The Rogerverse – Book 1

Contents

Prologue – Wild Magic

Chapter 1 – Edge of the Unknown

Chapter 2 – Secrets and Scones

Chapter 3 – To Get a Good Job Done

Chapter 4 – Here Be Dragons (Just An FYI)

Chapter 5 – Well, If It Isn’t The Ever-Increasing Proximity Of The Consequences Of My Incredibly Stupid Actions

Chapter 6 – Glass Dreams

Prologue – Wild Magic

Once, there were no gods in Istoria, only wild magic.

No-one knew its origin – or indeed the origin of Istoria itself – but the world overflowed with magic of all kinds. Plants that could heal the gravest of illnesses. Unexplainable phenomena at the far reaches of the kingdoms. Iridescent spheres of light shining over the midnight valleys. The people of Istoria and all its kingdoms learnt to respect such marvels, and even began to learn the ways that they could use them to their benefit. Certain townspeople became adept at dealing out enchanted remedies, or channelling the world’s plentiful magic into wondrous displays. The people lived in harmony with magic.

But even such resolutely good magic has its darknesses. Still no-one knew the source of Istoria’s power, and whatever it was, it was channelling more magic into the world with every passing day.

A vessel can only hold so much before it breaks.

Before long the magic, one beloved by people across the continents, became something to be feared. Something to be warded against with a sprig of driftroot across the doorframe; to be warned about by your father; to be talked about only in hushed, fearful tones. For there was too much magic now to simply stay content in a wildflower or make beautiful displays across the evening skies – now, magic tore holes in the world, unknowing of whether it created or destroyed.

In the barren rock-kingdom of Olthra, a village was destroyed when a storm of violet light descended upon it in the depths of winter. The strange, unearthly creatures that rose from it tore down houses and feasted on anything in their path, before dissolving into smoke, living on only in horrified legend.

Arm’s Length, an island in the vast southern seas named for its thick fog preventing you from seeing much further than an arm’s length in front of you, became more unstable with every increase in magic. Vast sinkholes would open up in the ground, disembodied voices singing to the island’s inhabitants to lure them to the deaths. By the time the islanders saw the sinkholes – or the monsters at the bottom – it was too late.

In the quiet, steadfast kingdom of Feralthia, the number of dark magical incidents felt never-ending. It seemed that every day there was someone else with a story to tell of how their child had been attacked by creatures of shadow, or how the plants in the forest had risen suddenly to ten meters tall and began twisting and writhing around them and their friends, or how the sky had opened and poured out magical rain that turned everything it touched into dark, decaying dust. These incidents weren’t just happening in Feralthia, but in every corner of every kingdom of Istoria. Magic had turned from the people’s beloved friend to their worst nightmare.

Except that nightmares can’t kill you. Magic can.

The list of injuries and deaths attributed to dark magical phenomena only grew with every passing year. Slowly, the people of Istoria grew desperate. If this darkness was not contained soon, it would destroy their world completely, poisoning itself from the inside out.

In Feralthia, another life was claimed by the dark power. A child, out picking flowers. The magic enveloped him the instant he touched the plant’s leaves, and he returned to the village with unseeing eyes of cold blue light, leaving a cold trail of ice wherever he touched, unresponsive to his family’s pleas. When the magic dissipated from his body, there was nothing left of him but his lifeless body, covered in a thin layer of ice crystals.

A wise alchemist, who remembered the time when magic was good and celebrated, saw these events unfold and made a decision. They would stop this before magic decimated their world, no matter the cost.

A year later, the alchemist’s preparations were almost complete, their ritual to channel the magic into a new vessel almost ready. The year had come at great cost to their village, constant magical threats attacking the residents day after day. The alchemist, falling deeper and deeper into desperation, had gone to great lengths to formulate a way to stop this endless war. They had stumbled upon an idea one unnaturally cold summer’s day, and nothing could shake them from it. It was cruel, but it was – they believed – the only way forward.

The alchemist gathered the necessary materials for the ritual together on top of Hermit Hill one year after the young ice boy’s tragic death. Summoning all the magic of Istoria, the delicate balance of creation and destruction, the alchemist, in an unmatched feat of skill, channelled it into its new homes. They split the magic into its eight constituent parts, each one funnelled into its own vessel. Though the world shook as if it would split in two, and the sky drained of all colour, the alchemist did not stop.

Theragonrist opened their eyes, and gazed out into the faces of the eight deities they had created.

Each one a custodian of a different kind of magic, the eight deities now held the power that had once enchanted and then plagued Istoria. While the world still retained the faintest traces of magic, the alchemist’s ritual had ensured that all but the smallest amount was held by their deities.

However, even the best-laid plans have their flaws. Even these powerful goddesses could not contain an entire world’s power by themselves; and so every year since the alchemist saved the world of Istoria and its kingdoms, the deities have been gifting small portions of their magic to those with the capacity for such power – thus creating Vessels.

Vessels serve their kingdoms with their extraordinary gifts, using their magic to save; heal; enlighten. Even hundreds of years later, they still honour the alchemist who lifted their world from darkness. With scores of these wondrous Vessels to protect its citizens, it is a golden age for Istoria.

 

Chapter 1 – Edge of The Unknown

The chamber of the Feralthian High Council is the oldest, and grandest, building in Hearth, the kingdom’s capital. No-one knows exactly when it was built – or indeed who built it – but the building has stood on the same site for centuries, witnessing Hearth’s rise from a small hamlet on the Feralthian moors to the bustling capital of the kingdom. (Although it really hasn’t grown all that much over the years. Compared to the sprawling cities in Olthra or the North Wilds[BS1] , Hearth isn’t much more than a small town; one entering it gets the impression that everyone seems to know everyone else.) However, although the surrounding town is small in size, it’s seen its fair share of history over the years. Centuries of wind, rain and the occasional magical mishap have weathered the Council chamber, but the original building still stands at the centre of Hearth, its lilac dome towering over the surrounding houses and shops.

From their office inside the Chamber, Bryn Serpentine, Feralthia’s Grand Mage, stared out of the filigreed window onto the street below. The streets were lively at that time of day, with young apprentices and students pouring out of various buildings, their voices carrying on the wind into the Grand Mage’s small office. Wizards, their dark cloaks blowing in the autumn breeze, created a river of colour in the streets thanks to their brightly coloured tunics: many of them wearing red, grey or green, but a few individuals in lilac and the same blue of Bryn’s own stood out from the group. Behind them, a group of Knights in pale green regalia spilled out of the arena, their eclectic, mismatched armour glinting in the fading afternoon sun, and overhead the steady beating of the wings of a group of dragons could be heard, interspersed with the laughter of their riders.

Bryn usually loved this view. Looking down over the city was always a reminder of their beautiful home, and seeing the next generation of Wizards made Bryn determined to be a good leader. If they could help just one of these Wizards along their path, if they could inspire just one young Vessel, Bryn felt that their life would have been worthwhile, that they could rest knowing they had done their part to serve the people of Hearth.

But today, the view just felt like a painful reminder of what Hearth and Feralthia – and even the lands beyond their borders – stood to lose if Bryn couldn’t fix the potential calamity the city might have on its hands.

Darkness was spreading again.

Bryn had heard the old legends – who in Feralthia hadn’t? – of the era their world had become so saturated with magic that it had almost burned itself from the inside out. Every child in the kingdom grew up hearing that story; Bryn had heard that it gave some kids a childhood fear of magic – which they supposed was fair enough. The story was pretty dark to begin with and the fairytale books didn’t shy away from the gory details. Regardless, it was their kingdom’s most popular tale (Bryn couldn’t speak for its popularity in other parts of the world, having never left their homeland), acted out without fail every couple of years by the youngest common school children for their winter solstice play, gruesomely embellished by older kids to their younger siblings, and read to your toddlers from a fading book of nursery rhymes. It was a story – a true story, yes – but a story from a long-forgotten age. It was in the past.

But in recent years, Bryn couldn’t shake the feeling that something similar could be happening again. At the very least, something was wrong with Istoria’s magic. Whatever was going on wasn’t enough to cause widespread panic among the citizens – the Council had kept the matter secret to avoid that precise situation – but people had begun to notice. And Bryn, entrusted with the lives of all Feralthians and the knowledge of things that could threaten them, had noticed everything.

Bryn ran their fingers through their long plait: once dark, now almost entirely grey. They had been around for a while, to say the least – forty years of serving Feralthia as an active Wizard and almost another ten so far on the High Council. They’d dealt with everything from demons possessing several Knights, to defending Hearth against the worst winter storm for centuries, to duelling with a power-crazed Vessel from another kingdom, attempting to seize control of Feralthia. Those situations, they could handle. But over their almost 70 years, they’d slowly begun to notice Istoria’s magic changing, and to Bryn, that was more terrifying than any foe they’d faced before. Every other problem they’d encountered, they’d fixed – but who could fix something as fundamental as the magic that bound Istoria together?

They’d first noticed it when they were perhaps thirty, or even a little younger. Out of the corner of their eye, so faint that you could barely tell it was there, they’d seen dark purple…energy, they could only describe it as, pulsing with angry black. They’d dismissed it as nothing. Most likely they were overexerting themself – an excuse which worked for the first several times they saw it, but an excuse they knew they couldn’t keep recycling forever. Especially not when other people started seeing it too.

Bryn told themself that it would probably just stop eventually. It wasn’t harming anyone, so why try and solve something that isn’t a problem? But over the years, the phenomenon had changed, intensified. Bryn loved walking through the crop fields, taking the long way home, and one day, glancing across at a roamberry bush, had watched it wither and die in a matter of seconds, all shrouded in the same purple and black light.

Most people, they knew, had never noticed anything like it happen. Bryn, however, prided themself on being vigilant when it came to things happening in Hearth, and having lived a fairly long life so far had had quite a bit of time to notice things. The incident with the roamberry bush had not been a one-off. They’d seen it happen to other plants, they’d watched as cracks appeared in the dusty roads and fizzed briefly with purple sparks (so small that someone not looking for them would likely have missed them), they’d watched simple objects like mugs and pencils crumble to dust, and, most heartbreaking and worrying of all, held a baby wildcat as it died, black and purple light swirling in its eyes. Once, these incidents had been occasional at worst, but every year Bryn noticed more and more, and though they had privately begun an investigation, it had gotten them absolutely nowhere. They were still no closer to having any idea about the darkness’ root.

If the situation wasn’t stopped, Bryn had two problems. One, citizens were going to notice. And two, it would surely only get worse. How could they hide this darkness if it started going after – gods forbid – the citizens themselves?

Bryn rubbed their eyes, under which their recent lack of sleep was beginning to show. What frustrated them most about the situation was the fact that they still knew absolutely nothing: not its source, nor what it was, nothing at all. Bryn was used to having the answers – yes, they had handled some difficult situations in their life, but nothing like this. Before, there had always been something to draw on, previous experience and knowledge guiding them through and showing them the right path; this time, there was nothing Bryn could even compare Feralthia’s problem to besides an old fairy tale.

A knock on the oak office door snapped them back to reality – likely their co-councillors, ready for the afternoon’s meeting.

“Come in,” they called, attempting to inject some half-hearted cheer into their voice. Given current events, they doubted it sounded particularly genuine.

The door creaked open with a sound not unlike a teething dragonling – Bryn really needed to fix that one of these days – and the other three members of the Feralthian High Council entered their office: Ronin Gorse, Dragonrider Chief, striding in with his usual confident demeanour; Garnet Morningstar, the Knights of Feralthia’s Legion Commander, glancing around the room as if checking for hidden enemies, a slight limp the only clue to the injuries sustained over her many years of knighthood; and Aster Fieldfare, the Council’s youngest member and representative of the craftspeople and civilians, her attempt at a friendly smile looking much more genuine than Bryn’s.

“Hello!” Aster beamed across at Bryn, putting up a hand to wave despite the short distance between them. “How are you? It’s been quite a busy day, hasn’t it? How is everything going with,” – she dropped her voice – “the Situation?”

Bryn sighed. Aster was a sweet girl, and a highly talented crafter Bryn respected greatly, but they did not feel prepared for her constant chatter today. “It’s…going, thank you, Aster. I think- “

But Bryn did not get to finish their sentence.

Before they could even register what was happening, a bright, burning light flashed into existence across the office, so blinding that Bryn could not look directly at it. The air seemed to crackle with energy, and a strong breeze began to howl despite the previous stillness of the day, blowing Bryn’s neatly organised papers into a disorderly mess on the floor. Bryn instinctively shot to their feet, seizing their staff from where it stood propped against their desk, and stood in a position ready to fight whatever this…thing was, should it be hostile. Around them, they were aware of Garnet unsheathing her sword, Ronin taking an unconscious step backwards, and Aster looking around the room in confusion and fear. Bryn held a hand up to their eyes as the light intensified in brightness. Once a concentrated ball of golden energy, it was rapidly growing into a tall column of white, so powerful that Bryn could no longer look straight at it. The breeze, too, had become a gale now, and as papers hurtled past Bryn and streams of golden light blazed from the centre of the office, they could barely make out the room’s features – or indeed their companions – anymore. Attempting to shout was futile; the roaring of the wind made speaking next to impossible. Bryn tightened their grip on their staff. Whatever entity or magic was attempting to control their office, they would protect their people.

Pushing against the ever-growing power of the wind, Bryn managed to struggle one step forward. They squinted their eyes against the blinding light – and gasped.

