Vinea stumbled through the village, wrists and ankles raw and bleeding. Pain pulsed through them as quickly as worry raced in her heart. “Sorren!” She couldn’t believe the destruction in the village. Houses and stonework in flames. People were buried beneath the rubble and others were trapped in latticed mounds of rosebushes. “Tristan!” This was not the work of a young boy. Not the boy that smiled and laughed and needed rescuing from nightmares and found wonder in the smallest of dragon scales. No. This was the work of men at war that were too cowardly to fight their own battles. And Vinea would see them pay for it.
Sorren. Tristan. She had to find them. She had to save her two boys before something horrible happened—before there was no coming back from whatever damage was done. Jaw clenched and body trembling from the shock of it all, Vinea pushed herself forward, one step at a time, cursing Sedick to the Pit and back. “Sorren, Tristan! Where are you?” Her heart hitched in her throat and tears welled in her eyes. “Please be all right,” she said to herself. “You have to be. I will never forgive myself if—” The words died on her tongue. A sob welled in her chest.
There they were, through the crowds of wailing people and shambles of village homes. Both were all right. Both standing. Both alive.
Vinea picked her way to them, unable to speak through the lump of emotion in her throat. Tristan had his back to her, helping a young woman hobble away from the rubble. She contemplated calling out to him. What a reunion that would be. Far from the prying eyes of Lorate, she would be able to tell him everything. He could finally claim what was his.
And Sorren—sweet, beautiful Sorren. She would squeeze him senseless for the worry he had caused her.
He had gotten lost in the crowd somewhere, but then she saw him again. Facing Tristan, building a spell into being. A spell meant to kill.
A guttural cry ripped from Vinea and she sprinted for Sorren, skirts tearing beneath her as she stumbled over piles of uneven debris. People clutched at her, begging for help, but she ignored them. Help would come for them. But she was the only one that could save her family.
The earring. She had to get to Sedick’s cursed earring. It glinted tauntingly at her as she ran for it. If she could tear it out, then this madness would end. Sedick would have no more power. She had been a fool to leave Sorren with it for so long.
“Sorren, enough!”
They were there, wounded and unable to fight. His master had made his purpose clear. He could not let Tristan live. No matter the cost. No matter who else got hurt. One shot was all it would take to end it. Growling, he built his magic in his palms. The spell whirled and snarled in a haze of orange and purple, the energy ripping through his muscles and tendons. He bit back a scream of agony and readied to release the spell.
“Sorren, enough!” Someone ripped the silver stud from his earlobe.
It was as if his brain ripped in two, one half shearing away from the other in shattered pieces. He shrieked and the spell ricocheted from his hands. His vision went dark. Monsters leapt from the shadows, howling at him.
You belong to us, boy, they said in Lord Sedick’s voice, trailing orange haze. You are nothing without us. You serve one purpose, and one purpose only. You are a killer.
His chest and ribs felt as if they might cave on themselves. No. That couldn’t be true. There had to be something else. There was something else. Warmth. A mother. Two of them. One dark and brimming with magic. The other light and soft, filled with kind words. “You are brave and strong, Sorren. You are more than what others tell you to be.”
No, he wasn’t. He was just a boy. A boy with nothing but the words of his master.
The other voice. Deep. Rich. Fierce. “Listen to me, my son. Whatever he tells you—whatever you think of yourself—know this: kingdoms have risen and fallen with the magic in your veins. You can be the greatest good this world has to offer. Choose what you will be, and your mother will support you in it.”
Tears coursed down his cheeks. He had never heard that voice; not that he could remember. But his heart lurched at its sound, wanting to be everything it told him and more.
He surrounded himself in his magic, a barrier against the monsters, strengthened by the words. The purple light seared the monsters’ bare flesh. They shrieked and retreated.
“I would rather be nothing than a killer,” Sorren said, sending bolts of magic after them. His magic, and no one else’s. “Be gone. And tell your master that I am no longer his.”
They laughed, a hissing sound that grated on his ears and sent chills down his spine. “We do not give up so easily. Bask in your fool’s freedom while you can. It will not last for long. You will pay your dues to the master, one way or another.”
