disgusted voice says.

Veyer raises their eyes and beholds their saviour.

An elven man stands before them, his strong frame backlit by the afternoon sun. His thick, black hair unravels from its elegant braids, cascading over his shoulders. Though he carries himself with the air of a sovereign, he is dressed plainly in a nondescript green abberan. One jacket sleeve is torn clean off, showing a thickly muscled arm. White light mists across his skin, the remnants of a ward fading into the sunlight.

If Veyer didn’t know better, he could be a sentinel of legend, striding out of the annals of history to do battle once again.

“Sorry, friend,” the elven warrior says, stepping over the dead man as if he were little more than a stone in the road. “I need to borrow this.”

Without waiting for a reply, he clambers unceremoniously over Veyer and into the carriage. They pause, rooted to the floor, overly aware of the hot, sticky blood dripped down their neck and staining the back of their serithan. Though they despise wearing the thing, it was a gift from Ashani.

Ruined.

The riot roils around them, a symphony of screams and howls and broken magic. The man curses and seizes the edge of the empty door frame, yanking himself off the seat. He sticks his head out, glossy black hair curling around his shoulders.

“Nasaia!” he bellows. “We’re leaving!”

A human woman in stained leather armour thunders down the path. She leaps into the vacant driver seat with practiced, efficient grace, her waist-length black braid whipping out behind her. The carriage takes off, lurching so terribly Veyer nearly falls through the empty frame. They push themself against the far wall of the carriage, teeth rattling as the carriage trundles over every rut and stone in the road. Sights they wish they had never seen blur together as it picks up speed. Their stomach churns, yet they cannot look away from the horrors flooding Erenvor’s streets.

The elven man perches on his seat, periodically hanging out the broken door to survey the shattered streets with a discerning eye. His fingers flex around his spear, holding it close. “My apologies, friend,” he says through gritted teeth. “Erenvor continues to prove itself a stubborn beast.”

Veyer nods in silence. Their throat is too thick to speak, congealed, like the blood coating their hair, their skin… The image of that man’s throat ripped open stains their memory. They cannot see anything else.

The elf frowns. “Why don’t you sit?” he says, gesturing to the seat beside him. “Surely the floor is not comfortable—”

“I’m fine.”

He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

A blast shakes the carriage. The man’s companion curses from the front of the carriage and it lurches horrendously to one side. It sails around a corner and into a narrow alley, bashing into a wall with such force that Veyer nearly bites their tongue.

They squeeze their eyes shut. Fuck, fuck, fuck…

“I must thank you, friend,” the man says, speaking as idly as an aristocrat at a gala. “If it weren’t for your fortunate position on the road we would likely all be dead.”

Their head lolls on their shoulders, faint, uncontrolled laughter bubbling across their lips. “I would,” they manage hoarsely, eyes fluttering open. “You, on the other hand, have demonstrated quite clearly you’re more than capable.”

“Sheer luck,” he replies. He flexes his fingers, shifting the spear so it rests comfortably against his shoulder. The tip is streaked with half-crusted blood. “Nashira blessed me today. I am no soldier.”

“Could have fooled me, friend.”

The word slips out, a sarcastic echo of the man’s earlier words and a hollow ghost of Veyer’s usual dry humour. They curse inwardly, wishing they had bit their tongue before they play the fool in front of their rescuer—

The man smiles.

Veyer freezes, brows drawn together in confusion, as a delighted smile creeps across his face. The man chuckles quietly and draws himself up, sweeping his glistening black hair over his shoulder as he peers out the open carriage, keen eyes observing the alley walls, watching for an exit.

“Aris, please,” he says. “I think our present circumstances have done away with the need for formality, don’t you?”

They pause. Unwilling to move, unwilling to speak.

“What House do you hail from?” he continues smoothly. “I will ensure you and your family are properly compensated for your troubles—”

“No House,” Veyer croaks. They swallow hard, their mouth still impossibly dry. “Guild mage.”

His mouth opens, tongue resting against his upper lip, recognition gleaming in his grey eyes. “Ah. I see. From Velantis?”

They nod.

