Aethyrael

  stood motionless, still in place. The silence that had spread through

  the hall like a looming threat during the small incident was oppressive.

  Not a soul stirred, insofar as they were still alive and able to stand

  on both feet. From the supposed safety of the shadows he could clearly

  see the faces of the mages and soldiers, filled with pain. Blood-smeared

  figures whose fear was plain to read.

  A primal, animal fear of the inevitable.

  The

  expression in their eyes Aethyrael could barely interpret. It was a

  mixture of suffering and dread. Suffering through the pain that had been

  sold to them as grace, and dread of what still awaited them.

  Unfortunately the shadows were less secure than he had assumed.

  Silvara's watchful eyes searched for the originator of the disturbance.

  The rage and disapproval of the mortal were written across her face.

  "Woe

  to any of you lesser mortals who stirs," Silvara hissed, gazing down at

  the dead and injured with arrogance and satisfaction.

  With

  a sadistic smile on her honeyed lips, Silvara's attention turned to the

  rear ranks of those present who could still half stand. Aethyrael could

  feel even from the shadows that events had taken an unexpected turn.

  Damn, he thought. That is that then for today. A great shame, but very illuminating. Time to make my exit.

  Yet it would not come to that.

  Just

  as he was about to straighten and step out of the shelter of the

  shadows, he saw Thalyra standing on the platform again. Her expression

  had less of rage about it, and more of someone who had just resolved to

  take lives. Perhaps a trace of pleasure lay within it too — he could not

  say precisely.

  "I

  had already feared, you wretched creatures, that you have not the

  slightest answer to even the simplest magic," Thalyra declared.

  She let the flames dance wildly around her as she resumed her place beside Silvara.

  "May

  the magical genius in your lesser ranks make itself known," she mocked

  from above, thrusting out her chest and planting her hands on her hips. A

  gleam lay in her eyes.

  Silence.

  Not that he had expected anything else in that moment.

  No.

  No one stirred. No one spoke a word.

  The

  eyes of the mortal levy were fixed rigidly toward the floor, as if they

  could escape the situation that way. Every flicker of eye contact with

  the two witches was scrupulously avoided. The expressions of those still living could be described in one word: panic.

  Aethyrael

  remained motionless, his eyes gleaming in the twilight of the burning

  runes. Every breath of the witches, every movement of the flames was

  catalogued in his mind. He tried to analyse the force, to understand it.

  But without guidance?

  I

  would dearly like to understand where the force I can sense in both of

  them comes from, he thought with a crooked grin that immediately

  vanished.

  Thalyra

  released fireballs again, this time aimed at the rear ranks where the

  survivors were still staggering to their feet. Bodies flew through the

  air, and those already dead or lying on the ground unable to move were

  shredded.

  "Remarkable," murmured Aethyrael, more to himself than to anyone else. "They measure survival with pain."

  He stepped half a pace forward, still using the shadows as cover. The rune of gravitation on his skin pulsed, ready.

  Silvara

  raised her hand, black flames wound like living shadows around her arm.

  "Still none man enough?" she asked, her voice like steel on ice.

  No one answered.

  Aethyrael smiled quietly. "Too silent… too well-behaved. Perhaps a little too predictable."

  He

  let his fingers glide over the rune. A gentle pressure, barely

  perceptible, but enough to influence the force in the air. A tiny

  change. A spark of uncertainty. He did not know exactly what he was

  doing, but he had learned to trust his instinct. And his instinct told

  him clearly that he could understand the connection to the force he

  sensed — though could not explain — through his runes. Perhaps even

  influence it. Naturally this thought was nothing more than pure theory. Yet it would prove itself true in that very same moment.

  Thalyra

  narrowed her eyes. "You lesser dregs of mortal stock seriously dare to

  play games with us witches?" she growled, the flames flickering

  dangerously. His rune had apparently caused her to lose her balance for

  the fraction of an instant. Aethyrael could briefly see her stumble from

  the shadows.

  Interesting,

  he thought. And that was not even much force. What else might one do

  with it? An important question that demanded answering. Unfortunately he

  had no time to bask in his own brilliance. Silvara had apparently had

  enough. And no patience left.

  No one stirred.

  No one came forward.

  The

  silence was tangible, almost physical. Aethyrael noticed how the heads

  of the survivors tilted slightly again, as if trying to shed the guilt.

  But someone must have done it. Someone had to have the courage to play

  the hero — the first fool who would take responsibility for the small

  uprising of the mortals.

  "Oh, come now," whispered Aethyrael, a trace of mockery in his voice. "No one wants to? Truly no one?"

  Thalyra

  flared briefly, the flames at her hands flickering as if she sensed the

  flow of his thoughts. "Your silence is… disappointing," she murmured.

  "Where is the pride of your lesser race? Where is the honour? How do you

  ever expect to be worthy of serving the venerable creator?"

  Yet no outcry came.

  Aethyrael

  crossed his arms and let his eyes wander over the exhausted figures.

  Each of them wished in silence to disappear, yet the witches gave them

  no choice. He

  felt a faint pulsing beneath his skin, the gravitation rune responding

  again. A tiny movement of air, a flickering of flames — enough to

  briefly irritate Thalyra.

