Thunder boomed. Lightning raked fluorescent fingers across the sky. Rain fell in steady sheets, drenching the untamed hinterlands as wind skirled from the heights, causing the forest to thrash as if in great pain.

  This storm marked the death of summer. Winter was already plotting its vengeful return.

  Devoran Carys watched as the rain beat against the window, his thoughts on a distant land that was no longer his own. The study he sat in wasn’t a palace, but it was still comfortable, with a low fire burning in the hearth and colorful tapestries lining the rough wooden walls. His servants had taken great care to turn this cabin into a chateau worthy of his lineage. It had the trappings of royalty, but to Devoran, it all felt hollow. Why go through all this trouble for a fugitive? Such extravagance defeated the purpose of coming to such a remote location. Wasn’t he supposed to pretend that he wasn’t a king?

  They’re just trying to hold onto the past, a gentle voice reminded him. It’s important to them. Let them have their fancies.

  Devoran’s expression softened. “You’re right, of course,” he said out loud. “You’re always right.”

  And don’t you forget it.

  The old king often spoke with his deceased wife, Lenora. He wasn’t sure if she was a spirit or a figment of his imagination, but he found her presence comforting—as she had been in life.

  Even so, not even Lenora could keep Devoran from his lamentations. His heart belonged to his family, but his soul? His soul was still in Anessia, and the kingdom that he’d been forced to leave behind.

  He heaved a sigh and turned away from the rain-soaked window, his gaze settling on the embers in the hearth. Whenever he looked at those coals, he couldn’t help but think of his city burning—the day he went into exile, never to return to the lands of his inheritance.

  “Twenty years,” he mumbled. “Twenty years it’s been. And it still stings like it happened yesterday.”

  Lenora remained silent.

  She’d been among the first casualties of the war, when Rhovar had crossed the Serene River and laid waste to the countryside. Sorcerers hurled devastating spells and the Tzar’s men devastated entire towns, but Lenora’s death was much less dramatic. A simple arrow to the heart, loosed from an archer who’d ambushed her caravan in the woods. It shouldn’t have happened. She’d been surrounded by knights and protectors, but somehow, the gods had seen fit to let her die.

  Then, they had all died, as well.

  It was a bitter irony that gave him little joy.

  Devoran shook his head. He didn’t know why his mind always wandered such dark paths. If he didn’t stop now, his thoughts would consume him, and he’d spend the rest of the night wallowing in self-pity.

  Another peal of thunder shook him from his reverie.

  He blinked and stood abruptly from his chair. His dinner rested on the table beside him—mostly untouched—but he didn’t feel much like eating. He stepped closer to the window and gazed back outside.

  The king was an elf, so his eyes adjusted to the darkness much easier than a human’s would. He could make out hills and distant mountains, trees and meadows—even through the raging storm. Devoran’s own wife had been a human, and though her race didn’t have the longevity of the elves, her wisdom had always astonished him. She’d been among the wisest people he’d ever had the pleasure of knowing and was a queen without equal in all the world.

  “Is there anything I can do instead of hiding in the woods like a hermit? Am I wasting my time here? I could use some of your wisdom now, Lenora.”

  Patience. The word filled his mind like a whisper. I know that it’s hard, but patience is a godly virtue.

  “But the gods are all dead.” The statement came out harsher than he’d intended. Devoran leaned against the windowsill, his fingers digging into the unfinished wood. “Can virtue even exist without the gods?”

  That’s a question that only you can answer, dear husband.

  Lightning cracked. Thunder seemed to rattle the floorboards beneath Devoran’s feet. He blinked, taken aback by the sudden violence of the noise, then realized that the sound hadn’t come from the storm, but from somewhere inside the chateau.

  Something moved and Devoran spun, reaching for a weapon that wasn’t hanging from his belt.

  A man sprawled on the rug at the foot of his bed. He was swathed in purple robes and laid facedown so that his features were concealed. His arms twitched feebly, and he reached for a sack that—like the man—hadn’t been there just a few seconds earlier.

  Devoran let out a strangled cry. He meant to call for his guards, but he was too startled. The words failed on his tongue.

  The newcomer groaned and turned enough for him to say, “Fear not, King Carys. You aren’t in any danger… yet. Not from me.”

  Devoran hesitated. This man was obviously a sorcerer of some kind. His colored robes made that obvious. But how had he gotten inside? Portal magic? Sorcerers were agents of the Tzar. If he wasn’t a threat, then why was he here in his personal room?

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  After a moment, the king found his voice. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  The man pushed himself to a sitting position, his movements slow and painful. There was a grisly wound on his abdomen where the rich fabric had been torn to shreds. His hood fell away, revealing a middle-aged face that was lined with worry and covered with stubble. His hair was lank and greying and he was startlingly thin—hardly an imposing figure, despite the circumstances.

  “My name… is Harvor Kull. I’m a Justiciar from the capital city… and I come to you with a message… and a gift.”

  “So, you are with the Tzar, then,” Devoran murmured, fear gripping his heart. “How did you find me?”

  “That’s… rather complicated,” Harvor grunted. “It’s a long story, and we haven’t much time.” He doubled over in a fit of coughing. When he straightened, his lips were stained with blood. “They know that I’ve taken it. They don’t know where I’ve gone… but it’s only a matter of time.”

  “They?” Devoran asked, alarmed. “Who’re they?”

  Harvor ignored him. Instead, he reached for the sack resting on the ground between them. “I’m supposed… to give you this.” He shakily untied the drawstring and withdrew a wooden box. It was polished to a dark sheen and banded with metal.

  “What is it?” Devoran asked, reluctant to accept the sorcerer’s offering.

