Nevian’s back and knees hurt from scrubbing the floor. The soapy water had wrinkled his skin, and the nerves in his wrists screamed every time he clenched the minuscule brush given to him to accomplish his task. It was shorter than his index finger—not at all appropriate to clean the large storage room. If only he could use his magic to mop the floor in seconds. Master Avenazar’s orders were clear, though: no spells and no bigger brush than the one Jilssan had created. Nothing but long hours on his knees, supposed to teach him discipline. As if Nevian needed the lesson! Discipline had carried him through the rigorous training required to become an apprentice to knowledgeable Myrian masters. Discipline allowed him to tolerate Master Avenazar’s ridiculous and time-consuming demands and Master Jilssan’s subtle mockery without a word of complaint. Discipline meant that when Avenazar unwound his frustration on Nevian, shooting waves of agonizing magic into his mind, he endured the punishment then managed to crawl to his room and study through the night.

In the long run, only the studying mattered. No matter how much he hurt at the end of the day, Nevian opened his books, picked up his quill, and learned what Avenazar refused to teach him.

Nevian scrubbed harder. Discipline would transform him into the best wizard in the Myrian Empire, all odds be damned. He had laboured for too long to let anything stop him. Especially not a floor. Nevian straightened to evaluate how much remained to clean and smiled. Three-quarters done! Not so bad. He stretched his fingers, easing his cramped hands, when a shadow fell upon him.

“Is this the tiniest brush ever created? What a cutie.”

Nevian recognized the chirpy voice and withheld a sigh. Isra, the enclave’s only other apprentice. The one person who could strain his self-control even more than Avenazar’s abuse. He didn’t know why she pierced his defences so easily. Something in her constant good mood, in the simplicity of her entire life. Isra didn’t need discipline. She hadn’t struggled. Whenever he thought of all the opportunities offered to her, of how she wasted the gift of her circumstances, sharp and bitter pain stabbed his stomach.

Isra reached for the brush with a grin. She fit Myria’s beauty standards perfectly, as if her parents had followed a chart upon her conception. Every strand of her dark blonde hair was placed with calculated care, her nose was round and small, and cherry makeup highlighted her lips. Nevian didn’t know who she was trying to impress with that. Not him, he hoped. He had no interest in these things—not with her, and not with anyone. The thought had always made him recoil a little. Nevian gripped the tiny brush, certain she’d never give it back.

“I have Master Jilssan to thank for that,” he told her.

Jilssan was Isra’s tutor and a specialist in transmutation spells. Unlike Avenazar, Jilssan cared about the success of her apprentice and did her best to teach Isra every day. Nevian avoided attending their training sessions. They reminded him of his first Master. Sauria would buy him fancy quills or new tomes to celebrate his achievements. She’d shown him her secret spots outside where she both studied and caught some sun. If only she had never offended Master Avenazar, she might still be alive, and Nevian wouldn’t be paying for her mistakes. How powerful would he already have become, with her help? Better not to think of it, to just focus on the present—on what was rather than what could have been.

Isra favoured him with a bright smile. “Jilssan’s really talented, isn’t she? But why use the brush? Snap your fingers, cast a spell, and finish the cleaning, no?” Isra touched her chin, as though an important idea had occurred to her. “You can cast spells, right? I’ve never seen you wield magic.”

Nevian’s fingers clenched around the brush. He lumbered to his feet, straightening until he stood almost a full head taller than Isra. “Master Avenazar forbade the use of magic to teach me the value of hard work and perseverance.”

Isra snorted, then scanned the partly-cleaned floor without bothering to hide her disdain. “Nevian, no one knows the meaning of hard work better than you do. Just do a spell.”

She lifted a hand, readying herself to cast without waiting for him. Nevian’s heart skipped several beats. He grabbed her arm and pushed it down, stopping her before she could ruin his life.

“Don’t! He ordered no magic!” His voice squeaked, high-pitched and out of control.

“He’ll never know.” Isra peeled away his fingers one by one, her nose pinched into an exasperated expression. “Come on, Nevian. This is called initiative. It’s a very useful skill for wizards, and you’ve yet to learn this one.”

