Origins of Evil, Part 2

Editor's Note: This entry was submitted by contributing writer Mauricio Wan. It is the second in a series exploring the origins of A Knight Adrift's antagonist, Archwizard Ixiel. To read previous entries, visit The Archive. Enjoy! 

Ixiel the Savant. Ixiel the Callow. What songs do they sing of thee? What hymns are carried in the shriek of every whippoorwill, what is cried out under the baleful moon? What do they intone of thee before mournful pyres? What glimpse is shared among the shadows?

"Once more," Xiomendes commanded, "No mistakes."

"In the beginning, there was the void," the boy began, "Then the sun came and the world of light was made. From the ocean, Valerius emerged, the land of earth and fire and wind. From the clay, man was sculpted, hardened in the kiln, and given breath. He was made to see and walk the world of light.” The boy hesitated, then continued, “His shadow was cast into the void and became demons."

"Good," the old man affirmed, nodding gravely.

"The worlds of light and dark were forever joined by magic. It is the thread that binds and the veil that keeps them apart. In the world of light, man was forged in the crucible of combat. The best sons of Valerius rose and fell in trial by arms and the land was soaked in blood. In the void, demons bided their time."

"And of the veil?" the old man inquired.

"In their arrogance man tore the veil. From the other side Tyrannus rose. Soaked in the blood of the fallen and seething with man's hatred he came to break their will and consume their spirit. The Kingdom of Valerius rallied its army. The fiercest warriors met Tyrannus with hearts full and steel bared. But in field and siege he smote them all."

"And what saved mankind when their brutish warriors were bested?"

The boy wanted to clear his throat. His mouth was dry. The ground he knelt on was stony and uneven. His back ached. Sweat rolled untrammeled down his shaven brow and burned his eyes. He continued.

"In the darkest hours the king and knights of Valerius turned to the Sages of the Order. Channeling the world's thread, they repelled the demon with great sorcery. Where steel failed, the Order found victory. Where knight was broken, they prevailed and the riven veil was sealed."

"What of the Sages, boy?" the old man warned, "Look smart now."

"In the years after the banishment, man forgot. Where once there was bravery, now there was intrigue. Where once there was fellowship, now there was war. The sages...” The boy’s focus faded. He could feel the old man's eyes bore into him. "The sages...”

He could hear the tapping of a foot.

“The sages... left. The Order was broken."

The stick came down with a blinding thud. Skin stinging and head ringing, Isidore looked up at the once kindly old man. His unveiled face, so often home to a smile, was barren and cragged with years. Sky blue eyes frosted over with the imminence of age.

"The sages gone, the order was broken!"

The boy struggled back to his knees. One prod from Xiomendes staff sent him back on his side.

"Repeat it, ward."

"The sages gone, the order was broken."

Tears mingled with sweat trickling down a bruised face.

"Who remains, Isidore?"

"The Cowled remain. In courts the Archwizard gives counsel and the Walkers trace forgotten paths. They keep the old ways. They watch the veil."

"And keep the thread mended," he barked, "Where is your head, boy? Get up. Again."

The boy scrambled to his knees and bowed his head. In unsteady voice he repeated the recitation. More blows landed and Isidore of Elea was cut above the eye. It mattered not. His mind was elsewhere, with another.

Delia was strong. Delia was clever. Delia was favored. Sable-haired and chocolate-eyed with tears like dew drops on a spring day, her voice like a warm breeze through river reeds. On the day they found her it was as if she emerged splendid from a golden tinged dream and that moment became a piece of forever that would be carried on and on until the sun burned out and all was darkness and nothing once more.

Isidore struggled. To be a pupil of the Walkers was to be dust swept from the pathways and kicked down every open road. Valerius is unkind. Far from his distant homeland, Isidore found the weather frightful, the days long beneath the burning sun. Shorn of all hair and soaked in the sweat of toil, he was told that a true wizard never sweats and rebuked for lack of control. The trees and fields that had once meant freedom were now thickets within which lurked the predatory and depraved. Knowledge was the quest. Only companionship was solace. Maxims were daily. Discipline was rigid.

