Wyvern Tails and Phoenix Feathers

The House of Broken Chains, Chapter 1 - Horus

Horus Morningshire was still a child when the Archmage brought him to the village of Highwater. They rode in a beautiful black carriage through the countryside, drawn by horses that were not ordinary horses, but translucent spectres. Their hooves met the ground in silence and their whinnies sounded like wind whistling through trees. At the time, it was more magic than Horus had ever hoped he would witness.

The Archmage sat across from him during the journey. He mostly spent the time writing in a journal with a raven quill. His silver rings would clink against each other on his elegant fingers. His eyes would only glance up to meet Horus's sporadically. Horus, conversely, stared at his handsome savior often.

In time, Horus noticed the stench of the Morningshire fish markets had dissipated. The air outside of Highwater smelled crisp and clean. Even as they drew closer to town, the scent of pine masked the odor of livestock.

"We're not much further now," the Archmage informed him.

Horus stuck his face out the window. There were other travelers on the road, merchants and farmers. The tall stone buildings in the distance were getting larger.

"And I'll have my own room?" he asked.

Horus was so used to living in a crowded home, that even when the Archmage told him he would have personal quarters, he had trouble believing it. In Morningshire, he had to share a bed with a younger brother who had difficulty controlling his bladder.

"You'll have your own tower," said the Archmage.

Horus gasped. The Archmage, meanwhile, exhibited such nonchalance, that he hadn't looked up from his writing.

"Why?" Horus found himself asking.

The Archmage licked a finger and turned a page. "Because I have no other apprentices. Poor Amos Charn turned himself to ice and shattered."

Horus couldn't begin to understand what that meant. The Archmage smirked and closed his book. He pointed out the window at a set of dark towers rising over blossoming plum trees.

"See that?" he said. "That's your new home."

Horus felt a tide of excitement crash against his heart. Just as quickly, the emotion subsided and was replaced with grief.

"I- I can't live there," he muttered.

"Why not?" asked the Archmage.

Horus slumped into his seat and looked at his dirty toes in broken rope sandals.

"It's too beautiful," he said. "Homes like that are for nobles. I'm not special. I'm nothing."

The Archmage held out his palm and waited for Horus to take his hand. It was warm and smooth, devoid of callouses from physical labor. His fingernails were immaculate. Horus's were chewed upon and carrying filth. The Archmage smiled at him.

"It doesn't matter where you come from, only who you become."

It was the first time anyone had said something like that to him. Most citizens of Morningshire echoed sentiments along the lines of "be happy with what you've got," and "know your place." No one ever touted the virtue of aspiration. From that day, Horus vowed to become a superior version of himself and to leave his unremarkable past behind him.

He only questioned whether he stayed true to his vow twice. The first was when he lost his duel with Oran Highwater to determine who would become the replacement Archmage. Oran's power was overwhelming. To be humbled by a younger apprentice was embarrassing. The second was shortly after Renard resurrected him from ashes. He preferred to feel in control of his fate, rather than a peon to men destined for greater acclaim. Yet in young Renard, he had found another golden boy of higher importance.