Slowly but surely, a figure was becoming visible within the light. It seemed to be…condensing, the white light shifting from an unformed glow to an outline – one of a person. And was the breeze beginning to die too? Shifting to a defensive stance, Bryn lowered the hand shielding their eyes. The figure was undeniable now – whatever it was was over 8 feet tall and dissolved into a pool of light at its feet rather than having human legs, but it was unmistakably humanoid. The longer Bryn watched, the more of the intruder’s features became visible: a tiered, flowing skirt; long, rippling golden hair, beads burning white-hot around its waist and neck, and two eyes, shining with pure light out from a dark-skinned face.

A face Bryn recognised.

Bryn could hardly believe what they were seeing. Surely it could not be- ? But the evidence of their own eyes was indisputable, and growing clearer by the second. Standing before them was a face Bryn had seen thousands of times – never in real life, but in the paintings, statues, stained glass windows of Feralthia. The face looking out at them was a face Bryn had never even imagined seeing in their lifetime, but one that every child in every town across Feralthia and even the distant kingdoms would recognise – the face of Annerith, the goddess of creation magic.

The wind stopped.

The creation goddess was standing in Bryn’s office. Once immaculate, the floor was now strewn with papers and a few of the lighter ornaments were scattered across the room, and Bryn felt a strange pang of worry about, of all things, this making a bad impression on the goddess (despite the state of the room being completely said goddess’ fault). They glanced at Ronin, Garnet and Aster. All three of them stood, shell-shocked, in stunned silence, frozen halfway between utter surprise and a defensive stance. Clearly, none of them were going to be able to speak any time soon, so Bryn stepped forward again and cleared their throat, unknowing of what in Istoria they were going to say.

“Great goddess Annerith,” they began – surely that was a good start for addressing someone you’ve only ever read about in legends? – “I don’t- I- it’s, um- good to see you?”

Well, that second half of the sentence had gone slightly downhill. Bryn cursed inwardly. Their social skills weren’t perfect at the best of times, and now they had to talk to an actual goddess? Brilliant.

They tried again. “It’s an honour to be able to see you in the flesh.” Did goddesses have flesh? Gods, this was a nightmare. “I never thought – I didn’t think I would ever be privileged enough to meet you.”

And now you sound like you’re grovelling too much, Bryn thought, inwardly groaning.

Luckily for them, Annerith smiled, the glowing golden lines running down her cheeks curving as she did. “It is an honour to meet you too, Bryn Serpentine. I do not usually interfere with the lives of mortals, but I have been watching you defend Feralthia for many years, and I am proud to see the way you have led your kingdom’s Vessels.”

Bryn blinked, unsure of whether they were dreaming. Had Annerith – the literal creation goddess – just complemented them? “Uh, thank you? I mean- thank you, great goddess. I think you’re…very impressive as well.” Gods, Bryn, stop talking!

Annerith laughed softly. “Mortals. You say such funny things sometimes! And please, call me Annerith.”

Bryn decided not to take the goddess’ first remark as an insult and attempted to pull themself together. Annerith could not be here for no reason, and they needed to find out what that reason was. They still could not believe that here, on an ordinary summer’s afternoon, while the rest of Hearth was going about its normal business, a goddess was standing before Bryn in their own office as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Such an event could not be without reason, and probably not a reason Bryn would like.

“I am honoured by your presence, Goddess- er, Annerith, but- well. What I’m wondering is – why? I don’t mean to offend,” they added quickly. “I just, well, deities don’t usually appear to humans unless they have something very important to say.”

At this, Annerith’s smile faded. For a moment, Bryn worried that they had offended her. But fortunately, as if reading Bryn’s mind, she said “No, you could not offend me, Bryn. And as for your question, I’m afraid the matter our conversation concerns is a grave one indeed.”

Suddenly, the pieces of the puzzle fell together in Bryn’s mind. “Are you here about the dark magic?”

Annerith rubbed a glowing white eye with the back of her hand. “That is part of the problem, yes. Unfortunately, it is not the whole problem. I’m afraid to say that we have quite the situation on our hands.”

Bryn could feel their anxiety mounting. The dark magic that they had been noticing for so many years was only part of a larger issue? And one that even the deities had noticed? Whatever was going on was much bigger than they had ever imagined, and they’d imagined plenty of terrifying scenarios playing out. “What is it? What’s going on?”

“It’s Netherith.” Annerith said, still looking into Bryn’s eyes. “She has gone.”

For a moment, Bryn just stood there in confusion, unable to comprehend what in Istoria the goddess could mean – gone? Was Netherith lost? Missing? Dead?

Netherith was the goddess of destruction magic, the complement to Annerith. Some legends said the two were sisters, others that they were in love. Destruction magic was, yes, maybe not the most appealing brand of wizardry, but a necessary one. Without such magic, there would not be balance. Without destruction, the leaves cannot fall off the trees in winter, old things cannot be made anew, the circle of life cannot continue. Bryn had learnt all this as a young child, many years ago: whether you liked it or not, without destruction, there could be no change.

If the goddess who held such a pivotal power was gone, what did that mean?

“G-gone?” Bryn managed, head already full of nightmarish scenarios.

Annerith nodded, a grave look in her golden eyes. “Somewhere further than even I knew existed.”

Bryn hadn’t thought it was possible to be any more worried, but they were rapidly re-evaluating that judgement. What could Annerith possibly mean – an unchartered Istorian kingdom? An underground world? Some kind of spiritual realm?

This revelation appeared to startle Ronin, who spoke for the first time. “Further than- what are you saying?”

“Netherith…used her magic to form a rip in the very fabric of Istoria,” Annerith answered. “It appears she created some kind of portal.”

Bryn’s head was spinning more and more with every sentence Annerith spoke – none of this made any sense, the story getting stranger at every turn.

“A portal to where?” Ronin demanded, his voice rising and the panic on his face – an expression Bryn had never before seen on his features – evident.

 

The portal wasn’t far from Hearth, relatively speaking, which Bryn was glad of. It meant the journey there didn’t take too long, allowing the four council members, plus Annerith (covered with a hooded cloak) to hurriedly don their capes, lock up the Chamber and travel through the woods of Dragonlurk Deep in the Council’s official carriage. Bryn couldn’t help but worry – on top of everything else – about what the people of Hearth would be saying about seeing all four members of the High Council urgently accompanying a mysterious figure into the woods. Above all, Bryn cared about protecting their people, and right now the best way to keep them safe was to keep them in the dark. If word of Netherith’s disappearance got out, Bryn knew they would be dealing with a city-wide, then nation-wide panic. Best to keep the truth secret for now until they could get the situation under control.

An unbidden voice In their mind said, If you can get it under control, but they attempted to ignore it.

The first thing they noticed was the dark purple light in the distance, becoming brighter and brighter the closer to it they became. Bryn realised with a start that they’d seen this light before, as visions of withering plants and a dying wildcat flashed before their eyes. The mystery had something to do with destruction magic, then? If so, surely it must be connected to Netherith’s disappearance. It was too much of a coincidence.

Finally, Annerith signalled for the carriage to come to a halt, in the centre of a dark clearing encased by tall pine trees, their twisting, splayed branches blocking almost all of the evening sun. The overwhelming majority of the light radiated from the strange, towering fracture in the clearing’s centre, bathing the trees and Council members in a purple glow. This was the portal, then. It stood in the centre of a perfectly ordinary clearing; Bryn could hear the whistles of the woodland birds and feel the touch of a gentle breeze against their cheek. Ordinary clearings, however, did not have ten-foot fractures simply hanging in the air. The portal was a jagged tear that towered over the five figures standing before it, even the goddess. Its edges shimmered with a purple haze, rippling in a dizzying way that Bryn couldn’t look at for long. It even seemed to hum, the low vibrations hard to make out at first but impossible to ignore when Bryn noticed their presence in the back of their mind. Within the portal, they couldn’t make out much beyond blurred shapes, perhaps some dark green and grey tones. It was impossible to know what was in there, a thought which both enthralled and terrified them.

Whatever was behind that portal could be something unfathomable, beyond imagination. It could hold untold dangers, threats or magic Istoria had never encountered. Not even the gods had known such a place existed until now.

And soon, the search for answers and a missing goddess would take them there.

“This is where she went,” Annerith said, gazing bleakly at the portal. “I can only hope she’s still there, safe, on the other side.”

“And you don’t have any idea where she could have gone?” Bryn asked gently. “What she could have wanted?”

The goddess shook her head sadly. “I have no idea. I don’t remember when I last saw her, but I have no idea how long it’s really been. I’m sure you can understand time passes differently when you live forever.”

Bryn tightened their grip on their staff. “We will do everything we can to find her.”

Annerith nodded. “And I will do all I can to help.”

Bryn though they saw a golden tear roll down the goddess’ cheek.

 

It was almost begun. Bryn hadn’t slept in a week, trying to come up with a plan that could possibly have any hope of finding Netherith in a world no Istorian had ever stepped foot in. Of course, Annerith couldn’t leave Istoria. It was too risky and would arouse too much suspicion for a Council member to go, no matter how much Ronin and Garnet would have liked to. Bryn would have preferred to go, too, with all their years of experience protecting their kingdom, but they weren’t the young, brave wizard hero anymore.

That job fell to someone else. And that someone was their best hope for Feralthia right now. If not a Council member, then they must send a talented, trustworthy citizen, someone who could be entrusted with a task of this magnitude. The Council had met with him several days previously to ask him if he would be willing and, thank the gods, he had been. Of course, the news must have been a shock – it certainly had been for Bryn – but he had agreed enthusiastically. Privately, Bryn wouldn’t have known what to do if he’d said no. Brent Ashlight was the most powerful wizard of his generation, and even probably in the kingdom. A vessel of Annerith, the creation goddess herself, his powers had been a great asset to the city countless times, and he’d achieved quite the following, deservedly so.

Still. Bryn didn’t like to send him in there alone. Unfortunately, they’d been convinced that there was really no other choice. They could barely justify sending one young wizard to an unknown, possibly highly dangerous realm. How could they justify sending more of their citizens into the same danger?

They stood, again, before the portal, a party of six this time. Bryn nodded to the young wizard, who stared at the tear in his world, face set.

“May you walk the magic-paved path,” Bryn whispered. It was an old Feralthian refrain. They were never usually superstitious, but they felt as if they couldn’t simply send him through the portal without some sort of blessing.

Brent managed a grin. “I’ll be back before you know it!”

Then he was walking away, passing through the portal as if it was made simply of cloth and not the very fabric of their world. A ripple, a pulse of purple light and he was gone.

Bryn prayed that it wouldn’t be for good.

 

Chapter 2 – Secrets and Scones

Roger Pendleton-Forde sat at his usual seat, in the tea-room he visited almost every day, listening to the comfortingly familiar sounds of his fellow customers chatting and laughing, the pleasant clinking of teacups, and the occasional chime signalling the opening of the door to the cobbled street outside. The cold bursts of autumn wind which also accompanied this were less pleasant, and made Roger even more glad he was sat in a warm café, a book in hand and a cup of tea imminent, rather than outside in the bitter Cambridge air.

The café was busier than usual that day. On the one hand, Roger was glad they were doing good business – the shop was a small business that probably needed all the money they could get – but all the same, Roger privately hoped this wouldn’t happen too often. At least while he was there. He’d always preferred quieter, cosier atmospheres where he could be alone with his thoughts for once, and maybe a book to go with that. This morning, he was rereading, for what was probably the hundredth time, his old, faded collection of ancient Greek and Roman myths. The spine was so cracked that the title was practically unreadable, most of the tale of Daedalus and Icarus was in danger of falling out, and the faded picture of the Argo on the cover would have been unrecognisable to anyone but Roger, who’d spent nearly twenty years obsessively poring over its contents. Parting with it would be unthinkable. Even as he’d grown up, enrolled in his Classics course at Cambridge and delightedly read beautifully bound copies of the Iliad, the Aeneid, the Odyssey and every other ancient epic he could get his hands on, he still returned to that much-abridged, battered old myth collection.

Happily buried in the tale of Medusa – the Gorgon’s story had always been one of his favourites – the sound of the table’s other chair scraping across the oak floorboards made Roger look up. Up until a few months ago, he had always spent his free time alone, desperately grateful to have some time apart from his family and the endless parade of social events, balls and weddings. Now, though, his meetings with his new friend were the part of his day he looked forward to most, eclipsing even his Classics lectures.

Brent sat down on the opposite side of the table, his familiar face arranged into its usual beaming smile. “Roger! You wouldn’t believe how long it took me to get here. I nearly got run over by one of those – what do you call them again? – carriages with two wheels? The extremely wobbly ones?”

Roger snorted. “You mean bicycles? I swear we’ve been over this five times this week.”

Brent nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, those ones! I really want to try riding one but I’m pretty sure I’d cause a city-wide incident. Which is probably not what you want.”

“I think avoiding causing a city-wide bicycle incident is probably a good idea, yes,” Roger said. “I still have no idea how you still can’t recall the name of such an everyday object, though.”

“Listen!” Brent’s eyes widened in mock outrage. “How am I expected to remember the name of every single invention in Cambridge when I’ve been here, like, a month?”

“I believe it’s been about three, actually.” Roger corrected, sipping a mouthful of tea. The new blend the café had started selling really was heavenly.

“Same thing,” Brent said. Suddenly, his eyes landed on the plate in front of him, his expression rewriting into one of delight. “Oh, is that pastry for me?”