“Where there is light a shadow is cast. What is a gift is also a curse.”

The rod struck the idle child.

“There is strength in conviction but strength is not a conviction.”

The night was cold and lonely.

“Ambition, pride, talent—these are excuses for corruption.”

Their path the one least trodden, the Walkers were reduced over centuries from an exalted order to an amorphous collective. Where there were four that took Isidore from his village, by the year's end eight walked. In the following summer, he and Xiomendes were but two. By winter their number had doubled again. In a field conversing with spirits they found Delia and were five. From that day forth, they were never less than three.

Over the trails the boy grew but never lost his smooth faced youth. Between shaves he appeared fair-haired with high-boned cheeks, gray eyes brooding like a cloudy day far from storm but free of sun. Isidore grew long, but remained quill thin and feather light, something of a bird among men, ethereal and soaring and hollow. Yet he was in his manfulnes all the same when he noticed Delia.

His studies suffered. The child of spare conditions who had wanted for nothing in the poverty of his life found himself suddenly consumed by desire. Where he had once been precocious he was forgetful and distracted. The welts of Xiomendes’ displeasure painted his skin a tapestry of bruises, like the hide of an unholy animal. Delia was not without eyes. Nor was she without sympathy.

She was, however, without interest.

Spurned in all love, Isidore grew rebellious. Where he was instructed to lift a stick, he chose to uproot a tree. When a stone were to be broken in two, he ground boulders to dust. Unaware of the motives of his pupil's renewed interest in the Fifth Art, Xiomendes was at once awed and concerned by the unbound power wielded by the boy. In turns he offered praise and counseled control.

“Control,” Isidore mused alone, “Is indeed the best course of action.”

And so the willful boy began to appreciate what “will” truly meant. The moths that had once chased a figure crafted of fire now danced to the direction of his fingers. His companions were delighted at how easily dinner fell in their snares, though never sure of the cause of their good fortune. In nightly whispers he visited his darling and coaxed her attention. His intense stares of longing became intoxicating provocations.

But his victory, assured as the seasons, was hollow.

In the winter of his sixteenth year, Isidore's tutor took ill with fever and died by a campfire while being tended by his ward. In the last mournful moments before Xiomendes closed his eyes forevermore, Isidore recollected the kindly old man who had rescued him from obscurity and given him purpose. In exchanged glances and frowns the two said more than words could imagine. Thus it was that Xiomendes passed from this world.

In the morning, Delia was gone. Where the three had been inseparable there was left the matter of Isidore. He thought back to his home village, caught in the shadow of Monticolus, and found he could not recall its name. Nor could he remember the paths that would take him there again. Even so, would his mother recognize the hairless face? Was she even alive? Was he?

No. Isidore son of Elea passed from this world the day he left his own village. The man that remained was something else, though within him were pieces of what had come before. Isidore. Xiomendes. Elea. Ixiel of the Cowl was born. A lone figure abandoned the funeral pyre of his mentor to walk the forgotten paths of Valerius, to wander in search of what was lost.

Yet he walked not alone. A new teacher had found Ixiel, one that came in whispers on the night with promises of things greater than what he had been denied. It told of ancient pathways and of artifacts that were older than mankind itself. In the fire’s shadow on the edge darkness, young Ixiel smiled.

Out of Darkness, Part 5

The Knight struck the obsidian floor again. The enchanted blade of Durendal clanged against black stone and sent a tiny splinter of it flying into the dark. A drip of sweat splashed on her gauntlet. The harder she worked, the more pressure the void seemed to exert, weighing down every movement as if she were submerged in mud. Aveline's confidence began to wane. 

“You must let go of your guilt, your anger. Durendal can amplify your will, but if you fight against yourself, there’s no way you’ll break free of this place.” Roland admonished his daughter. When Aveline stabbed downward again with a low growl of frustration, he shook his head. “Circumstances may seem dire, but what are you so afraid of?”