“Fascinating. I suppose that explains what an Imperial carriage was doing in the middle of the high street long after the Pallaedrions went down. The Erenvor nobility would rather cower in their villas than risk the streets. Even when they oppose Calas’ reign behind closed doors, they would choose complacency over revolution.”

Veyer inhales sharply, their fingers gripping their serithan, twisting the stained fabric between their fingers. This man—Aris—speaks so easily, so candidly, it takes them a moment to understand the meaning of his words.

Words that disparage the emperor.

Words that can get you killed in Erenvor.

Words that are unquestionably, undoubtedly treason.

Aris notes their silence with an amused look, the rattling of carriage wheels against shattered stone grinding in their ears. Veyer raises their chin and sets their jaw, meeting his eyes with a resolute gaze. They know the gravity of the words this man has spoken, and what he has pulled them into simply by speaking them. They were a coward before, when the riot began. They refuse to be now.

“And what do you choose?” they ask.

A sly smile crosses his handsome face. “I didn’t catch your name, friend,” he says. “I can’t very well flee across Erenvor and call my companion Guild mage, now can I? I may be a mongrel in my mother’s eyes, but she did raise me to be polite.”

Veyer swallows. “Veyer,” they murmur. “Veyer Krellion.”

Aris breaks into an open grin. “Krellion, hm? I’ve heard the name before. A merchant family, well-funded and well-travelled. I suppose their voyages explain those tattoos on your arms, or do I have the pleasure of speaking to a Faran sympathizer?”

They curse, crossing their arms across their chest, fingers digging into the soft flesh in a desperate attempt to cover what they can.

Aris throws back his head and laughs, grey eyes glimmering with mirth. “Have no fear, Veyer, I will not tell a soul. Whatever your history with them may be, you are bold to stroll into Erenvor with the markings of our enemy engraved on your skin. If you intend to remain in Erenvor for long, I suggest you find a way to keep those concealed.”

“I…”

Their words are strangled in their mouth, their terror refusing to subside while screams rip through the air and the carriage rams against the alley wall. Though they are desperate to cover themself with an illusion, their magic remains impossibly out of reach.

Damn it all. Why is it impossible to string two words together? Is this what fear does to a person? They have never been afraid in their life, but step on foot in the Imperial capital and the city is determined to break them.

Don’t let it. You’re clever. You will get through this.

“I would gladly offer help, should you need it,” Aris continues. “I’d hate to see a fellow Arathian subject suffer thanks to the emperor’s prejudices—”

“I’m fine,” Veyer spits out. “I’m a savant, I have my methods.” Something breaks within them and they tug on their magic, fuelled by their pride. Its familiar warmth spreads outwards from the base of their spine, circling down their arms, their legs, their hands. They weave the illusion over themself, their tattoos fading to nothing as if they were never there. Judging from Aris’ expression, they have no doubt a glow must be shimmering in their irises, natural brown bleeding to emerald green.

Shock twists in their gut. It takes a considerable amount of concentration and effort to contain the physical indication of casting magic. As an illusionist, they have always been adept at it—there is little point in cloaking or weaving if your eyes give you away. That they now lack the control and precision they honed for over a decade shakes them to their core.

It horrifies them. And they have never been horrified, not like this, not even in that damn Faran prison.

To their surprise, Aris simply nods in respect and allows them to complete their illusion in silence. “Tell me, Veyer,” he says, eyes flickering between the open door frame and where Veyer lies curled on the carriage floor. “Have you always wished to become an Imperial mage? Or was your appointment at an archsage’s suggestion?”

Veyer swallows. “I—”

The carriage rips out the alley entrance and rolls onto a boulevard. Veyer rams into the seat in a tangle of limbs and clammy fabric. They gasp, winded, and the carriage jerks to the side, the impact throwing Veyer towards the door. Aris catches them before they sail out the threshold, grasping their arm and yanking them onto the seat beside him.

“Close one,” he says, eyes sparkling with a rush of euphoria. He flashes Veyer a grin and leans out the broken door, silver spear flashing in his hand, wind tearing at his hair. “NASAIA! HERE!”

