The Tournament Grounds of Khymar rose from the eastern edge of Nylos like a monument to glory and spectacle. Built during the early Fifth Era as a gift from King Darenal the Bold to his people, the massive stone amphitheater had withstood five centuries of celebrations, competitions, and the occasional riot. Curved tiers of granite benches swept upward in a perfect half-circle, the pale stone veined with quartz that sparkled beneath the midday sun.
When silver fire rains from the heavens...
The prophecy whispered through her mind, refusing to be silenced. She shook her head, trying to focus on the present moment, but the words clung inside her head like cobwebs, impossible to brush away completely.
The tournament grounds were split into two distinct sections—the northern stands reserved for nobility and the wealthy members of society, and the southern for commoners. In the middle of the northern section stood the royal box, elevated above all others and draped in the kingdom's colors of black and gold. Banners snapped in the spring breeze, and the scent of roasting meats and honey cakes drifted from vendors who circulated among the commoners' stands.
"Could we possibly have gotten seats any higher?" Niamh complained, hitching up her skirts as they climbed the steep steps to the upper tier of the commoners' section. "I can't climb these steps like I used to!"
"And I'll need a spyglass to see anything." Mara replied, not breaking stride. "But it was either this or stand at ground level behind everyone else. Logic dictated the higher position."
"We'd have to put Riel on our shoulders so she could see," Niamh teased gently as she glanced back at Amriel. "Though you're so lost in your thoughts, I'm not sure you'd notice the difference."
Amriel quickened her pace to catch up. "I'm present enough to notice when you're mocking my height," she countered, forcing lightness into her voice. "And I'm sorry about the seats, Nia."
She felt a twinge of guilt for her pregnant friend as she watched her climb the stairs awkwardly, even if the seats had been Nia's choice. Not that she'd remind her friend of that when she was this pregnant. That would be more dangerous than any prophecy.
Despite the discomfort of the seating, Amriel had to admit the view was spectacular. From this height, she could see the entire tournament grounds spread before them like an elaborate painting, the field's length stretching to accommodate the approaching riders.
The royal box directly across from them provided a perfect view of Khymar's ruling family. King Marcus Drathex sat tall in his ornate chair, his once-dark chestnut hair now mostly gray but his posture still commanding. The obsidian circlet upon his brow gleamed in the sunlight, a simple band that belied the power it represented. At fifty-six, he remained an imposing figure, his face weathered but handsome, marked by the subtle lines of a man who smiled often.
Beside him sat Queen Elara, resplendent in robes of deep royal purple—the color reserved exclusively for witches of the Ninth Circle, the highest rank, outside of Arch Witch, attainable within the Coven. Unlike her husband's simple circlet, her crown was an intricate weaving of silver threads that mimicked woven branches, each tip bearing a tiny amethyst that matched her robes.
Amriel studied the Queen with new interest. At fifty-three, her face remained remarkably unlined, her golden hair showing barely a thread of silver—a benefit, some whispered, of her magical abilities. But now Amriel wondered if there was more to it than just the preservation magic most powerful witches employed. The Queen's power had manifested unusually late, just as her daughter's had...
When the last of the Starlight Witches falls...
The words from the tome flickered through her mind again. Could there be a connection? She shook the thought away as fanciful. The royal family had been documented for generations; surely someone would have noticed if they harbored some ancient, secret lineage of witches.
As per usual, the Crown Prince Tristan, the king's younger brother, was absent. His wife, however, the princess Lirienne, sat in the royal box, her face pinched and cold as ever. Beside her sat the two sons their marriage had produced. Both mirror images of their handsome father, with his pale skin, chestnut hair and golden-hazel eyes.
The King had been blessed with seven healthy daughters, but for reasons unknown, the gods had seen fit to deny him any sons. This left Prince Tristan as his heir.
"Princess Irina seems uncomfortable," Mara said quietly, nodding toward the royal box.
Amriel followed her gaze to the younger princess. At seventeen, Irina was a striking combination of both parents—her father's dark hair and her mother's fine features. Unlike the rest of her family, who wore expressions of pleasant anticipation, Irina's face was tense, her fingers fidgeting with the sleeve of her pale yellow gown.
