Dusk Warden Dray Illyne

  Dray channeled into the sealed scroll lying on the desk before him. The Chief Twilight Warden’s office mirrored the chaos of the hidden library; precious parchments littered the floor, rare tomes piled in corners like discarded trash. Dray couldn’t fathom how the Chief Twilight Warden of Troqua could live in such disarray. But watching Emery unashamedly draw from his oversized pipe and exhale a thick, violet cloud of shroom-smoke made it plain: the man simply didn’t care.

  Dray closed his eyes, breathing deep, concentrating on the priceless scroll. She popped into his mind, uninvited, unannounced, as if she owned the place. He didn’t push her away; he enjoyed her presence. Yet something was different this time.

  He couldn’t picture her laugh, or dance, or sing, as she usually did in his memories. She didn’t even smile. She wore that solemn expression she had as she stood beside her father during the grand announcement of her engagement.

  Dray’s heart was in a thousand pieces. He’d never felt pain like yesterday. Not since his father was murdered in front of him. Not since his mother died leaving him alone with Lyonel. Sleep had eluded him last night, and come morning, he’d struggled to rise. Eventually, he decided to be happy for her sake. But how could he be happy when she clearly was not?

  Yesterday’s scene replayed in a tormenting loop. Duke Hishtem, Duchess Cleora, and Chief Akunai had stood together on the royal palace’s balcony, draped in ostentatious finery and gleaming gems. The duke spoke, his voice amplified by sonolar stones, and the entire city jumped and cheered at the promise of a royal wedding.

  Everyone except Dray.

  His gaze was fixed on Cleora’s bitter face. She quirked her lips, but the smile did not reach her eyes. She waved to the crowd, but there was no mirth in her movements. Her hand rested in Akunai’s, but it seemed that grinning coalson was channeling, burning her flesh. The second the announcement ended, she rushed back inside, locking herself in her room.

  Mirio and Ficar were thrilled at the prospect of a grand party and a day off duty. Dray had barely heard them. All he could think about was the secret of her sadness.

  He now felt he no longer had the right to love her. Not that he ever had as a measly commoner. He’d first glimpsed Cleora years ago, when his mother, then seamstress to Duchess Rullana, was summoned to the royal palace, and he’d accompanied her as an assistant. He remembered standing in the doorway, watching Cleora brush her long blonde hair before a mirror. She’d outshone every gem he’d ever seen, and he’d stared so long he earned a stern scolding on the way home.

  After Duchess Rullana’s death, Cleora requested her mother’s old seamstress. Upon learning she had passed away leaving behind two children, she sent a small monetary gift, and a heartfelt letter telling the two boys she knew how horrible they must be feeling, and that they needed to ‘live on and be happy’ as that was what their parents would have wanted.

  Dray and Lyonel had lived off that small gift for years. And when it’d dried up, the letter gave him the strength to keep going. With no connections and little experience, he struggled to find work, eventually joining the constabulary, working hard, till he graduated, joining the wardens just a month ago.

  His motivation had always been the same: to repay Cleora’s kindness, and perhaps, to know her better someday.

  He tried everything possible to get stationed as one of her guards. He volunteered for every undesirable shift while she was away, just to earn favors, then cashed them in to be stationed near the royal palace when she returned. He patrolled day and night, outside her room, and under her balcony, hoping to run into her. Then, on the rare occasions they met, his face would flush hot, his thoughts would stumble, and he’d freeze, mimicking a mute mannequin.

  He’d fought an elexos once… well, more like successfully retreated from one. So why couldn’t he string a coherent sentence in her presence?

  Everything he came up with sounded too corny, creepy, or clingy. It was a childhood crush that he should’ve outgrown a long time ago. But the thought of their eyes meeting and her remembering him has always made him stupidly giddy. And the dream of something developing further between them made his toes curl in the best possible of ways.

  Now that Akunai—Chief Warden and strongest channeler in Troqua—had beaten him to her, it felt like he had no right to think of her anymore.

  “Careful now! Careful!” Emery warned. “This scroll costs twenty times our annual wages combined.”

  Dray exhaled, relaxing his fingers. He shook his head to scatter the image of Cleora’s hollow smile.

  “Focus on the parchment in your hands. Nothing else matters now,” Emery said slowly. “It is older than my great-grandmother and three times as fragile. If we break it, the duke will have us hanged.”

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  Dray shifted his focus to his earring-astrum—a little psychosite crystal—channeling through it and into the scroll. Carefully, he threaded his fantasia through the dried seal that encased it, unraveling it. With delicate precision, he unrolled the parchment and laid it open on the desk.

  “Mother Extravagance!” Emery cried. “It opened!”

  Dray stepped aside as Emery set down his still-smoking pipe and leaned in with a magnifying glass.

  “Fascinating,” Emery said. “Your ability is at the heart of magic.” He flashed a grin full of browned teeth. “You’ve saved an unequaled treasure. Everyone believed if this scroll were ever unsealed, it would crumble to dust. But here it is, open, unmarred, and whole!”

  “Tricks like this are easy for me.” Dray shrugged. “Like giving candy to a kid.”

  Emery rushed to fetch a pen and notebook. “Let’s see, let’s see…” He started scribbling. “It’s written in an old Makamuli dialect of archaic Federian. I’ll need a dictionary to translate it later. Hmm…”

  Dray stretched his arms. “If we’re done here, I’ll take my leave.”

  “No, wait!” Emery called out. “I’ve got more work for you. Here, look at this.”

