Chapter 4: Whispers Before Dawn
Night deepened, and Lilygarden House gradually settled into slumber. But sleep eluded Connor. He lay awake in the hush of his ornate suite, limbs heavy but mind alight. Every few minutes he closed his eyes, only to have phantoms of the day flicker behind his lids – a flash of the knife in the alley, the shock on the thugs' faces as unseen force hurled them back, the concerned gaze of Marisela as she'd bid him goodnight after the ordeal.
He sighed and sat up. Through the high windows, he could see one of Aurelia's moons – the smaller crescent – dipping low, heralding the approach of dawn. The air felt still, expectant. In the silence, his own thoughts became a roar.
He slipped out of bed and padded over the cold marble floor to the window. Unlatching it quietly (they hadn't locked it after all; perhaps they trusted he'd learned his lesson), he opened it wide. A gentle pre-dawn breeze wafted in, cool and carrying the scent of damp earth and distant city smoke.
Connor rested his elbows on the sill and drank in the predawn quiet. The garden below was dim, shapes of shrubs and statuary barely discernible in the wan moonlight. At the perimeter, he could make out a guard's silhouette, lantern in hand, doing her rounds. He felt a swell of mixed emotions – gratitude for their vigilance, guilt for necessitating it, and a pang of longing for true freedom beyond those walls.
He rubbed his sternum absently. There, beneath skin and bone, a subtle warmth seemed to glow – or so he fancied – where his mysterious power slept. He remembered the tingle of energy that surged through him when he'd instinctively pushed back at the assailants. In hindsight, it felt like flexing a new muscle; sore now, but undeniably present.
He craved to understand it. What was this ability exactly? Did it have limits or trigger only under duress? Could he summon it calmly?
The house was asleep, and he was alone. Perhaps it was foolhardy – but if ever there was a time to experiment, it was now in the safety of his suite.
Connor drew the curtains closed to avoid any light spilling and waking staff. In the center of the room, he pulled a footstool out as a target. The memory of how the force felt came to him: an almost electric sensation pulsing out from his core, directed by sheer intent and adrenaline.
He took a deep breath and focused on the footstool. It was sturdy oak, not likely to break easily. Good.
Raising his hand, he tried to recall the emotion of that moment in the alley – the fear transmuted into a will to repel. Fear was easy to summon; he had plenty of it swirling in him even now. But he also didn't want to fling the poor stool through a wall accidentally. Cautiously, he aimed his palm and willed a gentle push.
"Move," he whispered, voice barely audible.
Nothing happened. He furrowed his brow. Perhaps he needed more intensity. He remembered how his heart had thundered, how desperation had lent iron to his command.
Connor closed his eyes, dredging up flashes of that panic – the knife glinting toward him, the trap of those cruel hands on his arm. His heart obligingly sped at the memory. He snapped his eyes open and thrust his palm forward, hard, exhaling sharply through his teeth.
A ripple in the air – faint but visible like a heat shimmer – leapt from his hand. It struck the footstool with a soft thff, barely enough to rock it. But it moved. A half-inch shuffle on the floor, but indisputable.
Connor's lips parted in amazement. He had done that deliberately. No immediate threat, just concentration and will. The power answered, albeit weakly.
His pulse sped with excitement now. He tried again, this time with more confidence and a touch of anger at the stool (imagining it the barrier to his freedom). He thrust both hands this time and whispered a firm, "Go."
The force rippled out stronger. The footstool skidded back a full foot, its wooden legs scraping the marble softly.
Connor grinned, exhilarated. It was like discovering an extra limb. He closed his fists and pumped them silently in triumph.
But the exertion left him oddly breathless, as if he'd run a sprint. A sheen of sweat dotted his brow. So, there was a cost – a drain on his energy, which aligned with what little he gleaned from eavesdropping and the primer book (magic uses one's aether or stamina).
He sank onto the edge of the bed, breathing deeply to recover. A glance at the window showed the night starting to yield – a faint paling of the sky beyond the curtains.
A soft knock startled him out of his thoughts. He hastily wiped his face and opened the door a crack. It was Marisela, impeccably dressed for dawn in a fresh day gown, bearing a small tray with a steaming cup.
"Sir Connor," she said quietly. "Forgive the early hour. I thought you might appreciate some chamomile to help you rest, since it's nearly morning and you…" She peered at him, mother's intuition reading the fatigue in his face.
He smiled gratefully and opened the door. "You read my mind. I've been… up thinking."
Marisela set the tray on his nightstand and regarded him kindly. "Understandable, dear. You've had a lot happen in a short time." She fussed slightly, straightening his rumpled sleeve. "If you'd like to talk, I'm here to listen. Sometimes sharing a worry halves its weight."
Connor considered confiding in her – not the magic, but perhaps his feelings of confinement and guilt. He trusted her good heart. Yet he hesitated; too much honesty might trouble her or worse, prompt tighter restrictions out of concern.
He opted for a half-truth. "I keep thinking how I caused trouble for everyone. The guard, you, rushing out to save me last night… I feel guilty."
Marisela's face softened in empathy. She reached and squeezed his hand lightly. "Oh, sweetheart, you mustn't feel that way. Our only regret is not keeping you safer. None of this is your fault."
He ducked his head, humbled by her earnestness. How lucky he was that she was the one overseeing his care – a more jaded matron might not be so endlessly patient.
"There's also…," he ventured, gaze drifting to the dim light edging the curtain, "I feel an urge to do something. To not be idle. It's hard to explain. Back home I was always busy with tasks or study. Here I'm just… waiting."
Marisela nodded slowly. "Men under protection often experience that restlessness. We call it cabin heart – when the comfort becomes stifling."
Cabin heart. Apt.
She smiled conspiratorially. "You know, in the old days, men like you – bright, young, in good health – often joined guild research teams or became advisors. The world has changed with more safety concerns now, but perhaps some vocation could be arranged for you once things settle. If that interests you."
Hope fluttered. "It does. Very much."
"Then we'll make it happen," she said as simply as stating breakfast would be served at eight. "I'll speak with the Council liaison about opportunities suited to your talents, once you're ready."
Emotion welled – gratitude, relief, a painful yearning for purpose. Connor squeezed her hand back, words failing.
She patted his cheek gently, like a mother comforting a son. "You are not a prisoner, Sir Connor. You're a valued citizen of Aurelia now. It will just take time to adjust the traditional arrangements to suit someone… of your unique background."
He nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. Valued citizen, not prisoner – he clung to that.
Marisela stepped back. "Now, drink your tea before it cools. Try to get a little rest at dawn. I'll ensure no one disturbs you until later in the morning."
Connor obeyed, sipping the chamomile – floral warmth coating his anxiety. Marisela smiled, satisfied, and made to leave.
At the door, she paused, then crossed back to him impulsively and pressed a gentle kiss to his brow. The gesture was soothing and chaste, bringing a sting of tears to his eyes. "We're all so very glad you're safe," she whispered. "I'll see you at breakfast."
Then she departed, leaving Connor in the peaceful half-light, the taste of chamomile on his tongue and a damp spot of her tear on his temple where her kiss landed.
When she was gone, he allowed the tears to fall – silent streaks down his face. For the first time since waking in this world, he let himself grieve and yet feel comforted. Marisela's affection had opened a floodgate of emotions: sorrow for what he'd lost, gratitude for the kindness found here, resolve to honor that kindness by becoming someone worthy in this new life.
He finished the tea and returned to the window. Dawn was imminent – the largest moon had vanished and a silvery light rimmed the east.
Below, a gardener was already moving among the beds, and the gate guards changed shifts with soft clinks of armor. The city beyond stretched and murmured with morning's approach.
Connor drew a deep breath of the cool air. A new day, fresh with possibility.
He went to the desk where the primer and a blank journal lay. Dipping a pen, he began to write – quietly penning his memories of Earth, little details he feared would slip away: the exact timbre of his mother's laugh, the endless red horizon of outback sunsets, the name of the girl he saved (he realized he didn't even know; someone would tell his family he died a hero, he hoped).
