Every evening, High Priest Varden Daramond tended to Keroth’s sacred fire. The brazier never died, but it always lost strength during the day. Varden arrived with three dry logs, then crossed the temple’s ceremonial hall. It was small, one of the handful of buildings in the Myrian Enclave, but Varden preferred it to the grand temples in Myria. The hall had a rectangular shape, with a circular end instead of a flat wall. Ramps curved up around the end of the hall, embracing the brazier’s stone platform like two large arms. At the top of the ramps were two corridors, one leading to the acolytes’ quarters, the other to Varden’s. Long windows allowed sunlight inside the hall, and two rows of columns traced a path to the entrance. Their tops arched toward the end, carved to resemble flames licking the vaulted ceiling. Varden wished they had fireflowers to decorate them, but the bright red flowers would never survive Isandor’s winters. To Varden’s artistic eye, the temple lacked a touch of life without them.

He promised himself he would find a substitute as he climbed the stairs to the fire’s dais. Even diminished, it burned well over five feet high. Varden focused on the warmth against his skin and the energy within. After a deep breath, he stepped into the flames. The logs in his arms gave a familiar crack as fire enveloped them, blackening the wood but leaving the priest unharmed. Other temples delegated the brazier duty to new acolytes, but Varden loved the sensation of warm currents dancing in his brown curls. The design of his High Priest outfit allowed air to flow through, snapping it about as Varden sat down, smiling, and placed the three logs around him. The fire bath eased his spirits, and he began the Night Watch Prayer. He asked Keroth to grant him Their brilliant flame to push back the night and permit him to witness the world’s beauty, in both light and shadows. Varden’s fingers curled around a piece of charcoal as he prayed. His urge to draw something grew with every passing second.

Master Avenazar’s snide voice broke through his concentration, speaking directly into his mind. Blondie needs your help.

Varden’s eyes snapped open and his heart sank. He managed to finish the prayer, but the message had wiped out his serenity. When had peacefulness ever lasted in the Myrian Enclave? This particular sentence pained him more than others, however. Its meaning never changed. ‘Blondie’ was Nevian, and ‘needs your help’ meant Avenazar had tortured him again. The wizard always refused to tell him where to find Nevian, though, leaving Varden to search for him. Once, before he’d understood the kind of man he dealt with, Varden had asked where to look for the apprentice. Avenazar’s cackle and noncommittal shrug were the only answers he’d received.

Varden emerged from the brazier, wisps of smoke trailing behind him, then hurried out of Keroth’s temple.

He stopped at Nevian’s tiny bedroom first and pushed against the piles of books blocking the door from opening, cringing when one collapsed to the ground. Nevian was always sneaking tomes out of the library, using the countless books to conceal a number of Avenazar’s magic manuals. Varden doubted anyone other than him had noticed. Most knew better than to get involved in Avenazar’s business, and the way the Myrian wizard treated his apprentice—as property, mostly—made it clear he was also off-limits. No one would inspect his room, but Nevian still risked a lot. Not his worst decision in that regard, Varden knew. Another secret he intended to keep.

When Varden didn’t find Nevian with these books, he moved to the library and searched it one alley at a time. Every passing minute worsened the tightness in his chest. One day, Varden wouldn’t reach the poor teenager in time, and Avenazar’s cruelty would leave a permanent mark on Nevian. Well … a more permanent one. Varden didn’t doubt it had already left scars in the young man’s mind. How could it not, after two years of such treatment? The High Priest checked the courtyard—nothing. He stifled his disgust of the dank underground corridor lined with prison cells and peered inside them but found no trace of him there either. Panic settled into his gut, nauseating him. His mind sped through other possible locations as he half-ran down the hallways.

A hawk flew through an open window, forcing Varden to skid to a stop. Its talons straightened into legs while brown feathers transformed into pale skin and a prune-coloured dress. The wings stretched into delicate arms and hands. The head shifted last, its beak flattening into Isra’s small nose while the eyes recovered their blue hue. Isra stood still an instant, shaking the transformation’s daze away. Varden called to her.

“Miss Isra!”

She shot him a haughty glare and Varden ground his teeth, steeling himself. Isra hated all Isbari. The moment she had noticed his tanned skin and thick hair, she’d treated him as an inferior. His people were slaves in Myria, and Isra clearly wished he was, too.