  "So," whispered Aethyrael, the sharp smile returning. "If you have no hero, then I shall… help a little."

  Without

  the witches truly noticing, a small stone shifted on the floor, a rune

  flickered faintly. A slight pull, barely measurable, but Aethyrael could

  feel it: a first, tiny influence on the witches' control. The answer was not long in coming. A crackling in the air. A brief violet flash. Then a scream filled with pain.

  Silvara

  had hurled a black bolt of pure energy into the rear ranks of the mages

  and weapon-bearers. The struck guardian was hurled through the hall by

  the force of the energy. Not uncontrolled. Cruelly precise.

  The

  lifeless body of the soldier, wreathed in black flames, crashed with a

  dull impact over Aethyrael and into the artfully decorated ceiling. Drops of blood trickled down on him like fine rain.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Drop by drop.

  He

  had no chance to dodge without giving away his hiding place. And so he

  remained motionless in the shadow. Where before a beautiful ceiling

  fresco had been, only a red smear of blood now remained. A

  genuine shame about the beautiful painting and the mortal, he thought

  with a helpless expression, looking upward. I wonder what the picture on

  the ceiling did to deserve it. The initial sarcasm as saving grace did not last long. The lifeless body fell. Toward him.

  A dull sound. Then the impact.

  Aethyrael

  could save himself only through the rune beneath his right eye. A

  brief, powerful pulsing emanated from it. As if in confirmation. The

  lifeless body fell and did not strike him. It struck the gravitation

  that had laid itself around him like a shell since the first fireball.

  Yet the body did not merely deflect. It was hurled. In precisely the

  direction of the platform on which the two witches stood. The mortal heap of flesh flew — and came to rest with a smacking sound, twisted into what remained of it.

  Silence. Again.

  Aethyrael

  had to suppress a laugh, although the entire situation was neither

  funny nor appetising. He crouched in a place in the shadows where he

  should not have been. And on top of that he was covered from head to toe

  in the blood of the weapon-bearer, which was still dripping from the

  ceiling.

  "Simply marvellous," he murmured.

  "Looking like this, I can hardly talk my way out of it when Mother sees me."

  He

  looked down at himself, and disgust was written across his young, still

  innocent face. Aethyrael regretted nothing. And yet he had imagined his

  first exploration of the castle somewhat less… blood-soaked. The

  experience was worth it to him regardless. And the consequence that

  awaited him? He was prepared to pay the price. A smile crept across his lips. Whatever happened next. Aelthyria would make him pay.

  For his recklessness. For the disobedience.

  Thalyra

  blinked, her eyes narrowing. "Hm… interesting," she said. "There is

  someone here. Someone… not of mortal blood, not entirely uninvolved. But

  also not part of the trial…"

  Silvara

  stared at the body that lay before them like a red banner. Her black

  flames flickered briefly and nervously, as if they could test the air,

  but the witch herself remained upright, feet firm on the platform.

  "So…

  there is someone who is not merely watching," Silvara murmured, a trace

  of curiosity in her voice. "Someone who thinks… they can play."

  Aethyrael remained motionless. The blood still dripped from the ceiling. Warm. Viscous. It was not his own. Not yet. The

  mood in the hall shifted finally. Fear did not give way to hope — it

  gave way to expectation. Expectation of pain, on which order would

  follow. And then… a voice rose.

  "Honoured

  envoys of the creator," stuttered the mage who detached himself from

  the mass. Gangly, his hood askew, his hands trembling. Blood dripped

  from his chin onto the stone floor. "I… I assure you, we had no

  knowledge of—"

  Aethyrael closed his eyes for a moment.

  Naivety, he thought, and had to grin. Or desperation. Often they are the same. Perhaps even ignorance.

  Silvara's hand twitched.

  "Silence," she said. No rage. No shouting. Only a cold command.

  The mage froze.

  Silvara

  let her gaze glide over the survivors, slowly, measuring, like a blade

  over flesh. "It borders on sin to address us after such a display,

  lesser creature."

  A

  blade-bearer in the front rank — young, barely a shadow of a beard —

  unconsciously stepped half a pace forward. Perhaps he wanted to say

  something. Perhaps he wanted to flee. Silvara's eyes found him. The black bolt came without warning. It

  was soundless. No explosion. No crack. Only a brief, cruel flash of

  light — and the soldier's head separated from his body as if it had

  never been truly attached. It rolled across the floor, eyes still open,

  mouth frozen in a silent scream.

  The body crumpled. Aethyrael did not flinch. Thalyra smiled.

  She turned elegantly on the platform, raised a hand — and pointed to a mage in the rear ranks who was already on his knees.

  "And you," she said, almost gently.

  The flames around her fingers grew. The man did not scream for long. Fire

  did not crawl over him. It took him apart. Skin stretched, tore,

  vanished. The smell of burnt flesh filled the hall, thick and sweet. The

  mage fell forward, still burning, convulsing, until nothing convulsed

  any more.

  Two corpses.

  Two proofs.

  And one statement: order is being restored here and now. And you have been found unworthy.

