TARLOCH CASTLE—GLENDALOW
1238 CE

A wooden door creaked as it slowly opened, revealing a single ray of light leaking into the cell through a small crevice in the rocky wall. The light from the hallway helped create a shadow of the Hand of the King’s knee–high boots, which were made of the finest dark leather and covered most of his silvery under tunic.

He listened for the rattling sound of the prisoner’s chains.

The prisoner, a frail woman wearing a grey torn set of rags, sat against the wall with her legs pulled up against her chest. Her filthy brown hair, long enough to reach her toes, hid the woman’s face to protect her eyes from the light.

“Why do you continue to live on? There is nothing left in this world for you,” he hissed.

“I request to see, Anya,” the woman said.

Ciarán laughed, brushing his blonde hair that hung just below his shoulders behind him. He was dressed in a forest green tunic bearing the sigel of his house. A golden belt, from which hung a long sword, was cinched around his waist.

“And why should you desire to see her?”

“I am her mother. That permits me to see her,” she uttered.

“Is that so?” Ciarán smirked. “No one knows you are here, Katrina. It is a shame you have withered away into a shell of what you once were, and yet, here you remain, continuing to live like a flea feeding off a host. This is not how it had to be for you; however, you made that choice when you chose to deceive me.”

“I did what I had to do to make your line stronger! Now, I demand to see our daughter!” Katrina snapped.

“If you haven’t already figured it out, allow me to inform you Anya does not wish to see you,” Ciarán answered coldly. “You no longer exist. In fact, she has no knowledge you’ve ever been a prisoner here, wasting away these six long years. She was notified you died from grief after losing our son. Even if she knew the truth, she would not wish to see you. There is no love left in her heart for you. But have no fear, I have continued to look after her as a father should. Soon, she shall be given her chance to rightfully claim what is hers when the royal line of O’Connor in the kingdom of Vandolay is no more. My plan is already being implemented.”

COINNEACH CASTLE—

THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY
1238 CE

“YOU WISHED to see me, Father?” Déor asked after entering his father’s private apartment and stepping into the dining area. He bowed before his father and kissed the top of his ring.

“Aye,” Francis said. “There is an important matter that I wish to discuss. Please, be seated.”

With a mix of a concern and curiosity, Déor did as instructed.

“Tell me, how go the preparations for the jousting tournament?” the king asked.

“Is that why you wanted an audience?” Déor inquired.

“Nay,” Francis said, half smiling. He sighed. “I suppose you will discover soon enough. I have accepted a new soothsayer.”

Déor sat up straight in his chair. “But, father, you just got rid of the last one. What in blazes made you think we needed another one so soon? What does this soothsayer have to offer us?”

“He’s not just any soothsayer. He’s the son of Tiberius O’Brien.”

“An O’Brien,” Déor said, standing up from his chair. “For God’s sake, have you gone mad? You have purposefully put the crown in danger!”

“You forget your place! Last I checked I was King, not you.” Francis stated, his anger rising. “I believe he will be useful to us. His father mentioned his eyes will change and appear to have fragments of flames when he uses his gift. This is how I will know if he is telling the truth. Orlynd has already predicted the kingdom of Aracelly means to interfere with the crown, so that is why you must win the tournament. It is important to demonstrate the crown is strong even if you may be feeling otherwise. I promise you will be greatly rewarded.”

McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW
1260 CE

AN INTENSE wind blew against Mierta’s face sending smoke through the air. It carried an aroma of dirt and faeces, followed by the suffocating stench of burning flesh. Mierta held out a hand to see through the haze as the scene unfolded. He was alone; the land he was standing on, once covered with grass, was now barren or burned out.

A large pile of bodies slowly became clear. Hundreds of corpses lay piled on top of each other, some still wearing clothes, while only the body parts of others remained. He watched a bird of prey peck at one of the dead while flies buzzed about.

His thoughts became distracted when he recognised the man whom he believed was a representation of an older version of himself, appearing just a few feet in front of him, digging a large hole into the ground.

Hang on. I have been here before. This was in my Rite of Wands ceremony and that’s…me. What am I doing back here? Mierta thought to himself, crinkling his brow, turning his attention to his older self.

“Um. Hello?” he said with some hesitation.

The man continued to dig into the ground. He lifted his shovel and threw dirt in Mierta’s direction, practically hitting him.

