Page 5 of A Rising Hope

“Perfection only. You are not allowed to fail, Orest,” he grumbled. This time his voice was cooler, losing its heated rage.

“Yes, master,” I replied, holding my back straight, easing my muscles. One accidental twitch and he’d notice. I paced my breaths. Not too big, not too small. Measured and precise.Perfect.

“Good, then let’s continue.” He calmed, and I watched the glowing aura around him fade into a lighter color. His hand reached for the heated red iron, ready to burn me once again. He twisted the long metal prong as red as the flame he pulled it from. “And do not fucking fail again, Orest.”

I blinked, returning to the quieted courtyard of the imperial manor. The acid smell of burning filled my throat.

Many things have changed since that early memory.

I was no longer six.

My master was long dead and forgotten.

My powers had grown, and things made more sense.

Yet today, I failed.

I wasn’t perfect.

And that was a mistake I would punish myself for.

4

GIDEON

Aflash of lightning erupted through the stygian sky—the only source of light in the pitch-black night. Thick, heavy clouds laid low, swallowing every flicker of the moonlight. Loud thunder followed a second later, making the unforgiving peaks of the nearby rocky mountains shake with its roar.

My steps disrupted the untouched ground, pebbles rolled down the steep hill to my side, the sound muffled by the clamorous rain. I reached the peak of a steep incline, pausing by a large, rounded boulder. My eyes carefully scanned the empty-looking valley—nothing but darkness and barren land. Wild wind rushed past my ears, crisp cold air sending a chill down my spine, warning me to stay away.

I reached for the dagger at my waist and in one swift motion; the blade cut my skin. I watched a few drops of blood pool together in my palm before letting them fall into an inconspicuous crack in the rock. Only after the wet stone absorbed every single drop did an old log cabin appear in the middle of the glen.

I stepped over the invisible threshold. The wards hissed at my presence but allowed me to enter. The blood magic holdingthese wards recognized mine,obeyedit as I crossed the circled field towards the cabin. My eyes narrowed on the lightless window.

To a stranger, the cabin might have seemed abandoned. The fields near it—nothing but scattered rocks with the occasional high-altitude wildflowers peeking through, no trail, nor path leading to it.

But I had no doubt its owner was there, wide awake from the moment I let my blood call on the wards.

I reached the door. My knuckles brushed against the weathered wood with a few soft knocks. The sound muffled by the relentless summer storm. I stood on the rustic porch, patiently waiting. The long gable roof finally provided some solace from the heavy rain, shielding my face from the moisture.

“Hell must have broken loose if you are at my doorstep,” a gruff male voice called out from the dark as the door creaked open. Though I could not see his face, I immediately recognized the memorable cynical tone. A streak of light flashed before the thunder. Cold light illuminated his harsh, aged features, similar to mine.

An ominous smirk stretched across my face as our eyes locked.

“Hello, Godric,” I uttered into the night.

“Hello, baby brother,” he replied.

5

FINNLEAH

Her dull, lifeless eyes stared back at mine. Dangerous and cruel, without a flicker of warmth.

I froze like a deer startled by the sound of a broken dry twig, unsure of what to do or what to say. All I could do in the moment was stare. The feeling of dread from the heavy shackles around my wrists became secondary, immediately replaced with churning thoughts of survival.

The Queen strolled through the room, taking a seat on an elegant, tufted chair across from me. She looked different from how I had always imagined. Older. Unnaturally beautiful. Her lips were a perfect shade of vibrant, dark red. A few exquisite wrinkles decorated her ivory, porcelain-like skin. She wore light brown riding breeches, a simple jacket made of black velvet, with a small rose brooch decorating the collar. Her chestnut hair was pinned into a neat low bun with two silver streaks of hair framing her face.

“You are quite a peculiar creature,” the Queen murmured, still carefully examining me like some odd exhibit at a museum. She tilted her head to the side, scanning me up and down. Her brow perked up, observing—curious, yet bored at the same time.

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