The ink flowed, and with it, some of his ache eased. This written record, he thought, would keep his past alive and perhaps one day be something he could share with a confidant here – proof of where he came from, if needed. Or simply a catharsis for himself.
By the time the first rays of true sunlight peeked over Aurelia's skyline, Connor felt the weight on his chest lighten. He capped the ink and blotted the pages carefully. In the margin of the last entry, on a whim, he sketched a little symbol – a rising sun over a horizon – and next to it wrote, For good or ill, I remain. It felt poetic, if cryptic.
As he stood, a mild dizziness reminded him he'd barely slept. Yet he felt oddly energized. Whispering a quick thanks to whatever powers might be listening, he returned to bed for an hour or two of rest.
Outside his window, birds began to sing—strange warbles and sweet trills from species unknown to him, but welcoming the dawn all the same. Connor closed his eyes and let their chorus carry him into a light doze. In that gentle twilight of consciousness, he imagined the sun's warmth on his face and the echo of Marisela's words: You are not a prisoner.
And with the first golden beams spilling into his room, Connor James – lost hero, found treasure – believed it.
When he next awoke to full daylight, it was with a tentative smile on his lips, heart steadier than it had been since awakening in that alley. He had people here who cared, a burgeoning power flickering inside him, and the promise of a life beyond mere survival. Dawn had broken, and with it, Act One of his new life gave way to the beginning of Act Two – a chapter he would greet not with fear, but with hope.
Chapter 5: A Fragile Masquerade
Two days passed under Lilygarden's watchful care, each as gentle and meticulously managed as the last. Connor played the role of compliant ward diligently – attending polite breakfasts where matrons inquired about his comfort, taking escorted strolls in the garden under Captain Sela's discreet guard, even sitting through a brief "orientation" chat from a kindly social mediator explaining modern city etiquette for men (most of which boiled down to let your chaperone lead and always signal if you need something). He smiled and nodded where expected, all the while feeling a coiled spring tighten slowly inside him.
By the third day, that restlessness – "cabin heart" as Marisela had named it – thrummed in his veins anew. Not even the prospect of forthcoming "vocation" discussions could fully soothe it. He felt like a caged bird being told to wait patiently for a larger cage.
Thus, on the evening of the third day, Connor found himself standing on his balcony at twilight, gazing out at Aurelia's vast silhouette beyond the walls. The city lights were blinking on, one by one, competing with the first stars. Out there, life moved freely – chaotic, unpredictable, real. In here, everything was curated, protective, stifling.
He fingered the brim of a simple cap he'd requested (ostensibly to shield his face from sun on garden walks). An idea had been germinating since his ill-fated escape: if he could slip out not as Sir Connor – highly conspicuous rare male – but as someone else… maybe he could blend in better. He'd been thinking of the servant uniforms, the delivery personnel he'd glimpsed.
Tonight, Marisela and most staff were occupied in a wing meeting (he'd overheard mention of inventory audits). His ever-present evening guard, Captain Sela, had been called to an urgent security briefing off-site (he gleaned this from apologetic remarks at dinner). That left his immediate surroundings under the watch of a junior officer who patrolled the halls with far less hawkish intensity.
If ever there was a chance to attempt another foray, albeit with far more caution, it was now.
His rational mind warred with the desire. The last venture nearly ended terribly; he owed his caretakers not to toss aside their concern. And yet… how could he stifle the restless pulse in him that demanded he see more, learn more – perhaps even prove to himself he could handle it this time?
As darkness settled, Connor made a decision. He would do this differently: no venturing far, no direct engagements, just a quiet soak in the city's ambience from a safe vantage. Perhaps slip to a nearby rooftop or outer market stall, then return swiftly. He'd be gone an hour at most.
Resolved, he dressed in the drabbest attire he had: a plain charcoal shirt, worn trousers, and scuffed boots borrowed from an older storage closet (slightly big on him, but serviceable). He donned his cap and used a bit of soot from the hearth to dull his bright chestnut hair and even smudge a bit on his jaw to shadow his face.
Catching his reflection in the mirror, he saw not Sir Connor but a tired errand boy or dockworker. Good.
He left a note on his pillow – a calculated touch to ease panic should his absence be discovered: "Taking a short walk just outside. I'm safe, please don't worry. – C." It wasn't permission, but it might prevent a citywide alarm if someone checked on him while he was out.
And then he slipped out – not via the dramatic oak route this time, but through the servants' door by the kitchen. He'd timed the staff rotations and knew for one fifteen-minute window, the scullery yard was empty.
Hopping over the low back gate, he landed in an adjacent alley with far more grace than during his first escape. Immediately, he pulled his cap low and hunched his shoulders, adopting the body language of countless working men he'd observed: head down, purposeful shuffle, invisible.
He made his way two blocks over to a small elevated terrace garden he'd noticed on prior escorted walks. It overlooked a busy cross-street and offered a decent view of a section of evening market without plunging him into its midst.
Settling on a bench behind the terrace's hedge, Connor felt his soul almost sigh with relief. He was out – not noticed, not chased, just a face in the gloaming among others.
From this perch, he watched the city's night rhythm unfold again: vendors calling out end-of-day bargains, couples strolling arm in arm under gaslamp glow, an auto-carriage humming overhead carrying late-working guildwomen to their homes. A group of children – girls and two little boys – skipped along behind a minder, singing a nursery rhyme about "Starlight, star bright, guide our gentleman tonight."
Connor found himself smiling. These ordinary scenes grounded him more than all the luxurious pampering had. Here was life as it was lived, not life on cotton wool.
He closed his eyes and just listened: the clatter of a tavern's dishes, the whoosh of a distant train, laughter from a balcony above, a street performer's lilting flute. Each sound a thread in Aurelia's rich tapestry.
Then came a sound that made him go still – two women talking as they walked up the road just beyond his hedge hideaway, voices low but urgent.
"…I tell you, Lady Vesna looked furious. If Sir Connor's zone weren't so secure, I'd suspect she'd try to snatch him outright," one said.
Connor's blood froze. They said his name.
"Shh," the other hissed. "Walls have ears. But yes, the way she questioned the Council about him – unsettling. Why is the head of the Alchemy Guild so interested unless… you think the rumors of his innate gift are true?"
The first woman let out a breath. "Who knows? If he does have the old magic, that'd be one explanation for such a quiet retrieval. The Matriarchs wouldn't advertise that."
Innate gift… old magic. They were speculating about his hidden power. Connor's heartbeat thudded in his ears.
"Either way, Vesna's pet project—the Aether Catalyst—could be far advanced using a male conduit. I fear for the lad, truly. Not all on the Council have gentle intentions."
The voices faded as the pair turned a corner, oblivious to the transfixed man behind the hedge.
Connor felt suddenly cold despite the warm night. Lady Vesna of the Alchemy Guild… he vaguely recalled the name from news bits. A high council member and brilliant alchemist. And apparently one with designs regarding him.
So the Council had theories about his abilities, and internal conflicts over him. Marisela and Sela shielded him from that political undercurrent, but clearly, he was at the center of quiet machinations already.
He clenched his fists. For all the talk of protection, he might well be a prized resource they intended to use. Maybe kindly, maybe not – but use all the same.
It was a sobering eavesdropping. Yet he was glad of it; better to know the knife hovering behind a smile than remain ignorant.
In that moment, Connor decided he needed allies beyond the domestic sphere. Marisela's love was a boon, but she wasn't a power player. If some Council factions had his fate in their hands, he required someone on the inside on his side.
He racked his brain. Lady Yara (the kudos official) had sounded compassionate; perhaps an angle there if he could contact her under guise of social initiative. Or maybe approach Captain Sela – she was duty-bound but had genuine care for him, and as Watch she might despise any underhanded plot by guilds.
