Prelude | 15 years ago

CCaldren curled up by the fire as his mother settled into her customary spot in the old wooden chair by the hearth. Sleep tugged at his eyelids, but he fought it, as small boys often do, afraid he might miss something important.

“Tell me a magic story,” he said, stifling a yawn. The stories of the old magic were his favorites—the ones where her voice wove spells of its own, making his imagination come alive.

His mother smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Cal, my dear, it’s time for bed.” She shifted in her chair, reaching for him as if to scoop him up, but he wriggled away.

“I’m not tired! Please?”

She sighed, though her lips still carried a ghost of amusement. “Fine, but only a short one. And you must go to bed after—do you promise?”

“Yes, Mom,” he said solemnly, excitement barely concealed as he settled against the warmth of the fire.

His mother turned toward the window, staring out for a long moment, as though watching something unseen in the night. When she faced him again, her usual playfulness had vanished, replaced by something heavier—something that made Caldren’s skin prickle. Then, she spread her hands in a familiar motion, the one she always used to begin a story of the old magic.

Only this time, her voice was different. This time, it carried a warning.

“Before the Empire came, there were men and women who could tap into magic, a power as vast and untamed as a storm. It was a river that could grant great miracles—or consume those who touched it. Only those with the strongest will could wield it without being burned to ash. There were those who healed, those who built, and those who destroyed. Wars were fought, fire rained from the heavens, and men vied for dominion over magic itself.”

Her green eyes met his, and for the first time, Caldren wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the rest.

“But there were others who twisted the power in forbidden ways—ways so dark I will not speak of them, for even knowledge of such things can stain the soul.”

A chill crept over Caldren’s skin. His tiredness evaporated.

“Mother… what’s wrong?” he whispered.

She stood, pulling back her auburn hair and fastening it in place with practiced ease. Her hands trembled. “I’m sorry, Cal. This story won’t end the way you want it to.”

Three sharp knocks at the door shattered the moment.

Caldren flinched, turning wide eyes to his mother. Out here in the marshlands, visitors were rare—especially at this hour.

Her expression hardened. The air around her shifted, crackling with something Caldren had never felt before. Her green eyes flickered, their depths catching an eerie, azure glow. Shadows danced across her face as she lifted her hands—not to weave illusions as she often did, but with intent.

When her fingertips touched his forehead, a jolt ran through him. A force pressed against his chest, like an unseen tide pushing him backward. Yet, somehow, he hadn’t moved at all.

“Cal, listen to me,” she murmured. “I’ve hidden you from them, but I must focus on maintaining the spell, or they will see through it. I cannot protect you if I do anything else.”

Tears stung his eyes. “They’re here for you, aren’t they? They’re going to take you away.”

His mother’s face twisted with pain, but she nodded.

The Empire’s Seekers. The ones who came for people with magic. The ones who were never seen again.

“I thought we were safe here,” she whispered. “I was wrong.”

More pounding. This time, a voice followed.

“Naeris, open the door. If my men have to break it down, it will go harder on the boy.”

The local watch captain. Elam. Caldren had never understood his hatred—only that it had always been there, simmering beneath the surface.

His mother closed her eyes for a brief moment, then turned to him with urgency. “Behind the cupboard, there’s money. Take it. Go to your uncle in Vaelkaris—he works in the Imperial Library. He will help you.”

The door shuddered under another blow.

Her hands found his face, warm and trembling. “Seek the old magic, Cal. Promise me.”

His breath hitched. The old magic? That was impossible. The Empire had eradicated it long before he was born.

But this was his mother. And she was about to be taken from him.

“I promise,” he whispered.

“Whatever happens, don’t move. The magic will make them overlook you, but you must stay still.”

The door finally gave way, crashing open. Elam strode in, followed by soldiers.

They seized his mother, binding her arms. She didn’t resist. Didn’t fight. Just watched them, defiant, as they pulled a hood over her head.

Then the Seeker entered.

Tall, gaunt, dressed in the Empire’s midnight-blue uniform. He walked with a slight limp, his polished boots whispering against the wooden floor. But it was his eyes that made Caldren shudder—or rather, his lack of them. In their place, silvery metal gleamed, streaked with pulsing veins of red.

Caldren froze. Arcinium. The Empire’s cursed gift to its hounds. If the Seeker looked at him, the magic would not hide him.

“Is this the witch?” the Seeker asked, his voice cold, tinged with an islander’s accent.

“Yes, sir,” Elam replied. Then, to his men, “Search the house. Find the boy.”

Caldren’s breath caught in his throat. His mother had healed these men. His father had trained them before he was sent to die in the Emperor’s wars. And yet, they turned on them without hesitation.

The Seeker’s gaze swept over the room, lingering on the table stacked with books. His mother’s books. Stories of heroes. Of magic. Of things the Empire wanted forgotten.

“Burn it,” he said with a dismissive wave.

A small sound escaped his mother’s lips.

Elam grabbed her arm. “Where is the boy, Naeris? My men have searched the house. I’ll see him sent to the Fifth Legion—he’s literate, so they’ll likely put him with the scribes. A hard life, but at least he will live.”

His mother’s voice was calm. “He is somewhere you cannot follow, Elam.”

Then, she stumbled. Fell to her knees. The soldiers yanked her upright and dragged her into the night.

Elam scowled. “Burn this place to the ground. And find that boy—I want him in chains by sunrise.”

The men rushed to obey.

Caldren crept toward the back of the house, easing the cellar door open with a faint creak. He stilled. Did they hear?

The sound of oil sloshing, of fire crackling, answered his question. No time.

He slipped inside, closing the door behind him. Crawled to the far wall, fumbling for the loose brick. His mother had shown him this tunnel long ago, but he’d never imagined he’d need it. Who would want to hurt them?

He pushed the brick. A faint click. A hidden door swung open.

Smoke seeped in from above. The house was burning.

He crawled into the darkness, gripping the guiding rope. His hands bled from rough stone. His knees scraped raw. The panic clawed at him, whispering of men waiting at the other end—waiting to drag him away.

Then—he slammed into the wall.

The tunnel’s end.

He slumped against the stone, chest heaving. She was gone.

His knuckles throbbed, split and bleeding. He punched the wall anyway.

“Why?” His voice cracked. “What did we ever do to them?”

He sank to the ground, pulling his knees to his chest.

And when sleep finally took him, it was not rest.

It was escape.