“That I am a monster. That I’ll fail again. That outside this prison awaits nothing but suffering.” The Knight raised her sword and swiped toward her feet. “That I’ll be trapped for eternity, useless and alone.” The sword ineffectually struck the floor again and rattled in her weakened grip. Exhausted, Aveline leaned over, then dropped to one knee, struggling to catch her breath. The gloom of the soul trap pressed ever closer to her as Roland’s aura continued to fade.

For a long time before Roland’s appearance, Aveline imagined that the true horror of the void was the stagnant nothingness. That the whispers in the dark were her own mind’s conjuring and that her comrades who withered or disappeared were taken by madness and decrepitude. But with Roland’s revelation, she knew the place was alive. Sentient and hungry, it preyed on the weakness of those trapped within. With each useless strike, Aveline was reminded of her failure and those doomed to suffer because of it.

“When I was trapped long ago as you are now, I knew not what fate awaited me. All hope had fled. But a void walker came upon my sorry soul and explained that the darkness could bind me only if I allowed it. It seemed so simple. In despair I had imprisoned myself.” Roland stood beside his daughter and put a steady hand on her shoulder. “No man or woman among your comrades would wish you the shame you heap on yourself. Your fears, your guilt… There is much I don’t know, but I can say with certainty they are of no use to you.”

The Knight considered her father’s words and wondered at his past imprisonment. Deep in her heart, a wary hope took hold that she would one day hear his story. She opened her mouth to respond, but no words came to her. Why should she survive where others had fallen? And what efforts could possibly satisfy the souls of the lost?

“I’m sorry, but our time together is at an end. If I don’t leave soon, there will be little of me left to greet you on the other side.” Roland offered a melancholy smile. The bright brilliance of his form had faded to a dim translucence. “Beware of Ixiel. The Kingdom is his. Enemies lurk everywhere, but friends can be found if you look for them.”

Fearful of parting, Aveline felt much younger than her nineteen years. “But if I cannot escape this place… What becomes of me? And if I do, what then?” She paused. The Knight could hear the childish anguish in her selfish questions and was ashamed.

“Look to the West. If I yet live, you’ll find me in Mare. You’ll figure out the rest.” Roland grinned, his form now little more than a shadow. Still, his eyes shimmered with pride. Aveline raised herself up, straight and true. “And no matter what happens, Aveline, remember this: Neither fear nor guilt spurred me to search the void for you. I searched because I believe in you. You are my daughter. You are a Knight. I know you will succeed. Farewell.”

Where a moment before the Great Knight had stood, his phantom evaporated into nothing. She looked around her, but even the remaining soldiers had disappeared. Like water rushing into a vacuum, Aveline was quickly filled with a sudden sense of isolation. If she let it, she knew the solitude would transform into despair. Instead, she remembered Roland’s final words, his pride, and his faith. The Knight closed her eyes and breathed deep.

In her hands, Aveline felt the hilt of Durendal, the sword’s familiar weight tensing the muscles in her forearms. Her feet shifted against the obsidian floor until they were as steady as stone beneath her shoulders. Cloak and armor fit close like a second skin, separated from her body by only a thin layer of sweat. The Knight recited the tenants again, spurious bravado this time replaced with solemn resolve.

“Move with purpose. Steel your heart. Guard against injustice.”

She thought of Roland, of the men and women to whom she had pledged her life, of the parents she lost before the Great Knight became her only family. They all believed in her, confident in her promise and potential. Their example and guidance had fostered the person she was proud to be. Most were dead and gone, but their memory lived on in her. In that moment, the Knight Aveline knew in her heart that as a daughter, as a leader, as a knight, responsibility demanded her bravery and action.

The Knight breathed in deep again and raised her sword above her head. Beneath the gauntlet on her left hand, the sigil glowed, its soft red light illuminating a peaceful countenance. Relaxed and ready, the trembling tension that suffused her before had dissipated. With a confident shout that rejuvenated her tired soul, Aveline struck the floor again.

The void shattered around her.