He also realized he might not be able to remain passive much longer. If he did have Ares's spark, it would manifest eventually. Maybe a controlled reveal on his terms would be better than an explosive one on theirs.
These thoughts churned as he made his cautious way back to Lilygarden. He took a circuitous route to be sure he wasn't followed or observed (those two women were long gone, and the streets quieter now as night deepened). Slipping back in through the scullery gate, he returned to his suite without incident. He doubted anyone realized he'd been out.
Later, lying in bed, Connor replayed the overheard conversation until it etched into memory. Not all on the Council have gentle intentions. He'd be wise to remember that every time a new smiling dignitary visited him.
At dawn, he was already awake – more determined than ever.
In the mirror, he regarded himself. A few days of good food and rest had put color back in his cheeks. He looked healthier, more solid. But the eyes that met his were sharper too, touched by something steely that wasn't there before. Resolve.
He tied back his hair with a leather cord – a subtle statement of taking hold of himself – and dressed for morning exercises (Captain Sela had recommended some light training to build strength, and he happily agreed; an hour each morning with a sparring automaton in the gym room, though he had to feign more clumsiness than he possessed so as not to raise eyebrows).
Today, however, he intended to push a bit. As he went through the motions with the practice staff, he allowed flickers of his power to enhance him – a nudge here for extra speed, a pulse there for stronger impact. The automaton's sensors beeped in surprise when one of his parries nearly toppled it. Connor quickly dialed back, grinning privately. Yes, it was growing easier to summon, bit by bit.
Afterward, while towel-drying sweat, he caught Captain Sela giving him an approving nod from the doorway. "Well done, sir. You improve rapidly," she commented.
He just smiled modestly. "I have a good teacher," he replied, nodding to the automaton which bowed.
That afternoon brought a scheduled outing – his first beyond the zone in official capacity. Marisela and two Watch escorts took him to the Grand Library (a supervised visit arranged to stimulate him intellectually, as promised). Connor had to carefully school his features upon entering that familiar hall, remembering the last time he was here he'd broken in by moonlight.
He spent a pleasant few hours perusing curated texts on history and even glimpsed some magical theory scrolls. He behaved impeccably, and by the end even Captain Sela relaxed enough to peruse a novel herself at the next table as he read.
All the while, he listened. Whispers in the aisles, librarians chatting – the library was a hotbed of rumor. Indeed he picked up mention that the Alchemy Guild's head was departing on sudden travel (to what end he couldn't catch). And a clerk re-shelving books near him murmured to a colleague that she heard the rare man in protective custody was exceedingly handsome. The colleague replied that all men were, it was part of their mystique, which made Connor nearly snort tea out his nose in amusement.
As weeks passed, Connor perfected this balance: outwardly the model ward – kind, grateful, cooperative – while quietly gathering knowledge and honing his inner fire behind closed doors. He used "meditation hour" to practice fine control of moving objects around his room. He let scribes teaching him mathematics see only the intellect he'd always had, not the extra sense he was developing that sometimes let him intuit an equation's result before working it out. He asked observant questions about Council operations under guise of curiosity spurred by books.
And he planned.
By the end of Act One of his journey here, Connor had woven a fragile little web of autonomy within the gilded framework built around him. With Marisela's help, he convinced the Council to allow him weekly "service" in the city – volunteering at a community library teaching children basic arithmetic. It was presented as therapeutic for him and publicly positive. In truth, it gave him sanctioned, escorted trips into city life, where he could quietly network (already the head librarian there treated him like a beloved nephew, and he pumped her for socio-political tidbits under friendly chatter).
He also corresponded, under supervision, with Lady Yara regarding "social integration" – letters that allowed him to carefully feel out the Council mood. Yara's responses were encouraging and subtly indicated she and some others advocated for his eventual freedom to travel beyond Aurelia, should he desire (a thought that both tantalized and scared him; one thing at a time, he told himself).
And importantly, he trained his magic. By the time a month had passed, he could levitate a book or crack a target board from ten paces with a directed kinetic burst. He kept this entirely secret, saving it as an ace in the hole.
All the while, he didn't forget the dangers. Lady Vesna returned from her mysterious travels and soon an "invitation" came for Sir Connor to tour the Alchemy Guildhall. Marisela's lips pursed in worry at the gilded card; Connor feigned a headache that day to postpone it. He sensed a showdown looming there, but he'd face it when stronger.
Late one night, as he poured over a volume of mythic heroes, Connor stumbled across a line that resonated: "The hero's heart beats in a cage of fear until he learns to tame it, then he is free wherever he stands."
He read it thrice and smiled. Yes, his heart had been caged by fear and circumstance. But with knowledge, with secret strength and allies budding, he felt more free even within these walls than he had that first terrified night outside them.
Act One of his life in Aurelia had drawn to a close – from confused captive to cautious architect of his fate. Act Two beckoned, promising new challenges and the need to reveal more of his hand.
Connor stood by his window as he often did at midnight, looking at the two moons hanging high. In his palm, he made a tiny whirlwind of energy dance – just a swirling breath of air spinning a fallen leaf in circles. Controlled, harmless, almost playful. He grinned and released it, watching the leaf drift to the floor.
No, he was no prisoner now, not in his heart.
"Thank you," he whispered to the silent night – to Marisela sleeping down the hall, to Captain Sela ever-vigilant at the gate, to whoever or whatever brought him here and awakened this fire inside him. "I won't waste this chance."
His words faded into the darkness, but the resolve behind them burned bright. Sir Connor James, once an unremarkable man from a remote town, now a quiet force at the center of an empire's turning gears, would be ready for whatever Act Two brought. In the hush, he could almost hear the echo of those earlier words he'd scribbled: for good or ill, I remain.
He intended it to be for good.
With a final look at the moonlit city – at his city, he dared to think – Connor drew the curtains and took his well-earned rest, heart steady, mind clear, and soul unchained at last.
Midnight Echoes
The morning sunlight draped across Lilygarden's courtyard, illuminating the dew-beaded roses and white lilies with a golden haze. A small fountain murmured at the center of the garden, its gentle splashes lending a soothing rhythm to the quiet hour. The breeze smelled of jasmine and damp earth, stirring the ivy along the stone balustrades as though the manor itself breathed in dawn's light.
Connor closed his eyes on a deep breath, letting the peace settle in his bones. Here, at least, he felt human – more than a coveted curiosity. For weeks Lilygarden had offered him a fragile refuge from prying eyes and suffocating reverence.
Why now, after all this silence?What new game did the Council plan to play with him?
He ran a thumb over the petals of a lily, careful not to bruise its snowy flesh. Each day in this sanctuary had taught him to cherish the ordinary – the gritty feel of soil under his nails from the herb patch, the simple freedom to read in the sun without a pair of sentries hovering over his shoulder. A sparrow flitted down to sip from the fountain's edge; Connor watched its tiny beak scatter crystal ripples across the water. He almost smiled. Almost. Yet beneath the serene surface, tension coiled in him like a drawn bowstring – an intuition sharpened by months of living as the only man in Aurelia.
A distant thud broke his reverie – the heavy oak door of the manor opening. Boot heels clicked against flagstones with brisk purpose. Connor's hand froze on the flower stem. Marisela stepped onto the veranda above the courtyard, her velvet house robe trailing behind as she moved with urgent grace. A liveried messenger trailed her, the young woman's face drawn in anxious lines. In her hand was a scroll sealed with the indigo crest of Aurelia's High Council.
Connor rose to his feet, earth and petals forgotten. Marisela descended the steps, the morning light catching threads of silver in her dark braid. She offered a tight smile that did little to hide the concern etched at the corners of her eyes.
"My dear, a message has arrived," she said softly, voice measured. Her fingers trembled slightly as she broke the wax seal. Captain Sela emerged behind her like a shadow, boots quiet but presence imposing. The tall guard captain rested a gauntleted hand on the pommel of her sword, hazel eyes flicking between Connor and the scroll with thinly veiled apprehension.
