Page 11 of The Eye of the Fifth
The dark of night had been plagued by a heavy blanket of thick angry clouds, alight with the reflection of the heightened fiery river north of the great city of Dracyg Dominion. The colossal Mount Morkun had been threatening an eruption for almost two centuries and had finally followed through, leaving behind the distinct smell of brimstone and a continuous stream of floating ash that clung to the clothes of any fireling who stepped outside their home.
It was Zarynth’s own version of snow, something the southernmost continent of Droria had never experienced. Many believed the volcano’s eruption to be an omen, a clear sign from the Fire Mother that she was displeased with her subjects.
Mystic musings from the townsfolk in Gedeon Dewmaul’s opinion. If Eraura were angry with them, if the Goddess truly was sending the people of Zarynth a sign to demand change, wouldn’t he, the Fire Warden, have been the first to know?
Irritated, he brushed ash off his shoulder, and from the balcony of the open courtyard, looked toward the mountain. Alone it stood in the centre of the vast open plains, and if it hadn’t been for the fracture in the land where the burning River Emor effortlessly flowed, separating Dracyg Dominion from the volcano, the spewing lava from the eruption may have drowned the ancient city.
But the Emor had earnestly drank Mount Morkun’s load like a human drinking water after a week’s drought in the Agni Dessert.Now, the river’s level had risen, though thankfully not to the point of spilling over.
Thus Dracyg, the royal capital of Zarynth, remained safe from harm.
The fledgling was late. A new recruit, so he had been told, and likely to be too young to display any true power. Gedeon had told the Commanders, had even complained to the Empress that any fledgling that came to him under the age of sixteen was too young to progress their magic in any way that truly counted. They were always too frightened, too painfully untrained in their power by the time they came to him. A waste of Gedeon’s time. He was a Master. Not some mediocre teacher with barely an ounce of magical talent.
If the Commanders in the camps would teach the fledglings to wield their magicbeforehe could sculpt it into something remarkable, it would make those first few years of their training with him far more beneficial.
But alas, Empress Azar would not listen to his advice. Nor was he stupid enough to push the subject.
And so he waited, yet again, for another fledgling that was not ready for his teachings.
A spark of lightning illuminated the red-tinged sky above, followed a few seconds later with crashing thunder; the storm was overhead now, though thankfully the rain had held off.
Good. He didn’t feel much like getting wet.
He heard the child before he saw her. The frantic footsteps of a tardy student echoing from the outer hall of the cobbled courtyard. It was his preferred training ground, away from prying eyes and far enough away from his brother’s chambers that the likelihood of Sekun Dewmaul wandering into his classes was slim. He preferred to see as little of his brother’s sneering face as was absolutely possible.
‘You’re late,’ Gedeon blandly remarked, turning to face the human girl as he linked his arms behind his back.
A small, scrawny thing stared past him with wide, fearful eyes. Her skinniness was made more prominent by the far-too-big black fledgling uniform they’d clothed her in. ‘I am sorry, my lord. I was lost.’
‘It won’t happen again, I presume?’
‘No, my lord, I swear it by her Majesty,’ she said with surprising boldness, placing her right fist across her heart.
Gedeon nodded once and circled her slowly. Her chin jutted out and she continued to stare straight ahead, though he noticed a slight shake in her clasped hands. ‘Your name?’
She didn’t hesitate. ‘Amala Opherion.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Twelve.’
Gedeon refrained from rolling his eyes with exasperation, though he had known just by looking at her she was very young. ‘Where are you from?’
‘I am an Agni native, my lord,’ she told him somewhat proudly.
He’d deduced as much upon hearing her thick accent, but it wasn’t often he came across a desert-born fledgling. Though the slave camps were situated in the Agni Lands, most of its indigenous people had been slaughtered when the desert had been taken by the Empress’ Commanders, using the land instead as a slave camp, or the ‘army foundations’ as the Empress preferred to call it.
The Agni people had not relinquished their lands without a fight, even with the knowledge that they were severely outnumbered, and very few were left alive at the end of the massacre. As Gedeon recalled, they’d fought well, and bravely, and the ones that were spared were often wielders of magic and therefore seen as too valuable to dispose of.
Those with the gift were reared in the camps, then sent to Dracyg in their adolescence to begin their lives as magic wielders, elite soldiers to the crown. Parents tried to hide their children’s magical abilities to stop them from being taken, but Gedeon had never understood why. It was an honour to serve the Empress, low-born or high-born. It was duty.
‘You speak the common tongue well,’ he noted, pausing in front of her.
That flicker of pride he’d seen earlier flared once more as she said, ‘My father taught me.’
‘Smart man. Is he a wielder too?’
She shook her head.
