Iseul knelt in front of Domenic. “As you already understand, to wield Valmordion is an enormous burden. For that burden to be yours… It’s the last thing I ever wanted for you. But if it bonded with you, that’s because you were always destined for it. Which means that, whatever the future will ask of you, I want you to remember that you’re capable of it.”
Domenic managed a nod.
“But even so, you’re not in this alone. Hanna and I, we’ll do everything we can to help you. The rest of the Council will help you as well, but they also have expectations of you. It doesn’t matter that you didn’t ask for this or what your past is. You are our Chosen One, and the future of the entire country is at stake. You understand that, don’t you?”
He did. Even he knew of the Thirty Years’ Chill from history class, when Winter had terrorized the country and claimed over a third of the population. All because a Chosen One had failed.
Domenic didn’t know their name. It was considered bad luck to speak it.
“Even if Icouldstop the cataclysm,” he murmured, “Alice Rhodes died saving Alderland, didn’t she?” It occurred to him that being Valmordion’s last wielder, Rhodes was hispredecessor.Her face was on the ten-cent coin. “Is that what’s gonna happen to me? I’ll light up like a firework?”
“O-of course not,” Iseul told him.
“How can you know that? Is she the only wielder who died?”
As Iseul hesitated, Hanna answered, “No.”
“How many did, then?”
“Only two.” As Domenic’s mind stuttered like a scratched record as he attempted the math, Hanna added, “That’s two out of thirteen. Those are good odds, Dom.”
“But not zero.”
“No, not zero.”
“And did any of them…” His knuckles whitened around the waste bin. “Did any of them unbond with Valmordion?”
For years, Domenic had thought the worst thing he could glimpse on anyone’s face was pity. But as Hanna exchanged a look with Iseul, he glimpsed that same something in both their eyes as he’d seen in Peak’s, something else, something worse.
Fear.
Not fear for his sake, but for theirs—for everyone’s.
Domenic had thought he could be honest with Iseul and Hanna about how he felt. But from now on, he was no longer simply their friend, their family—he was their supposed savior.
“N-never mind,” he blurted. “Of course they didn’t. Stupid question. I mean, there’d be no Alderland left, right? And…”
The door opened. The three other members of the Magicians Council strode inside to take in their Chosen One, stooped over a trash can, vomit still dribbling down his chin.
Sharpe pursed his already thread-thin lips. At eighty years old, Alexander Sharpe had been a permanent fixture in Aldrish politics for so long that half a dozen buildings, scholarships, and foundations were already named in his honor. He heldtwo positions within the Order: the Director of Infrastructure and Administration, overseeing magician affairs as well as the maintenance of every roadway, sewer, and enchanted broadcast tower throughout Alderland; and, as the senior-most member of the Council, he was also its president.
At his entrance, Domenic’s chair squirmed beneath him. At first, he thought it was only urging him to stand out of respect, but as he did so, it scooted back with a screech. Domenic realized he’d accidentally taken Sharpe’s seat at the head of the table.
Domenic scrambled aside. He set the bin on the floor and wiped his face on his sleeve.
“Um, sorry. Sir.”
Sharpe’s pitch-dark gaze roamed up Domenic slowly, his frown ever-deepening. As if with every excessive inch of him, he found another thing lacking.
Then Sharpe withdrew Ballathim from his side, along with a cigarette. He lit it from a flame at Ballathim’s tip and sucked in a long drag. Smoke leaked from his nostrils, like a dragon.
“To be Chosen by Valmordion is a great honor,” Sharpe began coolly, “and the five of us would like to offer you our sincerest congratulations.”
The first time Domenic had met Sharpe was in his hospital room after the Syarthis Disaster, when the Council had offered him their sincerest apologies.
As Sharpe claimed his seat, the others took those flanking him on either side—Iseul and Peak on his left, Glynn and Hanna on his right. Domenic shakily lowered into the one at the opposite end. The heat waves of Valmordion radiating on the table between them distorted their faces into dreamlike blurs, and in the room’s corner, an enchanted typewriter clacked like gnashing teeth.
“However, this honor comes with great responsibility,” Sharpe continued. “The cataclysms our nation has faced throughout its history have been tremendous. One hundred and fourteenyears ago, Alice Rhodes single-handedly quelled a winterscurge that would’ve razed half the eastern coast. Before her, Sewall Heard defended against a ghast invasion that would’ve claimed thousand of Aldrish lives, and Odierne Artell had Collinsmere evacuated while she burned through the last of Winter’s power—and burned the city along with it.”