Marisela cleared her throat and read aloud, each word enunciated with forced calm. "By invitation of the Honorable Guildmistress Elira of the Alchemists' Guild, the Council hereby extends a courtesy tour of the Alchemy Guild Hall to Connor of Lilygarden, to take place this day at the stroke of noon. An escort shall be provided. Attendance is humbly requested."
She lowered the parchment, jaw set. For a heartbeat, the garden's hush returned, broken only by the nervous shuffle of the messenger and the fountain's burble. Connor felt Sela's stare like a weight on his back. He swallowed against the dryness in his throat.
"A courtesy tour," Marisela repeated, as if testing the flavor of the words. Her polite smile did not reach her eyes. "How thoughtful of Guildmistress Elira."
Sela scoffed under her breath. "Courtesy," she murmured, adjusting the lie of her sword belt. "More like a summons thinly veiled as an invite." The captain's broad shoulders were taut with distrust, as if expecting an ambush in the very letters of the page.
Marisela handed the scroll to Connor. He accepted it gingerly, the parchment warmer than expected in his hands – or perhaps it was just his blood heating with apprehension. A formal tour of the Guild Hall... after so long keeping him out of sight? He scanned the florid calligraphy as if it might reveal the true intentions lurking beneath those flowery phrases.
Connor raised his gaze. "They have made it sound optional," he said quietly, "but we all know it is not." His voice was steady, though inside his chest his heartbeats fluttered like caged birds.
Marisela reached out and briefly squeezed his arm. "We cannot refuse," she confirmed, regret threading through her tone. "Declining a Council courtesy would only arouse suspicion."
"They want to parade him at the Guild," Sela growled. "Or prod him for weaknesses." She stepped to Connor's side, the sun gleaming off her breastplate. "I do not like this."
Neither did Connor. A memory surfaced unbidden: the last time he had stood before Aurelia's Council months ago, every gaze hungry, every word from the guild matrons cloaked in courtesy and calculation. He suppressed a shiver that had nothing to do with the mild breeze. The Council must have a motive. Perhaps factions on the Council had been debating his fate behind closed doors, and now... this.
He glanced from Marisela's composed worry to Sela's armored scowl. These two women had been his anchors in the storm of attention since his arrival in Aurelia. If they were on edge, he knew his instincts were not misreading the situation.
"We will go with you," Marisela declared, smoothing the front of her robe as her resolve solidified. "Captain, gather a suitable escort detail. Discreetly – we do not need half the city watching."
Sela thumped a fist to her chest in salute. "At once, Lady Marisela." She paused and looked Connor in the eye, her expression softening just a fraction. "I swear on my honor, no harm will come to you under our watch."
Connor mustered a small nod. "I trust you," he replied, and he meant it. Even so, his words tasted of uncertainty.
As Sela strode off barking low orders to her second-in-command, Marisela gently guided Connor back toward the manor. "Come, let us prepare you for the visit. Appearances matter."
Of course they did. In this world of ceremony and perception, even a tour could be a stage – and Connor the unwilling player dressed for the part. He cast one last glance at the tranquil garden, at the sparrow now perched on the fountain's cherub statue. The bird tilted its head as if in quiet sympathy.
Connor straightened his shoulders and allowed Marisela to escort him inside. Outside Lilygarden's walls, the day was just beginning, and with it, a sense of inevitability pressed upon him as sure as the distant toll of a noon bell.
What trials lay hidden behind this gracious invitation?
The streets of Aurelia unfolded beyond the curtained carriage window in a tapestry of sunlit stone and bustling midday life. Through a narrow gap in the brocade drapes, Connor glimpsed rows of white marble façades and arched bridges bedecked with fluttering guild banners. Market stalls spilled colorful produce onto the cobbles, and he caught snatches of life beyond his sheltered world: a baker's laughter, a child chasing an enchanted toy cart that trundled on rune-etched wheels. The city was vibrant, alive – and utterly oblivious to the anxious passenger peering out from behind embroidered curtains.
Inside the carriage, the air was perfumed with Marisela's rosewood sachets, meant to calm the nerves. Connor flexed his gloved fingers against his knees. Despite the warmth of late morning, a cold sweat dampened his palms. It felt as if he were heading to a trial rather than a tour.
Marisela sat beside him, resplendent in a high-collared navy cloak that marked her status, one hand resting lightly on his arm. "Remember, speak courteously and reveal little," she advised in a low voice. "They will be listening to your every word." Her eyes searched his face, soft with concern.
Connor nodded, pulling in a slow breath. "I understand." His reflection in the window glass showed a composed young man in formal attire – high-necked coat of charcoal silk, hair neatly combed – but beneath that facade his heart drummed a frantic tempo. He pushed aside the curtain a fraction more. Outside, Captain Sela rode astride a steel-gray mare, keeping pace with the carriage. The captain's gaze constantly scanned the road, her posture rigid with readiness. Four other mounted guards flanked them in a protective diamond formation. Sunlight glanced off their polished cuirasses as they parted the lunchtime crowds.
Faces turned as the procession passed; Aurelia's citizens recognized an official retinue when they saw one. Connor saw curiosity spark in a few onlookers – women pausing with baskets on their hips, whispering to one another. They could not possibly see him through the small curtained window, yet he shrank back all the same, the way one does from the approach of probing eyes.
Before long, the carriage slowed. Through the window Connor beheld their destination: the Alchemists' Guild Hall. An ornate gate of wrought iron and brass rose before them, its double doors engraved with swirling alchemical symbols that glinted like captured starlight. Beyond loomed a grand edifice of pale limestone and green-tiled domes, crowned by a tall central spire. At its pinnacle, a crystal lens refracted the midday sun into a dozen colors dancing on the courtyard flagstones. It was beautiful in the way a coiled serpent was beautiful – mesmerizing, but promising danger.
The carriage door swung open. Sela herself reached in to offer Connor a steadying hand. "We have arrived," she said, helmet tucked under her arm. Her expression was carefully neutral, but the subtle tightening of her jaw spoke volumes.
Connor alighted into a sea of light and shadow. The Guild Hall's courtyard was cool underfoot, paved with polished slate that cast reflections like dark water. Two lines of robed figures awaited them on either side of a carpet runner – apprentices in emerald-green cloaks, mostly young women, eyes wide with open curiosity as they beheld him. At the far end, a trio of senior guild members stood like a receiving committee. In the center was Guildmistress Elira herself, identifiable by the intricate golden sigil hanging from her neck and the authoritative set of her shoulders. Flanking her stood an older woman in foreign dress – rich burgundy silks embroidered with silver pine leaves – and a stern-faced younger aide. Representatives of Vesna. Connor's pulse gave a jolt at the realization. The Council hadn't mentioned foreign guests attending his "tour."
Marisela swept forward with Connor on her arm, Sela a protective step behind. The apprentices bowed as one. Guildmistress Elira inclined her head in gracious welcome. "Lady Marisela, Captain," she greeted, acknowledging them before turning her attention to Connor. "And Master Connor. We are honored by your presence at our Hall." Her voice was smooth and warm, each syllable polished for diplomacy. "Allow me to also introduce Ambassador Kalyna of Vesna's delegation."
The woman in burgundy stepped forward, offering a gloved hand. "A pleasure, young man. News of your well-being has traveled far – Queen Mirena of Vesna herself sends regards," Ambassador Kalyna said, lips curving in a polite smile that did not quite reach her calculating gray eyes.
Connor remembered to bow – a shallow, respectful tilt just as Marisela had drilled into him. "Guildmistress. Ambassador," he said politely. "Thank you for receiving me." He kept his voice soft, deferential. Inside, unease skittered along his spine. The presence of Vesna's envoys was an unexpected weight in the already fraught atmosphere. He felt, keenly, like a prize on display.