They left him and all light vanished. In that darkness, his mind cleared, and he was left with nothing but blessed, merciful silence. The orange haze vanished. His vision returned, and when it did, the world stopped.
Lady Vinea fell, eyes wide and mouth agape. She clutched her abdomen, fingers coming back bloody. A single silver stud tumbled from her hands before her eyes rolled back in her head and her body went still.
“Wh–What?” Sorren lurched to help her, but then saw his hands. Covered in blood. Not his. Hers.
You are a killer.
Killer.
Killer.
He screamed and collapsed next to Vinea, trying to staunch the blood. Burns covered her wrists and ankles. She had broken free of his magic. Tristan and the elf vanished, a trail of blood in their wake, but Sorren didn’t care. He had hurt the one person that cared about him. “No, no, no, Lady Vinea, please. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it!” Healing magic. Healing magic! He knew healing magic. He put his hands over her wound and called his magic forth, but nothing came, only wisps of purple that leaked from his skin, thrown free by his emotions. Weak and useless, just like him. His magic was spent, all siphoned into the spell that had wounded Lady Vinea. “Oh no. NO! Not right now!” Sobbing, he screamed to anyone that would hear him. “HELP! SOMEONE, HELP HER, PLEASE!”
A few villagers shuffled forward, eying him and his leaking magic with distrust. He whirled on them, tears coursing down his cheeks. “Please, will you help her?” For all his power, all the magic the voice claimed he had, he was useless in this one moment, and for that, he couldn’t help but feel that he had failed in everything.
“You are a…sorcerer?” one villager asked, careful not to get too close.
“Yes, yes. I’m a sorcerer for the King.” He fumbled with his tattered cloak and flashed the king’s crest sewn beside the fastener, fingers shaking.
They still didn’t approach him. “Are you…alone?”
“Yes, I’m—” he stopped, realizing the hostility in their stances. Fists clenched. Shoulders thrown back. Eyes blazing. By Osmen’s edict, all sorcerers bearing his crest were to be treated as captains and generals. They could demand anything they wanted from the common folk, and to be disobeyed meant treason. But he was young, without magic reserves, and on his own. If they were to enact justice for the destruction he had caused, no one would be able to prove anything. They would get away, free from blame, and he would be very, very dead.
He swallowed and straightened his shoulders as best he could. He took a few deep breaths, and the curling wisps of runaway magic sunk back into his skin. “Do you think I’m a fool?” he asked in his best impression of Sedick. “I am a sorcerer to the king and therefore the greatest weapon the kingdom has against the Ancient Races. Do you really think I would travel without a retaining force?” His lips and throat were dry. He couldn’t swallow properly. It was a weak argument. He knew it, and they knew it. But he prayed that someone would buy it. Lady Vinea kept bleeding through his fingers. Much longer, and there wouldn’t be any chance of getting her back. Nausea swam in his stomach and his head and chest throbbed. Please. Please, please, PLEASE.
With pursed lips, the villagers approached him. “Of course. We could not deny help to such an honored guest.” They cast their eyes about the village; fires were still crackling through the shells of their homes. “Thank you for running off the elf that posed such a danger to our livelihoods. We are grateful for your protection.”
Others muttered and cast dirty looks at Sorren. He pretended to ignore them, but the guilt shot straight to his core.
Several men gathered Vinea up between them. “We have healers that will help your friend, if you will allow us the honor.”
Sorren’s lower lip trembled, but he cast his head back as best he could to stare down the length of his nose at them. “Thank you.”
They nodded and left. He followed them as they carried her to the healer’s home, which had miraculously been spared from his rampage. With glowers and whispers to the healer, they slammed the door in his face and locked him out.
Sorren placed his hand on the door. “Thank you.” His facade melted from his body, and he slid his back along the door until he was sitting, knees curled tightly to his chest. He rocked back and forth, humming Lady Vinea’s lullaby to himself. Lady Vinea would be okay. She would be. She had to be.