Ash Evgenis was awful at history, a very unfortunate trait for Tessera's future Head of Diplomacy. He stood there, in the temple of one of his kingdom's most prized possessions, wracking his brain for the trivia he really should've known by heart. How it wasn't muscle memory after fifteen years of lectures was a mystery, but it seemed when it came down to his awful memory versus his determined tutor, his awful memory always won.

  Said tutor was checking his watch again with a sigh. "These are things every five-year-old can recite, Ash."

  "I know," he said, guilt muddling his efforts to search through the blurry files in his brain. He could remember other things about the stones — their historical significance, the way they’d allowed Tessera to survive and prosper, the way their legendary gifts had influenced politics and leveraged favorable trade policies. But names, specific details . . . evaded him. If Daskalos asked him for dates, he’d be left floundering.

  "Really, can you give me nothing else? Anything from my teachings? The Service Stone, created by our first king, Statheros . . ." He gestured at the vacant spot in the center of the temple — the emptiness above the ivory column.

  "Um — it's not here because it's the only stone that can be passed down directly," Ash blurted. "From holder to holder. Mostly passed down the royal line, but sometimes given to generals and advisors in times of need. Anyone dedicated to our country can wield it."

  "And . . .?" Daskalos prodded. He gestured at the walls, wrapping around them in a stifling conical shape. Deep blue, patterned in intricate designs of gold; primarily, the kingdom's symbol of four overlapping diamond outlines, scattered across the navy like constellations in the night sky. A sky to match the map sprawling beneath their feet, depicting the tiny kingdom southwest of Kyanos Bay that Tessera had begun as.

  Blue. Gold. “It marks its holders,” he said. “After the scandal with the false king.” Don’t ask me the name, he prayed, silently, but Daskalos just waited for him to continue. “Blue eyes, most prominently,” he specified. “With gold or silvery hair. It ensures the reigning monarch holds the stone, proving their devotion to our people.”

  “And why was King Romi so motivated to lie? To pass the stone off to his servant, rather than wear it as he should have?”

  That one was easy. “Because it would have killed him,” Ash responded. “The stone can be given to anyone, but just as the others choose holders that embody their concepts, the Service Stone spares only those who are dedicated to the kingdom.”

  “Hence why we trust our rulers so,” Daskalos summed. “Tessera is the only kingdom on the continent where the ruler is guaranteed to serve their people.”

  Ash nodded, though privately he thought of the protests that had taken the streets. The Service Stone was an incredible safeguard, but public opinion of the monarchy had taken such a hit after . . . So much, he thought, listing them in his head. Even with his memory, the controversies were fresh. The Dragon Extermination Program. The Scarlet War. And, most recently, the Magic Ban.

  “Our final question for Service,” Daskalos said. “What power does it grant?”

  “Strength,” Ash answered. That, he was also certain of; each of the four stones granted immense power, and strength was Statheros’ gift.

  Another long pause.

  He shifted his feet. “Er — that’s the fundamental one, at least,” he clarified. “The stone also grants protections to its holder; protection against curses, poisons . . .”

  “Ah, yes,” Daskalos said, stroking his bristly white beard. “Historians have been theorizing about these stones for centuries. As with the other three stones, one would assume the Service Stone is also capable of summoning some manifestation of its symbol . . . as Courage has her sword, Freedom his wings, and Change its . . . ah, Change is also a bit strange. Never mind that, then. Yes. Very simply, service is strength. Let’s move on, then.”

  They exited the temple into the bright summer sun, the sky a blue several shades lighter than the inside of the temple. He took a sweeping glance around, struck once more by the . . . quiet. The subtle shift, the half-step down. It was one thing to study policy — one thing to know, on paper, how the Magic Ban of 293 P.F., passed just last year, had destroyed Tessera’s economy and trade relations. It was another thing entirely to feel it so poignantly, simply standing here in the capital.

  There were no more light mages arguing the prices of their light crystals, no more parents pausing to mend children’s knees with healing magic, no more water elementals sucking moisture out of newly washed clothes. The lightning mages proudly displaying their newly developed electricity cubes were completely gone, as were the rock whisperers who’d handed out brochures on communication crystals. He’d last stepped in front of this temple three years ago, and it had been loud and vibrant and overwhelming; now, it was quite the opposite. People still chattered on the streets, tips of parasols glinted in the sun, carriage wheels rattled past. But there was a somberness he couldn’t quite explain; a muffled effect to the world.