  “A gift,” Harvor replied. “A gift worth more than any treasure on Aslon. Worth more than any kingdom…” He proffered the box, and Devoran took it, surprised by how light it felt in his hands. It was secured by a simple latch and branded with the Dominion Crest: a dragon wreathed in fire.

  “And now… for my message.” Harvor cleared his throat, heedless of the blood staining the corners of his mouth. “You must take that box to the Sundered Shrine. Only then can she be freed from the chains that are binding her.”

  Devoran looked at him sharply. “Who’s she? What in the hell are you talking about?”

  The sorcerer smiled faintly. A tranquil expression broke through the pain like sunlight piercing through a cloud. “Astreia,” he said in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

  Devoran frowned. “The goddess?”

  “The very same,” Harvor nodded. “The gods aren’t dead after all, dear king. But they do need our help. This gift… it doesn’t excuse everything I’ve done, the atrocities I’ve committed in the name of the Holy Tzar… but perhaps it will be enough…” He trailed off and slumped against the bed frame as if overcome by a wave of vertigo.

  Devoran glanced down at the box. He wasn’t sure what to say. This man was a Justiciar—a high-ranking government official. He was responsible for the overthrow of his kingdom, and by extension, the death of his beloved Lenora. Yet he of all people, a godless Rhovian, was saying that Astreia was still alive? It was too much for the old king to process.

  Harvor mumbled something, and Devoran had to lean in to hear what he was saying.

  “Your line… is strong,” the sorcerer said. “Keep it… in the family.”

  The rest was lost in another fit of coughing.

  Wind rattled the window. Devoran clutched the box to his chest, trying to form a complete sentence—anything to address the man bleeding in the middle of his room. Eventually, he settled on five simple words. “I’ll do what I can.”

  Harvor didn’t respond. It took the king a moment to realize that the man was dead. His eyes stared blankly at the empty sack near his feet.

  Silence filled the cabin, an oppressive void broken only by the faint patter of rain. For an instant, Devoran was curious about what was inside the box. But his more sensible side recoiled from the urge. He tossed it on his bed and wiped his hands as if they were unclean.

  Taking a shuddering breath, he said, “Oh, Lenora. What are we going to do?”

  She was silent for several heartbeats before responding. I think that you already know what you must do, dear husband.

  “The Sundered Shrine.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. His eyes darted to the man’s body slouched in front of him. Harvor’s warning rang clear in his mind: They know that I’ve taken it. They don’t know where I’ve gone… but it’s only a matter of time.

  That meant only one thing. His old enemies were coming.

  Devoran closed his eyes. “I’m not certain that I have the strength.”

  You’ve done hard things before, she pointed out.

  “Yes, but every challenge has worn me down—bit by bit. I’m a shadow of the man I used to be, Lenora. I’ve been running for so long that I fear all the fight’s gone out of me.”

  Her response was drowned out by a knock at the door.

  “Your majesty? We heard a noise. Is everything all right?”

  Devoran hesitated for just a moment before saying to his guards, “I’m all right. Come in.”

  The door opened and Tyn’rael strode inside along with his apprentice, Gandry. They started when they saw Harvor’s body.

  “Fallen gods! What happened?” The grizzled knight drew his sword. His squire was only a half-second behind him. “Majesty, are you hurt?”

  “I said that I was all right,” Devoran said wearily. “This man was a visitor, nothing more.”

  “A visitor?” Gandry asked, frowning. “But nobody checked in with our guard post.”

  “Sorcerer,” Tyn spat. His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t sheathe his sword. “I remember them from the war. Dominion dogs. How did he find us?”

  “I’m not sure,” Devoran responded. He looked at the box resting on his bed. “But I think we have to leave this place as soon as possible.”

  Tyn grunted. “Yes, I think that would be wise. Gandry!” He gestured with his sword. “Rouse the others. Our hideout’s been compromised. We need to gather our things and get out of here before anyone else shows up.”

  “In this weather?” the younger man complained.

  The guard captain gave him a withering look. “Now, squire!”

  The young man jumped and offered a hasty salute. “Yes sir!” He dashed away.

  Devoran spared another glance out the window. He replayed the conversation with the sorcerer in his mind. “I fear that we may be on the road for a long time, old friend.”

  “Been on the road my whole life,” Tyn remarked. “Somehow, it feels like coming home.” He bent to examine the body. After a moment, he asked, “Where are we heading this time?”

  Still gazing out the window, the king replied, “Home.”

  Tyn’s head snapped up. “To Anessia?”

  Devoran nodded. “There’s something that I need to take care of. It may be the most important thing I ever do.”

  The guard captain didn’t immediately respond. Straightening, he slid his blade back into its scabbard, his expression cool and emotionless. “Well, then. I’d better lace up my good traveling boots. If that’s where we’re going, then we do have a long road ahead of us.”

  He turned to leave, but stopped when the king said, “Captain. Allow me to speak with my daughter. I fear she… may have a hard time understanding.”

  “Of course, your majesty.” He closed the door behind him.

  Devoran’s shoulders slumped. He released a deep breath and shakily reached for the box that Harvor had given him. He had a suspicion as to what was hidden inside but didn’t have the courage to check. Not yet.

  Everything happens for a reason, Lenora said. It had always been one of her favorite sayings.

  “I’m not certain I believe that anymore,” Devoran mumbled. “Not after everything I’ve seen. But… I’ll do my best.”

  That’s all I’ve ever asked.

  He covered the box with a blanket then went to the door. Already, he could hear commotion as the servants gathered their things. No doubt Aurora had already detected that something was amiss. He glanced over his shoulder at the rainy window. Outside, the storm still raged.

  Ill timing, he thought, summoning the courage to expose himself and the remainder of his household to danger. Gods… give me strength.

  Apparently, there was a chance that at least one of them was still listening.