In the dark cavern at the center of the Monticolus, an obsidian block exploded violently in a blinding blast of white light. Shards of black stone disintegrated against the smooth, untouched faces of the hundreds of blocks that still stood. The Azure Knight stepped out of the smoldering shadows, transformed and drained. Finally free, Aveline smiled, then collapsed to sleep. 

Origins of Evil, Part 1

Editor's Note: This entry was submitted by contributing writer Mauricio Wan.  It is the first in a series exploring the origins of A Knight Adrift's antagonist, Archwizard Ixiel. Enjoy!

Ixiel the Great. Ixiel the Betrayer. What songs do they sing of thee? What notes are carried in the caws of every murder, what is whistled in the howl of the fell south winds? What do they chant of thee in the lowing of the battle broken and mortal wounded? What tale is spun in the whispers of the darkness?

Isidore son of Elea was born in the hinterlands under the shadow of Old Monticolus. A full league from the coast, his mother made her living as a spinner and occasional wet nurse for wealthier peasants in the village. He was born a jaundiced and mewling thing and, having been conceived roughly in an attack by marauders during Leogriff's campaign to pacify the south, the midwife did not hold out hope for the child to survive a fortnight.

Yet the child endured.

Isidore was a precocious thing. He walked early for his age, spoke before his peers, and showed uncanny mastery at deft tasks where even long time journeymen in the trade struggled. But the child was over-small for his age and though clever, never well liked by the other boys and girls. By his tenth year it became clear that he would always be weak of frame. Never would he be a soldier, nor a lumberman, nor even a farmhand. Worse yet he was a child of an unknown father, lower in station than even the poorest of peasants and thus unlikely to be suitable to wed.

By the time he reached his adolescence, Isidore took a melancholy turn. He became quiet and brooding and did not get on well with the other boys who plowed their fathers' field and hunted small game for leisure. Instead he would wander the mountains alone and wend his way through the abandoned ruins of Old Monticolus, imagining the dead folk whose home was erased to make way for the new. Only the tender love of his mother and the few words he had learned to read from the monthly catechism of the holy texts brought him pleasure. Indeed the child seemed to grasp before anyone else how lonely and spare his life would be.

And then it all changed one golden red day flush with new autumn.

The Walkers came through the village. Dressed head to toe in their rich purple and gold raiment, masked with the scarves of the seers, there were four in total. With no proper inn to stay at, they came to the mayor's house to ask for lodging and fare. Having only just returned from one of his walkabouts, Isidore rushed as all the other youths did to see the once in a lifetime visit from the magic folk. In the cooling dusk of a waning day his life changed forever.

It started with simple tricks. The Walkers entertained the children by making the leaves dance in winds that came from their fingers. Then they made seeds sprout from the ground and flower though it was the season of dying. Finally, someone brought a burning log from a hearth and they crafted from it little fire moths that made their powder and flesh fellows follow them in feats of aerial acrobatics.

For Isidore it was the loveliest day of his life. He had never seen anything so fantastical. And he was allowed to join the others, boy and girls and adults alike, without the mocking and aversion that he had come to know in their looks and quiet avoidance. He wished it could go on forever. If only they could make from the fire the flying snake he had found inscribed on the walls of the old city.

Suddenly, the fire did just that.

The fire moths puffed out of existence. The newly sprouted flowers wilted and blackened. The leaves no longer danced in the wind but floated gravely towards the ground. The Walkers stared at him.

It was the oldest, with a creaking walk but a steady purpose to his gait, who approached him.

“What's your name, boy?”

 “Isidore.”

“And where did you learn to do that, Isidore?”

“Do what?” The boy asked, shamed face and tremulous, not knowing how but knowing very surely that he had ruined the spectacle of the best day of his life. He could feel the hate and mortification of his neighbors burning on the nape of his neck.

“Make the sign of Old Monticolus.”

“I—I didn't make it,” he stammered.

The old man put his hand on Isidore's head and the crow's lines next to his eyes furrowed with a secret smile hidden by the seer's scarf.

“It is not a bad thing you have done, Isidore. In fact, it is wonderful. I've never seen any boy your age do it.”

