Thud. Thud. Thud.

  Pounding at the door of his small chamber rouses Til Tanner from the cool, ever-enveloping fog he too often faces instead of dreams.

  Even through the tendrils of foggy darkness clinging to his mind and sleep-warm muscles, Til springs from his bed, dressing swiftly despite the stiffness in his fingers, and gathers his armor. He calls, sleep straining his voice, “Who’s there?”

  “The King is summoning all Knights, Honored and not, to the throne room. He is preparing to address all the Knights shortly.” A presumed page tells him, all the while gasping and wheezing. Til remembers being that young and being sent running all over the castle gathering people for one reason or another.

  Darkness prevails in Til’s cell within the depths of the castle; he's allowed no window, no candle, no lantern, no fireplace. Nothing by which he can see, nor by which someone else could see him. As it is the code of the Honored, and as one, he upholds the code.

  It’s not as though he requires the light anymore, anyway. He has had more than enough practice putting on his armor in the dark, having spent years as an Honored Knight.

  Moments later, he leaves his room, nearly crashing into another knight. The other snorts, sleep-dazed and sluggish as he jerks out of Til’s way with a barely muttered apology.

  Til follows the slow, stumbling Knight down the hall, his own muscles screaming in protest at his sudden movements without preparation or planning. It doesn't mean much, but as more Knights join them as they shamble along the castle corridors, Til thinks that there's not a one of them that looks fully alive right then.

  Soon enough, the other Knight disappears into the crowd forming in the throne room. Each Knight is indistinguishable from the next in their full armor. Anyone who did not know the knights personally, who were not among their ranks, would see a wall of soldiers. Men and women standing tall and proud, armor shining bright and distinguishing them from the common man. Those with a knowledgeable eye could discern nicks and symbols etched into the armor. Each is not officially forbidden by the code, but skirts the line by allowing hints of individuality.

  Around him, the others greeted each other, their voices a low rumble, along with the clanks of armor as they moved. A common thread of conversation led to their sudden summons.

  Til’s not last to the large throne room, but he is one of the last. His group trailed behind the others.

  It’s rare that the Knights are summoned to the grand hall, with its arched ceiling and massive stained-glass windows. Once a year, they celebrate, welcoming new Honored to their ranks and cheering on the ones remaining from previous years.

  But those events are a time of excitement, of life. This time, it is not. And as Til slips between the other knights, quiet mutterings of fear and worry are audible.

  All eyes focus on the dias sitting above the room.

  At the top of the dias is their withered King Donner—ruler of the people of Ardest—seated in his magnificent, jewel-encrusted throne. Beside him stands the unusually somber figure of Noan Isle. Everyone here knew him as the King’s right-hand wizard—a powerful example of what the Touched could become if they trained to use their abilities once they’d appeared—the usually bouncing figure of smiles and pranks stands solemn and quiet despite the room's din. For the first time since Til had known him, he matched the seriousness of the occasion, possibly foretelling how bad the situation was.

  Strangely, none of the glittering-armored Kingsguard stands guard over their small, fragile King, who sits unmoving, watching the crowd. He doesn’t seem much bigger than a child, as ancient as he is.

  If rumors are to be believed, there are more reasons than his age alone.

  Just rumors, of course.

  No one would believe the King is hundreds of years old. Old enough, he was there to set the stones of the castle himself. Or that he was of goblin descent and ate frogs. He had magic that was stronger and more incredible than anyone else alive, and he could control men without a word, just a thought, and force them to his bidding.

  As far as Til’s concerned, it’s all hearsay, rumors, jokes, and more, even. Spread by people who’d lived in a peaceful kingdom their whole lives. People who didn’t know how to keep their noses to their own business.

  Til also considered that the King could spread them; he’d heard of many of them repeated from Noan’s lips.

  To hear them from Noan was to hear it from the King. Unbelievable as some of the things were, they might make a would-be assassin pause. It wasn’t hard to kill an elderly man. Goblins, or someone of goblin descent, would be much, much harder. Hard to poison, hard to pin down. Their guts would destroy nearly all poisons long before they caused any real damage.

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  Not that the King was of goblin descent. Because none of those rumors were true.

  Except, possibly, the one about King Donner being hundreds of years old. As he gazed upon the small, frail-looking King, Til thought that one could be true.

  The King sat on his throne, regal and, though small, still larger than life.

  A few more straggling knights wandered in.

  Once, before he knew better, Til had believed those stories and so many more. He’d believed them so firmly that he’d ripped himself from his home to come here.

  But he knew better now.

  The clanks of armor soften as people find their places, no longer trying so hard to see. Many now spoke quietly with their neighbors, one question on all their minds:

  Why had they been summoned?