“I’m looking for Nevian,” Varden said.

“I am not your personal information centre, Isbari. Find him yourself.”

As Isra lifted her chin, Varden’s fists clenched at his side. On another day, he would have let it slide. Some fights weren’t worth his limited energy, and he disliked pulling rank on anyone, let alone a prideful Myrian who might seek revenge later. But Nevian didn’t have time for her little power plays, and in theory he followed Avenazar and Jilssan in their hierarchy. Varden grabbed her forearm and yanked her close, his grip tight around her tiny wrist.

“I am your superior by rank, and this kid might be dying. If you have any clue, tell me now.”

Anger flashed through her expression, and she wrenched out of his grasp with a huff. For a moment, Varden glimpsed fear too, but she pinched her lips and straightened into a dignified position.

“He was tasked with cleaning the storage room floor.”

Varden spun on his heels, walking out on Isra without a thank you. He lengthened his strides, forcing himself not to run despite his urge to get there as fast as possible. Please, Keroth, he thought. Let him be there.

 

✵

 

Varden found the young apprentice curled on the floor, unconscious. Blood trickled from his nose, forming a minuscule pool on the otherwise clean wooden floor, but he sported no other visible injuries. He rarely did. Avenazar favoured mental pain over anything physical, although on occasion, he’d combine both and leave the kid in a horrible state. The priest’s insides twisted as he approached the prone form and rolled him onto his back. Even out cold, Nevian clutched a tiny brush, as though holding onto it could save him. Pain warped his features, and his short blond hair stuck to his forehead. Varden sighed and tried not to imagine what he’d endured in the last hours.

He placed his fingers on either side of the apprentice’s head and began a low chant. The room’s chill made it hard to feel Keroth’s presence beside him, but Varden focused, and a soft orange light emerged from his hands. It flickered like a thousand tiny flames and slid off his fingers to wrap around Nevian’s head. Varden had trained as a healer for years, dedicating himself to tending to his fellow Isbari’s wounds, but the two years in Isandor’s enclave had taught him even more, especially about mental injuries. Avenazar destroyed or twisted memories as a pastime, but Varden had learned to reconstruct them before the damage turned permanent. He didn’t want to discover what would happen if he couldn’t fix it in time.

Nevian’s muscles relaxed as the priest eased his mind and soothed his migraine. The teenager stirred but didn’t wake. He wouldn’t for another hour, at least—long enough for Varden to move him elsewhere. Varden picked him up, eager to be in his quarters, in the temple. Avenazar never went there. Too hot, the wizard complained, and Varden avoided admitting that was on purpose. He deserved a haven—if any location within the enclave’s walls could be called that. With quite a distance to go, however, Varden soon found Nevian’s long and dangling legs unwieldy. He was glad to put him down at last.

Despite Varden’s position, his quarters weren't fancy: a heavy curtain across the middle of the small room hid his bed. On this side stood his beloved fireplace. Nothing decorated the walls, except over his desk. Varden had dared to expose a handful of his favourite drawings—those that wouldn’t get him in trouble, at any rate. All were portraits of the Isbari who’d come to his service in Myria, who’d looked up to him for guidance, even though some were twice his age. These were his people, his flock, and he knew the Myrians had sent him far away from them on purpose. An Isbari leader gave them cohesion, determination, and hope for better circumstances. Inadmissible for most Myrians. Every time Varden looked at his portraits, his resolve hardened. He would survive Avenazar and this temporary exile, return home, and help his enslaved kinsmen.

Varden’s gaze went from his sketches to the teenager. Nevian took the brunt of Avenazar’s dangerous mood swings, but not a day passed without Varden expecting his turn to come. How horrible for someone so young to suffer so much. Yet Varden couldn’t help but thank Keroth it wasn’t him instead. One day he would fail to save Nevian, or Avenazar would grow bored with him. And when that happened? Varden would be next.

At least Nevian’s body had accustomed itself to the frequent exertion. He recovered faster and quickly returned to his secret studies. How long could he keep it up, though? Between the torture sessions, the hours learning magic on his own, those spent completing Avenazar’s tasks, and Nevian’s nightly escapades in Isandor, it was a wonder the apprentice slept at all. Perhaps he didn’t. He always seemed exhausted. Varden sighed. He wanted to help, but every time he tried to reach out, Nevian shunned him. So Varden kept his secrets and healed him when necessary.