Isidore was united with his neighbors in astonishment.

“Now, where is your father? I should like to speak with him.”

“I have no father, sir.”

The old man put his hand on the boy's shoulder.

“I see. And your mother?”

Isidore pointed.

“She lives over that hill, sir.”

“Very well then, let us go to her.”

The next morning was the last day Elea saw her son. As he walked away from the village without a wave or smile, she thought she saw him walk a little straighter and a little prouder. Though she had lost a son she knew it was for the better, for he had gained a life.

As Isidore left the town in a white robe that was too large for his frame he could not comprehend how greatly his life would change with the Walkers. He knew somehow, however, that the name of the place he was leaving would soon be as forgotten as the name Isidore son of Elea.

Out of Darkness, Part 4

Roland’s voice was nearly a whisper, his mouth a halfhearted smile. “The mark you bear is one of demonic origin. It is the Sigil Immortalitas.” He held his daughter’s hand as his face grew more wistful. “Tyrannus’s magic. Aveline, how did you get this?”

“Before he died, before we were swallowed by the dark, Aurleon bestowed it upon me.” Roland’s harried expression worried Aveline. She had seen it only a handful of times before. The hope of his brilliant aura seemed to dim from moment to moment. The withered soldiers drew ever closer, pacified by the red light of the sigil. ”In those last moments, he seemed at peace. Like he had done some good. The truth, father. Please.”

“The Sigil Immortalitas grants the bearer corporeal immortality. As long as you carry it, you cannot be killed by physical injury. But its power comes at a price.” For the first time in their conversation, Roland turned away. A note of trepidation had crept into his voice. He gestured toward the gloom around them as he continued. “This ‘soul trap,’ as I call it – this void was created by Tyrannus. Linked to the obsidian crystals in which you were imprisoned, those here are neither alive nor dead. While their bodies rot in Valerius, their souls suffer here alone in the dark, slowly drained of the spiritual essence on which the primordial demon sustains itself.”

Aveline could barely contain her rage. “I suspected, but hoped to the gods it weren’t true. The people of Monticolus, my comrades… Their noble lives are but food for the fiend?” The Knight clenched her fists so tight her bones were on the verge of breaking. Around her, the shambling remains of those to whom she’d pledged glorious victory moaned incoherently. They had been denied the dignity of death. Melancholy waves of fury washed over Aveline. In that moment she felt more powerless than ever before.  

“Aveline, it gets worse. This is hard for me to say...” Roland turned back toward his daughter, but hesitated. “The sigil you bear is linked to the primordial demon. So long as Tyrannus exists in Valerius, you are immortal.” As the Great Knight watched his words take hold, the weary spark of understanding caught fire and bloomed in his daughter’s eyes. “The truth is that you, too, are sustained by those trapped here.”

The Knight Aveline froze as if stabbed. Her rage vanished suddenly, like a match blown out by the wind. The void warped around her, the darkness beyond the dim lights at once overwhelmingly vast and claustrophobic. She collapsed to her knees, her breath caught in her throat. Silence filled the space between father and daughter.

Roland longed for a means to comfort her, but there were no words to assuage the cruelty of fate. He knew Aveline would need to make peace with this herself. He had tremendous faith in her resilience, but this...

Eyes closed, Aveline spoke. “As I watched them disappear one by one, I wondered ‘Why do I persist?’ Now I have my answer.” The Knight was quiet again, and thought to herself for a long time.

Many times, she had felt the weight of command, of responsibility, but this revelation felt larger, more overwhelming, than even the quest to stop Ixiel. The souls of those who perished in this place demanded she act. When Aveline opened her eyes, she stood, and a look of grim determination had transformed her countenance. “Roland, you came here of your own accord. How do I free myself from this prison?” 

“You must know, Aveline… Outside of this place things have changed. Time holds no sway over the void. With Valerius in disarray and your army eliminated, Ixiel assumed control of the Kingdom at the demon’s behest. War rages. Ruthless, violent creatures stalk every domain, preying on the people. Torment beyond reckoning.” Roland grasped his daughter’s shoulders. “Decades have passed. I fear it may be too late to turn the tide.”