Roger, eyes back in his book, bit back a smile. “Obviously. How on earth you eat so much caramel is unfathomable to me.”

Brent grinned. “Insults from a man who eats nothing but scones every time I see him. Which is a lot.” At least, that’s what Roger thought he’d said – the sentence was somewhat indecipherable given the fact that Brent had just attempted to stuff practically half the pastry in his mouth. “Didn’t you get yourself a scone this time?”

“I ate before I left. At Cecil and Jane’s engagement party,” Roger added. “I think the food there could’ve fed the whole of Cambridge. Besides, I had to pretty much continuously eat to avoid all Father’s family friends asking me when I’ll get engaged.”

“Did it work?” Brent asked, still talking through his pastry.

Roger sighed. “With Great-Aunt Margery at the party? No such luck. I swear she asked me the same question three days ago. Does she expect I’ve found true love in three days?”

Brent snorted. “Hey, you never know! Maybe she’s expecting you to have a total love-at-first-sight moment.”

Despite his best efforts at giving Brent a sceptical look, Roger could feel the corners of his mouth turning up into a wry smile. “One, I seriously doubt anyone actually falls in love with someone at first sight. And two,” – he dropped his voice with a cautionary glance around the café, more out of habit than anything else – “I’m not sure anyone I could fall in love with would exactly be Great-Aunt Margery approved.”

Brent laughed, but seemed to immediately decide against it, his expression becoming serious for once. He paused for a second, then said quietly, “How can you stand it here, Roger?”

Roger, who could probably count on one hand the number of times he’d been lost for words, who was always calculating the perfect reply for every possible avenue of every conversation, who always knew exactly what people wanted to hear, for once, wasn’t sure what to say to that. He didn’t often come by such honesty, he supposed. And sometimes he’d wondered the same question: how to live life when something inside you seems fundamentally different to everyone else and to what everybody else wants you to be – believes you to be?

He’d learnt a long time ago that his family – not just his mother and father, but also the seemingly endless cycle of extended relatives (who he’d had to draw up several charts of, so as to always be prepared for a chance conversation) and his parent’s equally rich friends – were not people he could ever have an honest conversation with, not if he wanted to prevent complete ostracization. He’d learnt to seamlessly navigate every ball, wedding and hunting party with ease, to anticipate every line of a conversation and draft the perfect response. He could always tell what motivated someone, what they actually wanted and didn’t say. And in Roger’s experience, that was rarely anything close to what he wanted, beneath his façade. Most people he interacted with – friends, family, dinner guests – were fixated on their wealth, their status, one-upping the equally wealthy family in the neighbouring manor. He’d learnt that nobody cared like he did, not about anything real. They didn’t like thinking about anyone outside their bubble of money and luxury, looked disdainfully down at anyone beneath them, and were perfectly happy to exist in their unjust, privileged, prejudiced little world.

So Roger pretended he was, too – rather successfully, it had to be said. It was rather draining, constantly playing a part, constantly determining the precise words and tone with which to reply to every remark, but a necessary ruse. Still, there were only so many times he could stomach complaining about the apparently continually insolent and filthy common people before he began to wonder whether medieval torture would actually be preferable to yet another conversation with yet another uncle. There was certainly a limit to the number of times he could stand to hear Aunt Elizabeth drone on about the sorry state of the country before he began considering leaving it for somewhere much more peaceful. Perhaps an active warzone. And there were only so many times he could successfully fend off questions regarding his lack of fiancée, or indeed anyone even close, before his father would resolve the issue himself. Not even the education excuse would be viable for much longer, given that the end of his Classics course was tragically in sight. One more year, and the haven that had kept him safe and happy for so long would be shattered. His calculatedly light-hearted “why, Auntie, a man can’t think about getting married when he has such a torturous number of essays to write!” was a very well-practiced speech by now. He’d throw in some gibberish about the tedium of university life and how vexingly pretty all the Cambridge girls are (“and no time even to look at them, what with all this studying malarkey!”), cause all the assembled aunts and uncles to break into predictable laughter and a few remarks of “Dear me, Roger, you are a scoundrel,”, and smoothly get one of his uncles talking about the latest aristocratic scandal – a well of conversation Roger doubted would ever run dry. Unfortunately as soon as his time at Cambridge drew to a close, that old speech would have to be retired, and he’d be lucky if he could come up with another before his family finally took matters into their own hands. In fact, they’d tried before – they’d attempted to send Roger to Cheltenham for a month last summer, where a wealthy family friend had a manor house and, crucially, a daughter. By some incredible stroke of good fortune (well, misfortune for all but him, Roger admitted), Arabella, before spending even a day with him, slipped on a misplaced handkerchief, fell down the main stairs, broke her ankle, and subsequently left for the coast to recuperate. Roger felt rather bad about the relief he had felt watching her leave, but it had bought him another few months; besides, he heard she’d met a dashing young man at the seaside, which made him feel a little better. Now she could marry someone who wouldn’t have to forever lie to her, and he could prolong the inevitable a little longer. Better for both of them, really.

Brent’s expression of sadness across the table snapped Roger out of his wandering thoughts. Seeing Brent – who’d rapidly become his best friend, confidante and only real ally – always made Roger forget the other half of his life. He mentally scolded himself for wasting so much time wallowing in self-pity instead of savouring every single minute of his time with his friend while he could.

In the end, he merely shrugged. “I suppose I’m just used to it. It’s just the way things are.”

Brent leaned forward, a now-familiar expression of hopefulness adorning his face. “But it doesn’t have to be! Roger, I wish you could see where I come from. People are so much…nicer there, I guess. And you don’t have to just do what other people expect you to do all the time.”

Roger smiled wryly. “Have you been talking to my little sister? I seem to remember she had a similar perpetual desire to change the world.”

“You have a sister?” Brent asked, curiously. “You’ve never mentioned her before.”

“Our parents packed her off to boarding school in Buckinghamshire when she was…13, I think?” Roger said, attempting to comb through his memories. “Partly to pretend she didn’t exist and partly to ‘correct her behaviour’, since she dared to go against their stone-age ideals.”

Brent shook his head in disbelief. “That’s terrible! Do you even ever get to see her?”

Now it was Roger’s turn to shake his head. “They hardly ever let her home, and when they do they keep her separate. Prefer keeping her a secret – they don’t want her putting a stain on the perfect family name,” he said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “I wish I could see her again. I’d tell her- I don’t know. Perhaps that I always felt the same way about our family; I just had a talent for hiding it.”

“Maybe you’ll find her one day!” Brent said, excitedly. “You could introduce us! And then we can all overthrow every evil societal expectation ever created!”

Roger suppressed a smile. “Sounds perfectly straightforward. Whyever didn’t I think of that before?”

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, Brent eating the rest of his pastry (a sugary concoction far too sweet for Roger’s liking), Roger drinking his tea and glancing at his book every now and again. Brent’s off-hand mention of his old life – “I wish you could see where I come from,” – was refusing to leave his mind. He’d never really asked Brent too many questions about his old life, as he always got the sense Brent didn’t like to talk about it. Contradictorily, though, anything he did say about it was always glowing praise, talk of a world without the pressures and prejudices of Roger’s own. All in all, Roger, who prided himself on being at least somewhat intelligent, had absolutely no idea where Brent came from, why he had left, or why he was so evasive about it.

Perhaps the other reason Brent’s statement was playing on his mind was the reminder that Brent wouldn’t stay in this town forever – a fact Roger generally attempted to dispel from his mind whenever it entered. The thought of sitting in the tearoom alone with no meeting with his friend on the horizon filled him with a sadness he could not entirely rationalise. He supposed he’d just never had the chance to talk this honestly to somebody before, never had a friend he didn’t have to lie to, never had the chance to simply sit and make light-hearted conversation without playing a part. Besides, Brent could always make Roger forget his troubles, if only for a little while. Somehow he could make Roger smile without even saying anything – a rather remarkable talent, Roger had to admit, one he was at a loss to explain.

He was going to miss it. Above all, he was just going to miss his best friend.

(Even if he had no appreciation for classic literature.)

Roger’s wandering thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the chimes that signalled the opening of the café door. The afternoon crowd had mainly dispersed by now, and so the little tearoom was much quieter than previously. There hadn’t been many comings and goings for some time, so the bell’s tinkling caught Roger’s attention. He would have simply gone back to his cup of tea if it were not for the rather unusual manner of the café’s new arrival.

A rather small girl, she had all but marched In, bursting through the door as if running from something on the other side. She had a purposeful look about her, something in her decisive footsteps and narrowed eyes seeming to hint at a task, an intent. She scanned the café quickly, frowning, either unaware or uncaring of the confused looks she was attracting from the remaining diners. Roger couldn’t fathom what on Earth she was doing – was she looking for something? Attempting to hide from someone? Merely desperate for an Eccles cake?

That wasn’t all that perplexed Roger, though. He’d lived in this area for 21 years now, and had never seen this peculiar character before. Even without his rather reliable memory, he would certainly remember seeing her if he’d encountered her in the past. Her dark umber hair, rather than being contained in a plait or bun as was the current fashion, was instead left loose in a manner resembling a wild and frizzy cloud, and her brown skin, a few shades darker than Brent’s, was enough to set her apart from most Cambridge residents. She wore rather large round glasses with thin wire frames, which were quite an unusual style in contrast to most Roger had seen. And that was all without mention of her entirely unorthodox outfit: rich red tunic, a pale brown skirt, a rather odd pair of what looked like sturdy hiking boots of all things, and was that a cape to top the whole thing off? The last time he’d seen one of those was when he’d first met-

Roger froze, except for his stomach, which did what can only be described as a high-velocity freefall through his other internal organs. Suddenly he’d remembered – he’d seen the girl’s exact attire once before, although with a yellow tunic rather than red. Brent had worn an almost identical outfit the day he’d first appeared in Cambridge.

Roger was at a loss for reasons as why he hadn’t realised that before. He supposed that after 3 months of seeing Brent in the ordinary clothes that he’d lent him in order to help him blend in, the memory of his original mustard-yellow tunic and dark brown cape had somewhat faded. Now, however, he couldn’t imagine how he’d forgot such a distinctive wardrobe. The appearance of another person wearing almost identical robes could only mean one thing – this girl hailed from the same mysterious realm as Brent.

And, Roger realised with a stab of fear, she was most likely here to find him.

“You alright, Roger?” Brent asked, a look of concern on his usually jovial features. Roger blinked, realising he’d been staring at the girl in the doorway, frozen in his thoughts. Brent was facing away from the entrance, so he hadn’t yet noticed the new arrival – was unaware he was being sought out. Roger wasn’t sure whether to point her out, but what to say? I say, that girl over there seems to be wearing the same robes you were the day I met you. Is that a coincidence or do you know each other? Is she coming to take you back home? Where is home for you, anyway? And more importantly, are you coming back?

“I’m fine-” Roger began, forcing himself to reply in what he hoped was a nonchalant tone and a normal window of time. But his sentence – wherever it was going – was cut short. At the sound of Brent’s voice, the girl’s head had whipped around in sudden recognition – so she was looking for him – and she had begun a purposeful march toward their table on the opposite side of the café. She fixed Brent (still completely unaware he was being sought out) with a furious glare and appeared not to notice Roger, who quickly turned his head toward his book and pretended he hadn’t seen her either. He only had a few seconds. He should say something to Brent, before whatever was about to happen happened. This could be your last conversation with him, Roger! Say something meaningful!

“Brent,” Roger started, still half-looking at his book, glancing up at the rapidly marching girl. “I just wanted to say – that is, you never told me where you – well, I suppose that doesn’t matter now. What I want to say is that if we weren’t to see each other after today, you would still be my best friend and I hope you would –”

Brent, concerned and confused-looking, opened his mouth to reply, but it was too late. The girl, who despite her short stature made a rather intimidating figure up close, reached their table and slammed her hands onto it. Roger and Brent both jumped, Brent practically out of his skin (having not seen her coming). Roger saw recognition, then panic flash across his features.

“Brent Ashlight,” the girl snapped. “Why in Enorwen’s name are you sitting in a – a tavern when you are supposed to be saving Istoria?”

Brent gasped, then gulped, then attempted a weak sort of beaming smile. “…Ember! So good to see you! Why don’t you, uh, sit down and we can talk about this?”

Ember glared at him with outrage in her eyes. “You want to talk? Great. You are coming back to Feralthia right now and you can have a lovely chat with the High Council. I bet they’ll be thrilled when they find out their beloved wizard hero is gallivanting around with some new boyfriend instead of I don’t know, doing his job and saving us all from certain doom?”

Brent turned brick red. “He’s not my – we aren’t – hang on, you aren’t supposed to know any of that stuff!”

“Irrelevant,” Ember snapped. “My point still stands, doesn’t it? You’re coming with me, now. And bring him as well.” At this last point, she gestured at Roger with her thumb, glancing over him with narrowed eyes and a look of pure contempt not unlike the look you might give a diseased rat you found in a sewer.

Roger’s eyes widened. “Me?” He’d been attempting to follow the conversation, but hadn’t the faintest idea what was going on. What was Enorwen? Feralthia? Istoria? The High Council? What certain doom was Brent saving people from? Why was she talking about wizards? All he could think to say was, “Errr, and this isn’t a tavern.”

“How fascinating. No, you’ll have to come,” said Ember, now fully taking her narrowed eyes off Brent to glare at Roger instead. “You clearly have something to do with this fiasco and you’re going to answer for it.”

