Lord Aldan stopped walking once they reached a balcony that jutted out over the mountainside. Wisteria drooped off the guardrails and hung from the balcony that was situated directly above, the white and violet flowers forming a dense curtain that framed the entire structure. Late-afternoon sunlight bled through clusters of petals that fluttered delicately in the breeze, and for a moment Hadrian could do nothing except stare in wonder. How had a magical place like this survived after everything?
Aldan went on, “Gandraian, best known in Elderyn as the Witch Lord and the Angel of Death, would’ve won the war, had my people not stepped in. He had already terrorized most of the land on this side of the Black Sea, recruiting Elves who were soon corrupt, and butchering countless innocents.” Despite the ungodly heat, a chill licked up Hadrian’s spine. “The Battle of Ice Bay was the last time anyone saw him. My men arrived the moment it mattered most—the moment the Folk, those in Ilyad’s army, realized they were losing. These were the same Folk who had shunned and hunted my people simply for being born of the same blood as Gandraian: Elven blood. Yet as soon as we found a solution—a way to end that brutal war—we rode to their aid, prejudices forgotten. And in our possession was a mask of Cold Iron.”
Where he was leaning against the guardrail of polished wood, Hadrian straightened. Centuries had passed since this war, and although Hadrian had heard pieces of it growing up, not many were daring enough to speak of it anymore. To even whisper Gandraian’s name was considered bad luck.
“When my men first marched onto the battlefield and changed the tide of war, the mask was featureless. It was nothing more than a thin slab of iron—and when we bartered for it, it had come with an unspeakable price.” The lord gazed off, into the towering forests that bordered his home as he remembered back to that dark place in history.
“After many more grueling hours of battle,” he continued, “Gandraian fell to Ilyad’s sword, and the very act of killing him cost Ilyad his life. Whatever magic was rotting inside Gandraian had traveled up Ilyad’s sword and into his body, turning him to dust instantly, and Gandraian’s corpse plummeted into the bay. Once the Elves fighting at Gandraian’s side realized he’d fallen, most of them fled, allowing us the chance to drag his corpse out of the water. We sealed the Witch Lord’s immortal soul inside the mask, and within seconds, the featureless iron became the face of a gargoyle—an angel of death, indeed.”
Hadrian took a steadying breath. “If you’re worried Sable will turn out the same as Gandraian, I can assure you—”
But Aldan calmly interrupted. “Sable is nothing like Gandraian—I know. But she will need help once she is free. The Cold Iron prisons have existed since the dawn of time, and never in my hundreds of years have I heard of a successful release from one of the masks.” He paused and took note of Hadrian’s defeated expression. “I am not trying to discourage you, but I stress that you stay by Sable’s side if you manage to free her. There is a chance that, once she is free, she will Ascend.”
Hadrian’s brows flicked up. “Ascend?”
“If Sable is the reincarnation of Hilandria, then Ascension is in her future—the act of fully becoming what, and who, she truly is. And when that happens, Sable’s magic will be at its fullest potential. From what I’ve heard of her past, she has received no training. Harnessing Hilandria’s gifts will be no easy task, and certainly not one she can accomplish alone.”
Hadrian’s mouth turned down at the corners. “But who could help her? If sheisHilandria reincarnated, then there is no one more experienced with her gifts than Hilandria herself.”
The lord shrugged away from the railing and strode back toward the House, his pale velvet cloak fluttering behind him in the flower-scented breeze. “I would advise that she find…not someone who shares her gifts, but someone who shares the magnitude of them.”
“Do you know of anyone?”
Aldan stopped and turned to face the captain. “On the other side of the Black Sea, there is a training ground called the Red Court. If she can find it, she will also find someone who can help her. Possibly the only person in the world who can.”
“You speak of Draven Van Aeldwin.”
The lord nodded once. “That is correct.”
“Some say the Red Court is impossible to find,” Hadrian challenged. “Some claim it isn’t even real.” Never mind that some people went so far as to claim Draven wasn’t real either.
The lord gave a half-smile before walking away, and his voice echoed back at Hadrian long after he’d vanished around the corner.
“What do you believe, Captain?”
~
It would be their last day at the Elven House. Hadrian had informed Avalon they would leave at sunrise. As it was their last chance to rest up before hitting the road again, he urged her to eat and drink more, and to sleep when she felt even the least bit tired. She’d spent so many hours sleeping lately that she was wide awake, though she didn’t argue with him when eating or drinking was concerned.
At three in the afternoon, as Hadrian read to Avalon from a book about dragons, Kyrie brought them a tray of flaky biscuits and two teapots, as she usually did at about this time of day. The tea she brought for Avalon was ginger with lemon; Kyrie preferred green.
“Forgive me for running late, I nearly forgot about the tea,” Kyrie said as she set the tray on the table. “I left it in the kitchen a while before I remembered what I was doing. I got lost in a book.” Her almond-shaped eyes were filled with amusement as she studied Hadrian lounging in the armchair, a red satin pillow behind his back. “I see I am not the only one.”
Avalon laughed. “The library here is extraordinary. There are so many books, I couldn’t imagine finding the time to read them all.”
“It might very well be impossible,” Kyrie said as she set about pouring Avalon a cup of tea. “Even my father has barely made it through half, and he has lived far longer than I.” Passing the cup and saucer to Avalon, she began gushing about the prince in the book she was reading.
Avalon spooned honey into her cup, but before she had a chance to raise the brim to her lips, Hadrian leaned over and took it from her grasp. He sniffed at it, and then took a sip before offering it back to her. Avalon raised an eyebrow at him, and he nodded once in answer.
Before Hadrian had become the Captain of the Guard, he had tested for poisons at the House of Fire. He had an uncanny ability to identify whether food or drink had been poisoned, even if the liquid or powder the culprit had used to commit the offense was odorless. Avalon was always glad for his vigilance, for she had to admit she was sometimes too trusting.
Kyrie sat down in the free chair, the steam from her tea wafting across the table. Avalon considered asking her if she could try hers as well when Hadrian’s hand suddenly flew up, knocking the glass right out of Kyrie’s grasp mere seconds before her lips would’ve touched the brim.
They were both on their feet in an instant, and Avalon sat up, her heart racing.
Kyrie began to object, her face contorted with a mixture of surprise and horror, when Hadrian said, “You were nearly poisoned.” His tone sounded as confused as Kyrie looked, where she stood with her mouth hanging open several feet away, hot tea staining the front of her gown.
At the sound of glass breaking, armed guards burst into the room, but Kyrie held up a hand. They immediately came to a standstill, though their weapons remained raised.
