The Council Chamber was a masterpiece of stone and history.

  Tall, arched windows pierced the high walls, allowing beams of pale light to scatter across the floor like pathways. Red banners hung from the roof beams, heavy with dust and glory. Swords and shields, relics of past wars lined the stone walls, gleaming in the light of a roaring hearth fire in the corner.

  At the center of the hall sat a massive round table, carved with intricate maps and sigils. Seven chairs were arranged evenly around it.

  It was stunning. It was noble.

  And Alex hated it.

  He sat in a simple wooden chair placed dead center in front of the round table, isolated like a prisoner awaiting judgment.

  Among Alex’s list of nightmares: failing a class, creepy slithering crawlies, public speaking, there was one fear that consistently made the top five: Center Stage.

  Being a background character was his domain. He thrived in the darkness, unnoticed and safe. Unfortunately, in this hall, there was no background. There was only him, and the heavy gazes of the most powerful people in Dawn’s Bastion.

  “How could he be the sole survivor?"

  Lord Commander Valerius’s voice echoed through the hall like thunder.

  The Commander was a giant man, easily double the width of an average soldier. He wore full plate armor, dented and scratched from years of war. His long blond hair framed a jawline sharp as a stone, marked by faded scars that told stories Alex didn't want to hear.

  Watching him, Alex felt a flicker of recognition. Something about Valerius reminded him of the soldier who had run beside him on the black mist battlefield, the one whose soul had been devoured.

  Bang.

  Valerius slammed a fist onto the oak table, the sound echoing like a gunshot.

  “There must be other survivors!”

  “There were none.”

  The reply came from Lady Ana. Her voice was calm, almost a whisper, contrasting sharply with the Commander’s roar.

  She sat to Valerius’s right, looking delicate enough to break. Her porcelain skin bore no marks of war, and her spring-green eyes held a quiet, calculating intelligence. Dressed in a long white gown, she looked more like a ghost than a master of spies.

  “My scouts swept the valley twice,” Lady Ana continued, her slender fingers tracing lines on the map sprawled across the table. “All they found were bodies. Countless bodies.”

  Alex stared at her for a moment before shifting his gaze to the man opposite her.

  General Kordin sat in silence. Unlike the armored Commander, Kordin wore a simple white shirt and loose brown trousers. A sword harness was strapped across his chest, the hilt sticking out his left shoulder. He looked less like a general and more like a man who killed quietly.

  “My scouts confirmed it,” Kordin said, his voice a low rumble. His knuckles were white where he gripped the table edge. “Farmers. Families. Women and children… all lifeless. The mist took everyone.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Valerius slammed the table again, making the daggers weighing down the map rattle. “Unacceptable! We do not leave people to rot. Send the riders again! I will not have it said that Dawn’s Bastion abandoned its own!”

  “And lose more good men to a corpse-counting mission?” Lady Ana countered, her tone sharp as a whip. “Every rider we send into the unknown is a rider not guarding our walls. Sentiment will be the death of this Bastion, Valerius.”

  “It is not sentiment! It is duty!”

  The argument erupted around Alex, a storm of pride and strategy.

  As the argument raged, a cold sweat broke on his neck, the sensation of the mist draining his life returning. The memory of the soul-devoured soldiers flashed behind his eyes. A feeling he couldn’t shake.

  His gaze drifted to Roric.

  The man was leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, eyes closed as if he were listening to a soothing melody rather than a heated military debate. A faint, knowing smirk played on his lips.

  ‘What's his deal?’ Alex thought, unnerved. ‘Is he enjoying this?’

  “Boy!”

  The thunderous voice snapped through the room.

  Alex flinched, his spine stiffening instinctively. He looked up to find Commander Valerius staring directly at him. Those pale blue eyes felt like a physical weight, pressing him into the chair. The room fell silent.

  “You sit here, dressed in clean clothes, safe and sound while five thousand of my people lie dead,” Valerius growled. “You were the only one found alive. So answer me now. How did you survive when an entire army fell?”

  Alex opened his mouth, but his throat was dry. How could he explain?

  ‘I woke up holding a sword? I saw souls being eaten?’

  Before he could stammer a reply, Roric pushed off the wall.

  “Oh, go easy on him, Valerius,” Roric said, his voice smooth and amused. “Can’t you see the lad is still figuring out which way is up?”

  He walked over to Alex, resting a hand on the back of his chair.

  “The Commander has a point, though,” Roric continued, addressing the table. “It is a mystery. Almost as strange as young Jayson surviving the attack on the western front last autumn. Remember that?”

  He let the name hang in the air.

  “Strange things happen at the edge of the black mist, Commander. It doesn't always make sense. Sometimes the best explanation is just… luck.”

  Valerius’s face darkened at the mention of Jayson. “Do not compare this… this fourth-class stray to our heroes, Roric. I…”

  Suddenly, every argument died.

  General Kordin straightened his back. Lady Ana’s sharp eyes widened just a fraction. Even Valerius seemed to deflate, his furious energy replaced by a sudden, reverent stillness.

  ‘What's going on?’

  Alex sensed the shift in the air. He turned his head toward a small door near the hearth that opened slowly. The fire seemed to flicker and dim, as if bowing in respect.

  Alex clutched his chest. A strange sensation washed over him, not fear, not panic.

  Regret.

  A woman stepped into the grand hall.

  Alex’s breath hitched. “It can’t be.” He nearly rose from his seat, his eyes wide with disbelief.

  She entered without a sound. Her hair was the color of snow, and her simple grey robes seemed to drink the torchlight. Her gaze, ancient and heavy, swept over the council before coming to rest on him.

  An otherworldly silence gripped the room.

  And in that breathless moment, the council, the war, and the grand hall faded away. There was only the woman and the dreaming boy.

  He had seen her before. He was sure of it. Her hair was white now instead of lavender, but there was no mistaking those eyes.

  The Shard-Maiden.

  She was the girl from his dream on the roof.