I head back inside the castle, unsure of where I’m headed. My feet wander aimlessly through the dim halls. It would make sense to seek out my friends, to celebrate our accomplishments today together, or at the very least to check in with Fox to see how she’s doing with her rank as ward, but as I draw nearer to the chanting and hollering of celebrating Crusaders, my feet guide me down another hallway.
I wish I understood it all better. I wish I’d had time to ask my uncle proper questions that would’ve actually enlightened me instead of shrouding me further in darkness.
I’m in the deep northwestern wing of the castle when I hear a rasping, feathered sound coming from down the hall. I have every intention of changing course again. Whatever the sound is, it must mean people, and right now I’d rather put distance between me and others.
But then I realize the scratching noise is more than just that; it’s a whispered conversation, one that’s being had in the farthest reaches of the castle.
I know I should mind my own business, but my feet are in charge right now. I slink farther down the hallway and peer through the cracked door.
“When?” I recognize Alphonse’s voice and see him a moment later as he stomps across the room.
I angle my head to get a better view to find him standing before his father.
“Soon,” the Magistrate says, giving his glass a twirl. “Once my legion is whole again.”
Alphonse smacks the drink out of his hand, the glass shattering on the hearth and the amber liquid sizzling into the fire.
Slowly, the Magistrate rises from his seat in the armchair, shadows stretching over his face and deepening his ferocity, but Alphonse doesn’t back down.
“You can’t expect me to just abandon this place!” Alphonse growls. He’s no longer whispering. “You said I could have the Shadow Crusade. They’re mine. You have your own warriors.”
“Need I remind you, boy, the Shadow Crusade belongs to me, as does all of Arcathain. I’m merely loaning the Crusaders to you to appease your juvenile insecurities about whether you’re important or not.”
Alphonse’s fists flex at his sides. “Father, please. I beg you, do not take the Crusaders. We’re getting close. Just last month, a unit narrowed in on Qaeus’ location. And with this new batch of Crusaders, we might stand a chance at going deep enough into the Shadowthorn to destroy him once and for all, and end the damn Blight. We wouldn’t even need to bother with the mages then—”
“That’s enough,” Esmond says. He straightens his robes and sucks in a deep breath. “You speak of the mages as if they are no longer a threat to us, but have you forgotten that they took our land? They severed it without a care for the Arcathainians who’d be injured in the process. Your grandparents died in the Great Rift, as did countless others. The mages have gone unchecked for too long, and the time to challenge them is now.”
Alphonse lowers his head, the heat of his gaze singeing the carpeted floor.
“I will have my Crusaders returned to me, Alphonse. I gave you time here, but you have shown no progress.”
“We just need another month—”
“Another month is far too long. In that time, your castle will become consumed completely. The Blight’s growth is increasing. Arcathain doesn’t have much time, and we can’t rely on the weakness of men to rescue us. We need the mages.”
Alphonse throws his hands in the air. “And how do you propose we convince them to help us? They abandoned us, Father. Centuries ago. If our people ever shared remorse and respect for each other, it would’ve been then, not now after so many years of separation and hatred. They will not come to our aid.”
“I am not inviting them to,” the Magistrate says cryptically.
Alphonse eyes him warily. He shakes his head. “I don’t understand your plan. Attacking them will do nothing but provoke them. We don’t want that kind of magic to be unleashed upon Arcathain.”
Esmond strolls to the edge of the room where he finds a decanter and another glass. “That is why the attack comes second, son. First, we need leverage.”
Following close behind him, Alphonse asks, “Do you really think you’ll be able to abduct one of the Lords of Illashore? They’re mages, Father. If they don’t see you coming, they’ll blast you with magic until you’re dust.”
From behind his glass, Esmond looks down at his son with a look of contempt. “I have told you, you are not to call me Father,” he says when he’s polished off the amber liquid. “I have a title. You will use it.”
“Yes, Magistrate,” Alphonse says through gritted teeth.
“As for the mages, you overestimate them. They are not all powerful, especially not like they were. Our spies tell us that ever since the Great Rift their magic has been waning. They stole away from the source of their power, and now they’re paying the price. They’ll be eager to negotiate with us if they believe we intend to give them back their power.”
“I don’t understand—” Alphonse starts to say, but he’s cut off by the man who’s even more pompous than he is.
“No, I don’t expect that you do. But it’s of no matter. Tomorrow, your Crusaders will assemble in the courtyard and receive their instructions to join me back to Arcathain Capital.”
“Fa—Magistrate, please.”
Esmond silences him with a single menacing look. “That is all, General. You may return to your men now.”
Begrudgingly, Alphonse smacks his chest, but before he can turn around and start to stomp toward the door, I flee down the corridor. I overhear Esmond telling him to wait, that he has one other matter to discuss with him about one of the recruits he mentioned earlier, but I don’t hear the rest of what’s said. I don’t risk it.
I duck into the nearest door I can find, press my back against the wall, and wait for Alphonse’s thundering footsteps to pass. It takes longer than expected, their conversation carrying on for quite some time and making me wish I had stayed to hear it. But nothing could be more upsetting and terrifying than the news I’ve just overheard.
My mind reels from it. All this time we spent training to attack the demons in the Shadowthorn, only to be plucked from that very duty and taken to the Capital. That’s not why I came here. It’s not why Dimitri, or Silver, or any of the Crusaders are here. We came to avenge our fallen loved ones, to protect the citizens of Arcathain, the ones living in the border towns that are tormented by demons daily.
We came to fight and slay Qaeus.
The Magistrate can’t do this.
I race down the hall, unsure of where I’m headed next, but urgency surges through my every stride. I follow the sounds of laughter and chanting, the stringent aroma of spilled wine and tankards of beer guiding me to the dining hall.
Frenzied, I barrel through the doors. It’s so loud inside that few notice me. My friends at the nearest table do though, as my hip crashes against the edge where they are sitting.
The joy is leeched away from their faces when they see me. I must be quite the sight, eyes wide, mouth bobbing like a fish struggling for air. I can’t find the words; I don’t know where to start.
“We have to…we’re not going to…they think they can just—”