  The book Emery handed him was more like a slab of stone than a stack of parchment. Dray grunted under its weight and placed it on the wooden desk that creaked in protest under its weight.

  “Every page of this tome is sealed with a crystallized, magical wax that requires a mystical counterspell to unseal it,” Emery explained. “I need you to open it without ruining its contents. Remember, if even a single rune is damaged, both our heads will roll.”

  Sighing, Dray sat down and began channeling into the book. His ability was far from ordinary, unique in Troqua to him and his brother whose potential was lacking. Dray was a mentalist animator with a specialty in unsealing and opening objects. He was the key to every lock, the undoer of all things fixed.

  His fantasia slid between the pages, dissolving the wax into powder. He flipped open the first leaf, verified the writings were intact, and continued to the second.

  His thoughts drifted back to Cleora. He wished he had the courage to walk up to her and ask what was wrong, or to tell her that everything would be all right. But speaking to beautiful women wasn’t a skill they taught in warden school.

  “Say, Dray, have you thought about my offer?” Emery called, feigning a casual tone as he exhaled a purple cloud of smoke.

  “I did,” Dray replied coldly, not having to feign anything.

  Emery perked up. “And? Do you accept the position?”

  Dray paused. Not for any particular reason. He simply wanted to keep the Twilight Chief on edge as long as possible. “I prefer to remain a Dusk Warden,” he said at last.

  Emery’s expression deflated. His shoulders sagged; the gleam in his eyes dulled.

  “I don’t believe the life of a scribe suits me.”

  “Twilight Wardens aren’t mere scribes!” Emery retorted, his face reddening. “We hold the secrets of the world. We practically run this city. Your talents are perfectly suited to this role. Just look at the miracles you’re performing.”

  Dray flipped another page, noting no miracles taking place. It was a lame feat. Meaningless. He’d bet two months wages no one cared about these manuscripts except for Emery.

  “And besides,” Emery continued, “your powers aren’t suited for fighting elexii. You’re not a warrior.”

  Dray closed the book and stood. He didn’t need another person telling him what he couldn’t do. “I’m running low on Fantasia; I need to recharge.” He headed toward the exit.

  “Wait, wait!” Emery stepped into his path. “Look. I’m… surrounded by idiots. Everywhere I turn, people are making catastrophic mistakes that could doom Troqua. The merchants. The miners. The fabricants. Everyone. We few Twilight Wardens are the only ones keeping the city safe. We’re overwhelmed. We can use someone like you.”

  Dray rubbed his eyes. He’d entertained the idea of becoming a Twilight Warden before as it’d ensure contact with the royal family, including the duchess. But he didn’t accept it because it always felt… wrong. As if joining was the easy way out.

  The position was guaranteed. His whenever he wanted. But it held no challenge and was deathly boring. Being a Dusk Warden, training, fighting, and finding himself in life-or-death situations made him feel alive. He wasn’t an adrenaline addict like Ficar. But to him, a life of reading dusty scrolls was worse than a death sentence.

  Besides, he’d trained hard, and was confident in his combat abilities. All he needed was the opportunity to prove it.

  “You think the duties of a Twilight Warden are dull,” Emery said, watching him.

  Dray narrowed his eyes. Mindreading wasn’t one of Emery’s abilities as far as he knew, but he shielded his mind, nonetheless.

  “But I promise, ours is the most exciting job in this city,” Emery continued. “The secrets you will unravel will shake your core. And you’ll hold power. Real power to shape the future of Troqua.” He threw his hands. “Why am I even trying to convince you? You should be begging for my tutelage!”

  Dray crossed his arms. “What kind of secrets do you have?”

  “All of them.”

  Dray stared. “Are you willing to share a secret in exchange for my trust?”

  Emery gave a forceful shrug. “Sure!”

  “Then tell me why the duchess was on the verge of tears when the duke announced her engagement.”

  Emery’s face soured. “That’s a nasty secret you want.”

  “You don’t know, or you won’t tell me?”

  “Neither, it’s just… you’re asking for trouble.” Emery sighed. “Well, I guess if you were to become a Twilight Warden, you’d be privy to more crucial secrets than this.” He lifted his pipe and took a long drag. The overtly saccharine smoke made Dray gag. “Cleora is not… thrilled about the marriage. You see, The arrangement was her father’s idea, not hers.”

  Heat rushed to Dray’s face as if he’d been slapped. “You’re saying she’s being forced to marry him?”

  Emery shook his head, grimacing. “Forced is too strong a word. She agreed to the marriage for the sake of the realm as it’d bring stability to Troqua. But if it was up to her, she wouldn’t have accepted the proposal.”

  Grabbing his black cloak, Dray stormed out of the office, his blood boiling, drums thundering in his ears, blocking Emery’s shouts behind. Of all the explanations that had haunted him since the announcement, he’d never considered Cleora was being coerced into marriage.

  He went up and down stairs, through the long corridors of the HQ where many wardens still roamed despite the late hour. Someone called his name asking jokingly who he was going to murder. Dray ignored them. The only person he saw was Cleora in her room, crying on her bed, dreading her wedding night with that monster Akunai.

  That stinking piece of ratshit. How dare he call himself Chief Warden, protector of Troqua? How dare he do that to Cleora?

  Unforgivable.

  The door to the chief’s office was locked. Laughter sounded from inside. Channeling through his earring astrum, Dray directed his fantasia into the lock, forcing a click, then kicked the door open.