The moment Amriel focused on the princess, a strange sensation washed over her—like the prickling awareness before a summer storm, when the air grows heavy with impending rain. The single silver band that encircled Irina's slender wrist—the mark of a witch newly come into her Power—caught the light with each nervous movement, but to Amriel's eyes, it seemed to shimmer with something beyond mere reflection.
Her iron ring grew hot against her skin. Not enough to burn, but enough that her hand flew to her chest in surprise.
"What is it?" Niamh asked, noticing the movement.
"Nothing," Amriel said quickly. "Just... the princess. She's afraid."
Around Irina, the air wavered erratically, subtle but no doubt present. Tiny motes of light—invisible to most—danced around her fingertips.
Amriel had seen such manifestations before in new witches struggling to contain their abilities, but never with this intensity. Something felt wrong. As if the princess's Power didn't quite fit her, like a garment made for someone else.
"Can you blame her?" Niamh murmured. "Two weeks since her Power manifested, and soon she'll be handed over to Kortana and her merry band of spell-weavers. I wouldn't be thrilled either."
"The Coven Tower is an honor, not a prison," Mara corrected, her voice taking on the precise cadence she used when reciting from texts. "She has come into a great gift. Most would kill to possess the Power. This should be a time of joy for her. Not sorrow or fear."
"Pragmatic as ever, Mara," Niamh rolled her eyes, but her tone suggested a playful jest. "Not everyone views life through your perfectly organized shelves."
"The gift of Power is rare enough," Mara argued, counting off on her fingers. "And to come into it at seventeen should mean that her ability to manipulate the currents should be quite strong. She has been deeply blessed."
Amriel kept her eyes on the princess, watching as another wave shimmered over her. "Blessing or curse depends on who's receiving it," she said quietly. "And from her expression, I'd say the princess wouldn't agree with your assessment."
A small disturbance rippled through the crowd near the royal box—a glass goblet suddenly shattered, its fragments scattering across the stone. A servant hurried to clean it up, but Amriel noticed how Queen Elara's eyes darted to her daughter, concern flashing briefly across her serene features.
"As the daughter of a Witch, especially one as powerful as Queen Elara, I have no doubt the princess has been training for such a day since she could walk or talk," Mara said matter-of-factly, oblivious to what Amriel was witnessing. "All just in case such a time should arrive. Besides, this gift has saved her from her sister's fate. Personally, I'd rather enter the Coven than some man's bed."
"Speak for yourself," Niamh said with a smile, her pale green eyes twinkling in the sunlight. "I'd rather be in my husband's bed over anything else."
Another pulse of energy emanated from Princess Irina, stronger this time. A flock of doves resting on the tournament grounds' upper arches suddenly took flight, their wings beating frantically against the air. Few in the crowd seemed to notice, attributing it to normal bird behavior, but Amriel's skin crawled with awareness.
"As evident by your expanding brood," Mara said, her brown eyes glancing down at Niamh's belly to where it gently swelled beneath her robes.
"Have you seen my husband?" Niamh countered, her hand gently caressing her rounding belly. "If either of you had a man like Simon, I have no doubt I wouldn't be the only one in this predicament."
"In that case, I hope to never find a Simon," Mara said. "The idea of pregnancy, let alone birth, seems abhorrently dangerous and, needless to say, messy. I think I will pass on the matter entirely."
Amriel pulled her attention away from the princess with effort. "Speaking of Simon, where is he?"
Of her small friend group, Simon was the one she had known the longest. Long before she'd splashed in the fountains with Niamh, she'd played in the muck with Simon.
"Oh, I suspect he's over there somewhere," Niamh said and gestured to the pavilions where the tournament's participants prepared themselves for the day's events. Dark smoke from a forge could be seen billowing over the white tent peaks.
"Ah yes," Mara said, "After the beatings some of these knights received at the hands of their fellow competitors, I'm sure he's hard at work repairing all that damaged armor."
