In the realm of Palasia, where the Silver Church's iron grip extends across the continent, the conquered Illuri people still cling to the old ways, praying to spirits that have grown quiet. At the heart of this struggle are four souls bound by fate:...
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Baron Shield was relentless this time. His sword, although made blunt for training, bit harshly against Clay. It took every drop of concentration he could muster to keep up with the older boy's quick feet and nimble limbs.
Fighting seemed so easy for Baron tonight, while Clay struggled to hold the hilt in his sweaty grip. The cold wind against his damp forehead felt like ice, and yet his muscles strained in the heat beneath his heavy armour. He wanted to stop. Any longer and he knew he would falter, and it would be more painful and embarrassing for him.
Perhaps I shall let him win, Clay thought. Perhaps I shall yield before he returns.
"You're not yourself today!" Baron grunted. "For three days you've outdone me with little effort and now your sword is yet to meet my breastplate."
Narrowly dodging Baron's attack, the younger swordsman took a huge gulp of air. When he talked, his voice quivered in exhaustion. "I told you... the- the church plans to retake Alchaer from the heretic king. That means- that means war, Baron!"
"Yes, you told me days ago and yet that did not seem to trouble you when you gave me these bruises." He pulled back into a defensive stance. "Besides, I heard you begging the captain to be enlisted. Ha! Ever so eager to spill blood, no, war is not what's troubling you."
No, the idea of war did not trouble Clay. He was but a boy of fifteen, but images of bloodshed was not what terrorised him in his sleep. He had seen his share of violence, helping to quell riots here and there. He knew it wasn't quite the same, but what was blood compared to what he'd already seen? He'd seen far more than what any boy his age had seen or should see. He saw it almost every night – smelled and tasted it every night, too – save for the few nights of reprieve that was soon to end.
Heavy hooves thundered, signalling the return of those who went to Silvertown to oversee the drownings. And Clay dreaded the sound. He's here, he thought gravely, as if a dark prophecy was about to be fulfilled.
Clay knew it would be best for him to defeat Baron. If he showed any weakness in the presence of the nearing host, it would not bode well for him.
Motivated by fear, his sword was suddenly lighter. He slammed his dull blade against his opponent's chest leaving a small but visible dent on his breastplate. Baron was thrown back by the unexpected force of the assault, the weight of the armour making it difficult for him to recover. Before he could succeed, Clay pointed the sword at his neck, pinning Baron down on the ground. Clay had won.
"Where did that come from?" Baron groaned.
Clay just shrugged. Behind him, someone clapped softly.
The boy turned, and there stood the electun. His decadent robes flowed down his back, his silver and bejewelled mitre twinkling beneath the torches that lit the courtyard.