  He should have predicted this, really; legislation limiting the use of magic had accumulated steadily in the past decade. If there was one thing he could understand, it was economics — economics and the policies that always inevitably interrupted the flow of the market system. He’d never expected the Magic Ban to make it so absolute. It was too sudden; a total shut-down of all magic production aside from limited government-approved facilities, worked by graduates of King’s Academy. He had no idea what Queen Dynami had hoped to gain from this . . . to satisfy the non-magic citizens who protested unequal opportunity? To solidify her name in the history books by passing such a remarkable piece of legislation?

  Whatever she’d hoped for . . . it couldn’t possibly outweigh the consequences. Especially considering she’d . . .

  “And Freedom is . . .”

  Ash blinked, trying to remember what he was supposed to be discussing. Freedom. Freedom Stone. Right. Temples. Freedom Stone. He scrambled to recall what he knew about the Freedom Stone. He mostly remembered it being very purple the last time they’d visited, three years ago. And covered in feathers. Where the Service Stone had the royal emblem, the Freedom Stone had many, many feathers all over the walls and floors — silver feathers against the purple melting into black as the walls met the floor, giving an odd sense of standing over a never-ending void.

  Three years ago . . . he’d been twelve. Had he grown since then? Had he moved, at all? What had he done? What was he doing?

  He nearly walked straight into the temple, too lost in his thoughts to register his surroundings. Daskalos gave him a helpful tug on the arm, stalling him. He glanced up from the floor and saw the two guards emerging, escorting a girl his age, their grim expressions a sharp juxtaposition to the wide smile on her face. Her cheeriness was accented by her all-black outfit. As she passed, her eyes met his – purple. Striking. That was odd. There was something about that — purple eyes . . .

  Unusual eye colors were always meant to mark traits, like the blue of monarchs. While most people had brown, black, or grey eyes, different hair and eye colors were part of a system created by the government to track certain qualities across certain bloodlines, like magic ability . . .

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  And something was important about that color . . .

  “Ah,” Daskalos murmured. “Freedom has chosen its new master.”

  Ash blinked, and spotted what should have been the most important detail from the beginning — the purple jewel fastened to the silver bow pinned to her head. It was smaller than he remembered — it could probably fit into the circular gap he made by touching the tip of his index finger to the tip of his thumb. So much power . . . so much influence, concentrated in such a small thing. Whatever her eyes meant couldn’t matter much in comparison to this — her new role in their kingdom as Freedom’s new holder. “So, two of the four . . .” he began.

  “Yes, it seems we know already two of our new champions.” His mentor chuckled, his disappointment in Ash alleviated by his admiration for the stones. “Ah, but they’re still only children. They’ll need to do much more before they are recognized as true defenders of our glorious kingdom.”

  “It seems like such a daunting task,” he mumbled. “Such a perilous job to have.” My ‘job’ is going to be sitting around talking to people, which is already enough to set off my fight or flight response.

  Imagine doing that.

  Being a defender of the kingdom.

  Helping people, doing something, being of use.

  “Let’s continue,” Daskalos said aloud, steering him towards the third temple. “Best not to disturb the temple so soon after a Choosing . . . Let’s settle for reviewing what the Freedom Stone is while we visit Courage.”

  “It was made by Ftero,” he started. Focus, Ash. “Another one of the four Founders. It enhances agility, uhm, flexibility, and . . . gravity . . . defiance? It lets the holder defy gravity.” Wings, he reminded himself. Ftero’s symbol — silver wings spread from a diamond center. It should’ve been the easiest thing to remember. Wings. Flight. “He was also a shapeshifter,” Ash said, his memory spurred by the reminder of wings. “And many of his holders are able to shift their features while remaining human.” Not quite as powerful an ability as Ftero’s own shifting prowess, but still notable.

  “That’s three,” Daskalos said, holding up three fingers. “What else has been confirmed?”

  “Uh . . .”

  His tutor tapped the cherry wood doors leading into the temple.

  “. . . Open? Unlock. It can undo any lock.”

  “And . . .?”

  “Free . . . free someone from any curse.”

  “Almost any curse,” he agreed, nodding. “Five is adequate.”

  ‘Adequate’ is the best I can do, Ash thought dejectedly, his gaze falling back to the ground.

