Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
One more door left.
I shove it open, feeling something sticky against my hand, and step out into deep woods, sniffing my fingers—
I freeze at the subtle scent. Frostbloom. Casimiria and the prince must have unknowingly touched this too, slowly becoming paralysed until frozen, locked in this memory forever . . .
I grab the soulbloom from my belt—it’s not emberleaf, but it has similar enough properties. I chew it and quickly smear it, with some heat-inducing vine-sap, over my skin. I put the rest in my pouch. My cloak whips behind me and snags on bark as I race through trees towards the celebratory sounds coming from the almighty violet oak at the border of Lumin and Iskaldir.
Around the shimmering oak, rings of linea dance, pouring magic into a glittering canopy over the heads of the attending royal family. Over music and song, Valerian—resplendent in rich, bejewelled attire—sneaks sweet words to Liandros, channelling the most beautiful blossomed garland throughout the canopy. “Seriously,” Liandros says on a laugh. “Can’t you see I’m working?”
“I can’t help it; whenever I see you, I want to be near.”
“Three generations of my family are staring at us right now!”
“They’re staring at their illuminating handiwork.” He pauses, and says with a mischievous smile, “You know, you have a lot of competition for becoming the next grand luminist. If you’re not indulgent with me, maybe your cousin—ouch.” Valerian laughs.
“There are more thorns where those came from.”
“Fine, I’ll leave you alone. So long as you promise me a sneaky moment in the woods later . . .”
Liandros smiles.
I scan the crowds for Casimiria and Nicostratus. Would they be where they could see the scene play out? Or would they be lost somewhere in the recesses of this memory after the scene faded?
Valerian steals my focus again as he approaches his brother, who is gleefully throwing and catching a giggling baby.
“Constantinos will be sick all over your face if you keep that up.”
I halt abruptly and shuffle nearer to the child. Constantinos? This was baby Quin?
Quin giggles again as his father throws him up towards the glittery canopy, and my chest feels funny, light and sad at the same time. This little baby will grow up, will experience so much hate and manipulation, will eventually be—on his uncle’s orders—held captive in Iskaldir with the threat of his head adorning a stake . . .
This little baby. He’s the reason I’m inside this memory at all. “We truly have an unusual fate,” I murmur.
The little baby giggles.
A loud scream has heads turning, and suddenly the trees surrounding the clearing shake to life. Men drop from the trees, purple cloaks billowing like ominous clouds. All around the ceremony sharp steel glints: spears, tipped with long nails, glistening in the light. With unsettling speed, those sharp edges turn gasps into screams.
“Seal in the royal family!” the grand luminist cries, and all those surrounding the royals cast their magic into a protective shield. Valerian throws himself towards Liandros, and their eyes connect as Liandros forms a thick buffer of blossoms between himself and the prince. Valerian’s eyes widen in horror, but no matter how much he pries and casts his own magic, he can’t break through it.
The luminists turn, facing the onslaught.
They fight hard, but they are only a dozen luminists with linea unskilled in sentinian magics—by the clangs and bursts of colour deeper in the woods, redcloaks are fighting another front.
The crusaders are relentless. Linea fall with pierced meridians. Blood splashes against magic.
Liandros stands firm, brow furrowed, sweat dripping down his temples. Valerian is hammering his fists against the barrier, pleading to help, and Liandros shouts, deflecting an incoming spear with swift grace and crackling magic. “I’ll never let them hurt you!”
I stand rooted in the middle of the chaotic, blood-drenched scene, my heart in my throat. Crusaders force forward, slicing through the weaker defensive spells until they find a breach—
Luminists cry one after the other as they fall. Liandros’s uncles, cousins, father . . .
Tears streaming down his face, Liandros fights on with every ounce of angered energy he possesses. The shield protecting the royal family is held up only by him. He defends it valiantly, parrying blow after blow. But soon three crusaders turn into five, and in the space of a single wavering spell, a spear hurtles through from the side—
He turns to face it, to throw up a hand to deflect it, but the crusader’s thrust was too hard, too fast, too lethal. Seven long nails shoot forth from the spear, piercing Liandros through his chest.
He falls to his knees, blood soaking his white robes. Still, he fights, maintains the protective shield until redcloaks arrive and swiftly reclaim the clearing. Outnumbered, the surviving crusaders drop their spears and plead for their lives.
They’re chained with spells, and only at the call of the commander does Liandros’s shield abate.