As he sat there, tending to the pale teenager, a new idea surfaced in Varden’s mind. It might get him in a world of trouble, but he had to try. Sitting still and bemoaning his fate didn’t sit well with Varden. Besides, Nevian’s audacity made him feel less lonely. When the apprentice woke up, Varden would have a proposition for him. In the meantime, he retrieved his sketch pad out of his desk and traced the general contour of the teenager’s body shape. Tall, lanky, bony. Nevian had no muscles to speak of. Just a firm square jaw and a prominent brow—features most often associated with brutish savages, not logic-addicted teenagers. They granted Nevian an appearance of constant irritation, which suited him just fine.

After some time, Nevian’s breathing changed, and he moaned. Varden set his sketch pad aside as the apprentice’s eyes fluttered open.

“Welcome back,” the priest said.

Nevian glanced at him and tried to dab his nose with his sleeve even though it no longer bled. Once he realized that, he squeezed his eyes shut and remained still, breathing in and out slowly as time passed. One minute. Another. Then he pushed himself up. Varden’s eyes widened as Nevian sat, threw the blankets off, and slid his legs out of the bed.

“What are you doing?”

Nevian swallowed hard. His pale skin turned a sick and sweaty white, and he fell back with a grunt. Varden tilted his head to the side and stared at him, unimpressed. Nevian met his disapproving glare with unflinching determination.

“I’m leaving,” he said. His weak voice siphoned all credibility out of his statement.

“You can’t. Your body needs rest.”

Nevian’s fingers curled into the blankets, and he fixed his gaze on his knees, no doubt gathering strength for another attempt. Varden withheld a sigh. They went through this routine every single time. And indeed, Nevian tried again a few seconds later, only to fall right back. He grabbed the edge of the bed and managed to retain a precarious sitting position.

“Nevian, please,” Varden said more softly.

He would have gently pushed Nevian back into bed, but Varden had learned to touch him as little as possible, even in a supportive manner. Nevian flinched away from it every time, even when Varden gave advance warning. He couldn’t heal without contact, so they’d worked around it as best as they could, and Nevian’s forearm was an absolute forbidden zone. No need to ask why; Avenazar always grabbed him there.

The apprentice shot him a glare. “I need to work. I can’t waste my time here. You’re the healer. Make me better.”

Another frequent discussion. Nevian only ever wanted to leave as fast as possible, whether or not he should. Varden had given in on countless occasions before. He could saturate Nevian with enough energy to carry him through the day, and the teenager would collapse in his bed as soon as night came. Except Nevian wouldn’t sleep until forced to, and energizing him could lead to serious health complications.

“No. I won't wash your exhaustion away.”

“But—”

“This is the third time this week. Your body cannot sustain it.” Varden crossed his arms. He needed Nevian to understand that he wanted to help. Cramming energy into him wasn’t the way to go. “What imagined slight triggered Avenazar this time?”

“Master Avenazar did nothing I did not deserve.”

“I’m sure.”

Varden let the obvious sarcasm float in the room for a moment. Nevian always shot down conversations about Avenazar, as if the wizard would hear them. He avoided Varden’s gaze and tried to straighten his fluffed blond hair and apprentice’s robes. He smoothed the folds, never using more than one hand, keeping the other clamped on the mattress for support. Varden let him stew in the awkward silence for a while. Perhaps it would make him more receptive to his proposition.

“If you stay here and allow me to take care of you, I promise I’ll help you make up for the lost time.”

And just like that, he had Nevian’s attention. The apprentice sat a little straighter, lips parted, eyes bright. He studied Varden, not bothering to hide his suspicion, but the hook must have been too intriguing. He bit.

“How?”

Varden smiled as he transferred from the bedside to his desk. Nevian wouldn’t agree to anything without details, but his offer would be irresistible. The priest withdrew a wooden box from the last drawer. Long and flat, it sported fire-like carvings in its dark wood. Varden slid the top off with reverent care then retrieved the black bandanna within. Its only distinctive features were the two burnt orange designs at the front, stitched in the shape of Keroth’s flame symbol. Varden traced the sleek fabric with his thumb, remembering his first time wearing one of them. It had felt like Keroth had expanded his mind a thousand times.

