An’Larion began to wake up along with the rising sun. While the usual noise of the city didn’t reach them on the balcony, they could see people beginning to leave their houses and crowd the streets. The city guard prepared for a change of shift, and the imperial army continued to guard the barrier around the thirteenth district vigilantly.

  “I don’t know.” Circe finally spoke. She had been silent for so long since he told her his dream – his vision – that her words startled him. “But such a fate shouldn’t come to pass.”

  Midhir raised an eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”

  The Crimson Witch pointed at the sky. “For there to be no stars… something extraordinary must happen. There are very few beings in existence that can snuff them out – or come between us and them.” There was a hint of awe in her voice as her gaze drifted away, far into a past Midhir shouldn’t know of.

  “It happened once. It could happen again.” The Old God had shown him that past. “How did you stop it back then, Witch?”

  Circe visibly flinched. Her sharp gaze turned to him. “I didn’t. Everything Leviathan wished came to pass, and our light was restored to us.” She raised her chin. “Such a fate will not befall you.” There was certainty in her voice – confidence that Midhir couldn’t help but doubt was unfounded.

  She turned away from him, her gaze lingering on the waking city. “Besides, what you described is simply impossible. You can’t just turn into a creature – even if Leviathan was to descend upon us.” With a wave of her hand, she dismissed the subject. “I must talk to your mother. Accompany me, will you?” Without waiting for his answer, she marched off towards the throne room.

  He couldn’t help but doubt her words. How could he trust the words of a witch against visions shown by one of the Great Ones? But then again, Circe was hundreds of years old, if not older. How could he not trust her words – and the wisdom and knowledge that came with having walked this world for so long?

  He shook his head. He had no way of calming his worries, of resolving his fears. Thinking about them only made them worse. Burying them under superficial thoughts, he hurried after Circe.

  The steps leading to the throne room were quite crowded. Double the number of usual soldiers stood guard, their eyes sharp and hands resting on the hilts of their blades or shafts of their spears. They saluted him as he and Circe approached. “Your Highness,” One of them stepped up. “Her Majesty the Empress was looking for you, and your companion.” He shot a quick, meaningful glance at Circe. “Please hurry.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Dread loomed over him as he nodded. There were both nobles and commonfolk here, all quietly muttering amongst themselves, clutching their cloaks or coats in worry. To bring people of all walks of life here, something important must have happened. Such events were rarely good news.

  His mind immediately went to the situation in Calador as he walked through the half-open doors and let them close behind him and Circe.

  Empress Celyn sat upon her throne, her lips pursed, and her gaze fixed on the parchment in her hand. She tapped the armrest of the throne with her fingers. Ilya was pacing in front of the throne, her long heeled boots clicking on the stone tiles as she walked back and forth. Cait and about half a dozen more Enforcers quietly stood off to the side.

  A tall man stood at the foot of the steps leading to the throne. His impeccable uniform was devoid of even a single particle of dust, or a single crease.

  Midhir’s heart sank as his gaze landed on his cloak – the imperial sigil was embossed onto the cloth with golden thread. A Flaming bird, its wings outstretched. The sigil of the Ardagh bloodline.

  His mother’s gaze snapped to him as the doors closed behind them with a soft click.

  “Midhir,” She spoke, her voice formal, and her gaze cold as ice. This wasn’t a mother talking to her son. It was the Empress, talking to the prince.

  His body tensed up as he walked up to the steps and kneeled. “Your Majesty.”

  “Rise.” She raised her chin, her gaze turning to the man still standing ready, his hands joined behind his back, and his back straight. “Proceed.”

  As Midhir stood up, the man turned towards him and bowed. It was a deep, respectful bow. “Your Highness, by the command of Emperor Eamon Ardagh the Third, you have been summoned to Derwen Hold. All students of Solus Academy who have not otherwise been posted elsewhere are to accompany you, as well as Enforcers Sinath and Castors.”

  Ilya drew a sharp breath. Her lips parted in anger, but a sharp glance from Midhir stopped her. She folded her arms, glaring at the man who repeated their father’s orders.

  “I hear and obey.”

  The man bowed once more. “I must request my leave, your Majesty, your highness, princess, enforcers.” He bowed towards each of them, then raised his gaze towards the Empress, awaiting her permission.

  She lightly nodded once, her gaze as cold as always. As the man hurried off, she turned towards the enforcers. “You heard him. Rally the Solus students, aid the lords Castors and lady Sinath in their preparations, and arrange escort and horses. They leave in three days.”

  Only when they too were gone did Ilya whirl towards their mother. “You accept this?” She shouted. “Students sent to the Northern wall! It should be me going there, not Midhir and a few dozen kids!”

  Circe clicked her tongue quite loudly. Ilya stopped in the middle of her tirade to spare a bewildered glance at the Crimson Witch.

  “Calm down, child.” She mocked Ilya. “Celyn, my dear. I have been busy with that Lord Enforcer of yours, so I haven’t been paying much attention. Tell me what happened.”

  The Empress clenched her fist, crumpling the parchment. “Calador’s civil war has come to an end.” She hissed. “The King has been dethroned, his younger son took the throne, his advisor is the previous counsellor, Masaru Vaydrick. That’s General Vaydrick now, too.”