“Master Avenazar doesn’t care for initiative.” Nevian’s throat tightened, and the blood drained from his face. Isra was too carefree. No one had taught her what happened when you disobeyed. He had to make her understand. “He’ll punish me.”

Isra’s eyebrows quirked, then she drew back with a fit of giggles. Energy swirled around her hands, and she kicked the bucket of soapy water, spilling it across the still-dirty floor. Nevian rushed to interrupt her, but this time Isra pulled her arm out of his grasp. His heart clenched as the water fizzled, shone for a second with white energy, then vanished. The floor beneath sparkled, stainless. Nevian suppressed a groan as Isra stood with her hands on her hips, studying her handiwork. She looked so proud of herself. Didn’t she realize she had condemned him to hours of pain?

“I’m doomed,” Nevian whispered.

Isra laughed and slapped his shoulder. “You’re always so dramatic, Nevian! Don’t worry. If he asks, I’ll tell him I did it. You’re safe.” She wrenched the tiny brush out of his grasp and flung it next to the upturned bucket before grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the exit. “Now come on. I don’t like visiting Isandor alone.”

“No way!”

Nevian snatched his hand away and stopped in the middle of the room. He wasn’t going anywhere with her! Isra turned to him, and the corners of her lips lifted in that arrogant half-smile she wore whenever she accomplished her goals.

“You don’t want to be alone if Master Avenazar realizes magic was used, do you?”

His lips parted to answer, but no sound followed. Trapped. Isra winked and tugged him along, and Nevian wondered if she’d had it planned from the start. Her bubbly exterior lured others into becoming complacent, and he had fallen for it. She had wanted company for her escapade into Isandor. No choice now. All he could do was follow and pray Master Avenazar never found out.

 

✵

 

Isra dragged Nevian all the way to Isandor’s Lower City, where the poor and the stinky gathered. A risky area for a teenage girl. Wanting company made sense, but Nevian wished she’d set her sights on someone else. Located in a town plaza shadowed by the criss-cross of bridges above, the apothecary’s shop was one of many sleazy establishments catering to the local lowlife. Its door led to a cobblestone square erected twenty feet above ground—not high enough to be part of the Middle City, but avoiding the utter filth of the ground level. Nevian kept his nose scrunched up in an attempt to block the stench of unwashed bodies and waited by the door of the dimly-lit shop. Isra rummaged through shelves of ingredients, squinting to read the labels, slowly filling her arms. Nevian wondered what the purchases were for. Maybe she’d found recipes for fancy potions and intended to waste time on them. He’d never understood the use. Not when spells required no materials and could be stored by experienced wizards into single words of power, easily shouted in a bind.

Regrets surfaced as he watched Isra’s shopping. He should have stayed at the enclave and continued to scrub the already-clean floor, to prove he had nothing to do with her use of magic. He couldn’t even enjoy this exceptional visit to the city. Too nervous. By the time Isra paid for the ingredients, he was aching to return to the tentative security of his room.

“Come on,” he said, pulling her through the entrancetoward square outside. “We’ve been gone long enough.”

Nevian stopped dead after his first step outside the shop.

In the middle of the area stood Master Avenazar, waiting with his arms crossed. Most residents gave him a wide berth, perhaps sensing the danger packed into the Myrian’s small stature. Nevian’s fingertips grew cold, his stomach heaving. Avenazar had known. Of course he’d known. How could Nevian ever think this would go unnoticed?

Isra bumped into him. Nevian didn’t budge.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Master Avenazar.”

Isra cursed behind him, healthy fear underlying her voice for once. Nevian spun as her body shrank. Wings sprouted from her back, her fingers turning into talons barely large enough to hold her purchase bag. Wide pupils narrowed into a slit, her round nose and mouth lengthened into a beak, and her hair shifted to a great brown mane before changing into feathers. From human to hawk in a few smooth seconds … then she took flight. Ditching him. Nevian followed Isra’s animal form as she rose to the nearest bridge, too shocked to say a word. She was supposed to shoulder the blame!

A strong hand grabbed his wrist and pulled. Nevian’s surprised yelp died on his lips as he met Avenazar’s dark and angry eyes, which promised painful retribution. Energy accumulated in his master’s palm, ready to be released.