For the first time, Aveline saw despair in her father’s eyes. And as his aura continued to dim, the truth of Roland’s appearance was revealed. To her it had been little more than a year since last they’d met, but beneath the light, Roland was old, more battered and venerable than she remembered. The lines around his mouth, always before lifted with a sardonic grin, fell downward in a stony grimace.

“Move with purpose. Steel your heart. Guard against injustice. These are the tenets you taught me.” The young Knight touched her father’s hand. His grip softened as she stepped away, her posture dignified, her eyes flashing with serious purpose. “Tyrannus must be vanquished. Ixiel must pay for what he’s done. The people must be protected. This sigil may be a curse, but if hardship awaits, I could ask for no better a blessing.”

Aveline replaced her gauntlet and tossed her tattered blue cloak behind her shoulder. She clutched Durendal, the gleaming blade, and awaited the Great Knight’s instruction. “Hope is borne of sorrow,’ you said. Tell me, father. What hope did you find in the west?” 

Out of Darkness, Part 3

Roland spoke. “Before you were of an age to care, King Aren – Aurleon’s father and a slothful waste of a man – was assassinated. This extraordinary event sent the sovereign’s administration into hysterics. Aren’s predecessors had transformed the Rite of Authority into a farce, but Aurleon was still too young to legitimately compete and no one was keen to kill the child of a murdered monarch.” The tired, brilliant Knight sighed. “Ixiel persuaded the council that given the unusual circumstances, the burden of ruling should stay with Aurleon and his advisors until he was of age to defend his position. This blatant an inheritance of power was unprecedented.”

“Fate smiles on the fiend,” Aveline muttered sarcastically. The sorcerer’s influence was plain.

“Yes. Apparently Aren had considered this possibility, undoubtedly at the urging of Ixiel himself. And though the King depended on my skills for military success, he resented my personal popularity. Decades on the war fronts gained me a reputation among the soldiers and the people, but little in the way of respect from this man. When he deigned to look at me, I could see fear behind his eyes. It brought me no small measure of joy.” At this, Roland laughed to himself. For a moment, Aveline forgot her mounting anger and smiled at her father.

“Aurleon was six years old – the same age as you when we first crossed paths – and according to the King’s will, Ixiel was charged with the boy’s tutelage. Though I considered Ixiel’s appointment the crowning achievement in the long history of Aren’s mistakes, honor left me no choice but to abide by his wishes.” Roland rose from where he was sitting and paced back and forth, weary to recount what came next.

“As I raised you to knighthood, Ixiel raised that boy to servitude. Before Ixiel assumed control, Aurleon was a vigorous, confident child, who displayed a surprising aptitude for magic. But in each encounter with him since Ixiel became his tutor, it was more and more apparent he was suffering. A marked decrease in energy. A sallow, drained appearance. I had always been skeptical of Ixiel and his meritless appointment to Archwizard, but over the years, as the man gained more unbridled influence, my suspicions grew. I dispatched spies to track the man. The disturbing reports that returned spoke of nights alone and chats in darkened corridors with unseen collaborators in a foreign tongue.

“I tried desperately to counteract the Archwizard’s foul influence by tutoring Aurleon myself when I could, requesting his presence on the field whenever possible. But my duties as Great Knight called me far away from the capitol. There were military campaigns to manage and you to train.

“I hoped the King was not beyond reason. Ixiel was subtle and determined in his corruption, but his pupil had not yet been fully compromised. For this Aurleon had his kind-hearted sisters to thank. After more than a decade of waiting for the right opportunity, a chance finally presented itself. An empty attempt at diplomacy called Ixiel away and a voracious storm had delayed his return. I thought the fates smiled on my endeavor. We talked long into the night, me espousing tales of war, him asking after you.” Roland grinned at Aveline.

She blushed and looked away. “Get on with it, old man.” Roland sat back down, only a few feet from his daughter. When he spoke again, his voice was possessed with vehemence.