A shadow drops to the street and rolls across the cobblestones. Veyer’s stomach drops, a realization dawning on them that the carriage is now without a driver—

Aris grips them by the arm. White light siphons off his hands, enshrouding Veyer in whirling mist, and he shoves them unceremoniously out the carriage door.

Veyer drops, knees buckling as they land unevenly, the breath knocked from their lungs. The ward absorbs the impact, saving them the agony of a painful landing, and flickers out of existence. Free from the ward, they stumble across the uneven flagstones, wheeling around to come face to face with shattered, smoking tenements and bloodied streets.

In the span of a quarter hour, the Imperial city centre has become a battlefield.

The clash of weapons, the wails of the injured and dying, the acrid stench of blood and rot… Even the air sizzles with the tang of uncontrolled magic. Veyer stops in their tracks, heart thumping in their throat. Everywhere they turn is an image that will haunt them to their dying day. This is more than a riot; this is a bloodbath. A city ravaged by its own people, the conflict so chaotic they do not know who is fighting whom or why.

“Veyer!”

They press a hand to their mouth, fighting the urge to gag.

“Veyer!”

A hand seizes their shoulder and shoves them forward. Veyer lashes out, fingernails scratching skin, drawing blood—

Aris’ face swims before them, silver spear flashing in his hand. He curses and heaves, a string of distorted words falling from his lips as he pushes Veyer down the street. They blink, desperate to clear their muddled, overwhelmed mind. The woman—Nasaia, did he call her?—charges ahead, black braid swinging across her back like a pennant. She carves a path through the rioting crowd, cutting her way through with ruthless determination.

Veyer’s body is not their own. Their feet trample grit and broken stone, mindlessly keeping pace with Aris as he drags them to their destination. For all the experience their decade abroad has given them, nothing could have prepared them for this. Without the training of the Guild’s combat mages, they are useless. Without Aris, they would be dead.

Up the street, Nasaia delivers an enhanced kick to a door and shatters the wood beneath her foot. She disappears through the threshold, Aris following in her wake with Veyer tucked beneath his arm. A cramped apartment swims before Veyer’s eyes and they watch, senses dulled, as Nasaia pulls a rug off the floor, revealing a bronze mechanism implanted into the stone. She pauses, toeing the perimeter.

“My lord,” Nasaia says. “Are you certain?”

Aris closes his eyes. “Do it. If consequences arise, I’ll deal with them myself. You will not be punished for my actions.”

“And the mage?”

A pause. “Any rapport I have with the Guild will be compromised if I allow one of their own to die,” he says coldly. “They come with us.”

“But—”

“They come with us.”

An order. Nasaia nods, all further objections dying on her tongue even as her eyes harden in opposition. She steps onto the central plate and kneels, activating it with a single touch. Scarlet light ripples through the maze of bronze lines, illuminating a series of nodes around the perimeter.

“Hold on,” Aris says and drags Veyer onto the plate.

The apartment vanishes.

Pressure pounds in Veyer’s ears, light and dark assails their eyes. They are everywhere and nowhere, the only constant Aris’ grip on their arm. They gasp, their chest aching, their lungs straining, but there is no air—

The world rips into existence in a vortex of green and white and blue. Veyer falls to the ground, breathless and panting, desperately sucking in deep breaths of cool air. They lie flat on their back and stare into a cloudless sky, vibrant trees swaying overhead. A soft floral scent wafts over them, carried on a gentle breeze.

After the chaos of the streets, such silent calm is unsettling.

“This is unprecedented, even for you, little brother.”

Veyer rolls onto their side, their head swimming. The portal transported them to a walled garden overflowing with flowering bushes and trees. They’re lying on a marble platform, a web of bronze veins flowing through the white marble to a central node. Aris and Nasaia stand at the perimeter, staring down their accoster.

An elven woman in an elegant serithan the colour of red wine observes them with a cool gaze, her grey eyes narrowed with suspicion. Her lustrous black hair is coiled and piled on the top of her head, the intricate braids adorned with jewels. A high collar of woven gold and rubies covers her throat, the elaborate piece glinting in the sunlight.