“What’s that?” Nevian asked.

His wariness amused Varden. What did he imagine? Mind-controlling headgear? Avenazar performed enough of such atrocities for the entire enclave. But Nevian was always suspicious, by nature and by necessity. Varden regained his seat near the bed and showed him the piece of clothing.

“A rekhemal. We use them during the Long Night’s Watch ceremony—the night of winter solstice, when Keroth’s light and protection are gone the longest. It amplifies awareness and sensory input, drawing power from fire. You feel … more present, and also more awake.” Varden enjoyed the warm fabric a moment, then offered it to the young wizard. “I won’t need it until the winter solstice. We wear it over our eyes, but you could tie it on your forearm. A candle is sufficient for its magic to work.”

Nevian did not move. He eyed the bandanna, then Varden, then the bandanna again. “Why would you give me that?”

“I am naively hoping that if you are more efficient, you will allow yourself well-deserved rest. The rekhemal cannot replace sleep. It helps one remain awake, nothing else.” It was a gamble, with Nevian. The apprentice might ignore his warnings and never lay in bed again. Varden needed to contribute however he could. If only he could tell Nevian he knew about the nights of studying, or ask what he did when he left the enclave! But that would throw the teenager into a panic. It might be best if Nevian believed Varden had something to gain from this. “You become distracted and irritable when tired from an all-nighter, which makes it more likely you’ll provoke Avenazar. If you don’t get hurt, I don’t have to heal you. We both benefit.”

Nevian’s nostrils flared when Varden mentioned the sleepless nights, but his breathing remained level. He examined Varden with care, his expression at a calculated neutral. Perhaps he wondered how much Varden knew.

“You have keen eyes,” Nevian said.

“It always pays to watch others. Take it, but please keep it a secret. The rekhemal is a holy relic. Purists would condemn me for lending it to someone outside the church.”

Nevian was about to close his fingers on the bandanna when Varden asked for secrecy. Instead he snatched his hand back and glared at Varden.

“You can’t do that. You’re Isbari. Master Avenazar is waiting for an excuse to snap chains around your wrists. If they catch you, they won’t just retrograde you to a lower rank.”

Varden’s stomach clenched. He’d heard enough snide comments from Avenazar to know Nevian wasn’t lying. None of this was new to him. From the moment he had entered Keroth’s acolytes, he had been one false step away from returning to slavery.

“There is always someone waiting for that excuse, Nevian. Take the bandanna.”

“You have no reason to risk this.” Nevian hesitated but finally picked up the rekhemal. “Where's the trick?”

Varden couldn’t help but mock his unrelenting doubts. After a guilty cough, he answered. “Once you wear it, your soul belongs to the Fire Lord.”

A horrified frown passed through Nevian’s square features. “You’re joking.”

“Am I?”

“You are.”

Varden was glad the conversation had moved away from the danger he put himself in. “Then you won’t hesitate to wear it. Not now, however. My one condition is that you sleep, at least tonight. It’s early evening—you’ll feel better in the morning.”

For a moment it looked like Nevian might refuse. He had raised his chin with the usual stubborn expression, but he instead let himself fall back in Varden’s bed, his arms spread out. The way he flopped down reminded the High Priest of moody teenagers throwing a fit, and Varden’s smile widened. Only Nevian would get so angry about being unable to work.

“All right, I’ll sleep,” the apprentice said. “At least until Master Avenazar comes calling again.”

“I’ll buy you until late morning,” Varden promised.

Nevian grunted in approval, and the High Priest rose from his seat. He grabbed his charcoal and sketchbook, intent on finishing his earlier piece. This deal felt like a huge victory. Nevian might never allow him any closer than this, but with the sacred bandanna, he would fare better. He could progress faster, which might mean more to him than any amount of healing.

He had his confirmation a moment later, just as he was about to cross the curtain and move to the other room. Nevian’s voice rose from the bed, low and hesitant.

“High Priest?”

Varden stopped and waited for the rest. Nevian stared at the ceiling, and spoke two words he’d never offered in years of Varden tending to his injuries.

“Thank you.”