Page 73 of Prince of the Phantom Sky

“I thought we could spend some time together before we all face our demise.” Raiden winked as Kordelia tossed her long silken strands over her shoulder. Her skirts splayed around her legs and she positively vibrated with tension.

“We don’t have time for dates, Rai. Barron’s going to make his move, I can feel it. I can’t fail. I need to be at the front when it happens.” Her jaw ground as her sharp blue eyes tracked her father’s movements. Kordelia’s fingers fisted in her navy skirt, scrunching the embroidery until it unravelled, frayed as all their nerves were.

“Erick has it all in hand. He’s a great leader.” Fatigue battered Raiden. He’d been fighting for nearly fifty years now. His stomach churned at the thought of going back into battle, at losing the most precious person in the world to him.

“One great leader isn’t enough. I won’t accept failure. Mages will die if we weaken for even a second.” Kordelia lifted her hand, her slender fingers rippling as Davy glanced back at his daughter, smiling gently. For a moment, her face relaxed as she waved at her father. A singular second where the old Kordelia graced Raiden, who hadn’t been burdened by the empire’s wrath.

“War changes people, baby. You need to learn to appreciate life in the balance.” Raiden offered a piece of fruit and her eyes flashed before shaking her head. A small part of him deflated. She’d been eating less and less lately, and he’d never seen her eat any of their native food in the five years she’d lived here.

Her hands moved to drum her fingers on the stone steps as she constantly fidgeted.

“We should take the fight to Barron. Attack when he’s least expecting it.”

“We’re not ready yet. Hector and Cassidy are on their way to Shannara, and Leto has only just left to scout Aldara. We need his gift to camouflage us if we’re to do that.” Had she even noticed Aryn was missing? She was always so distracted now. Raiden’s body tensed as she surveyed the gardens surrounding the walls of the castle.

As Erick and Davy disappeared down the hill, Erick cast a quick glance in their direction, his brown hair fluttering in the small breeze. Pink hues warmed the sky, lavender clouds floating along in the calm before the storm. “Besides, Erick has a great strategy planned. It’s a good thing he came to us when he did,” Raiden said.

Kordelia’s jaw grinding was so loud that Raiden took her hand, jolting her from her trance.

“We have to win, Rai. Mages need to win. It’s like I can feel something is going to go wrong. Like somehow, this will all be for nothing.”

Raiden’s heart thudded unpleasantly. Kordelia’s determination for mages chilled him. She’d recently omitted humans from her utterances, entirely focusing on mages’ survival since the conquest. Did she not realise that was like the Staghart’s mission? Raiden refused to believe it was one or the other in this world. That they both could live together, peacefully united.

“We’re fighting for peace, Kordelia. If we win, then everyone wins.” Kordelia didn’t respond as she continued fidgeting, her fingers now picking at the skin around her nails. Raiden took a moment to study her, noticing the dark rings under her eyes, her sunken cheekbones and distracted eyes. He needed to break the cycle she was trapped in.

“Spend tomorrow with me,” he suggested, a plan cooking in his mind. Kordelia glanced at him in surprise, her body finally relaxing as their stares met. “One day. That’s all I’m asking for. We can go for a swim.”

After a moment, she released a deep breath. “One day, Windward. That’s all you’re getting.”

Raiden cursed as he crashed to the floor. His spare mattress creaked as he sat up, his mind spinning. He’d fortified his room since these floating episodes had started, dragging spare furnishings from unused chambers to cushion the floor. He’d even tried chaining himself to the bed, but instead the bed would crash down to the floor alongside him.

Whatever was happening to him was strong, and it was powerful magic. His dreams of the past felt so vivid, he almost believed he was back there. Skirting around open books about runes he’d left by his bed, Raiden went to change before padding into the hallway, rolling his sore shoulders as he shook off the memory of Kordelia.

The night before she’d been taken. Before his world had been turned upside down. Since returning to Galen with Kora, Kordelia had been frequently invading his dreams. Reminding him of the cold warrior she’d been, how devoted she was to the war, and the lengths she was willing to go to defeat Barron.

They’d barely survived Darkon’s conquest. The islands had been ripped apart, the world they knew snuffed out and replaced. History rewritten or erased. Prayers had become feared, any utterance of magic or the gods resulting in death or exile. Galen had been the last stand, the last light before the dark.

Only for Barron to arise, a new face in the empire’s glory. The next admiral, the next leader, the next Darkon. The Stagharts had never made a presence in these islands, their conquest of Devania was a power-grab, greedy and malicious, and somewhat ignorant. It enraged Raiden. At how much destruction they’d caused without stepping foot on the islands.

Raiden mindlessly strolled around the castle in the blanket of the night, his power snuffing out sconces as he bathed in the calming, quiet darkness. Unlike the acrid horror of Barron’s magic, this dark was that of a cocoon, comforting and warm. His footsteps were silent as he navigated to a familiar hallway connected to the steps leading to the kitchens—his real home from home.

Endless carvings and paintings covered the rustic walls, infusing this singular stretch of castle with enough life to last generations. Raiden traced the grooves of his creation until he reached a lone, small table with his tools on top of it. Picking one up, he took to a smooth patch of wall, pouring his dreams into his home.

Unlike cooking, his passion for art had developed during the dark years after losing his title as prince. An outcast in the family, Raiden had come across a merchant in the city who’d convinced him to try sketching as an outlet. How that merchant knew what Raiden had been going through was a mystery, but he’d been eternally grateful. After raiding Skybell’s library on art history, sketching had developed into painting, and then into sculpting.

He worked until his fingers cramped, and beads of sweat trickled down his neck, with faint hints of orange breaking through the Mist-laden night. This hallway was almost completely covered in endless depictions of his family’s history, the Devanian Conquest, the gods, and the Galenite War.

Of what it meant to be a Galenite. Of their cultures and values—putting family foremost, the curiosity they possessed for discovery, the deep connection to nature and the respect for their community. They spread across the sloping ceiling, and down into further hallways in parts of the castle left unused. Little purple painted flowers interspersed each carving, connecting them all like an intricate trellis curving across the space.

“You’ve always been artistic,” his father announced dryly.

Raiden’s hand tightened over the chisel, his chest mirroring the tension suddenly radiating from him as Zephyr appeared to judge his latest addition. He wore his home attire—casual trousers, and a shirt buttoned with golden fastenings. Links sealed his cuffs in the shape of an iris flower and Raiden tore his gaze away.

Zephyr’s dark eyes swept over a carving of the moon rising from the sea, before studying Raiden’s depiction of losing Kordelia, taken in a flurry of dark magic, claws, and betraying hands. It was his final goodbye, his final homage to the woman he’d loved. Remembered forever in their history, engraved into the walls of the last stand against the empire.

“Didn’t think you noticed,” Raiden grumbled as he set the tools down. His breathing hitched, the edges of his vision blurring. He rubbed his chest once, willing the tight knot there to loosen, but it only grew heavier.

“You’re still my son.” Zephyr squinted at an older carving, from when Raiden had first started on this wall.