“I do not believe you have the right to judge my actions, sister,” Aris returns, his lip twisting with disgust. “When was the last time you stepped foot outside these walls? You know nothing of our city—”

“Says the man who parades through the streets, slaughtering its citizens himself. How many did you send to the funeral pyres today? How many families will weep Nashira’s name because you could not stay your hand?” She scoffs, earrings chiming softly at her ears as she tilts her head, grey eyes blazing with emboldened spite. “How does it feel, brother? How very courageous of you, so puffed up on your self-importance, putting skills wrought from your pastime to use against untrained civilians who have never held a weapon in their life—”

“Really, Cilla?” he says wearily. “What do you intend with that insult? Either I’m an amateur buffoon who plays at being a soldier, or I’m a skilled warrior who slaughters innocents for fun. Make up your mind. You cannot have it both ways.”

Her expression hardens. “You have lost the right to call me that.”

“And you have lost the right to meddle in my affairs. My business is my own. We are of equal station and I am not compelled to answer to you. Even if the day did come where I saw fit to grace you with the information, I doubt you have the capability to understand what I intend to accomplish—”

“Is this how you see yourself, brother?” she sneers. “A hero of the people, a man who will stop at nothing to save the empire from a degenerate’s reign?”

He pauses, a storm brewing in his eyes. “Careful with your words. You do not know how far they will carry.”

“They were yours first. And when they reach his ears—and I have no doubt that they will—I wonder how he will take them. If he is a degenerate like you say, then I’m sure your punishment will be… fascinating.” She smiles slyly—a near perfect replica of the smile Aris gave Veyer not long before—and turns her back on him. “I’ll remember this, Aris. But perhaps I can be convinced to forget. It will take some doing, but I’m sure you have the means—if you’re willing to part with them, that is. Think on it.”

She glances over her shoulder, a challenge in her eyes. Her serithan flows sinuously around her, the gold and ruby collar glinting dangerously in the sun, and she strides down the path and out of sight.

It is a long time before anyone speaks.

“My lord,” Nasaia begins, breaking the silence.

“I know,” he hisses. “I know.”

Cursing under his breath, Aris hands her his spear and crouches beside Veyer. “Are you well, friend?” he murmurs.

Veyer pauses, throat too raw to speak. They nod.

“Good. Then listen to  me carefully.”

They nod again, dread gnawing in the pit of their stomach. Though they are exhausted and worn, a small part of their mind remains alert, considering everything they have witnessed. The news of the Pallaedrions failing, the growing unrest… The riot ravaging the streets, uncontrolled magic destroying half the city centre… Aris commandeering their carriage and fighting his way to an escape route hidden conveniently nearby…

Something about the series of events feels off. It itches at Veyer’s mind, but in the aftermath of the bloodbath, they have no hope of putting the pieces together.

“Through no fault of your own, you have witnessed something today that puts you and I in grave danger.”

Aris’ voice floats above them, dragging them back to reality. Veyer blinks, jaw clenched, and inhales a deep breath. It does little to steady them, not when they cannot escape the cold, grey eyes staring down at them from above.

“I must ensure your silence, Veyer. Not simply for my protection, but for your own.”

Their lips move, but no sound comes out. “I… I do not know what you are involved in, Aris,” they whisper. “But I cannot. I am not here for politics—”

“Then they sent the wrong mage,” he snarls with unexpected ferocity. “A savant of common birth with no accolades to their name, marked in Faran motifs… You may bear an Imperial name, but you are no Arathian in the eyes of the emperor’s court. You will not last six months without my aid.”

Any hint of compassion Aris may have had vanishes as the striking, celestial warrior who rescued them from certain death twists into something else. Demanding. Conceited. Cold. The promise of a tyrant lurking beneath the handsome smile and charming voice.

Veyer knows they cannot refuse again.

“You must do this for me, Veyer. You owe me your life.”

They look up, still sprawled on the marble platform, and meet his gaze. “What do you require of me?” they rasp.

White light gleams in Aris’ eyes, turning the grey to molten silver. Power thrums through the air and gold ring glows on the fifth finger of his left hand, reacting to the surge of magic.

