Before dawn, Sido moved through the silent east wing where the new initiates slept. At Shandar Corpus's bedside, she paused. This girl had summoned fire during her Making—raw, untamed power.
"Shandar," she whispered.
The girl's eyes flew open, wild with terror. An invisible force erupted from her, hurling Sido across the room. The Head Mother slammed against the stone wall, breath knocked from her lungs. On the bed, Shandar's blankets erupted in living flame.
"Breathe," Sido commanded, pressing her palm against the girl's shoulder despite the heat. "Control it."
The fire died instantly, leaving only charred linen and the acrid smell of smoke.
Shandar trembled. "Forgive me," she whispered. "I was dreaming of…" She stopped, unable to continue.
Later, Sido gathered the four surviving initiates in their chamber. She recited the prophecy in full, watching their faces grow pale in the candlelight.
"Seven chosen will face the darkness when it rises," she concluded. "The Mistress of Fire stands among you now."
Shandar clutched her pillow to her chest like a shield. "My mother said a prince would come for me," she confessed, voice barely audible. "Prince Blair. She said we would wed."
Sido's heart sank. The Seer of Tierney's daughter, the prophesied Mistress of Fire. Fate's cruel humor knew no bounds.
That afternoon, Prince Blair arrived with three silent escorts.
Sido closed the ancient tome she'd been studying. "Shandar awakened her power yesterday. She has no control. We need weeks, possibly months of training."
"Impossible," Blair said. "We leave at dawn."
Sido recognized the edge in his voice, not arrogance but fear. The young prince had seen something that haunted him.
"Show us this power," said the tallest escort, leaning forward with unnatural stillness.
The door opened behind them. Shandar entered wearing maroon leather armor that hugged her slender frame. Her red hair was pulled back, revealing the sharp angles of her face. Her green eyes found Blair's blue ones across the room.
Neither moved. Neither spoke. The air between them seemed to thicken, as if the prophecy itself held them in place.
"Your armor..." Sido finally said, breaking the silence.
"From my mother." Shandar's voice was soft but steady. "I found it this morning after you told me the prince had arrived."
The tall escort's eyes glittered with interest. "The Seer's daughter."
Blair took a step forward, his composure cracking. "You were foretold to me?"
Shandar nodded once. "I dream of your medallion." Her fingers twisted in her cloak. "Every night for months."
Blair's hand moved to his chest, drawing out a golden medallion from beneath his shirt. Shandar's breath caught.
"And I," Blair said quietly, "dream of your eyes."
He turned to his escorts. "Remove your crystals."
Each guard reached to their necks, pulling away small crystals hung on leather cords. The air around them shimmered like heat over summer stones.
Where three human guards had stood now towered three elves—tall, elegant beings with luminous skin and pointed ears. Their eyes held centuries.
Sido smiled, a mystery solved. But Shandar backed away, terror flashing across her face. Her hands erupted in flame—not the wild bursts of before, but concentrated fire that coiled around her fingers like living snakes.
"Elves," she gasped, flinging one hand out defensively.
A fireball blasted through the air, missing the nearest elf by inches and burning a perfect circle through the wooden door.
Sido stepped between them. "Breathe, child. They mean no harm."
The flames didn't die but gathered tighter around Shandar's hands, ready to strike again.
Blair approached slowly, hands raised. "Shandar," he said, using her name with careful emphasis. "They are my allies. My friends."
The flames flickered, uncertainty crossing her face.
"Can you control this fire well enough to travel?" Blair asked, his voice gentle but direct.
Shandar shook her head, eyes haunted. "It comes when I'm afraid. When I'm angry." She looked at her hands. "I can't always stop it."
Sido moved to her side. "Magic obeys intent before skill. Picture what you wish to do, then believe in it."
Shandar closed her eyes, shoulders tense with concentration. The flames receded slightly, dancing closer to her skin.
A knock rattled the door. Shandar's eyes flew open in alarm. Her arm shot forward reflexively, another fireball punching through the already damaged wood.