Roger said “What?” in utter confusion at the same time as Brent started to protest (“Ember! He doesn’t know anything, I swear!”). This was apparently the final straw for Ember. She yanked Brent out of his seat by his sleeve, ignoring his outraged protests, and began frogmarching him out of the café – only pausing to turn to Roger and snap, “And you, hurry up!”

Roger, a hundred panicking alarm bells ringing in his mind, had absolutely no idea what had just happened, but couldn’t think of another alternative than to follow them. For someone who had spent of his life worrying about something or other, he had never met a person who scared him more than this small girl in a cape. He hurried to his feet, desperately avoiding the curious gazes of the neighbouring diners, frantically snatched up his coat and book, and hurried after his best friend, with absolutely no idea where he was about to end up.

 

Chapter 3 – To Get A Good Job Done (Do It Yourself)

Ember had always known Brent Ashlight wasn’t the amazing, charming, heroic saviour the rest of Hearth seemed to believe he was, but she hadn’t expected him to mess up a serious job this badly. Clearly her low expectations had actually been far too high. She’d put the bar on the floor from now on.

Currently, she was marching the wizard in question through these unfamiliar, odd-looking streets, back the way she had come to get here (although hopefully without getting lost this time, that had wasted far too much time). Brent was protesting in that annoying voice of his, but unfortunately for him Ember was well-practiced in the art of ignoring. Meanwhile, his strangely dressed little boyfriend was anxiously hurrying after them, clutching some book. (Although she admitted he wasn’t exactly little. He was the same height as Brent, albeit skinnier, and so both of them had a good foot on Ember.) She watched the skinny brown-haired one glance worriedly at Brent, and rolled her eyes. They’d got themselves into this mess, and she’d make sure they faced the consequences.

“Ember,” Brent tried again. “How did you even find me? Did Bryn send you? Did the Council make everything public?”

So Bryn had sent him here? Interesting. Still marching at top speed, Ember sighed in annoyance. She’d better answer his questions, or the sound of his voice was going to drive her insane. Bryn – the Council – hadn’t exactly sent her, but Brent didn’t need to know that – and, it would probably make him a lot more compliant if he thought she was acting on Council orders. This could be the key to figuring out what in Istoria he was up to. “Of…course they sent me. Obviously. And no. Everyone in Hearth still thinks you’re in Scintilla or something.”

“Why would I be in – never mind. Wait, so seriously. How did you find me? Does…has the council been watching me or something?”

Ember didn’t answer, trying frantically to think of a coherent lie. Maybe he’d forgotten about her magic – they barely knew each other, after all-

“Wait a minute,” – Brent quickened his pace so he was walking level with her – “you used your magic, didn’t you?”

Ember inwardly cursed. Apparently he had a better memory than she thought. Maybe looking inside someone’s mind without permission wasn’t the done thing, but frankly Ember didn’t care – she wasn’t the one who’d clearly just abandoned her kingdom to go hang out in a coffee shop. Still, she would have preferred to keep her exact method of tracking Brent down a secret. People liked to gossip about her powers enough as it was, since clearly they didn’t have anything better to do than talk about the one vessel of Thalea who got mind magic instead of the usual healing. If word got out about this, she could just imagine the chatter from her classmates. You know she can read minds, right? Careful, it’ll be you next!

They didn’t even have their facts right, anyway, seeing as she couldn’t actually read minds. She couldn’t care less about what people said about her, but she’d rather they at least insult her correctly.

She sighed. Not much of a choice left now, anyway. “…Maybe,” she said, not looking Brent in the eye and continuing her march through the streets.

“Ember!” Brent protested. “You can’t – you can’t just go reading people’s minds like that!”

Another person who couldn’t get their facts right. Wonderful. “And you can’t just go running off and abandoning us like that! You’re supposed to be fixing everything, not having a…holiday, for Annerith’s sake!”

Brent’s cheeks went pink. “I wasn’t- Ember, I didn’t abandon you guys!”

“Sure, because sitting in a coffee shop with some random man is so productive to saving Feralthia!”

“I can hear you,” Brent’s friend said, looking slightly affronted. “Also, can someone please explain what on Earth is going on?”

Ember narrowed her eyes. She’d thought maybe Brent had been lying when he said he didn’t know anything, but this man seemed genuinely confused. Although she supposed it could all be some sort of act -  she’d never pretended to have any clue how to read people. They were all enigmas, honestly.

“So…,” she started, trying to figure out how much he knew. “How much did Brent tell you, exactly?”

The man’s look of confusion only increased. “Tell me about what? Himself?”

Ember attempted to stop herself from rolling her eyes. How incompetent could you get? “Yeah, if you like. Just anything he told you.” Despite avoiding his eyes, it didn’t escape her notice that Brent was looking increasingly uncomfortable. Interesting. Very interesting.

The other man seemed to pause In thought for a moment, confusion still written across his angular features. “I don’t know, we just talk about anything, really.” He shot an unreadable look at Brent before saying, “Not much about where he – where you both, I assume? – uh, come from, I suppose. Well, not at all, really.”

Now Ember was confused. She’d thought for sure this man was some villain attempting to sabotage Brent’s quest. Surely it was the only explanation? But if this was an act, it was a pretty good one, she had to admit.

“You mean you don’t know Feralthia? Or anything about Brent’s mission?”

The man looked at Brent in bewilderment. “Mission? I don’t – no, I had no idea –”

Brent looked at the floor. “I didn’t tell him anything,” he said quietly.

Ember didn’t have a clue what to make of these developments. It certainly seemed like they were telling the truth, but then how to explain Brent’s failed mission? Who was this mysterious man and what did he have to do with the hero of Hearth? No, surely he had some part in this. Even if he hadn’t got any information from Brent, perhaps he’d got it from another source. Maybe he could read minds – that would make sense. Perhaps he’d read Brent’s mind, found out what he was up to, and thwarted his plans. Or maybe he was working for someone, whoever was behind the destruction of their home, no doubt. Did he have something to do with Netherith’s disappearance?

They walked through the streets for a few minutes, Ember maintaining her furious pace. The faster she got out of here and brought these two before the Council, the better. She’d make sure the truth got out – whatever this newcomer was hiding, or whatever the reason Brent had gone missing for three months, the Council were sure to find the truth. And surely they’d thank Ember for bringing the mission back on track. Maybe people would even realise how useful her magic was – not, of course, that she cared about that in the slightest, obviously. The thought of the Council seeing how useful she could be though, did fill Ember with renewed determination. Imagine the Council themselves personally thanking her! She could only imagine the look on her aunt’s face. That alone was worth the trip to this godsforsaken city.

She didn’t lose her way this time (that would have been embarrassing, in front of Brent and his…friend), their group spending the rest of the walk in anxious silence, and finally made it back to the edge of the little woodland she’d first arrived at. The streets had been quiet, their trio barely encountering any other people out there at all. The few people they had seen had given them some pretty confused looks, openly staring at the three of them. Ember supposed that was fair, seeing as her clothes were probably quite odd-looking here, and they were marching through the cobbled, dusky streets pretty determinedly. But still, someone really should tell people that it’s rude to stare.

Beside the gate to the woods stood a small building – once most likely some kind of storehouse, Ember assumed. They were away from the town’s centre now, in a quiet, narrow cobbled street of tall, sleepy-looking houses much less colourful from the ones Ember was used to seeing (although Crow Manor wasn’t much different, she supposed). At its end, the street gave way suddenly to the woods, the tall conifers simply appearing seemingly out of nowhere. The contrast between the neat, ordered brown houses and the wild, dark forest seemed rather jarring, like finding a wild dragon in a field of sheep. The storehouse was the very last man-made structure before the woods, although nature was slowly but surely reclaiming its territory. Ivy crept along its walls and roof, encasing it in a growing cage of green, while the similarly green paint on its door was flaking off, only adding to the look of disrepair. Several small plants were sprouting from the gutter and roof, their leaves softening the hard edges of the stone hut. The door was the only notable feature of its exterior, with no windows in sight unless you counted the hole in the roof. It was this door that Ember pushed open, revealing the jagged tear simply hanging in the empty space.

If she was totally honest, she’d admit that something about the portal scared her a little. Maybe it was the fact that it seemed so out of place here, behind a simple door in a shack beside the woods. Maybe it was the jagged, untidy edges that seemed angry, somehow, vibrating with power as if desperate to expand, rip further into this world and hers. Maybe it was the fact that her eyes physically could not focus on its rippling, warped presence, and that her head began to pound if she tried. Whatever it was, the whole thing made her feel uneasy. It screamed of fear, of decay. But she’d be damned if she was going to let the others know how scared she was.

She narrowed her eyes, turned to face Brent, and folded her arms, studying his and his companion’s expressions intently. Disappointingly, she couldn’t discern anything from Brent’s, who stood with a neutral, unreadable expression on his face. The brown-haired man, though, was staring at the portal wide-eyed, his mouth falling open. Ember watched his eyes flick frantically back and forth across it, his eyebrows furrowing, a crease forming in the centre of his forehead.

He looked truly taken aback.

Ember gritted her teeth. No. It’s all an act. That’s all this is. He’s lying. He has to be lying. She snapped her gaze back to Brent and jerked her head behind her, towards the tear. “Let’s move.”

Brent’s eyes shifted quickly from the rippling portal to meet Ember’s. He swallowed. “Ember-”

“No buts,” Ember snapped. “You are coming with me and you are explaining yourself to the Council and you,” – she glared at the other man, who still looked dazed – “are coming as well.” She clenched her hands into fists, ignoring the rising fear in her stomach. “Let’s go.”

She made Brent and his friend step through first, barely hearing Brent’s protests or vague attempts to reassure his friend. If she went first, they might make a run for it back into the city. As soon as they stepped through, though, she was right behind them. She couldn’t have them running off on the other side. Swallowing hard, she stepped forward and into the total wrongness in front of her. It felt like she was in there for no time at all and for years all at once. It was like pushing through shards of glass, like cold water, like skin. It pulsed around her in layers and folds, hardening and softening and changing. She thought she might be able to hear sounds, sometimes, awful noise that she couldn’t make out but that made her feel wrong, right in her bones. It might have been screams, or maybe there was nothing at all. She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything. There was only black – no, white – no, deep, soulless purple and the endless tiny path in front of her. What was she doing here, again? She had just entered. She had been there for hours. She was walking forwards and backwards and upside down and falling and drowning and flying and screaming and-

The world came suddenly back Into existence, and she blinked.

She shook her head, trying to grasp at the memory of what had just happened, but it was so slippery and it wouldn’t shape properly. She tried to picture the inside of the portal, remember its feel and colours and shape, but came up empty. All she could see now were the endless trees in front of her, her two charges standing a few steps away. Brent was looking back her way, studying the portal curiously.

“That’s new,” he said, gesturing with his head.

Ember followed his gaze to the grey-stone arch that bordered the portal. She supposed it would be new, for Brent. For her it had been there for months. She’d discovered the portal almost as soon as he’d left and she’d starting digging into why. Her search had led her here, where she’d found a group of Wizards, a few of whom (like Acacia North) she’d recognised, building a huge stone arch over some horrifying rip just hanging in the air. She’d come down every day after that to see the progress, staking them out from the cover of a nearby oak. Every day since the arch was finished, there’d been a Wizard stationed outside it, guarding the portal – as Ember had later discerned it to be (and now confirmed it firsthand). Today, though, there was nobody to be seen, which may or may not have had something to do with a sleeping draught she’d slipped into the muffins she’d given Silas Hallowes, today’s wizard-on-duty. She breathed an inward sigh of relief to see that it had worked. That sleeping draught recipe was clearly coming along nicely, though, she noted with a small bubble of pride.

Anyway. She had a job to do. She dusted off her hands – why did they feel so…cobwebby? – and adjusted her cloak purposefully. A small, traitorous voice began to mutter in the back of her mind, but she ignored it. She was doing the right thing. The Council would be grateful. They’d see what a great service Ember had done them, exposing whatever plot Brent and this man had going on, and they’d thank her. She’d be recognised, thanked, admired. And more importantly, they could find someone else to fulfil Brent’s mission and save Feralthia. Brent wouldn’t be able to endanger it anymore. Maybe they’d even put her in charge of the mission, seeing as she’d done such a good job with this one without even needing help. At the very least, they’d probably give her some kind of thanks. And whoever Brent’s friend was, whatever lies he was telling, whatever he was trying to gain by hurting their world – that would all be figured out. They’d get to the truth about him, no matter how innocent and confused he seemed.

It would all be perfect. And It was all thanks to her plan.

She marched back to the front of the group, glancing at the two men as she went. “This way. And try to keep up.”

Ember walked through the forest, towards Hearth and the Council and recognition.

 

 

Chapter 4 – Here Be Dragons (Just an FYI)

Roger prided himself on keeping a collected, calm façade at all times – after all, it was the mask he’d hidden behind for as long as he could remember, the thing that kept him and his secrets safe. Right now, however, any hope of keeping that mask on had been sincerely lost. He’d been practically kidnapped from a tearoom by a small angry girl wearing a cloak. He was beginning to realise he didn’t actually know anything about his best friend. He was also beginning to wonder whether the girl and his friend were speaking a completely different language – they might has well have been, for all he could understand what on Earth they were talking about. And to top it all off, he’d just walked into some kind of gardening shed and found some kind of hideous…apparition, some sort of horrifying purple energy or lightning or something, just this ugly shape hanging and pulsing in the air. Had his mother seen it, the streets of Cambridge would certainly have been awash with screams of demons and devils. But Roger simply couldn’t make sense of it. He hadn’t even been able to look at it (what on earth was it made of?) – it had shifted in a most displeasing fashion, and seemed to crackle like it was about to explode, and –

And then the small girl had made them walk through it.