Elira's attendants ushered them through towering oak doors inlaid with copper runes. As they entered the vaulted atrium of the Guild Hall, Connor could not suppress a quiet gasp. The interior was a cathedral of science and magic: sunlight streamed through a stained-glass dome overhead, painting the marble floor with sigils of every hue. Rows of suspended glass orbs bobbed in midair, casting steady white luminescence – lights without flame. Beneath them, gilded automata the size of hounds prowled, their crystal eyes flickering as they scanned newcomers for concealed dangers. At the sight of Sela's sheathed sword, one automaton paused, gears whirring audibly. A quick gesture from an apprentice sent it skulking back into the shadows.
"The Hall's sentinel constructs," Guildmistress Elira explained lightly. "Old things from a bygone era. They mean no harm, of course." She walked with an elegant cane, though she appeared hardly in need of it – the accessory seemed more affectation than crutch. Leading the way, she began the tour in earnest. "Here in our atrium, we showcase some non-sensitive alchemical innovations and historical curiosities for visitors. That dome above is infused with an illumination potion of our own invention; it amplifies natural light to brighten the hall, even on the cloudiest days."
Connor listened politely, eyes drawn up to the colored dome. One pane depicted a woman stirring a cauldron, another a knight slaying a chimera – likely legends of the Guild's founding. Despite himself, he felt a flicker of awe. Magic thrummed faintly in every stone of this place. He could taste it on the air – a bitter-sweet tang like charged copper. Marisela squeezed his arm gently, a reminder to remain composed.
They moved on, guided through corridors lined with display cases. Inside, preserved botanical oddities floated in amber fluid: a two-headed adder lily, a glowing nocturnal fern. One case held a cracked obsidian tablet covered in indecipherable runes that seemed to wriggle under the glass when looked at too long. Connor caught Ambassador Kalyna watching him from the corner of her eye, as if measuring his reactions to each marvel. He schooled his features to polite interest, betraying nothing of the questions swirling in his mind.
The procession paused at a workshop open to the hall. Inside, acrid fumes and spice-laden smoke wreathed the air. Half a dozen alchemists tended bubbling beakers over blue alchemical flames. At Elira's gesture, one middle-aged alchemist approached, cradling a shallow brass bowl in her gloved hands. In the bowl, a viscous lilac liquid swirled.
"A demonstration, if our esteemed guest is willing," Guildmistress Elira said, turning to Connor with a benign smile. The apprentices nearby all stilled in anticipation. "This is a simple luminance draught. When two drops of this solution are mixed with a catalyst powder, it produces a harmless flash of light. A delight for showing basic principles." She nodded to the alchemist, who produced a tiny packet of silvery dust.
Connor's mouth felt suddenly dry. He sensed something wary in Marisela's stance beside him – she, too, recognized that this "demonstration" was no mere parlour trick but a test in disguise. Nevertheless, refusing would draw more attention. "What must I do?" he asked, striving to keep his tone mild.
"Simply hold the bowl, if you please, and add the powder," Elira instructed. "Gently."
He accepted the warm brass bowl. The liquid inside exuded a faint luminescence, smelling of crushed violets and ozone. Under dozens of watchful eyes, Connor pinched the tiny packet between his fingers. A single silvery grain spilled out prematurely, and at its touch the lilac liquid sparked. Startled, he quickly emptied the rest into the bowl.
For an instant, nothing happened. Then a blinding flash erupted. Connor flinched as brilliant white light burst upwards in a plume. Gasps echoed through the atrium. The flash should have been a brief spark, but instead it crackled and shimmered, hanging in the air too long – an opalescent cloud of light twisting in on itself. Tiny bolts of static snapped from the bowl to Connor's fingertips, a tingling shock that made him catch his breath. The light reflected in his wide eyes; in that moment, he felt a tug deep in his chest, as if some slumbering thing inside him had stirred awake in answer.
Sela was at his side in an instant, one hand hovering protectively near his back. The alchemist attendant rushed forward with a glass lid and clamped it over the bowl, smothering the remaining glow. Bit by bit, the brilliance dimmed to a few drifting sparks and then nothing. The hall fell quiet but for the faint crackle of dissipating energy. A wisp of smoke curled up past Connor's face, carrying the scent of singed violets.
Guildmistress Elira's eyes gleamed, though her smile never faltered. "My, what an enthusiastic reaction," she said lightly, breaking the silence with a forced chuckle. "A higher concentration of aether in the mix than I estimated, no doubt." She accepted the sealed bowl from Connor's trembling hands. "You handled that expertly, Master Connor. Such aptitude for a first-timer."
Marisela bristled at the hint of prideful ownership in Elira's tone, but kept her reply courteous. "Indeed. An impressive display – albeit unintended." She placed a steadying hand on Connor's shoulder. He realized his heart was pounding; he willed it to slow as the spots cleared from his vision.
Ambassador Kalyna stepped closer, peering at him with open intrigue. "Most impressive," she echoed. There was a new hunger in her gaze, thinly veiled behind her diplomatic smile. "In Vesna, we have scholars who would give their right arm to witness such a phenomenon. You must consider visiting us one day, Master Connor – purely as an honored guest, of course."
The invitation made Marisela stiffen. Guildmistress Elira's pleasant expression tightened almost imperceptibly, a flash of annoyance crossing her eyes at the Vesnan envoy's forwardness. "I think our guest has excitement enough for one day," Elira interjected smoothly. "Come, let us conclude the tour in the garden wing. A touch of fresh air will do us good."
They proceeded to a set of glass doors that opened into an inner courtyard lush with potted herbs and fruiting trees. Connor walked with careful breaths, trying to suppress the tremor in his hands. The afterimage of that flare still swam in his mind. Did I cause that? he wondered, heart uneasy. It felt as if the light had responded to him somehow – answering a question unasked.
In the fragrant garden enclosure, Guildmistress Elira made pleasant small talk about the guild's prized sericulture trees and healing salves. Connor followed along dutifully, but his focus was scattered. Across the reflecting pool at the courtyard's heart, the Vesnan aide scribbled notes furiously on a parchment, glancing at him now and then as though he were a rare specimen. Sela kept close at his side, eyes narrowed and one hand always near her weapon, as if expecting the greenery itself to lunge at her charge.
At last, the tour wound to its end back in the atrium. A flutter of relief stirred in Connor's chest when he saw the great doors again. Tea and refreshments had been laid on a side table at some point – delicate pastries and a steaming carafe. Guildmistress Elira pressed a small porcelain cup of amber-colored tea into Connor's hand. "For you. A blend to fortify the nerves," she said kindly.
Connor took a sip before he could think. The tea was cloyingly sweet, with an undernote of bitter spice. The flavor hit his tongue and he nearly gagged, swallowing swiftly to be polite. It tasted as foul as any potion he'd ever tried – and he had tried a few during his recovery in Aurelia, to similarly nauseating effect. Across from him, one of the apprentices sipped from an identical cup with no sign of discomfort. Marisela noticed his grimace and gave the barest shake of her head, a silent caution not to say anything. He forced a tight smile and lowered the cup.
"Thank you, Guildmistress," he managed. The aftertaste of bitterness lingered, but he stood straighter, determined to show no weakness.
Elira's smile sharpened just a touch. She knew exactly how it tasted to him, he suspected – another subtle reminder of how different he was. "It has been our genuine pleasure to host you today," she proclaimed, raising her own cup in a toast. "Aurelia is proud to have you among us. Should you ever wish to explore the alchemical arts, our Guild Hall would welcome you with open arms."
"And Vesna as well would welcome you, should you venture beyond Aurelia's borders," Ambassador Kalyna added, dabbing her lips with a silk kerchief. "Our institutions are most eager to exchange knowledge… and cultural appreciation." The blandness of her words did little to mask the pointed offer underneath.
Marisela stepped forward, effectively intercepting the conversation. "Master Connor is fortunate to have so many kind offers. In due time, perhaps. For now, I fear we must return to Lilygarden." Her smile was polite steel. "We thank you for your gracious hospitality."