Landon stumbled through, his sleeve smoldering. "I nearly lost my head!"
"Are you hurt?" Sido asked, examining his arm.
"They didn't warn me they were practicing destructive magic in here," he muttered, eyeing Shandar's armor with sudden recognition. He bowed hastily. "The Council awaits, Head Mother."
Sido positioned herself to block his view of the elves. "This cannot be rushed," she said firmly. She turned to Blair. "Stay with her. Share everything you know of the prophecy."
To the tallest elf, she added: "Prince Finrod, I beg you to consider her need for training before you depart at dawn."
The elf inclined his head gravely.
"If this prophecy fails," Sido said, her final words heavy with centuries of knowledge, "even the elves will struggle to survive what comes." She met Finrod's ancient eyes. "Think on that before you send a half-trained fire mage stumbling into the wilderness."
The door closed with a soft click.
Silence settled over the chamber like dust. Shandar's bones pressed against the wooden chair, her knuckles white against the worn armrests.
"You're elves," she said, the words harsher than intended.
Finrod's silver-blue eyes, ancient as winter ice, flickered as he dipped his head. His gaze revealed nothing—a frozen lake unmarked by footprints.
Violet sparks arced between Shandar's fingertips, crackling in the quiet. "What quest are you dragging me into? What are we hunting?"
The other elves exchanged a glance so swift she nearly missed it. In the hearth, flames roared, casting restless shadows across the walls.
The metal cuffs at Shandar's wrists creaked as she shifted.
Blair rose, each step heavy with reluctance. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts. "Mistress…”
"Shandar," she cut in, chin lifting. "I'm as much a mistress as I am dead."
He swept dark hair from his forehead, exhaling. "Shandar." He began pacing, two sharp strides, pivot, his gaze darting from floor to windows to her face. "I was hired to guide them to Dragon Rest. I sought a talisman that led us to Tartus, above Talon Pass."
Ice flooded her veins at the name. Tartus. The creature Sido whispered of in the darkest corners of her teachings, never in daylight.
"That's where he stripped away our disguises," Blair continued, voice tightening. "Where the prophecies were spoken. We came seeking the Mistress of Fire. Now you stand where we stand, blind at the edge of an abyss."
The knot in Shandar's throat burned. "You mean Sido's poem? And Tartus, what is he?"
Finrod stirred. "Your human version is but a splinter of truth."
"Why does time matter so desperately?" Shandar pressed.
Blair's head snapped toward Finrod, naked alarm in his eyes.
The room grew still. Finrod closed his eyes. His hand thrust into empty air and emerged clutching a tiny grimoire no larger than his palm. Its leaf-thin pages pulsed with unnatural rhythm, like something alive.
"This," he whispered, voice dropping to thunder, "is the elvish prophecy."
He spoke a single word, "Edro."
The book sprang open. Sickly green light bathed his angular features, turning them skeletal. His voice rolled out: "When Fornax, Horologi, and Triangul align with Izar, our doom is sealed."
He rose abruptly, pacing the hearth's rim. Three measured steps, turn. His shadow stretched impossibly tall against the wall.
"You know them as the Furnace, Clock, Triangle, and the Raiment. Within this season, they converge." His voice darkened. "No mortal has witnessed this alignment and lived."
The chamber grew so cold Shandar could see her breath. Finrod halted at the hearth's edge, drawing air like a drowning man.
"The Dragon Rest mountains sprawl across the horizon like a burning spine. Time hunts us. Danger stalks us." His voice faltered. "Triangul's tip already pierces the night sky."
His composure cracked. He sat, then jerked upright as if the chair had burned him, naked fear flashing across features too perfect for human expression.
The book closed with a soft, mournful sigh that seemed to echo from a distant grave.
"How long?" Shandar's voice arose as brittle ice.
The three elves shared a look of grim resignation. Blair's restless hands fell still.
"Weeks," Finrod finally said, each word a stone on a tomb. "Perhaps less."