  When the King stands—despite his small stature and apparent weakness—he stands straight, entirely under his own power. But beside the young and hale form, he looks very small.

  When he opens his mouth, his voice booms from him, immediately silencing the remaining whispers. “Honored. Knights. Nobled. Servants. Tonight, I have gathered you, for our great kingdom is under attack.”

  Noise erupts from the crowd, cries, fears, and armor jarring as people turn to look between themselves. The King waits for them to quiet before speaking again.

  “These foes seek to hurt us by targeting our greatest weakness.” Soft murmurs rise once more, and the King speaks over them. “But our weakness is not the walls that keep us safe, nor the castle or the tower above. No, the weakness they’re using is our children.”

  Shocked gasps fill the room, but the King raises a hand before continuing.

  “Our children, the Touched children, those born Touched by magic. Those wonderful few that can twist the threads of our very world for better or worse. The very future of magic in our great kingdom is under attack. They are being stolen away, but to where, I know not. But I know that our foe, Adem of the Eastern kingdom of Tubec, has been a long-standing force against us.”

  Til had heard of King Adem before, but he didn’t believe that he would be so bold as to kidnap children to start a war.

  “Our children are our future, and he steals them from us to weaken us. Our next generation will be small, Untouched, without magic. They’ll have no protection against the children stolen by Adem. because those children will be turned into weapons!” More outrage, more gasps, more noise from the crowd; it almost overpowers the King’s voice even as he presses on. “Turned against their brothers and sisters in their homeland.”

  Til nearly stumbles; he can’t believe what he’s hearing. Around him, the room becomes a cacophony of noise, people yelling, crying, and more.

  Adem of Tubec has never been so aggressive, while Til has been among the Honored. There were skirmishes, small things, about the edges of the kingdoms, but a war? Not only that, but starting by cutting down the future of Argest.

  Though he’s not a person Til looks to for strength, he turns his gaze to the man beside the King. Noan’s face has darkened, blond brows furrowed over what Til knows to be sky-blue eyes. He’d hoped, hoped beyond a shred of belief, that this might be a horrifying prank that Noan had somehow convinced the King to do.

  But no such luck.

  Searching Noan’s face, there’s no hint of a lie, of deceit, of tricks. He looks more serious than Til’s ever seen him. More than any interaction would lead him to believe it possible.

  It must be bad, worse than the King is telling them to turn that man to stone.

  Finally, the crowd quiets again, and the King speaks once more, a furrow of his own brow looking mournful, “Honored. Knights. I have no choice but to ask this of you. I need the boldest, the strongest among you.”

  Silence drops as everyone in the room stops moving and even breathing.

  “I ask only the bravest of you to seek out the remaining Touched children and bring them here. Here, where they can be safe, educated, and far from the hands of Adem. I will not ask you to step forward now; now, I ask you to rest, think, and prepare.”

  Soft mutterings, but nothing Til can understand. His entire focus is on the King, on how he looks around, seemingly making eye contact with those in his audience, skipping over Til. Not that Til thought he’d be able to match the King’s gaze.

  “Tonight, ask yourselves if you’re capable, are you truly able and willing to lay down your life against unknown evils, against monsters who would harm our children? Tomorrow, I will ask if you think you are capable of doing so. Tomorrow, I will ask only those who believe they are able to, to risk... Everything, their very lives, for those who are unable to protect themselves.”

  Though the King stops speaking, no words are shared, nor movement is made. Perhaps they, like Til, wish to avoid the King’s attention.

  “Now, return to what you were doing. I shall summon you again when the time comes.” The send-off feels flippant to Til, nothing more than a wave of his hand as the King settles back onto his throne. Effectively dismissing them, he no longer looks into the crowd, but at something none of them can see.

  The young mage at his side turns to look at him, but it doesn’t appear that any words are exchanged.

  Knights filter out of the room around Til. Many people talk quietly at first, then louder as they continue.

  Unsure, confused, and worried, Til ponders what to think about the situation. For now, he’ll return to his chambers. He doubts he’ll be able to sleep with all the thoughts running rampant around his mind.

  Something in him felt fit to burst, wanting—more than wanting—to go out and help.

  It would be dangerous, a suicide mission, but Til had faced similar odds before, and he still stood. Not that any one of the other knights knew.

  They had no idea what forces they were up against. King Adem might be behind it all, but what else is to be considered? What other forces were at play? Was his hand forced? There’d been no problems between them in ages. Perhaps they were magical now? Or maybe someone else was involved that the King hadn’t even considered.

  That was almost certain; it had to be.

  Did he really want to step up? What could Til do against a magical foe, anyway? All he knew was how to swing a sword.

  It was an impossible, deadly task, and yet, Til still thought of volunteering for it.