  Silvara turned back to the gangly mage. "Now," she said calmly. "You wanted to prove something."

  Thalyra stepped one pace closer to the edge of the platform. "Your strongest spell," she added. "There."

  She pointed — directly into the shadows. Directly at Aethyrael. He raised an eyebrow and could barely believe it. Had they already noticed him after all? Or was it only coincidence?

  Ah. So that is how it is.

  The

  mage swallowed. Turned. His hands began to tremble, then to trace.

  Words flowed from his mouth, old, laboured, laden with fear. The air

  cooled perceptibly. A sphere formed between his hands. Ice. Clear. Pure. Perfect.

  Thalyra laughed quietly. "Oh, look," she mocked. "He can do little tricks."

  Silvara snorted. "Very popular with children, no doubt."

  The sphere grew. Cracking cold crept across the floor. The spell approached its apex.

  Aethyrael sighed. "I like them," he said quietly from the shadows. "Ice spheres."

  The mage spun around.

  "As a child," Aethyrael continued, "I find them particularly fascinating. But you should aim… elsewhere."

  He stepped out of the shadows. Drenched in blood. Runes glowing beneath his eyes. Robed in garments embroidered with ornaments and colours worn by only one.

  The hall froze.

  Silvara's breath caught audibly.

  "…by the creator."

  Thalyra stepped half a pace back. "The little one…? Here? Injured? Was that us?!"

  The mage saw only a child. A filthy, bloodied child with matted hair stepping out of the shadows. He laughed. Hysterically. Released.

  "A… child?" He shook his head. "Well. I am sorry, boy."

  The sphere of concentrated energy released itself. Too late.

  The witches screamed simultaneously. "NO—!"

  The impact came. Gravitation screamed. Runes burned. The floor burst. A violet-black shimmer pulsed where Aethyrael had stood. He

  himself could feel the force that had laid itself around him like a

  protective mantle. The force as a natural part of his body, his being.

  Something anchored deep in the consciousness and history of his runes.

  And slowly he began to understand, to listen to the story his runes

  wished to tell him.

  Today,

  he knew, it was a story of blood and order, which had found its

  beginning between grace and suffering. And that was only one conclusion

  of many.

  Dust. Ice. Silence.

  Silvara and Thalyra sprinted forward.

  "Aethyrael!"

  "No — no — no…!"

  Yet as the dust settled, he still stood there. Unharmed. The

  ice sphere hovered. Still. Waiting. Caught in his influence, bound by

  the power of gravitation. When he had seen the sphere of ice flying

  toward him, his body had reacted as it had the last time — of its own

  accord. An automatic movement of the upper body to absorb the impact,

  the intuitive flooding of his rune beneath his eye. He did not need to think about it. He let it happen. That much was clear to him from then on.

  Aethyrael straightened. Looked to the mage.

  The man was still grinning. "Well? Still alive, child?"

  Aethyrael looked at him. With regret. He had been mistaken.

  They did not wish to overcome suffering.

  They wished to be it.

  Silvara and Thalyra stepped into his field of vision. Panic in their eyes. Aethyrael looked once more to the mage. Caught his gaze. The man froze as he saw the runes. As he understood.

  "That," said Aethyrael calmly, "was a mistake."

  He

  smiled gently. A smile that seemed cut from the creator's own face. A

  resemblance of their natures that was almost unsettling.

  "From both of us."

  He raised his hand.

  "I

  must express my gratitude to you, lesser one. You have taught me

  something important. I grant you grace, even though you chose blood. Is

  that not the order you so hunger for?"

  He raised his head to give the mage one last knowing look. "Then so be it."

  Aethyrael nodded, as if in self-confirmation of a decision that had already been made.

  For one heartbeat he wondered exactly when that decision had been made.

  Not whether — but when. It had not been rage.

  Not fury.

  Not even satisfaction. Only clarity.

  And thoughts that had forced their own way into the state of spoken word.

  And

  that unsettled him more than the blood on his hands. An irony of fate

  that he let the possibility of washing them in innocence pass without

  regret. That he had calculated.

  Weighed.

  And acted — without hesitation. His

  initial childlike naivety had to yield to necessity. The necessity of

  recognising that on blood only order could follow. And that regret and

  hesitation had no place there.

  How regrettable, he thought — and his smile disappeared.

  The sphere of concentrated, ice-cold energy returned to its master.

  His face, filled with pain and torment, left no doubt. He had feared the being that had spoken from the shadows. But it was too late. There was not even a sound.

  An end as unremarkable as the child himself. The mage's head disappeared into it and flew away.

  The last expression in his eyes: disbelief and regret.

  That had been his mistake.

  Aethyrael

  noticed that his hand did not tremble. It should have. A part of him

  registered this absence of doubt — and asked itself whether this too had

  been a lesson. Or whether this absence, since the day he could remember

  nothing but the voice of his creator, had always been there.

  What remained was silence and certainty.

  And the body of a mage missing a head.

  A child.

  Two witches in panic.

  And the pitiful remainder of the mortals, who understood that they had not failed today.

  They had never had a chance to pass.

  Their hearts impure.

  Their souls weak.