It’s a privilege to belong to the House of the Chosen.
JOURNAL OF SILEAS RONIN, THE FIRST FOUNDER
two | sylas
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 16, 1939
I do not fear death. Not when it stares me in the face, not when it draws its blade, and not when it plunges straight into my heart. I do not fear death because I cannot die.
“Your recklessness will cost us one of these days,” Gryff snaps as he pulls his dagger from the poacher’s neck. The same poacher who, moments ago, stabbed me with glee. My best friend wipes his blade on his black combat trousers, sighing at the man’s dead body. This morning’s Firstline recruitment trial in Gorhail Woods ended face-to-face with the worst kind of poacher, one who kills mages for our relics.
“If you fail recruitment…” Gryff lowers his voice so the other two Firstline hopefuls don’t hear. We’ve all traded our free time for Secondline uniforms, toiling every weekend and university holiday on patrol units around Gorhail Woods, training to becomeworthyFirstline field agents, so the idea of any of us failing recruitment is sickening.
This year, Firstline—DOTS’s law enforcement division—insisted on setting their biannual recruitment trial right outside of Gorhail Institute. Usually, potential recruits are sent directly to the field, without a careabout whether they make it back alive or dead. With registration at an all-time low for the second year in a row, suddenly, we—Secondliners—have gone from disposable to valuable.
“I’m not worried. Firstline won’t pass up a healing aspier who doesn’t need recovery.” I gesture to my left forearm, where Railesza’s fangs are still in my veins. Her emerald scales glisten under the shy glow of the sun behind the pillow of clouds.
“You may be immortal, but the rest of us aren’t.” Gryff’s voice pulls me back to the poacher at our feet, whose blood is staining the pristine, fresh snow crimson. Scum. I would’ve kicked his body if the recruitment officer wasn’t hovering around.
“It was not by choice,” I snap, clawing at the golden aspier around my neck. Another futile attempt.
Overseer Paltro, our acting recruitment officer, looks at me like I’ve suddenly grown three heads. His graying hair, sunken eyes, and wrinkled skin make him look like the human version of a gargoyle.
“Mr. Archyr, it is the greatest honor to wield the Imortalis.” He swats my hand away from my neck. “Don’t throw away your father’s sacrifice.”
Ah, there it is. The constant reminder that I am the reason my father is dead. That I should be thankful to inherit these relics that were never supposed to be mine.
The golden aspier, the Imortalis—or, simply, Raiek—sits cold against my skin. To nonmagi, he looks like a necklace of woven gold. To everyone else, he earns wide eyes and silent gasps. Raiek once belonged to the founder of the House of Poison, my ancestor and namesake, Sileas Ronin. Together with Faro’s Cuff from the House of Death, and the Arkani Coin from the House of Arcane, it completes the Founders’ Trinity—the three relics of immortality used to build Gorhail. Now, two of them are locked up in Gorhail’s vaults and one chokes me with responsibility that I do not want.
My mother used to wear the Imortalis. Right before she died, she gave him to my father. Over two decades later, as I watched a poacher kill Dad, both Raiek and Railesza—his own healing aspier—passed to me.
As if she can hear my thoughts, Railesza unhooks her fangs and gives me a sad look before coiling around my left forearm. She and Raiek are permanent reminders of the parents I no longer have. Then my own relic warms against my right wrist, to tell me that he is here, and we have eachother, like we’ve had since I was five. A year after Mom died, Dad brought him to me. A small, black killer aspier I named Raiku because I saw the name scribbled in one of her notebooks.
Aspieri aren’t supposed to have more than one relic. DOTS—the Department of the Supernatural—advises us to lock our heirloom aspiers in our family vaults in case our own aspiers are stolen or killed by poachers. Most Aspieri abide by the advice, although a few bolder ones wield multiples. Often, they’re the ones poachers track and kill. But Raiek cannot be taken off, and I don’t have the heart to part from Railesza. She lost Dad, too.
“Why is everyone acting like I wanted to be immortal?” I shift my glare from Gryff to Paltro.
“I didn’t mean…” Paltro places a hand on my shoulder. “The Imortalis chose you, Sylas. Like it did your father before you, and your mother before him.”
Chose. What a funny word. If Raiek had to choose, he would’ve let me die, I’m certain. “It doesn’t matter what you meant. They’re both dead.” I look at Gryff, hoping he’ll get me out of this conversation. My father was Paltro’s second on the field for decades; he was to Dad what Gryff is to me, a shadow, a confidant, a sworn ally. Sometimes, I forget that Paltro took the job as head of the House of Poison only because Dad entrusted my siblings and me to his guardianship. He didn’t have to abandon his position as Chief of Firstline, but he did. For us. And now, my ingratitude nooses around my neck.
Paltro considers me for a moment. Then he sighs, and ushers the four of us toward the northern entrance. The silhouette of Gorhail Institute rises above the fog—three black spires, evenly spaced, for each of the three Houses: the tallest one for the House of Poison; the middle one, with four smaller spires around the roof, signifying the merging of four disciplines to form the House of Arcane; and finally, the ugliest of the three, a partially rusted turret that looks like the House it represents, the House of Death.
“What’s that?” I ask, my eyes trailing uphill. Not far from the northern gates of Gorhail, a thick brown covering drapes over a mound of snow that wasn’t there when we left this morning. I lower my arm, and Railesza slithers off first. We trudge behind her, steps cautious, daggers out. For all we know, this could be a poacher’s trap. Unlikely, given the proximity to Gorhail, but caution is never excessive with poachers.
“Halt,” Paltro orders. He kneels, pulling the covering up.
A body lies in front of him. Underneath, the snow is brown. Gods, did poachers do this?
Next to me, the shorter Firstline hopeful gags. If I were him, I’d have held it until after Paltro left. “Dismissed. Retrials in six months,” Paltro says without looking at him.
“You can’t—” the second one protests. Paltro stops her with a hand, his eyes still locked on the body. “Dismissed. Retrials in a year. Anyone else?”
The two Aspieri walk away with muttered curses. Bold. Even I wouldn’t dare curse in the vicinity of Paltro. Under normal circumstances, he would’ve demoted them by one rank, but he is too preoccupied. “Approach,” he tells Gryff and me, and we do.
A young man, a year above me, stares into nothingness. I recognize him. Victor Carver, a Grand Magus, from the House of Arcane. We’ve trained with him on the field before and even shared a few patrol rounds last year, then he abruptly left Secondline. He was brilliant, albeit sometimes distracted. But he wasn’t careless.
“Poachers. An unfortunate incident,” Paltro says. “How would you proceed from here?”