They entered through empty passages clearly meant for soldiers—those men and women still locked away at the order of the Emperor. Fiera led them past a desk that must once have belonged to the quartermaster, and through one of three doors that led to a mostly empty armory. Every part of Norin had been impacted by the ten-year siege. The city was like a carcass that the Empire was slowly, bite by bite, licking clean.
Fiera went to a door in the back, lifted a key with a chain around her neck and, with one more glance back at Vi, opened the door.
Beyond the threshold, a narrow hallway glowed orange thanks to a curtain of swirling flame burning at its end. The fire was nearly white-hot and would no doubt be difficult for even the most powerful of Firebearers to pass through.
Fiera waved dismissively and the flames vanished. Vi was left blinking into the sudden darkness in the moments before the princess summoned a mote of flame for them to see by.
“How difficult is it to maintain that flame all the time?” Vi asked.
“I’ve grown accustomed to it,” Fiera answered. “At first, it seemed like a great deal of power constantly draining from me, making me weak. But our magic is like our muscles—the more we stretch and flex our powers, the stronger they become. I hardly notice it now.”
Vi believed her. Fiera’s powers were as breathtaking as all the stories she’d been told growing up made them seem.
They continued forward, past the stones that still glowed faintly from the residual heat of the flames and into a tiny room. It was unadorned, save for the sword hung on the wall before Vi, and a narrow table beneath it. Fiera reached for the blade without hesitation, unsheathing it.
“The Sword of Jadar,” she said with quiet reverence. “Bestowed by King Jadar onto his youngest son—the one who did not inherit his flames—so he could use its powers to defend Mhashan and the throne.” She held out the blade, pointing it directly at Vi. “You have seen it. And now I will have the proof you promised.”
She should feel threatened. But Vi’s heart raced purely because of how close the crystal was. She could feel the waves of power rippling from it. Every swirl of the magic within it delighted her, enthralled her.
Vi’s plan to prove her good intentions had been formed out of a series of guesses. But in that moment, she no longer needed a clear way forward. She didn’t need to overthink.
She acted on instinct.
Lifting her hands, Vi’s fingertips lightly landed on the edges of the blade on either side. It was sharp enough that it could bite into her flesh but it didn’t. It wouldn’t. This was the will of the goddess; Vi and the sword were of the same make, now, and it would not harm her.
Power lifted off the blade. The faint glow that perpetually surrounded the sword curled like tendrils of smoke, reaching for Vi with a nearly sentient quality. Like the scythe, the power crashed on her, and the sensation of being two places at once overtook her.
They stood in the center of the Dark Isle.
Two women and two men were semi-circled around one older man who had the same pointed ears as Taavin. He still appeared youthful, yet his eyes were ancient and ringed with dark circles. Clutched in his left hand was a tall staff of glittering crystal as bright blue as a clear morning sky.
Vi knew the man was the former Champion. Looking at him was like looking in a mirror that twisted her outside reflection while exposing what was within. He spoke to what she assumed were his children, but his eyes remained on her—as if he could see the one who would come after him, even then. As if somehow, across all time and space, he was aware of the future Champion in his midst.
Lifting the staff, magic burst from his hands, merging with the glow of the crystal as he broke off the first quarter of the staff.
The fragment glowed so brightly that Vi was left blinking, struggling to make out what was happening; the four kneeling before the Champion covered their eyes. But the light and magic faded, revealing a scythe he bestowed on his youngest daughter.
The Champion repeated the process, giving an axe to the next daughter, and a sword to his youngest son. On his eldest’s brow, the Champion settled a crown of crystal.
As soon as the man’s hands left the crown, his body aged. Vi watched as the magic left him like fireflies returning to the sun high above. He swayed from side to side as muscles vanished and his clothes became limp sacks. His skin and hair grayed and his lips curled in.
But his eyes—those eyes that had witnessed the passage of time from beyond its reach, thanks to the hand of Yargen—stayed the same. They were not surprised. They were not in pain.
Vi only saw acceptance and relief in the man’s final moments.
All at once, her awareness returned to her physical body.
As it had with the scythe in the Twilight Kingdom, a soft glow coated her skin, extending from the sword. The magic disappeared like smoke as the vision left her. Fiera and Zira looked at her with startled and slightly worried expressions.
Vi lowered her hands from the blade, taking a step away. She moved slowly so they wouldn’t spook and attack her, and because her head was still spinning, settling back into this time and place.
That vision had been far more vivid than the last. With the scythe, she’d experienced shifting images, feelings, sensations that connected into a story Vi could piece together. This had been a complete scene from start to finish.
“They glow blue, not red…” Zira whispered. “Like the sword.”
Vi lifted her hand to her temple and wished there was a mirror in the room so she could confirm Zira’s murmurings were about her eyes.
“What are you?” Fiera asked as she lowered the sword.
