A collective gasp sounds as Pendefyre comes into view. My own lips part as I take in the sight of him standing on a ledge halfway up the cliff face in a hollowed-out natural chamber, his features awash in firelight. There are countless glyphs carved into the stone surrounding him, deep maegical scars that hum with untapped power.
He is dressed simply in plain black breeches—shirtless and barefoot, his Remnant on full display—yet he appears almost godlike as he stares down at us. And we stare back, necks craned, mouths agape. A congregation at worship of their deity.
“Fyremas is upon us,” Penn calls, casting his eyes around the cavern from above, his voice reverberating with strength. “Once again, we celebrate the turn of the seasons. Winter to spring, snow to thaw. As our fields shake off the weight of slumber, as new life awakens deep beneath the earth, as we again take up the task of plowing soil and planting seed, we ask the gods to bless us with a fruitful harvest, we ask our ancestors to grace us with their favor, holding off the blight that erodes into our lands. We ask the wards to shield us, as they have for generations, from any who would do us harm.”
He hauls in a deep breath, chest muscles flexing. “I havewalked the world beyond our borders. I have lived a life outside the lands we call home. I have tasted the ashes of ruined kingdoms in the air and seen the darkness that steals across all of Anwyvn firsthand.”
His eyes press closed. When they open, he is looking directly at me. Even across such a distance, I can see—canfeel—the heat in his stare. The intensity of it.
“In a time of widespread death and loss, we are fortunate to still have so much to safeguard. To possess so much worthy of protection. So on this night, above all else, we give thanks for the salvation already delivered. For the gifts already given. For the homecomings we thought might never come. And for the ones we love—the ones worth fighting for.”
My breath catches.
“May the light of Fyremas burn bright until the dawn, a reminder that there is no night so consuming it cannot be endured; no gloom so heavy it cannot be cast out. We are Dyved. We are the flame in the darkness. And we will hold back the shadows, in whatever form they come.”
Penn’s arms rise from his sides. The crowd gasps again when they see, in the air above each hand, he holds a ball of white-hot fire. Everyone seems to hold their breath, awaiting Penn’s next move. The effort to remain in control wears at him—his face is drawn; his brow furrows in concentration.
For the first time ever, all his shields are down, allowing me a rare glimpse into his psyche. Through our bond, I experience his emotions as if they are my own. That unflinching self-control, that undercurrent of intensity. There is no fear in him, no anxiety. He will not let those feelings take root, even if he feels them stirring to life within.
You are the sentinel at the threshold of chaos.
You will not yield.
You will not fall.
Tension thrums, charging the air like the sky before a lightning strike. Even at this distance, the raw strength he exudes threatens to make my knees give out. He drops into a crouch and presses his flaming hands to the stone. The earth gives a great shudder, a ripple moving through the cavern as Penn’s power pulses, unbridled, into the thick layers of petrified ash. Into the wards beneath, embedded deep in the fabric of the earth. Into the leylines, those sacred seams of ancient maegic that hold our world together.
The trenches of fire flare along the floor perimeter, brightening the throne room nearly to daylight. The caged flame at the base of each column sparks higher, causing those standing closest to shy away in fear. The temperature rises by several degrees as Penn’s maegic continues to pour out, wave after wave, pulse after pulse. A flood of raw energy. The glyphs in the chamber around him glow red—a glow that spreads outward through the walls like blood through veins, until the whole cavern is charged.
Maegic fills the air, thick and palpable. At my chest, my own Remnant stirs awake in response. I clench my fists, trying to hold on to my own control. I can no longer tell which emotions are mine and which are Penn’s.
Is it my fear or his that lumps at the back of my throat?
Is it his worry or mine that prickles at my eyes?
I let his power wash over me, through me, and seek the tranquil center inside my mind—calming my own inner storms before they are magnified by the one Penn has unleashed.
It ends with bone-shaking swiftness. His power shuts off all at once, like the turn of a valve, a stopper shoved into a bottleneck. One moment the world is abuzz with maegic, the walls aglow, the air shimmering…and then, in a blink, the flames return to normal height in their trenches. The heat recedes; theair clears. The only trace of what just occurred is the red-veined lava flows, still glowing all around us, pulsing faintly like the earth beneath our feet has a living, beating heart.
His control is absolute, his skill astounding. I am not sure whether to be more awed by his discipline or more anxious I cannot manage anything akin to it.
The crowd bursts into applause—boots stomping, palms clapping, mouths calling out cheers of celebration. Farley lets out a whoop of glee. Jac grins as he jostles me with an elbow. Even Cadogan is smiling.
Fyremas has officially begun. It is time to celebrate. The wards are charged, the ceremony ended. But as the tide of jubilation sweeps through the room, I find myself the sole point of stillness, staring upward to the back wall of the cavern.
On the cliff face, the ceremonial chamber is empty.
At my chest, the Remnant bond is eerily numb.
Pendefyre is gone.
“Jac!” I yell,breathless. “Enough! I’m dizzy.”
He grins as he twirls me yet again, spinning me with the skill of a man who has significant experience holding women in his arms—both on the dance floor and off it. It is our third jig in a row. My breaths are short; my head is awhirl. The cups of strong mulled wine I consumed over dinner may be contributing to my dizziness, but my partner’s increasingly wild moves are not helping matters much.
“Not my fault you can’t keep up, Ace!”
“I should’ve asked Cadogan,” I retort, catching sight of the second member of my guard detail as we whirl across the expanse of flagstones. His blond hair is a bright beacon even in the shadowy corner where he stands keeping watch.