  The guards posted at the entrance glanced at them as Daskalos pulled open the door, but didn’t react beyond that. They didn’t have much to worry about. Their job was less concerned with monitoring those who entered and more concerned with preventing chosen ones from leaving – ah, and with dragging out dead bodies.

  The stones took care of thieves well enough on their own. Anyone who touched the unclaimed stones without being chosen would be vaporized, disemboweled, or killed in some terribly gruesome manner. The wrath of an ancient, powerful relic was not to be taken lightly. Ash had seen more than a few bloodstains on the temple floors in the past. When the professors at King’s Academy had brought them here regularly . . .

  The inside of the Courage Stone’s temple was decorated in rich patches of green, as though the entire place were suspended in clusters of young leaves. At the center, an ivory column stood planted in the ground, similar to the one he’d seen in the Service Stone’s temple. Behind it, mounted on the wall, was a rusted replica of a sword — Gennaios’ symbol. Two snakes twined around the base of the blade. A diamond-shaped gap remained opened in the guard, where the Founder had once wielded the stone embedded in her weapon.

  He’d held a replica of that infamous blade before; a soldier’s sword, a warrior’s. It hadn’t fit quite right in his hands. When his cousin had taken up the weapon in earnest, he’d instead opted for arrows – the coward’s choice, his uncle called it. Ash couldn’t manage to disagree.

  “The Courage Stone,” Daskalos prompted, looking at his watch again.

  “Created by Gennaios,” Ash recited. He found himself speaking as quickly as possible, as though shoving as many words as possible into the span of a few seconds would make up for the several hours of Daskalos’ time he’d wasted over the years. “Tessera’s most famous war-rior. It enhances speed.”

  “Indeed.”

  The stone hovered above the ivory column in the center of the temple. A lozenge-cut piece of vibrant jade, rotating slowly in midair, light glinting off its sides. It seemed to glow, as if whispering of the unspeakable power hidden inside its facets.

  He wondered who it would choose. Courage . . . he wished he had that. Even a taste of that. The ability to overcome the fears he grappled with so constantly . . .

  They were so close to the pedestal that he could almost reach out and . . . grab it . . .

  Disembowelment, he reminded himself, snatching his hand back.

  That would be the most embarrassing death imaginable — dying because he, for some reason, decided to touch one of the legacy gems, infamous for being untouchable. No good could come out of that; if anything, him dying here would make more work for his poor tutor, who would then have to either drag his mutilated body out or report to his father that his miserable failure of a son had decided to take his foolishness one step further and vaporize himself.

  No, no vaporizing. No touching. No gem.

  “Onto Change,” Daskalos declared, already at the doors again.

  Ash hurried to catch up.

  The last temple was painted in swirls of silvers and grays and whites, reminding him of skies mixed with wisps of clouds, of dove feathers, of liquefied dreams. Light crystals, suspended by strings, illuminated the place in pale gold. In the center, as with all the other temples, hovered the Change stone, above its own pedestal of ivory.

  “And what does this jewel do?” Daskalos asked.

  “The Change Stone,” Ash answered, gazing around the room. It smelled of vanilla and warm laundry. “It was created by Resta, the fourth Founder. What it enhances changes based on its current owner.”

  Resta was the only one he’d actively studied, and the easiest one to remember, because of her mentality. She seemed to be the kindest of the Founders, though little of her life was documented. She believed in change. She’d created a legacy around that concept — around the idea that anyone could change, and improve, and recover, and heal, and grow, if they were willing. Giving glory to the meekest and strength to the broken . . . and redemption to the fallen.

  He wanted to believe in that change.

  He wanted to believe that he could change.

  “Lord Evgenis,” his mentor said suddenly. “Ash.”

  He glanced at him, then looked to where Daskalos was staring.

  The moonstone had left its place in the center. It drifted towards him, glowing brighter as it neared. It lit up the walls as it passed, causing the silvery patterns to dance and ripple. The light crystals had shut off, leaving the Change Stone the only source of luminescence in the chamber.

  He stared at it, mesmerized, until his feet tugged him forward. His fingers shook as he held his hands out towards it.

  The jewel fell in his open grasp.

  He opened his hands, and found it nestled in his palms, pulsing like a tiny heartbeat. “. . . Oh.”

  He flinched as he heard footsteps, and turned to see the guards marching in. “Oh.”