Roger couldn’t even remember what it had felt like, and that worried him most of all. Whenever he tried to wrap his mind around it, he couldn’t recall at all how he had got from home to here. The memory was tantalisingly out of reach, like a name he’d learned months ago but couldn’t immediately remember. The thought of losing a memory like that of somewhere that he’d been just a few moments ago was, well, unnerving. One minute he’d been in Cambridge, and then he’d simply arrived here.

Where was here, anyway?

The three of them were walking briskly – heavens, but that girl didn’t half walk fast for her small stature – through a forest, and had been for a while now. They were moving too quickly for Roger to take much detail in, but what he could see was beautiful: old, twisting oaks just beginning to lose their leaves, the ones that had already fallen carpeting the ground in shades like fire; wildflowers and mushrooms shyly poking through the earth, in all manner of colour and shape (were some of them even glowing?); and every so often, a quick flash of some sort of animal life. Birdsong was ever-present – and louder than Roger had ever heard it – but he could only catch fleeting glimpses of a wing here, an iridescent flash of feathers there. Insects flitted in and out of the trees in his peripheral vision, much too far away to make out. He thought that he might have seen a squirrel, or something, run up and down a tree once or twice, but they disappeared as soon as he spotted them. Most strangely of all, every so often a large, dark shape would pass overhead, casting them in shadow for a moment or two. Roger looked up whenever one passed, but neither Brent nor this girl – Ember – appeared fazed at all. He suspected that this place – whatever it was – must be where Brent, and by extension, Ember, was from. In an odd kind of way, it did make sense. After, all, Brent had always been less than forthcoming about his past, and he supposed that “I come from a purple crack in the air that steals your memory and leads to a forest!” was quite difficult to articulate in polite conversation, no matter how close the two of them had become.

Another brief shadow passed overhead, and Roger’s curiosity finally got the better of him. Presumably it was some kind of very large bird native to these parts. “I’m sorry, but what actually are those birds flying overhead? They’re awfully large.”

Brent, walking side by side with Roger, opened his mouth with the resigned and slightly guilty expression of someone not really sure how to break something to a person, but was interrupted by Ember before he could even get a word out. “Not birds. Dragons.”

Roger frowned, sure that he’d misheard. “Forgive me, but did you say- ”

“Yep,” said Ember, not looking back from her position as leader of the group and apparently determined to waste as little of her breath on talking as possible. “Very common in Feralthia, obviously.”

Ah yes, obviously, thought Roger. He assumed that Fe – Firelthia? Forralthaya? – whatever she’d said, he assumed that was the name of this wood, or this country or wherever they were. Either way, he really didn’t want to ask any more questions. He was slightly terrified of what Ember might do when her already clearly fraying patience wore out. And in any case, dragons? If it had been anyone else, he would have said they were pulling his leg, but Ember certainly didn’t seem like the type. No, he was sure she was deadly serious, and he really didn’t want to think about what that meant. How could they be dragons? Dragons weren’t real, they were just old folk tales borne out of stories of snakes, or huge birds of prey, surely. He’d read enough legends and classics to be familiar with at least 10 mythological examples of dragons, but those were just – those were just stories. Weren’t they?

And if they weren’t just stories here, then where on Earth was he?

A nudge in his side tugged his thoughts away from his spiral of worry and back to the present. He turned to see Brent, looking back at him and giving him an encouraging smile, but not one that could hide the worry in his eyes. It was an expression that said it’s going to be okay and also I’m scared and, perhaps, I’m sorry, and looking at it, at Brent, some of Roger’s anxiety quietened. Alright, he was still confused, and scared, and completely out of his depth, but he wasn’t alone, at least. He still had his best friend by his side – and he intended to keep it that way. Being this lost alone, without Brent, was simply unthinkable.

Roger smiled back, hoping Brent could see the thank you and it’s okay and don’t be sorry he wanted to say. He added the tiniest of shrugs, as if to say what can you do?

In this most unfamiliar of situations, Roger truly had no idea.

As they continued their ever-forward march along a path apparently only Ember could see, Roger noticed that the trees were slowly becoming smaller, and more light was shining through the canopy. Where before the sun had only cast dappled afternoon light on the ground, now it streamed through, uninhibited by the huge oaks and elms dominating the middle of the forest. And becoming increasingly clear was the faint sound of voices – laughter and shouts and chatter. Right now it was only a faint whisper on the breeze, but it was clear that they must be slowly approaching the edge of the forest.

Roger cast a glance at Brent, who was clenching and unclenching his fists, clearly anxious about something. “Brent,” he said, quietly, feeling rather stupidly like Ember would yell at him for talking too loud. “Are you all right?”

Brent looked up at Roger like he’d forgotten he was there. He opened his mouth and stopped, looking unsure of what to say.

Roger gave him another smile.

Brent sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. When he spoke, it was in a low, quiet voice directed at the forest floor. “Roger, I…I haven’t been honest with you.”

“About…your past?” Roger asked, glancing sideways at Brent as they walked. “About this place?”

“About everything,” Brent said. “Except about being your friend. I didn’t lie about that,” he added, quickly.

Roger attempted to ignore the way the myriad of worries piling up in his head seemed to quieten at that remark, as if his brain had just breathed a sigh of relief he barely knew he’d been holding in. “I’m glad,” he said, allowing himself the tiniest of smiles.

Brent’s face relaxed slightly, seemingly breathing an internal sigh of relief too. “I wanted to tell you the truth, it’s just- it, well, I guess-”

“Telling people that you arrived from a hole in the air in a shed is not exactly believable?”

Brent snorted. “Yeah, pretty much.” He was silent for a moment, his gaze wandering from a group of birds to the tall forest canopy, to beyond the trees, landing on something distant Roger couldn’t see. Roger watched him for a moment as he stared into nothing, for once unable to read his eyes. Was that relief in them? Fear? Regret, perhaps?

Eventually, whatever thoughts were going through his mind reached some sort of conclusion, and he turned his gaze back to Roger. “I guess you’re here now, though, so I may as well tell you the truth. Can’t really avoid the question anymore,” he said, smiling ruefully.

“What exactly is this place, then?” Roger asked, unable to suppress his curiosity any longer. He winced internally at how direct he sounded, but this particular question had been perplexing him for months, and now he was finally going to get some answers.

Brent took a deep breath. “This, is Istoria. That’s the name of this world, I guess you’d call it? Although specifically we’re in Feralthia – that’s the kingdom, I mean. My kingdom! And uh, specifically specifically we are going to Hearth. That’s the capital city. I mean it’s not really a city? It’s pretty small. Olthra has some way bigger, and I mean huge. I mean, not that you need to know that, actually. Sorry, did that make any sense at all?”

Roger blinked, feeling once again as if Brent was talking in a different language. He was very aware of Brent’s eyes on him, anxiously watching for a reaction. Before the other man could launch into another almost incomprehensible speech, Roger frowned, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. “So what you’re saying is – is that – this is an entirely new world of some sort, but what I don’t understand is – well, I don’t understand it at all.” He paused, trying to phrase his scattering thoughts coherently. “Is this a country? Across the ocean, or something, that we simply haven’t been to yet? Or is this another planet? Or, heavens, I don’t know, the future? And whichever one of those it is – how on Earth did we get here just by stepping through that gateway contraption?”

Brent shook his head apologetically. “I wish I knew how that thing worked. All I know is that it creates some kind of a portal that transports you between your world and mine, but I have absolutely no idea what your world is or how far away it is or – or how they’re related to each other, I guess. But um, to answer your first question, Feralthia is a kingdom – I think you guys call those countries? – and it’s part of the bigger world of Istoria. If that makes sense.”

Desperately trying to hold onto and make sense of this new information, Roger nodded. He wasn’t entirely sure it made sense, but at this point it seemed like the least of his worries. “So you’re as in the dark as I am about this…portal?”

“Yeah,” Brent sighed. “It, um, just showed up out of nowhere a couple of months ago, so I was sent to go and,” – he paused – “investigate. And then I met you.”

Roger remembered the first time he’d seen Brent as clearly as if it had been yesterday. Classes had finished for the day, but he hadn’t been able to focus on them. His father had been in one of his tempers when Roger, in the house to pick up a few of his books, had seen him that morning – he’d shouted himself hoarse yelling about Jocelyn’s boarding school report, roaring about the shame she was apparently bringing to the family, raging about how they’d never find a husband willing to “put up with her”. Roger, in his room, had clenched his fist so tight around his blazer lapel that he thought it might tear. He’d sat, pressed against the doorframe, as his father screamed a thousand awful things about his sister and his mother seemed stuck in a loop of “Such a waste of money,”; “I just don’t know what to do about her,” and simply “It’s vile.”

He felt utterly powerless.

Eventually, he had to get up and leave for class, desperately trying to leave making as little noise as possible. He did not want to have to agree with them. He did not want to stand there and act disgusted by his sister’s “unladylike” behaviour.

He did not want to be one of them.

But he also desperately, selfishly, did not want his father’s anger turned towards him. He was scared of what his father might do if he went against his word, if he turned around and admitted he’d been lying for twenty years. So he slipped down the stairs as silently as he could, praying to anything that could hear that his parents wouldn’t.

As he reached for the door, the sound of his name caused him to freeze.

“At least we have Roger, Albert,” his mother said, sounding tired. “At least we know he’s on the right path.”

Silence.

“Whatever…happened with that wretched girl, we know we at least raised Roger to be a good son, Albert. I – I know he’ll make us proud, marry the right woman – soon, I’m sure – and we can forget about this mess completely, I’m certain.”

More silence. Then Roger heard his father sigh, and say, sounding satisfied: “Yes, you’re right, of course. Thank goodness Roger turned out normal.”

Roger could hear his mother moving across the room, probably to place a placating hand on his father’s arm. “Roger will make the family proud, Albert.”

Roger replayed his parents’ words in his mind a thousand times that day, hearing nothing but thank goodness Roger turned out normal and Roger will make the family proud again and again until he felt sick. He’d put on an attentive face at his classes and made polite small talk with his classmates, all while his mind span in endless circles of panic. Of course none of this was new – of course he’d always known he’d have to put up this façade for the rest of his life, it wasn’t anything novel – but today it just seemed so real. Perhaps some part of him had still foreseen some escape, held out some hope.

That part of him had been well and truly squashed today. Suddenly, the weight of a future he did not want seemed more than he could ever carry.

It wasn’t fair.

Classes had finished, leaving Roger at a loose end. He desperately needed to be outside, reluctant to simply return to his dorm and spiral into panic. And so he set off, aimlessly wandering the city, staring into the river, taking every alleyway and path he could in a vain attempt to get himself lost. It didn’t work.

In a quiet area of the city, near where the beige bricks of old houses gave way to farmland and rivers, something odd caught Roger’s attention – a figure, dressed in the most bizarre combination of clothes Roger had ever set his eyes upon. They wore a tunic in a rather unusual mustard-yellow colour – surely that couldn’t be in fashion – along with what Roger would have certainly described as a cape, of all things. What’s more, they seemed distressed, sitting despondently on a riverside wall, left leg bouncing up and down, fists clenching and unclenching, one hand pressed worriedly against their mouth.

Roger frowned. Clearly he’d better make sure they were all right – he doubted this person was from around Cambridge, and perhaps he could send them to the right place.

With the slightest amount of trepidation, Roger approached the stranger on the wall, clearing his throat. “I’m sorry, but are you all right?”

The stranger looked up, evidently startled completely by Roger’s sudden appearance. He was a man who looked to be around Roger’s age, with wavy black hair down to his shoulders, a small, handsome beard and warm brown skin the colour of sepia. With his bizarre outfit, he could hardly have looked more out of place in Cambridge if he’d have tried.

The man stared at Roger with wide, rather scared-looking eyes, although there was something else there that Roger couldn’t read. He suddenly appeared to remember that Roger had asked him a question, hastily clearing his throat. “Hi! Um, hello! Wow, erm, yeah, I’m totally fine. Just, um, just hanging out on this wall.”

He flashed Roger a beaming smile and hurriedly ran his fingers through his long hair, sweeping it back from his face.

Roger was not convinced. “Are you sure you’re all right? If you don’t mind my saying so, you look a little lost.”

The man faltered for a second, then he seemed to give up the pretence, his face crumpling entirely. He sighed. “No, you’re right. I’m extremely lost. As in I don’t even know where I am, I have no idea where I’m even supposed to be going, and I barely even know how I got here. And I asked a bunch of people for directions, but everyone looked at me like I was crazy, or scary or something? And half of them wouldn’t even talk to me, and then the other half started shouting at me, and I just gave up asking people for directions, but now I don’t know what to do and all I have is a tent.”

Roger blinked, then frowned. He could certainly picture the less-than-warm welcome such an obvious outsider would have got from the uptight, wealthy Cambridge residents, and the thought made him angry and upset in equal measure. He had no idea what had happened to make this man so incredibly lost, but it was obvious that he needed someone to help him right now.

“I’m terribly sorry that everyone was so rude,” he started. “Perhaps I can help?”