“I told the King I was troubled by a sensitive topic. A skilled magician in his own right, Aurleon assured me our conversation was safe from observation. Even so, we spoke in quiet, conspiratorial tones. I told him that I believed Ixiel was possessed of dark magic, and that after countless hours of observation, I suspected the primordial demon Tyrannus was Ixiel’s benefactor. I feared dismissal, but to my surprise, Aurleon responded in earnest. He confided that although he had learned much from the Archwizard, he also wondered about Ixiel’s intentions of late.

“Suddenly, Aurleon stopped talking. His mouth hanged open and his eyes were dark. A voice issued forth from frozen, motionless lips.” Roland paused. He thought for a moment, then shook his head and continued. “The voice was Ixiel’s. A grating laugh was followed by a cryptic warning: ‘Step lightly, Great Knight.’ I’d heard whispers of powerful magics, but this was a realm apart. Ixiel relinquished his control and Aurleon returned to himself. In that moment, it was clear: Aurleon’s rule had come to an end. Ixiel now controlled the fate of Valerius.”

Roland spoke rapidly, clearly distressed. “Despite his protests, I took my leave of the young King and fled the city. I knew there was nothing more I could do in Valerius. My hands were tied by my position. Uncertain of what time remained before catastrophe, I made arrangements to travel west immediately, where I hoped I would uncover a means to thwart the Archwizard. Unfortunately, this meant leaving you on the war front.”

Aveline interrupted. “I didn’t know what had happened to you. When Durendal arrived by messenger, I feared you were dead.”

“After years of training you, watching you grow into a formidable Knight, I had absolute faith in your abilities. You are the best I’ve ever seen. Perhaps even better than myself, unbelievable as that is.” Roland chuckled, saw Aveline was not amused, and cleared his throat. “I knew the weapon would serve you better than it would me.”

The Knight Aveline was overwhelmed by emotion. Betrayal, shame, and resentment flushed her cheeks and rushed her heart. “But why didn’t you explain? Alert me to the danger? Surely I could have helped you! When the King informed me of your disappearance, I was shocked. I couldn’t believe that you would flee when we needed you most.”

“I had no idea what Ixiel was capable of, only that his power was surely beyond us. I feared for your safety and thought the less you knew of Ixiel’s machinations, the less of a threat you might be. I never anticipated you would be chosen to pursue the betrayer and lead the army. I’m uncertain if the choice was even Aurleon’s or Ixiel’s.”

“You suspect my command was orchestrated, perhaps as retaliation against you?”

“I don’t know. It’s easy to imagine the puppet master’s meddling – his long fingers reaching out to corrupt everything with their touch. Luring an army of thousands into a hopeless trap would be an inarguably effective means of clearing a path to unchallenged control. When word spread of your defeat, Aveline, I was devastated.”

“I tried to do what you would have. Be who you were – a legend, a hero.” At this, Aveline grew pensive. “And look where those efforts left us.” She looked around her, but there was little to see in the darkness. The few remaining soldiers muttered to themselves, distraught over everything they heard. Aveline could barely recognize them. It wouldn’t be long before they faded into oblivion like the rest. She wondered what fate awaited her, and whether Roland had a plan.

“I’m sorry, Aveline.”

The two knights fell silent. Aveline cast her gaze down at the floor between her boots. She absentmindedly traced the hilt of her sword with her fingertips. Roland sat cross-legged, watching Aveline.

Without explanation, the Knight removed her gauntlet and showed Roland the back of her hand. The mark bestowed by Aurleon glowed more brightly than ever, as if determined not to be outshone by Roland’s incandescence. The withered soldiers shuffled back toward the warm, familiar red light. “And this mark. What do you make of it?”

Roland’s collected demeanor was undone with a gasp. He grabbed Aveline’s hand, examined the symbol, then peered deep into his daughter’s eyes. His face was transformed by emotion, his melancholy tone abruptly infused with energy. Roland smiled and said, “Hope is borne from sorrow, young Aveline.”