“You don’t think of anyone but yourself.” He holds my stare for a second, then walks away. “People like me… we don’t have a choice, Sylas. Our only hope is to join the ranks to try to change the system from within.”
With one last look at Victor, I fall into step with him, mumbling another quiet apology, but it’s useless. I let usbothdown. My recklessness on patrol is only possible because of the steadiness of Gryff’s dagger. And now, I’m leaving him alone, where DOTS risks finding out he’s a cross-mage.
A rush of ice-cold air cuts my face as we march through the gates and uphill toward the institute. Our combat jackets aren’t nearly warm enough for the harsh winters of this town.
The black spires of the House of Poison welcome us into their shadows, towering over the rest of Gorhail. An intentional design, I’m sure, given that our House is the reason this institute even stands. We deserve no less; Aspieri are the only ones with living relics. We make up the majority of Firstliners, the law enforcement officials who keep the Ten Provinces safe from poachers and magical criminals, and we bring in the most research funds to Gorhail. However, I will never understand who put forth the idea that we only thrive in darkness. We enjoy the sun just as much as the House of Arcane and their three solariums.
We walk the length of a sheltered stone hallway, grateful for the brief reprieve from the slight drizzle of rain, and step onto the wet grass outside of Overseer Paltro’s office, a tiny wooden house with a chimney to the left of a statue. Our footsteps are loud against the silence between us.
“Youngest field leader is a fine title. Do you think it’ll fit on your uniform?” My poor attempt to lighten the mood earns a grunt. This is the first time in nineteen years that we’ll be separated. A knot forms in my stomach. Our paths have always been predictable, a constant in my lifedespite all the chaos. I would be lying if I said it didn’t scare me a little. He finally shakes his head. “Second to the Deathbringer.”
The Deathbringer was a legendary Aspieri. Mom used to tell us stories of when she worked alongside her in Firstline. She dismantled several poacher camps, brought some of the most dangerous criminals in, and she was the reason poachers were afraid to set foot in the province of Bale. Now that she’s gone, they’ve been back with a vengeance.
“The Deathbringer has been missing for twenty-three years. I doubt she’ll come back for her title.”
Gryff snorts, “If you ask Lyria, she’ll tell you that even missing, the Deathbringer’s legacy shadows us all.”
At the mention of my younger sister, my smile falters. “Don’t tell Lyria about my dismissal,” I warn quietly, pushing open the oak doors of the great hall of the House of Poison, Fang’s Nest.
“Congratulations!” A small voice carries over from the fireplace. Hunched over a notebook and a scatter of books, pens, and paper, Lyria doesn’t spare us a glance as she scratches something off her notes. Instead of sitting on any of the three sofas around her, she is on the floor, her bag spilling half its contents next to her legs.
“Do you have something against chairs?” I jest.
“I think better on the—” She lifts her head at us. “Haal, why do you look like death?”
I give Gryff a pointed look and settle in the armchair next to Lyria. The great hall is quiet at this time of day. A few Aspieri gather for tea on the deep green sofas in the middle of the hall. Fang’s Nest is designed like a flower, with coffee tables and plush velvet chairs in the center, doubling as our dining room in the morning, surrounded by different lounge sections. Lyria is by the fireplace so often that they should consider adding a plaque with her name on the mantel.
“Did you fail recruitment?” Lyria’s face falls as she looks between me and Gryff.
“No.” Gryff answers with a grimace.
My sister’s head snaps toward me. She clutches her heart, feigning outrage. “Sylas Archyr, you’re a disgrace to our name,” she says, unable to contain her smile. If it were up to Lyria, Gryff and I would’ve remained at Gorhail as long as she was there.
But instead of laughing at her quip, I wince. Iama disgrace to everyone.
Gryff’s farewell was filled with tears—mostly Lyria’s, who made him promise to write to her every week. She spent the whole rest of the morning lamenting about how far away DOTS stationed him. In the afternoon, as I’m trying to find peace in a cup of tea in the middle of Fang’s Nest, the laments continue.
“Couldn’t they have stationed him in Gorhail Woods?” Lyria sets her fork next to her untouched eggs.
“Secondline oversees Gorhail Woods, Lyr.” I sigh into my cup, but she already knows that.Maybe you should consider telling Gryff how you feel about himis what I really want to tell her. They both insist they are friends, yet they’vebothbeen acting like the other is going to war, never to be seen again.
“He’sonetown over,” I deadpan. Gryff is stationed at DOTS headquarters in Riverview, only a half hour drive away. For reasons that do not concern me, my sister acts like they sent him across the country.
“Aren’t you late for class?” I ask. With Paltro dismissing me, I had to sign up for a few Grand Magus classes at the House of Arcane. Given that the ranks of Grand Magus and Magus Principalis do not have time off, I am looking at six excruciating months of back-to-back classes.
“I’m a Grand Magus, Sylas. I—” She sets down a stack of paper, and the nauseating royal-blue crest of the House of Death assaults me.
“Why do you have Death’s letterhead?” I interrupt her.
Lyria purses her lips, looking toward the lunch buffet behind me. Then she takes a deep breath. “Beau and I have requested to continue Mom’s lifedrain research at the House of Death.”
I stare at her blankly. Mom’s lifedrain theory is an extension of Grimm’s own theory, where he discovered how to transfer lifeblood—years of a mage’s life—from one mage to another. Of course, our mother’s research was not this sinister; she was trying to help Mortemagi heal instead of draining their years for blood magic. And they rewarded her by killing her.
Why would my siblings willingly go to the House of the Forsaken? Nothing good comes out of that place, only manipulation, murder, and betrayal. Their history is rooted in bloodshed; their mages rooted in death. Literally.
“Why?” My shoulders stiffen. “That wretched House killed Mom.”
“One bad Mortemagi, Sylas.” Lyria draws her notebook from her bagand shoves it under my nose, and all I can make out are sketches of dead flowers, aspiers, living flowers, and a series of complex equations that fly over my head.