“Oi, watch where you’re throwing that!” Mierta scolded. He watched the man continue digging. Mierta shrugged his shoulders. “I guess he cannot hear me,” he realised, but his thoughts were interrupted by the now–familiar sound of his older self–coughing. He composed himself and directed his attention back to the scene before him.

Maybe I’m supposed to see something I didn’t before? Mierta thought, slowly approaching his older self just in time to see him spit blood into the ground.

Mierta curved his eyebrows and glanced around again. The bodies…they had all died from a disease. Everyone was dead.

“No, no, no, this cannot happen,” Mierta cried, dropping to his knees, panic starting to set in as he placed his hands over the sides of his face. He lowered his head and shouted, “This isn’t real!”

The scene rapidly spun and abruptly came to a stop with the sound of a door slamming. Mierta opened his eyes, and lowered his hands. He was no longer outside. Now, he was inside some place dark and musty. He could feel the wood under his knees and hear the sound of something being stirred. Again, the man was there, pouring whatever concoction he had just mixed into a small culture tub.

Mierta stood up quickly, knowing what was going to happen next. “No, you daft idiot! Don’t drink it! It will kill you!” Mierta shouted, watching the man pick up the potion and raise it to his lips. “NO!” Mierta screamed, racing towards him, leaping up and knocking it out of his hands, but not before he had finished drinking it.

The man gazed down and parted his mouth, seeing what remained of the tube shattered in pieces at his feet. He slowly looked up, crinkling his brow, finding himself staring into the eyes of his younger self.

Mierta gasped, realising he had not only been too late, but the man appeared to be able to see him now.

This is impossible. I can’t be in two places at the same time! He thought. This cannot be real. Mother, please help me!

The man reached out a hand, as if questioning whether what he was experiencing was a hallucination or not. He reached up to pinch his cheek, regretting the decision right away.

He gazed at Mierta with a disturbed expression on his face. “You are not supposed to be here,” he said.

Mierta gazed back at him with the same expression.

This could not be real! This could not possibly be real!

The man took one step forward towards him when his knees buckled and his body fell backward meeting the cherry wood floor with a loud thud.

Mierta watched the man’s breathing quicken before growing shallower and then ceasing.

“No!” he heard himself scream, however, he was uncertain if it was him or someone else.

McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW
1238 CE

“MUM!”

Mierta startled awake, quickly sitting up in bed. He breathed in and out rapidly, trying to calm his racing heart as he looked about the room. Everything was quiet. He stood up on his bed and peered out the window. There was nothing to be seen but darkness. He barely could make out the waves crashing against the rocks coming from the bottom of the hill.

It’s still night out, he thought. The sun hadn’t even attempted to rise yet.

Mierta sat back down on the bed and pulled the covers closer to his body as he trembled.

“What is wrong with me?” he thought to himself, tears starting to fall down his face. “Mother…I’m afraid. I’m so very afraid.”

ORLYND’S COTTAGE—

THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY
1238 CE

ORLYND STIRRED to what sounded like a soft wet thump against the front door of his cottage. He didn’t fully wake until he heard the sound again.

Wit is that sound? He wondered, pulling back his blanket.

Looking down, he realised he had slept in his clothes from the day before after crying himself to sleep. Slowly, he sat up, brushed his hands over his face, and allowed his legs to dangle over the edge of the bed. He gazed around the cottage. It wasn’t much for living arrangements, but at the same time he was grateful to have a roof over his head. It was simple in design. A single room with a chest of drawers made of a rough wood in one corner and a desk and chair, seemingly made from the same tree, were positioned somewhat in the middle of the room. The bed on which he slept was nothing more than a wood frame with a straw stuffed sack for a mattress. The stove, which was used for warmth as much as cooking, stood opposite of the only door.

He would have to prove his loyalty before he could be rewarded with anything more than plain comforts.

Next, he heard what sounded like something breaking against the door.

Whit is going oan? he wondered, deciding to investigate the noise.

He stood up and slowly made his way to the front door. Opening it, he saw two young boys standing in the street. One had his hand raised, ready to release another egg at Orlynd’s door.

“Oi! Whit ur yis doing?” Orlynd called out.

Realising they had been caught, the boys shrieked, dropped the remains of rotten vegetables, and ran off.

Orlynd discovered broken egg shells among various smashed vegetables at his feet. Confused and unsure of what was happening, Orlynd absentmindedly cleaned up the mess and retreated into the cottage.