I touch his hand on the reins, stirring him from his memories, but he does not dwell on them. He is a man of action, and there are things to be done.
“Are you ready, Princess?”
When I nod, Arax shrugs off his cloak. The runes on his back pulse just before his black wings, streaked with gray, burst forth with a sudden snap. He narrows his eyes on the horizon, where the approaching Legion sets up camp, then thrusts his hand forward. Ribbons of smoke soar through the air before stopping abruptly to form a swirling circle. Slowly, the smoke gives way to a vast emptiness—a black, endless maw that I have seen in my waking nightmares. The void. A place of untold power and endless despair.
With a beat of his wings, Arax rises into the air, hovering beside me, waiting for me to make the first move. I take a deep breath, exhaling any doubt or fear. There is no room for that here. I place my hand flat against the stag’s muscular neck, feeling the warmth of its body beneath my palm.Run, my mind whispers.
The stag's powerful legs spring into action, its hooves pounding against the ground with a sound like war drums echoing through the air. Arax pins back his wings, flying alongside me as we charge toward the portal. I grip the reins tightly, my heartbeat syncing with the stag’s, our minds merging as we near the encroaching darkness. I feel both of us hold our breaths as we leap blindly into the void.
It’s like plunging underwater—eerily silent and all-encompassing, with no way to breathe. The emptiness wraps around us, an eternal abyss, but I refuse to surrender to its calm. I know what lurks here. This is the domain of The Father Below, and he always hungers.
Before the darkness can settle into my bones, we emerge on the other side, transported miles from where we entered, The Grove now a distant memory. Arax releases another series of smoke arrows, and a new portal bends into existence before us. We charge into that one as well, emerging further away, the Legion camp growing closer with each leap.
Arax clenches his jaw, the strain evident on his face as we void walk yet again. Despite his warnings, I find I’ve managed to remain composed, enduring only a few sharp jolts of pain that force me to grit my teeth and tighten my grip on the reins until my knuckles turn white and my nails dig into my palms.
Though I’m relieved not to be sick, a nagging worry lingers. Is my resistance to the void a sign of the part of it that grows within me?
With one final jump we appear at the foot of the Legion Camp, and the wall of guards release a collective gasp, the ring of their swords almost deafening.
I quickly raise my hand as I gasp for breath, my stomach churning. “Wait,” I say with urgency before they attack. “I am Amara Tyne. Jewel of the Tenders. Guardian of the Grove. I wish to parlay with the Golden Son.”
The soldiers in their gilded armor exchange glances through the visors of their helms, each adorned with a sharp steel crest. Embellished on their chests is the image of crossed swords framed by praying hands, a motif that also appears on their heavy-scaled pauldrons and gauntlets and flowing behind them are their heavy red cloaks.
Their ranks part, allowing me a pathway into their camp, and with a thought, the stag takes a step forward. But when Arax tries to walk alongside us, the soldiers fall back into line.
“Not the Fae. He stays here.”
Arax snarls, his canines emerging, his hand hovering over his sword. “Not on your life, boy.”
The Legion reach for their own swords, and I throw my arms up in protest. I will not have a war break out here and now.
“Fine. I accept your terms,” I say, and I feel Arax’s eyes burning through me.
I look down at him, offering a smile I know gives him very little comfort. “Please, Arax. Wait here.”
“But, Princess,’ he pleads.
I shake my head lightly. “If I do not return, then you must return to The Grove to protect it. Do you promise me that?”
Arax exhales, then nods slow and reluctant. “Yes, Princess.”
The Legion soldiers part once more and the stag strides between them, and I feel Arax’s gaze with every thundering step. The makeshift encampment sprawls before me, an arrangement of tents and flickering campfires. Soldiers huddle together, their faces drawn and weary, exchanging glances filled with disdain as they watch us approach. The scent of smoke hangs heavy in the air, mingling with unease.
But the stag and I remain steady as we weave through the throng of soldiers and when I look into the distance and see how far this army stretches, dread sears beneath my skin. If it comes to war, The Grove can not possibly survive. Finally, we come to a stop outside a large tent, its fabric slightly tattered, marked by the swords and praying hands.
I dismount from the stag, its powerful form shifting beneath me, and it takes a moment before my feet touch the ground. A soldier at the door glares at me through his visor, then pulls back the curtain of the tent. The interior is dimly lit, and anticipation coils within me as I take a deep breath and step inside.
A single lantern casts a warm, flickering glow, illuminating a modest wooden table scattered with maps and scrolls. In the opposite corner, a simple bed is made up with a rough blanket.
When my gaze finally lands on him, I’m momentarily struck by the sight.
I have seen him before, but each encounter jolts me, though I can’t explain why. He sits casually on a makeshift stool, his presence both commanding and relaxed. One hand props up his sword, the point embedded in the dirt as if it were an extension of himself, while the other drapes lazily over his knee. The flickering light from the nearby lantern casts shadows across his figure, highlighting the crimson of his tunic, which sharply contrasts with the darkness of his black trousers and the striking yellow-blond of his hair.
But it is his mask that captures my attention—a stunning creation of gold, its craftsmanship resembling flames caught in mid-surge. The design is both beautiful and fearsome, the golden hues shifting with the light, creating the illusion of flickering fire. Encased within are the bluest eyes I have ever seen.
“Jewel of the Tenders—or is it Princess Amara of the Mordorin?” he greets me, his voice steady and unhurried, carrying an air of calculated calm. “To what do I owe the esteemed pleasure of your visit?”
“It is just Amara, and I’ve come to speak with you about the Legion and the conflict brewing on our borders,” I reply, forcing my voice to remain steady despite the unease churning in my stomach.
