A teenager just old enough to be in that strange time between boy and man lumbered into the room. Topp imagined they couldn’t have been more than a few years apart. The teenager towered over his mother and leaned into the doorframe. “What’s this now?”
“I hear you can weld. Like the flame and iron run in your blood.”
The boy shrugged, but the king persisted. “Come now, I can pay you well. Surely, a few extra coins can go a long way. The tip I received about your work comes from a reliable source, so I’ve no doubt you really are the best there is in the city.”
Jedd sighed and ran a pale hand through flame red hair. “I’m booked for weeks. What kind of work are you needing?”
The king stepped back, giving an air of ease. “I’d really like to see you weld first. See the master in action.”
The young man’s body became rigid. “Nobody comes into the shop. Those are the rules.”
The strong reaction confused Topp. Who cared if someone watched you weld for a few minutes? Getting a job with the Crown could set you up for life if you were any good. The smell of seafood stew drifted out the door, making Topp’s stomach rumble.
But his father nodded slowly. “Yes, yes, I suppose I wouldn’t let anyone in the shop either,” he mused. He straightened, letting a bit more of his authority leak out. “Perhaps you will make an exception for your king.”
All the color slid from the boy’s cheeks and his fingers started to tremble. “K-king?”
“Come with me, boy. I have a job for you.” The king turned heel and did not wait for the pale, trembling boy who was not quite a man to follow him because he knew he would. They always did.
The king brought the boy to his own shop within the castle grounds and set him to task with one word: “Weld.” He waited with his hands loosely behind his back, patient as a hawk gliding over its prey.
Topp remembered how the boy’s eyes flickered to his own as if begging him to help, but Topp hadn’t understood until hestarted to weld. And then it was too late. It had been too late the entire time. Each of the boy’s fingers alternated between catching fire and dashing out cold as he manipulated the iron with no fear of the flames that danced over skin and iron.
Topp thought of the furniture that had become kindling in his room. How his grief had taken physical form, escaping his body. He looked at the young man, anxious to know what would happen next. As if it was his own fate he was watching unfold. Cold, bone-deep despair filled him.
But he should have known.
As every child of Kava knows. The undead gods are friend to none.
The trajectory of Topp’s life had changed somewhere between the time when he had risen and when he watched a young man weld for the last time. Garrison stared at the boy, his face devoid of any emotion or reaction. Topp had no idea who he was going to become. He’d never wanted to be a hero like his father. All he knew now was that whoever he’d been this morning was no longer an option. The carefree, reticent heir could no longer exist. Not after today.
It was an odd thing in Kava. That no one remembered the undead gods or their stories. People rarely spoke of the wondrous small and large magics that used to be so normal. Topp had only been a baby when magic had died, yet warnings of the dangers of magic were all that were left now. Mothers and aunties and grandmothers telling tales of those who had lost their lives for the mere suspicion that they’d been visited by an undead god. If a child asked a question about the Fall, or the gods, they would be hushed.
We don’t talk about that. It was a long time ago. Things are different now.
Everyone had heard of someone who had suddenly disappeared. Maybe they’d painted a portrait that dazzled theeye in the most unnatural fashion, or someone swore they’d seen their neighbor dry their wet clothes with a single concentrated wave of their hand. It was hard to say just what marked you as someone who’d dabbled with the undead or been born with a curse upon your blood, but you could be certain that it would get your throat slit if you had.
The boy from the scrunched building with hair like fire did not walk out of the castle grounds that day. A common errand boy delivered a small bag of money to his mother with the simple note that Jedd would not be coming home. And that was the end of his story.
Today, Topp Blatz lived by one single rule. It wasn’t that he could never let his secret be known—that was just a given. His rule was that he would put no one and nothing above himself.
This rule was forged as that fire-haired boy died. His father had met his eyes and given him a calm, resigned nod. As if this was unavoidable. As if he were leading a rabid animal out to be put down instead of a boy with fire and ice in his hands. Until that day, Topp had believed his father to be someone who would protect him. No matter the cost or cause. The boy’s dying screams made it clear as the Kavian skies were not—no one would be saving him.
One day, he would have to choose between his life and his father’s. And he was determined to choose himself. His mother, his sister—they were both dead. He refused to meet the same end.
Because whatever his father was protecting, it wasn’t him and it wasn’t the people of Kava.
His mission became to unravel Kava’s greatest secret. Somewhere in their buried history was a story of Kava, the Crown, and the undead gods. A story of how and why magic had disappeared. Topp was convinced this was where Kava’s redemption lay.
He shook out his hand, halting in front of the door to the meeting. There was not a single part of him that wanted to be here. All of this shit with Elysia had his anxiety cranked up with no outlet. Instead, it moved roughly inside him, pushing his magic to lash out.Last night was a disaster.
He schooled his face into indifference. Within these walls, there wasn’t any room for his natural inclination toward dirty humor or honest, blunt communication. No, he had learned to lie and be as silver-tongued as the rest of them.
Well, he still fucked with people. It just wasn’t out of the goodness of his heart.
And the only time he was honest was when he felt like being an asshole to the slugs surrounding his father. Outside of his obligations, he spent every possible free second under the open sky, wishing he could disappear. His ambition, sense of responsibility, and guilt held him here like an unwanted but necessary anchor.
He’d acted as the hands of his father too many times to count, wasted lives piling up behind his name. He kept a tally of them all. The tally kept his focus clear. It reminded him that he had one job and that was to find the antidote to whatever had swept through Kava, robbing every last citizen of their birthright. But he still hadn't found an answer—he was still clueless why magic had disappeared. He had a terrible feeling that if anything happened to his father, the truth and any hope of restoring Kava would die with him. So, he waited. And tried not to lose his mind in the process.