The other man’s face melted into relief and surprise – Roger had never seen someone who wore their heart on their sleeve quite this much – as he gazed at Roger in disbelief. “Wow, really? That would be,” – he said, hoisting his unwieldy bag higher onto his shoulder – “that would be wonderful.”

A stroke of inspiration struck Roger as he remembered exactly where in the city he was. “My favourite café is just a short walk from here – maybe we could go and talk there instead? Then I can help you find where you’re looking for, perhaps.”

The look of delight on the man’s face was decidedly one of the most endearing expressions Roger had ever seen. “That would be amazing, thank you.”

“It’s really no problem,” Roger said, motioning for the man to follow him. “My name’s Roger, by the way.”

“Amazing to meet you!” the man said, the hop off the wall making him sound slightly breathless. “I’m Brent – Brent Ashlight.”

Roger frowned, wondering where such an unusual name might come from. Clearly the man wasn’t local – Roger would wager he wasn’t even from the country, given how utterly confused and lost he appeared. However, he couldn’t even attempt to place the man’s accent. It wasn’t strong, barely even noticeable, but it wasn’t one Roger recognised. “I say, that’s an interesting name. I take it you aren’t from round here, given your predicament?”

Brent blinked, hesitating for a brief second, before reinstating his beaming smile. “Nope! I’m just, uh, just travelling.”

“Whereabouts do you call home, then?” Roger asked, smiling politely to veil his curiosity.

Brent shifted his feet, then turned to Roger and flashed a quick, tight-lipped smile. “Oh, nowhere in particular.”

And now Roger finally had an answer to the question that had been piquing his curiosity for the last three months. He looked around, taking in the trees and flowers and blue sky of his surroundings, savouring at last being in nowhere in particular.

It had confused Roger, at times, knowing that someone he called a best friend was clearly hiding something. But being here now, he understood why. Would Roger have believed him, if Brent had told him the truth? He certainly would like to think so, but it was all very well saying that now, when he was surrounded by the irrefutable evidence of his own eyes. If Brent had told him, that day by the river, that he had walked through a fissure in the air from a strange forest in another world, would he have taken him at his word? Or would he have taken Brent for a fool, given him a few directions, sent him on his way, and hoped never to see him again?

Perhaps it was better that Brent had kept a few secrets, if it had meant keeping a friend. The moments in the café this afternoon, where Roger had thought he was going to lose Brent forever, were not thoughts he wanted to revisit. He could no longer imagine a life without his best friend, and to even consider what might have been if Brent had been honest from the start, made Roger feel rather anxious.

Ember’s voice from the front of the group made Roger start suddenly. “We’ve made it to Hearth.”

Roger suppressed a gasp of surprise. While he’d been lost in his own thoughts, they had reached the edge of the woods. Suddenly, they weren’t alone anymore. The sounds of laughter, chatter and conversation were clearer than ever now, and trees had given way to a mismatched, eclectic collection of thatched cottages and unwieldy-looking buildings that appeared to have been added to and repainted countless times over their histories. Ember kept walking purposefully ahead, as if she’d walked these streets a thousand times. Here in the open, Roger felt a stab of nervousness. He felt so much more exposed here, as if at any moment, someone would realise he didn’t belong here, and send him back to Cambridge, alone, like a naughty child caught up past his bedtime. He glanced warily around him, partly out of habit, partly out of sheer curiosity. The houses on either side of him were painted an array of cheerful colours, with handmade garlands hanging from the walls, flowerboxes adorning the windowsills, and beautiful gardens outside, some carefully tended, others left to grow wild and untamed. Here, the streets were quiet, but if anything the emptiness made Roger feel even more conspicuous.

As they walked further through the streets, it became clear that they were reaching the centre of the – Brent had called it a city, but Roger doubted it could be that big – it felt more like a village, a town at most. And suddenly, they turned a corner, and Roger blinked, feeling as if the town – Hearth – had just come alive before him.

This must be the high street, there was no doubt about that. The street was bursting with people, dressed in every colour of the rainbow and bustling about in every which direction. Chatter and laughter echoed across the cobbles, interspersed with the cries of merchants and vendors attempting to win over their customers. Signs, creaking in the breeze, hung from almost every building, displaying everything from freshly baked bread to inkpots and quills to the finest fabrics. Shouts of excitement from the sky caught Roger’s attention, and he looked up automatically, before gasping in utter shock.

Ember and Brent had been telling the truth. There were dragons here – real, reptilian dragons, with wings longer than Roger was tall, flying through the sky overhead as if it was the most normal thing in the world. But that wasn’t what had shocked Roger quite so much. Sitting on the back of the dragon flying over their heads, Roger could quite clearly see a pair of human figures – riding the dragon.

Roger’s mouth fell open.

He could barely make sense of what he was seeing. He supposed it made sense – in a world with dragons, of course people would integrate them into their infrastructure – but imagining it and seeing it were two very different things. Here he was, standing in a city that shouldn’t exist, that he’d got to through a rip in the very fabric of the air, where dragons existed and people rode on them.

What was he doing here?

Panic began to rise in him, the calm that he’d briefly obtained walking through the forest evaporated. He didn’t belong here. Any second now, they were going to find out and throw him back through the portal, alone, back to Cambridge. That would be if the dragon didn’t decide to make him its next meal – perhaps they could smell outsiders. His eyes were glued to the enormous beast in the sky as it beat its wings, flying towards them, dipping lower in the sky, gaining speed and losing altitude by the second – oh god he was right it was going to eat him –

“Move!” Ember yelled, shoving him and Brent to the side as the beast crashed onto the cobbled street mere metres ahead of them. It skidded for a few yards, then ground to a halt.

Roger stared at it, open-mouthed. His heart was pounding in his chest. He clenched his fist around the right lapel of his blazer, willing his breathing to steady and his heart to quieten.

Ember marched up to the dragon – Roger’s fist tightened around his lapel – and put her hands on her hips. “Are you kidding me, Wraith? You could have just caused a serious accident! You have got to control your dragon!”

Two heads popped up from behind the dragon’s – the two passengers, seemingly unharmed by the crash. They both looked a few years younger than Roger, perhaps Ember’s age. One was a girl, with long blonde hair, one side tied back in an elaborate plait. She appeared to be wearing – was that a suit of armour? – and most alarmingly, was wielding a large, deadly-looking weapon – a mace. The other passenger was smaller and rounder, and had short, bleached-white hair dyed an odd combination of blue and red at the tips, and wore bright red goggles, a fur-lined gilet, and a wicked grin.

The two of them exchanged a glance, then the small, goggle-wearing one spoke. “Oh, Ember, can’t you relax for a second? No-one was hurt, for gods’ sake.”

“Well, they could have been pretty easily,” Ember snapped. “No thanks to your terrible flying.”

The goggle-wearing dragon rider sighed. “Well, they weren’t. Look at them, they’re perfectly fin- ”

They trailed off, mid-sentence and mid-gesture, as they pointed at Roger and Brent, appearing to notice something shocking. Roger’s stomach dropped. It’s me, isn’t it? They know I don’t belong here. They’re pointing and staring at me just like everyone in Cambridge did to Brent.

But the goggle wearer’s gaze – and now the blonde girl’s too – were not focused on Roger. The two of them were staring beyond him – directly at Brent.

“Holy smokes,” the small one said. “Brent is back?”

 

Chapter 5 –

Brent blinked rather stupidly, still feeling like he was stuck in some kind of surreal nightmare. Lost in his thoughts, he barely registered the tiny dragonrider and blonde knight staring at him in undisguised shock, until the sound of his name snapped him unpleasantly back to reality. With a slight panic, he realised that he should probably say something – that would definitely seem a lot more normal than standing there looking blank and gormless. In the absence of any better idea, he simply did what he always did: flash a beaming smile, dial up the charm factor, and act like he knew what he was doing.

“You heard it here first, folks,” he said, running a hand through his hair and grinning sideways at the two newcomers. “The hero is back in Hearth. And you two,” – he gestured at the pair of them – “are officially the first to know. Congrats.”

In his peripheral vision, he was all too aware of Ember rolling her eyes.

The dragonrider – Wraith, had Ember called them? – and knight (the baker’s daughter, he was pretty sure her name was Heather) exchanged incredulous glances, Wraith then turning to fix theirs on Brent. “So? Where in Istoria have you been? Were you on a quest? Was it dark magic? Why did you leave?”

Brent hesitated for the tiniest second – oh gods it was all so complicated now – but quickly reinstated his grin. “Top secret Council business, I’m afraid. If I told you anything about where I’ve been, I’d have to have you thrown to the wild dragons.” This last part he embellished with a sing-song voice and a wink at the pair of them, who were listening enraptured to every word.

Wraith frowned. “Then…how come Ember gets to know?” they asked, gesturing at Ember, who stood to the side, a deepening frown on her face.

Ember folded her arms. “Because, Wraith, Brent isn’t being hones- ”

“Because Ember has vital information for my top secret mission!” Brent interrupted before Ember could steer the conversation in a direction he really didn’t want it to go in. Gods, he needed to get this whole mess cleared up before it got out of hand. He needed to make it to the Council chamber before Ember could tell the whole town that he was a failure.

He desperately needed his reputation as the Hero of Hearth to stay intact.

 He cleared his throat in a well-rehearsed, confident manner. “Well, on that note we are going to have to love you and leave you, guys. Always a pleasure to run into you two – or was it you that flew into us? Have a wonderful,” – he beamed – “rest of the day.”

Ember glared at him. He stared back imploringly, silently willing her to not make a fuss and simply carry on. Please, Ember. After what felt like an eternity, she gave another eyeroll and resumed her march towards the Council chamber.

Just as they were about to carry on, the blonde knight – Heather – caught Ember on the arm. “Hey, Ember. It’s been forever, am I right? I feel like we never see you anymore! You should come and hang out with us again sometime, we miss you!”

Ember visibly jumped. She frowned, shrinking away from Heather’s touch. “I…can’t. Sorry.”

She turned resolutely back in the direction of the Council chamber, and kept marching, leaving Heather looking crestfallen, with her fingers still outstretched towards where Ember had been.

Brent didn’t know what was going on there, and he wasn’t about to ask. Frankly, he had enough on his mind right now: his life felt like it might fall to pieces at any moment, he was being frogmarched to the High Council by an overzealous apprentice who had tracked him through the portal, he’d done absolutely nothing to help find Netherith, and he had to desperately try and stop the Council discovering the reason why.

The reason why was walking beside him, as he had been since they’d left the café, gazing in complete shock at his surroundings. Brent knew the exact feeling – after all, he’d literally been through it himself, when he arrived in Cambridge for the first time. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to see Hearth for the first time, though. The city was small, but it was probably… overwhelming, for someone who came from somewhere as grey and boring as the city Brent had spent the past three months in. They didn’t even have dragons, or knights, or even anything colourful, for gods’ sakes. And they definitely didn’t have –

With a stab of panic, Brent realised that he was going to have to explain magic to Roger at some point. Just another thing you lied to him about.

He gulped. Later. He’d do it later. The poor guy had already had enough new information, right? And a dragon had just crashed in front of him, so now was probably not a good time. Yeah, he’d wait for the right moment first. Which was definitely not now.

He glanced at Roger now, who was walking on his right, staring wide-eyed in every direction. Brent smiled. Fine, he knew from experience how confused and scared Roger probably was right now, but there was something so cute about how he was glancing around trying to take everything in, with those indisputably gorgeous grey eyes and little crease between his eyebrows – a very endearing crease, Brent had to admit. Completely objectively, of course. 

Roger turned to face him, and Brent hastily arranged his face into a more normal expression. No, I wasn’t gazing adoringly at you! Why would you think that….?

“Sorry,” Roger said. “It’s…. rather a lot to take in. I don’t really know what to say.”

Brent frowned. “Don’t apologise! It’s crazy; I can’t even imagine.”

Roger smiled, his eyes on the cobbled street. “I suppose this is how you felt arriving in Cambridge, probably.”

Brent’s insides warmed at the fact that they’d had the exact same thought – we’re so in sync! He pulled a face. “Yeah, pretty much. Although at least in Cambridge no-one crashed a completely new creature in front of me the second I arrived.”

“Still, you were on your own,” Roger said. “I don’t know how you were brave enough to do that.” He turned to face Brent, giving him a smile that could’ve warmed the darkest snow-season day, that made Brent’s heart melt in his chest. “I’m lucky. I have you.”

Brent didn’t know what to say to that. What could he possibly say, to this man who meant everything to him, who he owed so much to, who he’d lied to every day for the past three months? He absolutely did not deserve Roger. Roger had helped him when no-one else would, listened to him, been the first real friend Brent had had in years (and the best-looking one…not that Brent was really paying attention, of course) – and Brent had repaid him in secrets and lies. He never should have found out about Hearth this way – Brent should have done the right thing and just told him, for gods’ sakes – and he wouldn’t even be here if Brent hadn’t screwed up his mission. How could he deserve Roger’s thanks, when it was entirely Brent’s fault that Roger was in this mess?

Brent had absolutely no idea how to put any of that into words, so he just smiled back, a thousand burning apologies in the air between them.

“If you two have quite finished,” Ember snapped, “We’re here.”