An augmenter.

“A promise,” he says, extending the hand. Magic siphons off his fingers, drifting through the air like mist. “An oath. That you will never knowingly contribute to any plot against me that leads to the foiling of my designs or the death of me and mine.”

Veyer pauses. The gravity of the situation weighs so heavily on them they can hardly breathe. They have never sworn a blood oath, though they have seen them performed many times. They remember how they were enacted upon prisoners in the Themistrya, and even once marvelled at the sheer ingenuity of the magical engineering it took to cast one.

That had been a decade ago. And now facing Aris, an undeniable threat in his eyes… Blood oaths cannot be forced unwillingly, that much is true. But as Veyer wonders what Aris would do if they refused, they are suddenly quite aware of how flexible the rules surrounding that willingness can be.

“For how long?” they ask.

He shrugs simply, as if it is a negligible question. “Until my death or the death of my legacy,” he answers. “Or yours. Come now, Veyer, why so surprised? We are friends now, are we not? Friends who share the most deadly of secrets. The Guild sent you to this court for a reason. I will do everything in my power to ensure you accomplish your goal if you help me accomplish mine.”

The Axe of Athor is in the Imperial palace where none but the court may reach it, Ashani told them. You are its guardian now, Veyer. You must safeguard it. Observe it. Remove it when necessary. If Quirinus’ agents get their hands on it…

Veyer sucks in a breath and clasps Aris’ outstretched hand, pulling themself to an upright position. Aris smiles widely, white light streaming from his fingers.

“Then say the words.”

They do, each syllable thick and heavy on their tongue. The white light sears their skin, infusing them, infecting them with its brilliance until they are glowing with Aris’ radiance. An oath carved on their souls, binding them together until the end. An exchange of names is required to seal it. Aris speaks theirs quickly, but when it comes time for them to speak his, they falter.

They do not know his name. Aris is not enough.

White light surges in a vortex around them, so bright Nasaia is all but a shadow on the perimeter. The magic waits hungrily, impatiently, pushing at its confines as it demands the final words.

“Who?” Veyer asks hoarsely, their fingers slipping in Aris’ grip. “Whose name do I speak?”

He smiles. That handsome smile, now twisted with arrogance.

“Ariston ard Nesarian.”

Veyer’s eyes widen, a horrified realization dawning on them as they repeat his name. Aris. Ariston. Eldest child of Calas ard Nesarian, the Arathian emperor. Heir apparent to the empire.

How did they not see it before?

The blood oath completes and the light vanishes, winking out like a snuffed candle. Ariston rises and pulls Veyer to their feet, then dusts off his hands as if casting a complex piece of Preservation magic is part of his daily regime. He collects his spear from Nasaia and raps the end against the marble platform, surveying the Imperial gardens with a vigilant eye.

“I suspect my sister has informed my mother of our untimely arrival,” he declares. “We should anticipate trouble at the palace. With any luck, my grandmother will intercept on our behalf. She has always had a way with Eirene. The woman is too weak-willed for her own good.”

Veyer adjusts their torn and stained serithan with shaking hands, the blood oath thumping through their veins, reacting to their proximity to Ariston. The gravity of what they have done finally sinks in and their stomach roils. They swallow the urge to gag and force themself to walk calmly across the platform.

Ariston casts a sideways glance as they approach, a sly smirk playing across his lips. “As far as introductions go, I’m sure this is not the one you expected,” he says smoothly. “Have no fear, Veyer. Lucilla may bite, but she is not as poisonous as she thinks. If you should be wary of anyone, it is my grandmother. Fortunately, I have her favour—and through me, you do as well. I promise I will ensure no harm befalls you. You cannot be much younger than I. We will have a century or more to bring my father’s legacy to its knees and usher in Arathia’s new dawn. Stand tall, my friend. Great change is coming. It is an honour to be a part of it.”

Veyer stares defiantly ahead, cursing everything from the beautiful gardens to the man standing at his side. Consider my debt more than paid, Ashani, they think wretchedly. You owe me more for this than you will ever know.