Myraden activated her spiritual sight as soon as she entered the cellar. If they had wizards here, there would be spirit wines as delicacies—unless the Dominion was getting really stingy.

  So your plan is to get drunk? Kythen asked.

  “No,” Myraden said. She shut the door to the cellar and leaned against it, then barred it with a plank of wood. Hopefully, she’d have a few minutes before the Dominion soldiers found her. She spoke in íshkaben and explained, “They can’t ship spirit wine for long distances, or the spiritual energy will decay and leak, rendering it useless. And they can’t grow it here. They’re better off transporting larger casks of elixir. More volume means the lower layers of the elixir won’t leak and decay as badly.”

  And that’s what we’ll use.

  “That’s what we’ll steal.”

  In her spiritual sight, most of the barrels were entirely blank and dark, devoid of power. But in the corner, a stack of barrels glimmered pale blue. Their edges dimmed, but the center cores of elixir still burned bright blue—almost as bright as the sun.

  The elixir doesn’t mix? Kythen asked.

  Myraden ran over to the corner and pulled down the barrel, then cracked its lid open with her bare hands. The surface of the elixir wiggled and shook, but didn’t spill out. In her regular vision, it was dark blue, save for a cocoon of glowing energy at the center. A tube of iron surrounded it. She pulled it up, separating most of the core of powerful gel from useless outer gel.

  “They haven’t mixed it yet,” Myraden muttered.

  Chances are, they need to melt it into a liquid again and mix it with the wine.

  “Works in our favour.”

  She opened her void pendant and set it on the ground, then slid the tube of gel into the corner.

  How many do you think we’ll need?

  “I’ll take as many as I can fit.” She cracked open three more barrels and stuffed them into the corner of the void pendant’s opening space. Between her supplies, rations, and old clothes and armour, there wasn’t much room for anything else. She was tempted to retrieve her spear, but when she returned to the Hand, she might still need to blend in.

  Before she could crack open another barrel, a metal fist pounded on the door. The crossbar shuddered and splintered.

  She shut the void pendant and wrapped it back around her neck, then turned to face the door.

  I suppose we’re leaving the Hands equipment and items back at the apartment.

  She shrugged, then activated her Tundra Veins. Once they spread across her whole body, illuminating the strands of silk beneath her skin, she charged a crimson arc. Bloodhorn Essence glimmered in the palm of her hand. “He still has his sword on him, and I have his glove in my void pendant.”

  I suppose that’s all he needs.

  She launched a blast of crimson Essence at the door and knocked it off its frame. It flew back into the wall behind, knocking aside two soldiers and sending another sprawling to the ground.

  Running out into the hallway beyond, she and Kythen smashed through another soldier. With punches and kicks, she debilitated two more, then flung another down the hall. He skidded along the floor on his back, armour sparking on the stone floor.

  Now that she had an enhanced body, she didn’t have to worry about striking armour with her fists or shins. Her dress whirled with each movement, obscuring her and hiding any precision from the soldiers.

  And that was if they could compete with her training and strength.

  When she cleared out the soldiers in the hallway, a few servants stood in the wings, looking out from their pantries with vegetables and bread in their arms.

  But she wasn’t in the open, and hopefully, the commotion would stay isolated for a few minutes.

  She maintained her tundra veins and sprinted back the way she came—up to the kitchen, through it, and across the banquet hall. A few servants turned to stare at her, but they were too scared to say anything. She slowed to a walk and skirted around the edge of the banquet hall, keeping her head down.

  Another troop of soldiers sprinted in the opposite direction, down the central aisle of the banquet hall, then entered the kitchen and disappeared.

  She took off at a run again, then sprinted out the banquet hall and into the foyer.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  By now, the marshals and other guests of the autumn council were departing from the parliament chamber on the left and mingling around. They sipped champagne from delicate crystal glasses and made banal conversation with each other.

  Myraden tapped her foot in her boot. Her hands quivered. “Oh…where is the Hand now?”

  She rose up on her tip-toes, then hopped. The crowd thickened, and she could only see heads. She cursed softly, then lowered herself down and darted about, moving from person to person and asking if they’d seen a man with the Hand’s description.

  Most turned her away with a scowl or an entitled scoff, and some opted to lift their chins and turn away in disgust. A few spat, “Dirty sprite,” before scampering to the edges of the foyer and averting their gazes.

  These people knew she was a wizard, could see her advancement, yet still thought they were invincible? None were wizards. They were mortals.

  And so was the Hand. Her spiritual senses did her no good looking for him in a crowd of non-wizards.