Amriel only half-listened as the pair continued their familiar chatter, her attention constantly drawn back to the royal box. Behind the royal family sat two figures of particular significance. To the Queen's left, Kortana, Leader of the Coven Tower, surveyed the crowd with watchful intensity, her dark eyes missing nothing. Tall and statuesque, her once-black hair now largely streaked with silver, she seemed to radiate authority. Nine bands of silver encircled her right arm, topped by one of dark amethyst—marking her as a Tenth Circle Witch, an Arch Witch. Her gaze kept returning to Princess Irina, her expression unreadable but alert.
To the king's right sat Master Archivist Hodgens, his pale blue eyes remarkably still as they scanned the crowd. Unlike Kortana's obvious vigilance, his observation was more subtle, but no less thorough. The youngest Master Archivist in Khymar's history at merely thirty-seven, his presence so close to the king spoke volumes about his influence. Every aspect of his appearance was precisely controlled, from his neatly trimmed beard to his artfully styled hair with its premature silver at the temples.
"The two pillars of Khymar," Mara observed, following Amriel's gaze. "Knowledge and power, conveniently positioned on either side of the crown."
"More like trying to influence the crown from both sides," Niamh muttered. "My father says the Illumination Tower and the Coven have been in a silent war for decades."
"Not always silent," Amriel added, thinking of the heated debates she'd witnessed between scholars and witches during her years at the Lyceum. "And if the princess's Power is as strong as it seems, both sides will be even more invested in her future."
The iron ring at her throat pulsed again as she spoke, and she found herself wondering if her mother had known more about this "silent war" than she'd ever revealed. Nythia had always been dismissive of both institutions, calling them "two sides of the same power-hungry coin," despite—or perhaps because of—her own extensive knowledge.
Seated ahead of these dual influences, on a slightly lower platform, sat Princess Mhegan, the eldest daughter and heir to the throne, with her fiancé, Prince Damien of Calavorn. At nineteen, Mhegan was the image of her father—dark-haired, strong-featured, and practical.
Unlike her sister and mother, she had shown no signs of magical ability. Yet anyhow.
While unlikely at this age, it was not impossible. After all, the stories say the Witch Morvenna the Merciful, hero of so many of Amriel's childhood stories, had been twenty-three when her legendary gift with the Power manifested.
Princess Mhegan's black gown was adorned with golden threads. Emeralds from the northern mines of Khymar mingled with dark rubies, the color of her soon-to-be husband's royal house, on a web of gold hung about her long neck, symbolizing the union to come.
Prince Damien, by contrast, seemed almost too perfect—golden-haired, chiseled features, and a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. His regal posture and expensive attire proclaimed his status, but there was something in his demeanor that made Amriel uneasy.
"He's handsome enough," Niamh commented, following Amriel's line of sight. "But there's something... off about him. Like a painting where the proportions aren't quite right."
"He's calculating," Mara said simply. "Watch how he observes everyone. He's measuring worth and weight of importance."
Amriel nodded, noticing now what had bothered her from the start—Prince Damien's gaze kept drifting to Princess Irina rather than remaining on his betrothed. And when he looked at the younger princess, there was an intensity in his eyes that seemed more like hunger than curiosity.
Before she could point this out to her friends, a trumpet blast interrupted their observations, signaling the official commencement of the tournament. The crowd rose to its feet as the royal herald stepped forward, his voice magically amplified to carry across the grounds.
"Lords and ladies, honored guests, and good people of Khymar! Today we celebrate the betrothal of Her Royal Highness, Princess Mhegan of House Drathex, to His Highness, Prince Damien of House Tiernan of Calavorn! May this union bring prosperity and peace to both our great kingdoms!"
Cheers erupted from all sections, though Amriel noted the enthusiasm seemed somewhat muted in the commoners' stands. Relations with Calavorn had been strained in recent years due to border disputes and trade disagreements. This marriage was more political than romantic—a fact lost on no one.
As the herald continued with formal introductions of notable guests, Amriel found her attention drawn irresistibly back to Princess Irina.
The young woman's discomfort seemed to be growing, her complexion paling visibly even from this distance. The shimmer Amriel had noticed earlier was intensifying, becoming a faint silver aura that surrounded the princess like a second skin.
When silver fire rains from the heavens...