Brent’s stomach flipped over. They had reached the Council chamber. The building was unmistakable, its huge dome visible all over Hearth, even beside the tall towers of the Hearth Halls of Wizardry. Today, the dome was a stormy grey, flashing with the occasional golden light or dark inky bloom. He didn’t pretend to know what that meant. The dome was forever changing colour, and it had been since it was built –before even the gods were born. As far as he understood it, it was some kind of remnant of ancient magic from before the days of even the deities, from when all the magic was contained in the fabric of Istoria. Sometimes it would spend weeks as one colour, other times it would go through seven colour changes in a single hour. He’d heard old superstitions about how the colour of the dome apparently meant something, that it could even warn residents of Hearth about danger – over the years, a bunch of scholars had gone mad trying to decipher what all the different colours meant. Brent wasn’t sure whether he believed in the meanings or not, but it definitely felt like the dome had its own kind of personality. Maybe that was weird. Whether or not the colours actually meant, or prophesised, something, there was something about today’s colours that made Brent uneasy. Perhaps it was the way the dark greys shifted and swirled like a hurricane, one that he was trapped in the eye of.

It felt like a storm was coming.

Brent glanced at Roger, who was staring wide-eyed at the shifting colours. Ember, on the other hand, didn’t give the dome so much as a second glance. She strode up to the large oak doors, set in front of them in the tall stone building, before turning around, seemingly realising her two companions were still staring upwards. “Will you please hurry up?”

Brent shook himself out of his spiralling thoughts for what seemed like the millionth time that day. He was just about to open his mouth to say something when murmurs and excited whispers from across the square caught his attention.

He risked a glance behind him. Suddenly, it seemed that the crowds had caught on to who had returned to Hearth. People at the edges of the square were gathering, undeniably staring at where he stood, gasping and whispering in shock and excitement. As he watched, more people joined the throng, pointing him out to their friends, no doubt exchanging their theories as to where he’d been for the last three months. For what could be so important that the Hero of Hearth had abandoned them?

His heart was beating so loudly that he was surprised Roger couldn’t hear it. He was reminded all too vividly of why he’d stayed in Cambridge for so long, and for a moment all he wanted to do was be back there, sitting with Roger at their usual table, eating cream buns and not having a single emergency to fix.

Well, except for the one that he’d neglected all that time.

His breath caught in his throat. A few members of the crowd started to tiptoe forward, getting bolder.

“Let’s go inside,” he said, hurriedly stepping after Ember and gesturing for her to open the door, Roger stepping in behind him.

The door swung shut behind them – the voices of the crowd silenced – and they found themselves in a grand entrance hall. The ceiling towered over them, grand pillars bearing its weight. In the light, the pillars shimmered with the remnants of a decades-old coat of gold paint, only a warm, sparkling tinge remaining now. The floor was panelled in warm oak wood, and their footsteps rang out and echoed in the cavernous room. Brent felt miniscule in comparison to its grandeur, an insignificant and unwelcome nobody.

Perhaps he deserved to, he thought.

He wasn’t entirely sure what was going to happen now that they’d actually arrived (he probably should have been thinking about that), and he was pretty sure Ember wasn’t either – he could see her hesitating out of the corner of his eye. As he turned to make eye contact with her, though, her tenaciousness seemed to renew and she marched up to a desk Brent hadn’t even noticed, with a young and nervous-looking employee sitting behind it, her footsteps ringing out across the chamber.

“I demand an audience with the Council,” Ember snapped, once again slamming her hands onto the table and making the employee almost jump out of his skin. Brent sympathised with him. He knew exactly how that felt. “I have information for them that they need to hear. The entire future of Feralthia is in jeopardy, thanks to the stupid plots of small-minded and senseless criminals.”

Brent glared at her. Sure, he was probably small-minded and senseless, but he wasn’t a criminal. At least not mostly.

The Council employee, looking understandably rattled, swallowed visibly and opened his mouth to speak. “I’m sorry, do – do you have an appointment?”

Ember frowned. “No. So kindly give me one and we can all get on with our days.”

The poor soul behind the desk had began to visibly sweat, tucking a strand of bright orange hair behind his ear. “Please, I – I can’t let you in without an –”

“Are the Council in a meeting right now this second?” Ember interrupted, her voice losing any trace of patience (…not that it had been particularly overflowing with it to begin with).

“No, but –”

“Wonderful!” Ember said, folding her arms. “Therefore you have no reason not to let us in. Care to direct us to the Council Chamber?”

The orange-haired secretary made a last, vain attempt to dissuade Ember. “Please, it’s a serious offence to –”

“Look, I have Brent Ashlight with me,” Ember snapped. “Brent Ashlight, the oh-so-wonderful hero,” – here her voice was practically dripping with sarcasm – “back from his top-secret, Council-sanctioned, super important mission. And we have urgent and secret business the Council needs to hear immediately, all right? Or are you going to say no to the Hero of Hearth?”

The young man looked away from Ember, noticing Brent for the first time. His face fell into an expression of complete disbelief, eyes widening and mouth falling open in shock. “I- of course. Let me gather the Council immediately.”

Ember scowled. “I thought so.”

The unfortunate secretary practically fell out of his chair, hurriedly adjusting his robes, and scurried at lightning pace across the room, motioning for the three of them to follow them after a brief second’s thought. Brent’s stomach twisted unpleasantly, probably at the ever-increasing proximity of the consequences of his actions – his incredibly stupid, selfish, naïve actions that might have actually doomed the whole of Istoria. The secretary led them down a maze of twisting corridors and backrooms, Brent feeling more and more lost at every turn. Finally, they pushed open a set of double doors, and the four of them stood in the grand central hall of the Council Chamber – directly inside the storm-grey dome.

If Brent had thought the entrance hall was grand, it was nothing compared to this. The lamps weren’t lit, and so the only light shone through the flickering, pulsing dome from outside, creating a strange effect like standing underwater or inside a hurricane. The dome towered above them as they stood in the centre of the stone floor, rows of dark wooden seats set high above them. Brent couldn’t help feeling like a spectacle, a curiosity watched from all sides, despite the clear emptiness of the room beside him and his companions. The feeling of being watched wasn’t exactly helped by the glass statues encircling the room, each housed in its own alcove and staring at him from all sides. Each one depicted one of the eight Istorian deities: Thalea, Moraethen, Aeverys, Adeltha, Annerith, Netherith, Ethla and Enorwen. Annerith – his patron deity – was gazing out from the wall directly in front of him, like she knew what he had done. Like she was waiting to enact her judgement.

He looked away.

Looking upwards, in the midst of the rows of wooden benches, he could see four balconies which stood out from the ordinary seating. These were grander, painted with gold and blue, and jutted out further from the circular walls: the seats of the four members of the High Council.

“I’ll just – I’ll just go and fetch everybody,” squeaked the secretary, dashing out of the room as if it had caught fire. Brent barely caught the words, his own thoughts almost drowning them. He was going to have to look the Council – look Bryn – in the eyes, and tell them – what? He failed? The great hero, who was supposed to fix everything and save their kingdom, failed them all? Feralthia was going to burn, and it was all because of him. He couldn’t do the one important thing, couldn’t prove his worth, couldn’t save his home and his family and everyone he loved. And maybe it would all have been okay, maybe he could have failed and came back and got help and tried again. But that was the whole point. He hadn’t just failed.

He hadn’t even tried.

How could he possible explain that to the Council? Could he stand there and tell Bryn that he’d arrived in Cambridge and simply – given up? Could he stand to see the disappointment on their face? The anger on Ronin’s? The disbelief on Aster’s? There was no excuse for what he had done, no way to say, sorry, I arrived in a city where nobody knew who I was, no-one expected me to save the day and be the hero and be amazing all the time, and I suddenly realised how tired I was of fixing everything, and I haven’t stopped in seven years, and the second someone seemed to like the real Brent, the one who isn’t a hero, I never wanted to go back and. I just. Gave up.

But that would never be a good enough excuse for what he’d done. He’d abandoned Feralthia when they needed him most, and now he had to face the consequences.

Ember spun around to face him and Roger, a scowl across her features as seemed the norm with her. “You’d better tell them the truth, Brent,” she hissed, pointing an angry finger at his chest. “I know you’re hiding stuff, and you will not get away with – with putting Feralthia in danger over it, alright?”

Brent swallowed. It was hard to argue with Ember, mainly because she was very scary and also very correct. “Ember, listen–”

“No, you listen,” she snapped. “The whole of Hearth might think you’re an oh-so-wonderful, dashing, incredible hero, but I know exactly what you are, Brent Ashlight, and that’s–”

But Brent never found out exactly what he was, because at that instant every torch on the walls lit up at once, illuminating the room in flame. The chamber was bathed in a golden glow, the flickering shadows only making the sheer size and grandeur of the chamber seem greater. The suddenness of the movement made both him and Ember jump, though as far as he could tell, Roger hadn’t even so much as blinked – Brent didn’t even know how that was possible. As if that wasn’t enough surprises for five minutes, in an instant four very familiar-looking figures had appeared on the grand-looking balconies overlooking the floor where Brent, Roger and Ember stood, seemingly materialising out of thin air. (Although they had probably just come through a door, Brent admitted. He had been kind of distracted by the fire.)

On the balcony to his left stood a slight figure, with long and loose ginger hair: Aster Fieldfare, the representative of Feralthia’s craftspeople and civilians. Brent knew she’d learned countless skills, and was a master at blacksmithing who charmed everyone she met – while being barely his own age. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel a little inadequate every time he saw her. Today, she wore an expression Brent had never seen on her face – her usual beaming smile had been replaced with a nervous frown. The thought of having to break the news of his failure to him, of not being able to bring back her permanent smile, stuck in his throat rather uncomfortably.

To his far right was Garnet Morningstar, the Legion Commander of the Knights of Feralthia. Her muscular figure was no less imposing for her short stature, and the sharpness of her black bob and fringe could have caused an injury – not that she needed any extra weapons. Brent had heard she had mastered every one the Knights’ armoury possessed, which could have just been a story to scare new recruits, but he figured it was best not to find out.

On the next balcony along from Garnet stood the tall frame of Ronin Gorse. The Dragonrider Chief wore a deep frown, staring at the three figures beneath him like they were a particularly worrying insect. Brent could barely find it in him to look Ronin in the eye. The two of them had been friends back in common school and the early days of Brent’s wizard training, and while they’d steadily drifted apart since then (both of them preoccupied with the demands of their respective career paths), Brent had maintained a lot of respect for Ronin and what he’d achieved, and he’d hoped Ronin had done the same for him. Today, that respect was about to disappear, Brent was sure.

Finally, directly in front of Brent stood the person he really did not want to face. Bryn Serpentine, leader of all Wizards in Feralthia, wise and brave hero of the people, and the most powerful vessel of Moraethen in generations. They had led Feralthia out of danger since before Brent was born, serving as a Wizard for forty years and leading the Council ever since. Brent knew that once, Bryn had been what he was today – Feralthia’s dashing Wizard figurehead, a symbol of bravery and magic and heroics. He was sure they had never screwed up quite this badly. And this symbol of power and justice, this Wizard who had walked the same path as him, had entrusted this mission to Brent personally, had chosen him as the best person to save their kingdom. And what had he done except prove he should never be trusted again?

He looked up, at last, to see Bryn’s face staring directly back at him, lined in worry, knowing he had nothing to say that could possibly dispel that worry.

Bryn cleared their throat and spoke. “Brent, it’s good to see your face. Please, tell us you have good news.”

Brent’s heart began to sink, as if it were a wrecked ship inside his chest. There really was no way out of this one.

“I–” he started. “I – no. I don’t. I’m sorry.”

Brent could see the mood in the room go from bad to worse, the tension thickening. Aster pressed her fist into her mouth, and Garnet and Ronin’s frowns deepened with apprehension.

“What was beyond the portal?” Bryn pressed. “Did you find any clue to where Netherith might have gone? Anything at all that could help us?”

The first question at least he could answer. “Beyond the portal there’s…another world, I think. Something beyond Istoria. There are towns there, and people – who are very different to us, by the way,” – he added, trying not to look at Roger when he said that – “And everything is wrong there. They have all these strange rules, and everything’s missing. They don’t have dragons, they don’t have knights, and they definitely don’t have, uh. Magic.”

At this last word, despite his best efforts not to look at him, Brent saw Roger’s face furrow in sudden confusion and alarm, for the briefest of seconds. Brent winced internally. He would really have rather Roger hadn’t found out quite so suddenly, but then that was his own stupid fault for not telling him earlier. His guilty conscience was suddenly turned to alarm, however, when a fire-lit torch near him suddenly tripled in intensity, a column of flame erupting in an instantaneous burst. A second longer, and it was over, however, simply a particularly voracious bit of fuel. It was probably a good distraction from his thoughts.

Bryn leaned over their balcony to stare at Brent in astonishment. “People…without magic?”

Brent nodded quickly. “No magic, no gods, nothing.”

Aster and Ronin exchanged incredulous glances, while Bryn seemed to stare into empty air for a second, coming to terms with the idea of a reality with no magic. Furrowing their brow, they forced their gaze back to Brent. “So did you find out anything about Netherith’s disappearance? Where she might have gone? What have you discovered there?”

Brent took a deep breath, opening his mouth to finally tell them the truth, finally get it over with –

“He hasn’t discovered anything,” Ember said. “He’s failed to find Netherith, he’s failed this council, and he’s failed the kingdom.”

 

Chapter 6 – Glass Dreams

The silence in the Council Chamber was deafening. Ember was pretty sure that if a spider was to walk across the floor at that moment, she’d be able to hear all of its individual footsteps.