“I hope you have an excellent explanation, you ingrate.”

No justification would satisfy Master Avenazar, not from him. Nevian struggled with his growing panic, reining in his urge to jerk out of his master’s grasp and run. What would be the point? Instead, he cast his gaze down and stopped moving, knowing any other reaction would make his situation worse. His jaws worked until he could utter a single word.

“Isra—”

Avenazar unleashed his magic before Nevian could say more. The energy dug into his nerves, sending a wave of searing pain up his arm and into his brain. Nevian gasped, and his legs gave out. He fell to his knees, allowing Avenazar to look down on him. Might have been the point, Nevian thought in his daze. Avenazar preferred not to be reminded of his height.

“I said no magic, yet here you are. You used a cleaning spell, disobeying my express orders and opting instead for frivolous gallivanting in the city. How can I trust you with dangerous spells if you cannot follow simple instructions?”

Nevian choked. Had Avenazar really suggested something as ridiculous as him ‘gallivanting’? He had no time to waste on light entertainment. Even without Avenazar’s endless tasks, Nevian would use every minute of his day to study. Not all apprentices flung golden opportunities to become masters away.

“I cast nothing,” Nevian said. “I swear Isra came and—”

Once again, Avenazar cut his explanation short with a jolt of energy. The magic coursed through his muscles. Bright spots obscured his vision. It hurt. Every inch, every fibre, every ounce of him. A long whimper escaped Nevian’s lips despite his best efforts. His ears rang, making it hard to hear Avenazar’s shrill voice.

“She doesn’t decide for you. I don’t care what she did, or when. You were in charge of that floor, of cleaning it with the brush I gave you, and instead you came here.” He crouched a little, bringing himself eye-to-eye with his apprentice. “I expected better, Nevian, and you know how I hate to be disappointed.”

Tears rolled down Nevian’s cheeks. Everyone had cleared the small square, too afraid to intervene. Avenazar wore his Myrian robes, and Isandor’s residents knew not to mess with a powerful spellcaster from their Empire. In the two years since the enclave’s crew had arrived as envoys, they had gained major political influence and a fearsome reputation. Nevian would get no help from citizens. Or from anyone. Who would dare to antagonize Avenazar? The young mage clenched his teeth, steeling himself. He had to weather the torture without provoking Avenazar any further. His master enjoyed sneaking into other people’s minds and sifting through memories, but that might spell Nevian’s death. The wrong flashback witnessed by Master Avenazar, and he’d expose Nevian’s nightly activities.

If a clean floor could cause such fury, what agony would Master Avenazar inflict on him once he discovered Nevian slipped out of the enclave and traded information for magical training?

So he endured, knowing he’d pass out from the pain eventually, knowing he’d be unable to study tonight, knowing Avenazar might decide to make him clean again out of spite. None of it compared to what awaited him should his master learn the secrets Nevian hid from him.

“Master Avenazar. What an unpleasant surprise!”

The pain stopped, interrupted by a melodic voice. It had barely pierced the haze of Nevian’s mind. He crumpled to the ground, gasping for air, shaking and confused. Who? They’d said ‘unpleasant’. What a terrible idea. Nevian wanted to warn them, beg them not to push the matter, but Master Avenazar was still holding his wrist, ready to start again anytime.

“I must agree, Lord Dathirii,” Avenazar said. “What could possibly bring an important elf such as yourself to these lowly parts of town?”

Nevian knew better than to trust Avenazar’s pleasant tone. His master disliked interruptions even more than he disliked disappointments. The young mage glanced at the fool who had committed this horrible mistake. A middle-aged elf stood in the plaza, hands clasped behind his back. He wore a forest-green doublet, and his golden hair tumbled to his shoulders, kept out of his face by two braids. Instead of worry, he displayed confidence, his smile bringing about small crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes.

“My business is my own. I am glad to have stumbled upon you at this moment, however.” The elf’s green eyes caught Nevian’s for a split second—the time it took for Nevian to lower his gaze, his heart hammering. Lord Dathirii was an important noble in Isandor. What if Avenazar believed they knew each other? How much worse would everything get? Nevian wished the elf would disappear. Leave before it ended badly. Instead of listening to Nevian’s silent wisdom, Lord Dathirii dared to order Avenazar. “Let him go.”