There was nothing overt anyone could object to in her statement, yet Connor sensed the frustration rippling through both the Guildmistress and the Vesnan envoy at being so firmly, if gently, rebuffed.
Farewells were exchanged with all the ceremony due a visiting dignitary. As Connor made his final bow and turned to depart, Guildmistress Elira leaned in close enough that only he and Marisela could hear: "Do give my regards to Lady Yara of the Council. And remind her that resources as precious as yourself deserve the finest guidance." She drew back before he could respond, her face the picture of courteous innocence.
Connor's cheeks burned as he walked out beside Marisela. The implication was clear: Yara – his foremost protector on the Council – was being challenged. Elira and her allies viewed him not as a ward of Lilygarden, but as a resource wasted outside their direct control.
The bright afternoon sun met them again as they emerged, though to Connor's eyes the light of the courtyard seemed harsher now. He regained the carriage in a haze of conflicted emotions. When the doors shut and privacy was theirs once more, he exhaled a breath he had not realized he had been holding.
Sela's gauntlet creaked as she clenched a fist. She had followed in behind them. "They all but bared their fangs," she muttered, anger bleeding through her disciplined facade at last.
Marisela nodded grimly. "The Council will have much to answer for, inviting Vesnans into this." She turned to Connor, her face softening. "How do you fare, my dear?"
Connor opened his mouth, then hesitated, unsure how to even begin. He felt wrung out – as if he had run a marathon while sitting perfectly still. "They tested me," he said at length, voice low. There was no question in it. "That… potion, or whatever it was. It reacted strongly."
Marisela exchanged a look with Sela. "Yes," she admitted quietly. "They were gauging your innate magic. And I suspect they are satisfied by what they saw." She reached over and brushed an errant lock of hair from Connor's forehead in a motherly gesture. "Try not to worry. Lady Yara and I will not allow you to become a pawn in their games."
Connor managed a faint smile and sank back against the velvet cushion as the carriage lurched into motion. Outside, the Guild Hall's silhouette receded behind wrought iron gates. He closed his eyes, replaying the flash of light and the weight of so many eyes upon him.
He had felt something stir within him, just for an instant – and he knew those watching had felt it too.
Night draped Lilygarden in uneasy stillness. The oil lamps in the corridors had been dimmed, leaving only a faint orange glow under Connor's door. His bedroom felt larger in the gloom, every whisper of wind outside a potential footstep, every flicker of shadow an imagined spy. He sat on the edge of his four-poster bed in shirtsleeves, staring at the pale slices of moonlight on the rug. The silence itself was a message – the calm before a storm.
Connor's mind refused to rest. Marisela and Sela had left him hours ago with gentle assurances that they must attend an emergency Council session. Now midnight approached, and still no word. He clenched and unclenched his hands, replaying the day's events in his head for the hundredth time – every polite threat, every hungry glance. Outside, a gust rattled the windowpane, and he stood to unhook the latch. Cool air flooded in, carrying with it the distant rumble of thunder. Low clouds smothered the sky, their undersides lit occasionally by flashes of heat lightning. A storm was rolling in from the west, swift and silent.
Have I become the lightning rod?What decision is being struck in my absence?
He pressed his forehead against the glass, trying to quell the dread twisting in his stomach. From this angle, he could just make out the spire of Aurelia's Council Hall silhouetted against the turbulent sky. Were they talking about him now in that grand chamber? Judging him, perhaps even bargaining over him? The thought tightened his chest.
Connor exhaled slowly, fogging the window with his breath. Marisela had told him to trust in Lady Yara's influence, to have faith that not everyone on the Council wished to exploit him. He clung to that hope, fragile as a moth's wing. But the uncertainty gnawed at him.
Minutes or hours passed; he lost track in the darkness. His head grew heavy as the adrenaline of the day seeped away, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Eventually, Connor retreated from the window and lay atop the coverlet, fully dressed save for his boots, in case— in case of what? He didn't know anymore, only that sleep tugged at his eyelids like an insistent tide. With a final look at the crack of storm-lit sky beyond the drapes, he allowed fatigue to drag him under.
He dreamed he stood in a vast hall of shadows and light. Great banners hung from unseen rafters – each emblazoned with a different guild crest. They rustled in a phantom wind. A ring of voices echoed around him, disembodied, blurred... yet he recognized their timbre. The Council.
"The boy's potential endangers our city if left unbridled," one voice snapped, sharp as breaking ice. A guild matron from the Alchemists, Connor thought.
"No – what endangers us is this infighting!" retorted another, laden with authority. He knew that voice: Lady Yara. "We swore to protect him."
"Protect, or hide?" cut in a third voice, silken and sly. "Vesna's envoys will report what they saw. Others will come, mark my words."
A murmur of agreement rippled in the dark. Connor tried to move, to make them see him, but his limbs felt rooted to the floor.
Lady Yara's voice rose again, resolute and clear. "Then our path is obvious – we remove him from Aurelia's board before any can lay claim. Send him to Asterholt, tonight."
Thunder boomed, the hall around him trembling. Silhouettes of figures shifted, disagreement flaring in an unintelligible clamor. Connor's heart lurched. Send him away? Tonight? He wanted to cry out, but the cacophony drowned him.
Suddenly, one figure loomed closer through the haze – a woman with a cascade of silver hair and eyes glowing like molten gold. She stretched out a hand towards Connor. "Child… you must leave…" Her voice echoed with a strange, gentle power not quite human. "The storm is nearly here."
A fork of lightning split the darkness, and everything lurched. The guild banners tore free, swirling upward as the hall was devoured by blinding white light. Connor heard his own name reverberate in the storm, a chorus of desperate whispers – and beneath it all, the drum of hooves and a driving rain.
He jolted awake to a firm hand on his shoulder.
Connor gasped and sat bolt upright. Captain Sela's face hovered above him in the darkness, lit from one side by the lantern in her hand. Rain pattered softly against the open window she must have unlatched.
"It is time," Sela whispered. She was already in traveling leathers, a dark cloak thrown over her shoulders, droplets of rain glittering on the brow of her hood. Behind her, Marisela stood with a small oil lamp, her expression taut but determined.
Connor's pulse kicked into a sprint as reality crashed down. So it hadn't been only a dream – the Council truly had made their choice. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. "The Council… they want me taken to Asterholt," he murmured, voice thick with sleep and racing fear.
Marisela set the lamp on a side table and wrapped a woolen cloak around his shoulders. "Yes, my dear," she said quietly. "We must leave at once. There is little time."
Sela pressed a finger to her lips, cautioning silence as Connor began to question. In the dim light, her eyes gleamed with urgency. "No lanterns outside the manor," she instructed softly. "We slip out under the cover of darkness."
Connor nodded, throat dry. He hastily pulled on his boots and jacket while Marisela hurried to fill a satchel. "I have packed essentials," she whispered, pushing the leather bag into his hands. He could see the tremble in her fingers and felt an answering tremor in his chest.
Within minutes, they were ready. Sela cracked open the door and led the way. The halls of Lilygarden were deserted at this late hour, the hush broken only by distant thunder and the soft scuff of their footsteps. The manor's familiar comforts now felt ghostly and hollow as they passed; paintings and vases became vague shapes in the low light. Connor clutched Marisela's hand as they descended the servants' stair toward a side gate. His heart hammered not from exertion but from the anticipation of leaving everything he knew behind.
At the rear courtyard, a covered carriage awaited, its wheels and frame painted matte black. Four of Sela's most trusted guards stood by their horses, silhouettes barely distinguishable in the drizzle. They exchanged salutes with the captain in grim silence. The horses stamped and snorted, eager to be off, their breath misting in the chill air.
