Hooves echoed along the narrow road, harsh winds swaying the tall grasses as two horses moved at a slow, steady pace. A handsome young man rode one of them, his cloak tightly draped over his shoulders, the dark fabric flowing like a shadow at his back. Beneath it, a worn leather jerkin hugged his frame, dark wool sleeves peeking from underneath. The wind bit at his face; his eyes, though narrowed, darted around alertly. He rode a thin path between grass that rose nearly above his head, even as he sat mounted.

  A young woman rode the other horse, though from afar, she might not have looked like a woman at all. She dressed much like the young man, but her shoulder-length hair was neatly cut, while his was messy and disheveled. His gray-hazel eyes were low, his face unreadable, while the girl rode with a tired posture—shoulders slouched, back slightly hunched.

  “How much longer?”

  His eyes shifted toward her before he replied, “Patience, Rynn.”

  She scoffed and looked away, resting her head against her horse’s neck. “Oh shut up… You and your patience, preaching it like it’s a damn god.”

  “If I’ve done anything like that, I’m sure it’s because you have no patience. And besides, we both know I don’t believe in gods.”

  Rynn raised her head and looked straight at him. “Why do you always have to remind people you don’t believe in the gods every time they’re mentioned? I know you don’t believe, brother, but every time you say it, it feels like you’re trying to convince yourself.” She made her face expressionless, imitating him with a forced deep voice. “I’m Averis. Patience... patience!”

  He barely raised a brow. “Was that supposed to sound like me?”

  “Yes, and it did. Why, didn’t you think so?”

  Averis remained silent, riding on as the wind howled past once more.

  Far to the east, nestled between the four royal houses, lay Rockspire—the capital where sorcerers lived in unity. A vast city of hundreds of thousands, filled with merchants, Veyrians, lords, and the like. A lively capital ruled not by a king, but by a council: four members from each royal house overseeing the Realm of Sorcerers.

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  On this day, the council had gathered, assembled within Stoneheart Keep, a grand castle guarded inside and out by dozens of Veyrians. The meeting took place on the highest floor, the room silent as one seat remained empty. Footsteps echoed outside... and finally, the doors opened.

  A tall man stepped in, his white cloak draped over his shoulders, fine silk-leather clothing beneath. All council members dressed in similar fashion, though each bore different sigils embroidered on their chest.

  This tardy councilor bore wings shaped like blades—the sigil of House Selion. He approached the grand oval table and took his seat, leaning back in the high chair. His purple-gray eyes flicked across the room, studying the others.

  “Why are you all so silent?” he finally asked, running a hand through his silver, shoulder-length hair.

  Moments later, a voice answered. “You’re late to every meeting, even though you’re Swiftborne. Tell me, Elaris, how does one manage that?”

  Elaris glanced at the speaker: a brooding, broad-shouldered man with a scruffy beard and long hair. The sigil on his chest— a chimera formed of a lion, a dragon, and a serpent—marked him as a son of House Varnor.

  “I have other matters to attend to, Councilor Torrek. I oversee affairs far beyond this capital. I can’t conjure a restless horse or summon some sky-beast like you Beastbornes. I use my legs—and sometimes a horse. That’s how I manage my tardiness.”

  Torrek met Elaris’s gaze with narrowed eyes.

  A third councilor chuckled—a thin man with very short dark hair and striking red eyes. His sigil, a masked face split down the center, marked him as a Thalor.

  “You two are always so entertaining,” he said. “It’s one of the few reasons I attend these meetings.”

  “Is that so?” Elaris replied, pouring himself some wine. “I suppose real conversation is lost on you, Vaelion. Have you ever actually spoken to a woman? Or do you read their minds and scare them away?”

  Vaelion gritted his teeth, staring coldly at Elaris.

  Elaris took a sip from his goblet, meeting his gaze. He set the goblet down, raising an eyebrow. “Merely a jest, Vaelion. Though I must say, your glare is terrifying. Now I really doubt you’ve spoken to a woman. I doubt you’ve even spoken to a whore.”

  “Enough!” a fourth man commanded.

  He had shoulder-length dark hair, some of it knotted at the back of his head. His green eyes were full of frustration as they locked onto Elaris. “Why are you bickering like children? You’re the councilors this realm depends on, and this is what you do with your time?”

  Elaris looked back, smirking. “So you do speak, Maerlyn. I almost thought you choked on something and froze dead in place. Glad to be wrong.”

  Maerlyn sighed, shaking his head. “Never mind. Let’s just get on with the meeting, shall we?”

  The sigil on his chest: a rising phoenix—House Raemir.