Chapter One
Stifling a yawn, Nocren Lowe made his way into the Sentinels’ headquarters, nodding absently to the pair of clerks at the front desk. It had been three long days since the Storage Shed Debacle, as his fellow rangers and colleagues had taken to calling the newest kink in his current, disastrous mission.
He started toward the back room, thinking he’d grab one of the open desks and finish his report for the captain, when one of the clerks called out, “Hey, Lowe!”
Nocren slowed, turning his head to look back.
The clerk jerked her thumb toward the other side of the building. “Captain said to meet in the Big Room.”
Confusion narrowed Nocren’s eyes. “Did he say why?”
The so-called Big Room was the Sentinels’ name for the conference room in the headquarters. It was rarely used aside from special occasions. Meetings took place in the captain’s office, or sometimes one of the side areas if his office wasn’t appropriate. But not the Big Room.
The clerk shrugged. “The Graelynd woman’s already in there.”
Before Nocren could ask more, a group of civilians came in, demanding every clerk’s attention.
Exasperation audible only to himself, Nocren detoured toward the Big Room.
The Graelynd woman. Not terribly descriptive, but two faces immediately came to mind, though why either would be here for a meeting was unclear. Could it be Bioon Song, the Scourge of the Coalition, aiming for one last stab at clemency before they shipped her back south to Graelynd? He wouldn’t mind seeing the captain deny her once again. It was the only bright spot for Nocren to come out of the Storage Shed Debacle.
Eternal Wind suffocate him—the ridiculous name had stuck.
Sure, the Debacle, or rather its result, was great for the community. A win for the Valley of Sylveren in general, and its university. Gods all break, it was especially fortunate for the neighboring kingdom of Rhell. The Storage Shed Debacle had exposed the treachery of Graelynd’s Coalition of Trade. Without such an event, no one would know that an agent of the Coalition had nearly succeeded in stealing the plants required for the healing remedy needed in Rhell.
But gods all fucking break, why did it have to involve him?
It could be her, the other possibility in his mind for whom “the Graelynd woman” fit. Calya Helm. He struggled to think of her as just a woman from Graelynd. Just a name, about which he could remain objective. No, Nocren heard “Calya Helm” and could only picture the sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued brunette holding a rock. Leaning through the broken storage shed window and unlocking the door. Seizing a handful of desiccated leaves and waving at a crate bearing the logo of Sylveren University, her face lit up with smug triumph.
And Nocren? He’d been well and truly fucked with his trousers still on. Sentinels protected the Valley’s interests, and the contents of the shed demanded an answer. Nocren hadn’t had a choice but to act, and Calya had known it. Taken full advantage. She’d gotten what she wanted in disrupting the Coalition—to the detriment of Nocren and his mission—and kept them from sailing to the Song woman’s aid.
But that had been important three days ago. It should’ve meant nothing to her now, so what reason would she have for coming here? As Nocren strode down the hall, the wind picked up, a soft whistle filtering through the glass windows. A breath of magic raced along his fingertips in response.
Nocren’s mouth twisted. “Where were you when it mattered?” he asked the wind.
When he wasn’t feeling so annoyed about the Debacle, Nocren knew he was being unfair. The wind carried as many truths as it did lies. Diviners learned quickly not to give the medium unconditional trust. Nocren knew of the risks inherent in his magic. Had fallen afoul of them as well, before he’d learned to read the wind with more care. Before he’d learned to keep his internal biases at bay. As much as one could, at least. The wind brought a flurry of vague impressions, wispy threads that blew through the mind one way and, depending on the diviner’s intuition, came out differently the other. Every time he gave trust to the wind was like entering a bargain. An opportunity for insight, and for misconception.
But Calya. The wind had teased him with impressions of her, and he’d been a fool to listen. To indulge. How convenient that, in the glimpse of impressions he’d gleaned, the wind hadn’t bothered to show her picking up the rock. He might’ve averted the Storage Shed Debacle if he’d seen how things would go. That the feeling of Change the magic had brought to him was exciting only for the wind because it didn’t have to face any of the consequences.
When Nocren reached the conference room, the wind rose again as he grasped the doorknob. A thin current seeped through the window to twine around his fingers.
Brown eyes regarded him from a solemn face. “I’ll never?—”
Nocren blinked. He recognized those features. Remembered her voice. Rarely did the wind react so strongly without arcane encouragement from Nocren. It did so now. Made the words “I’ll never” echo in his mind. Magic tickled at his fingertips, eager to be used. To call upon the wind and tease apart all the possibilities it offered.
He clenched his hand into a fist, his fingernails biting into his palm until the sensation of magic receded and the wind dissipated, the hallway’s air becoming still once more. He had already been fooled by the wind once when it came to that woman; he wouldn’t give into it again.
He knocked once on the door, then pushed it open without waiting for a response.
Calya Helm sat alone at the long table inside, a teacup set before her.
For a moment, Nocren contemplated leaving. A trickle of wind brushed the side of his face, a hint of both its apology and reproach flitting through his head.
His mouth opened, an inane excuse frozen, half-formed, on the tip of his tongue. Calya’s brown eyes were regarding him from her solemn face.
But then she tilted her head ever so slightly to the side, a ghost of a smirk upon her lips.
“Mr. Lowe,” she said. “Cutting it rather close, don’t you think?”