  But she restrained herself. Finally, one pointed hurriedly across the foyer—at a corner with a couple potted plants and a candlestand. Perhaps he was just trying to get rid of her as quickly as possible, but it didn’t matter. Between the bustling people, a slice of the Hand’s new doublet slipped through.

  Myraden wove through the crowd, ducking her head and turning to avoid people as much as she could. Kythen followed, but he had worse luck. Guests yelped and exclaimed when he pushed past.

  When she reached the Hand, she was about to ask if he’d found The?mir, but she didn’t need to. An elven man stood across from him.

  The elf wore an ornate suit of ambersteel armour, as if still clinging to the idea that he had some prestige and standing left—despite what the Dominion said. Few other guests wore armour.

  A bright orange cloak hung around his shoulders, and his long blond hair fell down his back in braids. Being an elf, he couldn’t grow a beard even if he tried, but his face would’ve been perfect for it. Still, he made up for his lack of facial hair with scars. Each added a decade to his appearance, and one nearly scratched out his entire left eye. It was cloudy and cataract-filled.

  This had to be Marshal The?mir.

  Myraden opened her mouth, then shut it again, realizing that she had just barged into an important conversation. The Hand was doing her work for her?

  “Apologies,” she said. “I just came to inform my lord that—”

  “He has told me the situation,” said The?mir. “It was risky hunting for me, and especially someone of your appearance.” He glanced at both of them. “But I understand that in war, risks must be taken.”

  She leaned closer to the Hand. “What have you told him so far?”

  “Only that we need his help, in a vague way.”

  Myraden glanced about, trying to gauge whether anyone was listening in. Less for her and the Hand’s sake, and more for The?mir’s. If there was any suspicion about his allegiance, or his plans, they might not give him an opportunity to return to Aerdia.

  Myraden whispered, “We are Sirdians.”

  “I figured it was something of the sort,” The?mir said. “Good day, then. I must be off, and—”

  “Wait,” she hissed, moving to the other side to stop him. “The king has returned.”

  “I’ve heard rumours of his return for years.” The?mir turned in a slow circle back to face the Hand. “I don’t know whether to believe them any more than the Dominion manifestos telling me he’s dead.”

  “I met him,” said Myraden. “I am friends with him.”

  “Some proof that is.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Why did the Aerdians denounce the old king and accept Tarliom?”

  “For strength. Tarliom claimed he would guarantee elven independence.”

  “And look how that went,” the Hand snapped. “You would trust the Dominion?”

  “I don’t know who to trust,” The?mir said. “I am lost.”

  The Hand crossed his arms. “If you’re lost in a dark cave, will you stand motionless, or would you start walking and seeking a way out?”

  “A Seissen would know so much about ‘seeking a way out’? Look how quickly your little uprising crumbled.”

  The Hand stayed motionless, and he stared directly at The?mir.

  “Your men trust you,” Myraden said.

  “Because I don’t throw their lives away in meaningless conflicts.”

  “You will throw all their lives away if the Dominion has its way.” She narrowed her eyes. “How old are you? Sixty season-cycles? Seventy? You are old enough to remember a time before the Sundering.”

  “Sixty-two. And yes, I do remember those days. I was a young low-marshal.” He leaned closer. “Every day, I regret not travelling north with the loyalists. But the past is set, and I must live with my choices.”

  “But what if you could make a difference in the present?” Myraden asked. “Sirdia does not have the numbers to defeat the Dominion alone. We need your help convincing the Aerdian army to join us.”

  “They will follow you into battle, it seems,” said the Hand.

  The?mir narrowed his eyes, then opened and shut his mouth a few times, before finally saying, “I have a granddaughter. We identified a minor bloodline talent blooming in her, but she’s an Embercore. I hear your king is also an Embercore.”

  Myraden nodded.

  “When he lifts this curse on the Elven Continent and sets himself on the throne, I need one assurance. He must create a school for wizards, and he must train the less fortunate ones. He must take disciples.”

  Myraden glanced at the Hand.

  “I cannot make promises for him,” said the Hand.

  “I am certain he would,” Myraden said. “He knows what it’s like to be an Embercore, and he knows how to help.”

  The?mir nodded. “Then…if the throne blooms, and only if it does, if we have a cause that isn’t completely lost, I will come to Sirdia’s aid. I will depart as soon as I can and travel to Vel Aerdeil.”

  Myraden nodded excitedly, but the Hand said, “You need not depart immediately. Don’t sacrifice what little standing you have left. Wait until the council finishes. You have an airship, yes?”

  “Correct.”

  “If possible, I would ask you to travel north to Harmkvord bay first. You will find us there, and we could use a swift route back to the Elven Continent.”

  “...I will arrange it.”

  “Now—”

  “There she is!” a soldier shouted from across the foyer. “The sprite!”