Marisela turned to Connor. In the faint glow of the cloaked lanterns, he saw tears brimming in her eyes despite the brave smile she wore. "You will be safe," she promised, brushing rain from his hair with a gentle stroke. "Asterholt's walls are strong, and Lady Yara has friends there who will hide you until this passes." Her voice faltered, then steadied. "I will join you as soon as I can, once I have settled matters here. Remember what we taught you… and trust your instincts."
Connor's vision blurred with emotion. He embraced Marisela tightly, breathing in the familiar scent of lavender on her collar. "Thank you… for everything," he managed to whisper. There was so much more he wanted to say – gratitude, fear, apology – but the words tangled in his throat. In that brief embrace, he hoped she understood.
Captain Sela cleared her throat softly. Time to go. Connor pulled back, and Marisela cupped his face in both hands one last time. "Be brave, child," she said, voice breaking. Then she stepped away, allowing Sela to guide him to the carriage.
Connor climbed inside, settling into the dark interior. Sela did not follow; she would ride ahead on horseback to lead the convoy. Instead, one of the guards – a sturdy woman with a crossbow slung across her back – quietly took the driver's perch and clicked her tongue to the team. With a creak of wheels, the carriage rolled forward.
Through the window's oilcloth flap, Connor caught a final glimpse of Marisela. She stood in the courtyard's shadows, a solitary figure watching after them. For a fleeting moment, lightning unveiled her face, and he saw tears glinting as they rolled down her cheeks. Then the night swallowed Lilygarden as the carriage turned onto the lane.
Under Sela's careful direction, the small procession wound through back streets to avoid the main thoroughfares. Rain began to fall in earnest, masking the sound of hooves on cobblestone. Connor lifted the curtain an inch to peer out. Aurelia slept behind shuttered windows; only the occasional lantern above a doorway hinted at life. They passed under the great arch of the western gate without fanfare – the sentries there had been quietly instructed to let a certain covered carriage through. One guard on the parapet nodded to Sela as they slipped by, then pulled the portcullis shut once more. The city of Aurelia fell behind, its stone silhouette soon lost in the rainy haze.
As the road descended into the misty lowlands beyond the city, the drizzle intensified to a steady downpour. Fat droplets spattered the carriage roof, a drumbeat that matched the heavy rhythm of Connor's heart. He felt a profound ache realizing that each turn of the wheel carried him farther from the only sanctuary he had known in this world – farther from Marisela's comforting presence, from the gentle gardens of Lilygarden, from the tenuous safety of Aurelia's walls.
Yet, as the convoy pressed on into the storm-cloaked night, he also felt something else emerging from beneath his sorrow: a quiet resolve. The dreamlike haze of the day's events was washing away in the cool sting of the rain. He was still afraid – of what lay ahead, of being alone – but he understood that this was the path chosen to keep him free from those who would treat him as a prize. He owed it to Marisela, to Lady Yara and Sela, to endure.
Thunder rolled across the sky, and in a flash of bluish light Connor caught sight of Captain Sela riding just beyond his window, sword at her hip and vigilance in her posture even as she became drenched. She met his gaze for an instant and gave a firm nod, a silent assurance that she would see him through this. Connor managed a faint, answering nod.
He let the curtain fall, retreating into the carriage as it jostled along the muddy road. There in the darkness, he allowed a single tear to slip free – for Aurelia, for Marisela, for the uncertain road before him. Then he straightened his back and wiped his cheek with a gloved hand.
Outside, the night stretched vast and unknowable, the rain unrelenting. But within Connor, a fragile spark of hope endured, shielded by resolve. He would face whatever awaited in Asterholt and beyond on his own terms, not as a captive creature but as himself.
As Aurelia's lights disappeared behind distant hills, Connor closed his eyes and let the rhythm of the journey and the drumming rain fill his senses. Somewhere ahead, dawn would come – and with it, a new chapter of fate yet to be written.
Act II: Road of Iron Petals
Chapter 6: Departure in the Rain
Rain hammered the canvas roof, drumming out the last echoes of Aurelia's bells. The scent of wet stone and distant ozone seeped through the wagon's seams, sharp as copper on his tongue. Connor sat on silk cushions that smelled of lavender—luxury in a cage—while the land-barge lurched through the eastern gate. He caught one last glimpse of Lilygarden's lanterns blinking farewell in the storm, then the heavy curtains dropped. Chains clinked on the outer locks. Somewhere up front Captain Sela's voice cut through the downpour as she barked orders to the mount-drivers, and the convoy creaked onto the wilderness road, bearing its most coveted cargo: him.
Where are they taking me?
Am I truly safer beyond those walls?
Connor's pulse thudded in his ears, uneven as the rain. Each jolt of the armored wagon under him drove home the reality: he was leaving the only sanctuary he had known in this world. He pressed a trembling hand to the cold iron lattice that screened his small window. Through the sliver between curtain and frame, he watched Aurelia's torchlit gates recede into darkness. The city's silhouette—ivory spires and sky-rails glistening with runoff—vanished behind night and trees. A spike of panic flared in his chest. Aurelia, with all its gilded cages and dangers, had at least been familiar. Out here, beyond the city's protective aura, lay the Silverspine Wilderness, a vast unknown where the wild things prowled. The chill of that thought coiled around him, tight as a predator's grin.
He shifted back onto the cushions, trying to steady his breathing. The carriage interior was dim, lit only by a single magelamp casting a weak bluish glow across brass-bound travel chests and the brocaded walls. Each time lightning flashed outside, the lamp would flicker as if in sympathy, the runes etched into its base glinting with captured light. Connor pulled his wool cloak tighter about his shoulders. It was the very one Matron Marisela had wrapped around him on his first night in Aurelia—deep green and smelling faintly of her rosewater perfume. A pang of loss hit him as he realized she was not here beside him. She had seen him off with hurried, worried eyes at Lilygarden's door, pressing a silk kerchief into his hand as the Watchwomen ushered him away. Now that kerchief sat in his breast pocket, a last token of comfort. He squeezed it reflexively, exhaling a shaky breath.
Outside, the convoy picked up speed. He could discern the sounds of multiple wagons and mounts: the grind of reinforced wheels through mud, the clatter of hoofs—perhaps mechanical ironshod horses or even domesticated drakes, if the rumors were true—mixed with the muffled calls of women organizing the formation. Sela's voice rang out now and then, crisp and controlled, directing an escort detail to scout ahead. Connor shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the padded wall, trying to recall her exact words when she'd awakened him just hours ago. Emergency Council order, Connor. We're getting you out. That's all she had whispered before armoring up and striding out to arrange this sudden exodus. He hadn't even had time to change out of his nightshirt before someone thrust travel clothes at him and hustled him into this wagon under cover of darkness.
A staccato rattle on the roof made him jump—just the rain intensifying. The storm was drenching the world outside, painting the night in washes of silver and black. He imagined the convoy from above: a line of rune-armored land-barges and mounted knights snaking along a dirt road, lantern-light gleaming off wet metal like a river of stars in the gloom. If not for the tension knifing through his gut, it might almost have seemed beautiful.
Suddenly a harsh buzzing whir rose above the rain's din. Connor startled, peering toward the tiny mesh-covered vent in the wagon wall. The noise grew louder—an engine's keen, circling overhead. Through a gap in the curtain he glimpsed a fleeting red light tracking them in the sky. A drone? Yes—the tabloids' flying eyes were out even in this downpour, hungry for a shot of the "star-fallen gentleman." Anger tightened his jaw. Even here, even now, they pursued him. He heard a curse from one of the outriders outside and then a whoosh of energy discharge: a defensive spell or perhaps a focused bolt from a rune-rifle. The whirring abruptly exploded into crackling silence. Connor saw a shower of sparks in the darkness beyond his window—fried circuits and crystal lenses plummeting to the muddy road. The convoy did not slow. A faint smile tugged at his lips despite everything. Sela's security was taking no chances tonight. Nothing unauthorized would tail them into the wild.