The Council members were staring at her with an interesting variety of expressions on their faces. Aster Fieldfare looked horrified, Ronin Gorse seemed taken aback, apparently only just realising she was there, Garnet Morningstar wore a look of outrage – whether that was because she thought Ember was telling the truth or lying, she wasn’t sure – and Bryn simply stared at her, an unreadable expression behind their eyes.

They were the first to recover, stepping forward to grip the railing of their balcony and get a closer look at Ember. “It’s Crow, isn’t it? Ember Crow?”

Ember nodded.

“What possible reason do you have to accuse Brent Ashlight of failing his mission – a mission, I should add, that neither you nor any other citizen is supposed to know about?”

“Because it’s true,” Ember said. “I discovered it.”

“Discovered what, exactly?” Garnet asked. She sounded as harsh as ever. Ember didn’t think she’d ever heard her sound pleased.

Ember cleared her throat. This was all going perfectly. She had her audience with the Council and Brent wasn’t even attempting to interrupt. In fact, he was just watching her, apparently waiting to see what she would say. Maybe he’d given up trying to argue.

“I discovered,” she started, pausing for dramatic effect, “that Brent Ashlight has made absolutely no progress in his search for Netherith. But not only that,” she added, with another pause (this was starting to get enjoyable), “he hasn’t even tried. Your beloved hero of Hearth didn’t even bother to try and save it.”

If the silence had been deafening earlier, now it was even more so. It was a stampede of boulderwing dragons in migration season and the roar of the Feralthian ocean rolled into one all-consuming noise.

“Brent,” Bryn’s grip on the balcony tightened, their knuckles turning white. “Who is this? She’s lying, isn’t she?”

Ember felt the gazes of every member of the room turn to Brent. The four council members, with furrowed brows and concern written across their features; the brown-haired man, standing beside Brent as he always did, and herself, a stony glare on her face that said if you lie, I will end you.

Brent looked at the floor, bit his lip, and shook his head, almost imperceptibly.

“No,” he said. “She’s telling the truth.”

Multiple Council members gasped. Aster clapped her hands to her mouth and turning to her fellow Councillors in alarm, Garnet stared at Brent in open anger, Ronin let out an involuntary “what?” and Bryn was clasping their balcony tighter than ever.

“Brent-” Bryn started, but Brent got there first.

“I stepped through the portal three months ago,” he said. “ I found this other world there, this completely alien place without magic, without the gods, without dragonriders or knights or crafters or anything that I even really recognised. Nobody even looked like me. Even within minutes of arriving there I was getting stared at for my Wizard uniform, for my long hair, for my brown skin – only I didn’t realise that that was why until later on. I tried to talk to so many people, ask for directions or a place to stay or information about where I was, but nobody would talk to me – people would barely even look at me unless they were staring in disgust.”

That’s what happened to me, too, Ember realised with a start. Of course. She’d thought people were staring because they were rude. Or because she was marching so quickly through the streets. But thinking back to her brief trip through the portal, she suddenly remembered how utterly grey and uniform and alien the townspeople’s clothes had been compared to her own. How they all had the same pale skin, quite unlike her own brown complexion. How their hair was cut short or worn in elaborate styles that made her frizzy, coiled cloud of loose hair look out of control. How could she have missed that everyone looked the same?

Ember felt the smallest ounce of sympathy for Brent twist in her stomach and immediately squashed it like a particularly unpleasant bug.

Brent carried on. “I felt so utterly defeated. I tried to think, to come up with a plan, but it was like panic just took over me. I couldn’t think, couldn’t decide what to do, could barely even breathe. And suddenly I was by this river place, and I. I found Roger.”

The brown-haired man looked up at Brent. Oh, so that was his name. (What sort of a name was that, anyway?) He looked surprised, like he hadn’t expected to be in this story. Surely that was an act. This was probably the part where his nefarious deeds were revealed – how he’d found Brent at his lowest point and maybe hypnotised him, or convinced him to forget about his mission, or something. Yes. Absolutely.

Brent swallowed. “Um. This is Roger,” he said, gripping his friend’s arm with both hands. “He was the only person in the whole city who helped me. He took me to this bakery place, and he offered to help me find where I was going, and he was the only person I ever met there who didn’t look at me strangely.” He paused. “The one person who was kind to me.”

He was taking advantage of you, thought Ember, but something felt suddenly hollow about that thought.

“But I suddenly felt like everything was crashing down around me,” Brent continued, staring impassively at the floor. “I realised I was exhausted, I was lost and I was overwhelmed. And not just from being in another world. From being everyone’s first thought when they need anything fixing or finding or saving. From never being able to go outside without someone I don’t know wanting a conversation or a job doing or, gods, a lock of my hair or something. From never sleeping because I have a list longer than I can count of things I need to get done the next day. Nobody knows who I am, really, because everyone just knows me as this wonderful charming heroic Wizard! Everyone expects a million things from me because I’m Brent Ashlight, I’m the Hero of Hearth, I’m the vessel of Annerith, but the truth is,” – his voice was rising now, a note of panic reflected in his wild eyes – “I don’t know what I’m doing, and suddenly it was too much!”

He stopped, his breath snagging in his throat. Ember realised her mouth was open and closed it.

When he spoke, it was quieter again. “And so I just – couldn’t carry on. For the first time in my life, nobody knew who I was or mobbed me in the street or expected me to fix something. And for the first time I found someone who seemed to like the actual me, the person I am when I’m not the Hero of Hearth.” He stopped, rubbing a hand across his forehead. “And I liked that feeling, so I just…stayed.”

Brent took a deep breath. “I failed – actually, worse – I gave up before I even tried.”

He looked up from the floor and met Ember’s gaze. “I admit it. Happy now?”

Ember had a sinking feeling in her stomach: the terrible sense that she’d got something very, very wrong.

I did this.

The silence was broken by Garnet, who looked furiously around at her fellow councillors, and seemed to realise the other three were still speechless. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” she spat, pointing a wild finger at Brent. “This mission was vital to keep Feralthia – Istoria – all of us – safe, and you threw that away for what? A holiday? Some time off?”

Brent took a step backwards. “No, I – ”

“A goddess is missing. Our magic is broken. A door to another world has opened, and you don’t even seem to care. Your selfishness could have doomed Feralthia, Brent!” Garnet snapped, red spots appearing high on her brown cheeks.

“I’m sorry!” Brent said, looking desperately around the Council chamber. “I didn’t plan on staying, it just – it just happened. Gods, I didn’t think.”

“That is abundantly clear!” Garnet’s eyes narrowed. “Because I refuse to believe one of our heroes – former hero, that is – would consciously put us all in this much danger!”

Brent’s eyes widened, but before he could reply, an almighty crash and the shattering of what sounded like an entire glass window caused the entire round to visibly jump, Aster letting out a squeal and Garnet loudly exclaiming “For gods’ sakes!”. For her part, Ember’s heart felt like it skipped several beats, and she whipped around to locate the source of the noise.

A vast mound of glass was scattered on the floor just feet from Ember, on the other side of Brent and Roger. Ember wrinkled her nose – where had it come from? – until she looked up and realised what was missing.

One of the glass idols had fallen from its pedestal, seemingly unprompted, and smashed on the hard stone floor, the pieces radiating in every direction. Ember put a hand to her mouth. Hadn’t the statues stood in the chamber since it was built? That statue had watched over this room for hundreds of years, probably, and in a blink of an eye it had fallen, completely without warning. A small part of her suddenly wondered who had made the statues – a long-ago glassblower perhaps, unaware that their work would stand complete until this very moment.

She narrowed her eyes, wondering which statue it had been. Suddenly, her gaze fell upon a fragment of glass in the unmistakable shape of a tulip – Enorwen’s symbol. The goddess of balance, keeper of all magic.

If that isn’t a sign, she thought darkly, nothing is.

“This day,” snapped Garnet, “just gets better and better!”

“I’m sure we can get a new one,” Aster said, speaking in a very small voice.

“A new one?” Garnet asked, incredulity written across her face. “That statue has stood here for centuries! It’s part of history! And you want to just pop to the market and pick up a new one?”

Now it was Aster’s turn to be speechless. “I just – ”

“We’ll talk about this later,” Ronin snapped, glaring at both Garnet and Aster. “It’s unfortunate, yes, but a badly timed accident we can fix another day. For now, we have more pressing matters to deal with.” At this last part, he turned his glare at Brent, who was looking more crushed with every addition to the conversation.

“Garnet is right. Brent Ashlight, you have ignored council orders, wasted our time, acted completely selfishly and jeopardised the very future of our kingdom. We trusted you with this mission, and you threw it away for your own gain. Whatever the reasons for your actions, the outcome remains the same. We are no closer to solving the mystery of Netherith’s disappearance, and likely have simply wasted time when we could have been focusing our efforts elsewhere.”

This wasn’t right.

Ember had been sure that bringing Brent to the Council would fix everything. She had been sure that watching him face justice would feel right, would be satisfying.

But she didn’t feel satisfied at all. She just felt empty.

I did this.

“Enough.”

Ember lifted her gaze from the grey stone floor. Bryn had spoken for the first time since Brent’s confession, staring impassively at the three of them.

“Brent’s actions may have put the kingdom in danger, it’s true. But this blaming gets us nowhere. We need to stop wasting time and start the search again.”

“I can try again,” Brent blurted out. “I promise. I will not fail you this time, I swear.”

“No,” Bryn said quickly, voice echoing around the chamber, eyes the colour of steel. “While I don’t wish to dwell on the blame any longer than we must, it’s true that you have broken our trust and clear from your words that you need rest. We will find another Wizard to go.”

In the midst of her increasing guilt, Ember felt a sudden spark of excitement. Surely she could go. She’d already been through the portal, she knew what to expect! Hadn’t she proved her loyalty, her usefulness, her dedication? Couldn’t she be the one to bring Netherith home and save the kingdom?

Ember took a deep breath in. “Council, if I may. I would like to be considered for the mission.”

Her words hung in the air.

She watched Bryn’s face, waiting for a sign that they were hearing, understanding, considering those words – but instead of the smile and nod of assent she was waiting for, Bryn just frowned and simply said-

“No.”

Ember suddenly understood how the statue was feeling.

“What?” she said, speaking more quietly than perhaps she had ever done before.

“Ember, Brent is not the only one who needs to face consequences here. You have consciously disobeyed our laws, trespassed, acted of your own dangerous impulses and broken our trust just as much as Brent. I assume you have done something to put the day’s portal keeper out of commission as well.”

“Nothing bad!” Ember said hurriedly. “Only a sleeping draught!”

“Really, Ember? Administering potions without consent? I hardly think that’s something to take lightly,” Bryn said, eyes hardening.

Ember’s heart was hammering. Everything was going so wrong! It wasn’t supposed to be like this!

I was really proud of that sleeping draught, she thought.

“All three of you,” Bryn said, gazing at them unfeelingly, “are not leaving Hearth until further notice.”

“What?” Ember said. She was aware of Brent and Roger also replying in shock – a “But-” from Brent and a “Me?” from his friend.

“You,” Bryn said, pointing at Ember and cutting all three of them off, “have gone behind the Council’s back and acted recklessly. You,” they turned to Brent, “have broken our trust and are clearly not fit for work, and you,” they finished, looking at Roger, “either have some part in this, or could be useful to understanding the portal. So yes. You are not to leave Hearth. You are also not to tell anyone about where you have been, why you were gone, anything about the mission. As far as you are concerned, there was no mission.”

Ronin frowned. “The people will ask where Brent has been.”

“If the people find out their hero failed a task of this importance,” Bryn said, “there will be mass panic. Not a detail of these events leaves this room, do you all understand?”

The three of them nodded their assent, Ember stiffly, Brent nervously, and Roger silently.

Bryn exhaled. “Good. You may go.”

Ember clenched her fists, took a deep breath, glared at nothing in particular, and walked out of the Council chamber as fast as she could. Brent looked like he wanted to say something, but gave up and followed her out of the door, holding it open for Roger behind him.

The door swung shut, leaving them alone in a cold stone corridor.

The three of them stood there, silently, all seemingly unsure of what to do or say. Unable to bear the silence any longer, Ember broke it. “We should probably get going.”

Brent nodded, looking despondently at the floor. I did this.

He didn’t move. Ember looked imploringly at Roger, sending him a silent request to do something, please?

She’d never really looked at him properly before. He didn’t look evil, or cunning, or angry. He looked like how she felt.

Roger hesitated, then put a hand on Brent’s arm. “I say, Brent. Let’s go and sit down, all right? We can get tea, and something to eat.”

Roger’s words seemed to pull Brent out of whatever thoughts he was spiralling into. He looked at Roger and Ember, and nodded. “Alright,” he said, hoarsely.

Ember felt sick. I did this. She had dragged Brent back to Hearth and humiliated him in front of the Council. She had been grounded in the city for the foreseeable future and probably ruined her reputation forever. She had taken the kingdom’s kind, cheerful, brave hero and broken his spirit completely. Maybe it was for the good of the kingdom, but listening to what the Council had said in there – they were in more trouble than Ember had ever imagined. They said Netherith was missing, that that place was another world, that something was wrong with the magic. This was real life, not a fairy tale – how could their magic be broken?

And if the problem was this big, could any of the other Wizards even hope to solve it on their own?

Ember frowned. She had messed up: ruined her chance of a prestigious future, hurt Brent beyond recognition and meddled in Council business.

But maybe there was a way to fix it.