Sudden magic jerked through Nevian’s body. He gasped, sparks flying before his eyes. His apprentice’s robes clung to his sweaty back.

“Absolutely not,” Avenazar said, firm but pleasant.

Lord Dathirii’s footsteps grew closer. He stopped a single stride away and stared down at Avenazar, using his height to make the Myrian wizard feel even tinier. Another bad idea. Would this lord ever leave them be?

“Isandor is a civilized city, and its laws forbid such an assault. You may have convinced the lords and ladies of the Golden Table to declare the enclave grounds Myrian territory, ruled by Myrian laws, but as long as you stand in our streets and bridges, you will abide by our laws. Let him go or I will have you jailed.”

Avenazar cackled, then he grabbed a handful of Nevian’s hair and pulled on it, forcing him to look up. “Hear that, Nevian? The good lord doesn’t like to see his precious city sullied and wants us to go play elsewhere.”

The elf’s horrified gasp drew an irritated groan from Nevian. Had he really believed he could stop Avenazar? Every delay Lord Dathirii imposed on the punishment would make it worse. He couldn’t help—which didn’t keep him from trying.

“No, I—”

“You were quite clear, milord,” interrupted Avenazar. “As long as I’m not in your precious city …”

He forced Nevian to stand. The elven lord straightened, his jaws tight. Nevian almost pleaded him to let it go, but he didn’t dare speak in front of Avenazar. Or even in front of Lord Dathirii. A dangerous fire lit his eyes, a scary determination to see this conflict through to the end.

“You’re an affront to decency.”

“Again, Lord Dathirii? How often have we discussed this in the last two years? Always, you go on about one’s moral obligations to other human beings, as if I cared for your naive admonitions. The Myrian Empire doesn’t thrive on goodwill.”

“No, it prospers through the widespread and inhuman trading of slaves.” Angry red coloured Lord Dathirii’s cheeks now. “How many do you keep hidden behind your enclave’s walls?”

A dozen, Nevian thought, if not more. All of Isbari descent, their skin golden to brown, keeping out of sight as much as work would allow. High Priest Daramond—the only free Isbari in the enclave—might know how many. Nevian wouldn’t be surprised if he could name them all.

“They’re not hidden,” Avenazar said. “You can visit them anytime, milord! I’m sure your concern will please them.”

“I’ve had enough,” Lord Dathirii said, and indeed Nevian could hear the anger boiling under his tight voice, barely restrained. “Don’t think you’re safe. We’ve tolerated your presence for too long.”

“Is that a threat, Lord Dathirii?” Avenazar asked.

“It is.” A weight sank to the bottom of Nevian’s stomach. He didn’t know the elf, and now he never would. This lord had a death wish; for himself, his entire family, and anyone else he loved. He would end the same way Sauria had: tortured and broken by Avenazar. Yet Lord Dathirii kept going, adding one layer of insult after another. “I don’t care if you have the economic might of Myria behind you. Isandor isn’t part of your corrupt empire, and I will die before I let you crush us under your boot.”

Master Avenazar clapped his hands together with another sharp laugh. “What a wonderful challenge! Who knows, you might get your wish. Thank you for the warning, Lord Dathirii. I will look forward to your pathetic attempts at hindering us. For now, however, I must go on with my disgraceful life.”

Nevian closed his eyes as he heard the first arcane words of a teleportation spell. An invisible force pulled at his body, and his surroundings blurred. Lord Dathirii seemed to blink in and out several times, but the apprentice knew better: they were the ones fading. Isandor’s shadowed plaza vanished, replaced by the very floor Nevian should’ve been scrubbing. Before he could utter a word, Avenazar flung him to the ground.

“You and I have to talk, my dear apprentice,” he said. “Something about assault and abuse, I believe.”

Avenazar shoved his palms against Nevian’s chest, unleashing his power with renewed rage. The magic went straight to Nevian’s head, ripping through his consciousness as he sprawled out with a scream.