Page 31 of An Archer's Redemption

But where? What corner needed me? In what corner could I do the most good?

I glanced down at the wine glass still wobbling about on the floor, and something on my boot caught my eye. I reached down and brushed brambles off the leather. The stylized owl pinned to every Ranger’s boot shone up at me.

And I knew my path forward.

Chapter 12

Atikus

I stand on the shore of a massive river of the purest cerulean waters.

Immense power wafts up as mist tingles against my skin.

Currents crash against unseen rocks buried beneath.

Where there should be the briny scent of life, there is naught but crisp, cool air.

The river is mute as its frothy indignation passes without voice.

Curious, I kneel.

Tendrils of translucent mist reach up and entwine my fingers as I hold them above the flow. My eyes widen as the mist creeps up my hand, yet I feel no pain, only the tingle, almost a tickle, of magic’s gentle touch.

Emboldened, I extend my hand toward the river’s flow and allow the tip of one finger to breach its surface.

The world flared with brilliant light.

My head swivels as I now stand on a mountain’s peak.

The horizon burns with hues of red, orange, and gold atop an endless bed of forest greens. The fresh scent of pine fills the air. Crisp autumn wind pimples my skin.

The vision’s transition left me disoriented, yet the sight of such an awe-inspiring sunset still brought a smile to my lips.

A moment passes as I watch the sun’s rays surrender to the horizon with evening’s first touch. Something dark disturbs the view many leagues to the west.

I squint.

Rank upon rank of heavily armored men ride astride equally armed horses. At the head of the columns, I see a man—no, a woman—wearing a brilliant crown. She clutches a silver staff in her right hand and points forward with her left.

Irina?

Where . . . No, when?

The world flashed with brilliance again,and I struggled to gain my bearings.

I stand in the center of a large city.

Men and women race in all directions as screams of terror flee their lips. I call out, but no one hears my cries. I am nothing more than an invisible witness to history.

My head swims.

Charred rubble from nearby buildings litters the cobbled stones of a thoroughfare. I scan the area to find few structures untouched by fire and destruction. Bodies lie unmoving among the stones.

Bells begin to toll, slowly at first, then urgently.

My gaze rises above the din, and I recognize the gleaming turrets of the Palace of Spires, the heart of the Kingdom in its capital of Fontaine. Smoke rises from watchtowers—not the warm, curling smoke of their hearth, but the angry plumes of unwelcome intruders.

I stumble a few steps, then run toward the Palace.

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