As the adrenaline from that brief incident ebbed, Connor realized his heart was still racing. He tried to recall the calming techniques Captain Sela had taught him—only days ago, though it felt like an eternity. Breathe, count, focus. He inhaled through his nose, counting one… two… letting the scents ground him: damp canvas, lavender oil, oiled leather. On three… four… he exhaled through his mouth, imagining the fear leaving his body as a dark vapor. Gradually, his muscles unlocked from their tight brace. The claustrophobia of the wagon lessened to a dull pressure rather than a choking hold.
He knew why this was necessary. He told himself he understood. The attempt on his life—on his freedom—back at the Guild Hall had changed everything. Lady Vesna's henchwomen and those black-market kidnappers had nearly succeeded in broad daylight, in the heart of Aurelia. The memory sent a shiver through him fiercer than any cold rain: the flash of alchemical smoke, the cloying sweet smell of chloroform on a rag pressed to his face, the sudden boom of Sela's cannon-gauntlet firing as she fought them off. They had been so brazen, attacking within the supposedly secure walls of the Alchemy Guild's garden. If not for Sela's quick sword and the alarm spells scaring them off, Connor doubted he would still be free—still himself. The Council had panicked. Thus this midnight flight to Asterholt, a smaller fortress-city far from the capital's intrigues. To keep me safe, they'd said. Safe. Yet here he was, sealed in steel and spells, spirited through a storm like some royal jewel at risk of theft.
A jolt rocked the wagon as it hit a rut, and Connor's teeth clicked together. He braced himself, hands gripping the cushion beneath. Outside, a chorus of grunts from beasts of burden and shouts from drivers marked the convoy's struggle over rough terrain. They must be leaving the paved imperial highway now, venturing onto the older trade road east. The suspension of the land-barge hissed and adjusted—a soft blue glow emanated from under the floorboards as the runic shock absorbers did their work. Connor felt it as a gentle tingling at the base of his skull, a subtle static in the air that raised the hairs on his arms. It was almost like… a presence, or a pressure. In the corner of his vision he caught a faint glimmer seeping through a seam in the wagon's paneling. There were active sigils embedded in these walls—he could sense them if he focused, like threads of energy woven through the wood and metal. A year ago, before this strange new life, he'd never have noticed. But now? Now something in him resonated with the unseen currents of magic.
A sharp ache blossomed behind his eyes. Connor winced and looked away, breaking his focus. Too much. If he tried to trace the runes' power for longer than a heartbeat, he paid for it with these headaches. Captain Sela called it aetheric sensitivity—his ability to detect magic nearby. Untrained, it overwhelmed his senses in unpredictable ways. With effort, he slowed his breathing again and let the pain subside to a dull throb.
Moments later, a knock sounded from outside the wagon's rear door—three quick raps of metal gauntlet on metal frame. "Sir Connor? All well inside?" a muffled female voice called, courteous but professionally so. One of Sela's junior Watchwomen, no doubt assigned to guard his wagon tonight.
Connor swallowed, clearing his throat. "I'm… yes. I'm alright," he replied, pitching his voice loud enough to cut through the rain's patter. He wasn't alright, not truly—fear still gnawed at his belly and his head still ached faintly—but he wouldn't be the reason they stopped or slowed. Every minute on this road put Aurelia farther behind them, and perhaps danger as well.
"Very good, sir. Captain Var sends word that we'll press through the night," the woman shouted over a gust of wind. "We'll stop at first light for rest. If you need anything before then, just pull the bell-rope by your left hand."
Connor glanced to his side. Sure enough, there was a tasseled cord hanging near the small window. He hadn't even noticed it in his earlier haze. "Understood. Thank you." He hesitated, then added, "And… thank you for being out there in this weather."
He thought he heard a faint chuckle through the door. "Our duty and honor, sir," came the reply. He imagined the guard standing at attention in the rain, perhaps smiling at his polite gratitude. A part of him still marveled at how these formidable women—knights, guards, mages—treated him with such deference. As if he were the fragile one, a treasure to guard. It warmed and unsettled him all at once.
The guard's footsteps splashed away, and Connor was alone with the storm again. He considered lying down on the cushioned bench, perhaps trying to sleep, but knew it was futile. Instead, he shifted to the window once more, lifting the edge of the curtain to peer out. Rainwater streaked the glass in erratic rivulets. Outside, the world had narrowed to what little the convoy's lamps illuminated: silhouettes of towering pines flanking the road, their needles glistening; the bobbing outline of the wagon ahead of his, its red tail lantern swaying; glimpses of armored riders on either side, the silver filigree on their uniforms catching flashes of light. Beyond that circle of human brightness pressed an infinite night, thick with trees and ancient darkness.
Thunder growled in the distance, low and long, like a waking beast. Connor's fingers tightened on the window's edge. Each new sound out here—each whisper of wind through the forest or crack of distant branch—set his nerves on edge. Aurelia's nights had been filled with city noise: the hum of skyrail engines, the buzz of neon signs, the laughter of late market-goers. Out here there was only nature's voice, and it spoke in a language of solitude and menace.
Yet, even in his apprehension, curiosity flickered. This was the first time he'd seen the world beyond Aurelia's outskirts since arriving under those strange twin moons. If circumstances had been different, he might even have felt excitement at the adventure of it—like the heroes in those old novels he used to read back on Earth, journeying into the wild unknown. He pressed his forehead to the cool glass, trying to make out shapes beyond the trees. On a ridge to the north, the storm clouds briefly thinned, revealing a sliver of night sky. Two moons—one a pale pearl, the other a smaller jade disc—shimmered behind gauzy clouds. Twin moons, reminding him inescapably that he was not under any familiar sky. That he might never be again.
Connor closed his eyes against a sudden sting of tears. No. He wouldn't fall into despair now. He had survived a month in this world, had learned its rules and dangers, and even begun to tap into powers he never imagined having. He wasn't the helpless stranger he'd been on day one. He was determined. He would endure this journey, reach Asterholt, and continue growing stronger. I must survive long enough to earn my freedom, he reminded himself, repeating the silent vow that had crystallized in him after the kidnapping attempt. Survive, learn, and one day live on his own terms.
Outside, a howl echoed through the pines—high, warbling, and definitely not wind. It cut through the monotonous patter of rain like a blade. Connor's breath hitched. Wolf? No, something about it was off, almost human-sounding, but distorted by distance and rain. Another call answered, this one from the opposite side of the road. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. The voices of night creatures, communicating across the dark.
The convoy did not stop; if the escorts were alarmed, they gave no sign audible to him. But Connor remained frozen at the window, heart thumping. The howls faded into the sweep of the storm, leaving only the drum of rain and the creak of wagon wheels once more. Yet it was enough. In that brief exchange of eerie cries, he grasped how thin the barrier was between him and the wild. A few centimeters of wood and metal, a few vigilant guards—beyond that, predators roamed free.
Connor backed away from the window, letting the curtain fall shut. He sank onto his cushions. His hands were shaking, so he clasped them tightly in his lap to hide the tremor from the empty air. Through the roof canvas, water dripped steadily into a little tin bucket in the corner with a soft plink, plink. It was going to be a long night. He stared at the quivering lamplight on the opposite wall and tried to fend off the tide of anxious imaginings—glowing eyes in the dark, claws scraping against the wagon door, chains snapping like twigs…
He forced himself to lie down at last, curling on his side atop the plush bench. The lavender scent of the cushions enveloped him, bringing a memory of Lilygarden's quiet halls and Marisela's humming as she arranged his bedding. He clung to that gentle image. Outside, thunder rumbled again, and the rain played its relentless lullaby on the canvas above. Connor's eyelids drooped, exhaustion finally prying them loose. In the haze between waking and sleep, he felt every jostle of the wagon as a cradle's rocking—harsh, but oddly rhythmic.
Eventually, despite the fear gnawing at him, despite the unknown road ahead, the young man slept. The convoy rolled onward into the stormy night, and the wild watched with glowing eyes from the shadows beyond the trees.