Taron remains silent, but he keeps walking towards us, his hands forming fists.
“Wren, leave it,” the girl mutters. She shoots a look at the helmsman, where he’s still fidgeting with the fins onthe watercraft. “Whoever this girl is in that shabby dress, she’s not our problem.”
“Don’t be so heartless, Maeve.” The boy reaches into his pocket and retrieves a golden lighter embellished with jewels. It lights with a spark, and then, in an instant, the lanky boy’s hands are ablaze, red-hot flames licking at his skin – he’s a Pyro.
“Oh, just a heads-up,” Wren says, eyeing Taron. “We’re both on our way to compete in the Reckoning. You might’ve heard of it?”
“Heard of it?” Taron says. “I’m in it.” His words catch Wren off guard, and seizing his chance, Taron flicks his wrist upward. Wren is lifted a metre in the air. Then, with a swift downward motion from Taron’s palm, he crashes to the ground with brutal force.
Groaning in pain, Wren writhes on the ground.
The girl – Maeve – lets out a furious scream. She directs her hands at the waterway and moves them in fluid, circular motions. She’s an Aqua. A column of water rises from the waterway and, as she thrusts her arms forward, the water hurtles towards Taron like a wave.
He angles his elbow to block, using his gravitational talents to repel the oncoming wave like he’s holding an invisible shield. I get most of the backsplash. My shawl is drenched, and my dress is soaked through.
Taron twists his heel on the ground and gives a firm stomp. That’s when a pulse of air erupts beneath Maeve’s feet to send her flying. He barely breaks a sweat. I hate toadmit it, but Taron is pretty good.Where did Madame Vera find him?
In the corner of my eye, I see Wren raising a hand, preparing to hurl flames at Taron from the ground.
“I don’t think so…” I pull my hand back, absorbing all the fragments of negative energy swirling like a hazy mist in the air around me. Fear. Anger. Frustration.
I gather the energy in my hands and shape it into a whip – the first thing I can think of – before lashing it at Wren with a resounding crack.
The whip takes on a life of its own, wrapping around his wrists and pinning him down on to the ground. His head swivels in my direction, eyes widening with realization.
“Maeve, she’s with him! It’s a trap—” But before he can utter anything else, Taron is on him. His arm is hooked around Wren’s neck, and a white rag is pressed to his mouth.
Maeve screams behind me, and I turn. The burly man has grabbed hold of her, a white rag in his hand, too.
I watch horrified as, a moment later, Maeve and Wren are rendered unconscious, knocked out by whatever tonic is soaked into their rags.
Wren’s flames sputter and die in his palms, and he relaxes in Taron’s grip. Maeve slumps, too. I stare at their limp forms. My heart continues to race.
“They’re not…?”
“Dead? No.” Taron pants. “Just out cold.”
“What are you going to do with them?”
“That’s for me to worry about.” The burly man starts sifting through Maeve’s pockets, extracting a scroll. Cream-coloured paper with golden trim, held together by the official wax seal of the High Council.
“What is that?” I ask, trying to get a look at the scroll’s contents, when the burly man unfurls it.
“Your official invitation to participate in the Reckoning,” he says, eyeing the golden script within. He rolls the scroll back up and chucks it at Taron. “Congratulations, you’re now known as Maeve and Wren from Moondance Haven.”
“That’s it? An invitation?” I ask. “What if someone asks to see our sigils to prove our identities?”
“That’s why we have these, courtesy of Madame Vera.” Taron pockets the scroll and reveals two sigils in his hand. They’re small bronze medallions, used for identification across the three principalities of the Triumstellar Accord. Most people wear their sigils as necklaces or bracelets, but I keep mine tied to the end of my shears, tucked into my boot.
“She had these made?” I ask, and it scares me that Madame Vera is capable of something like this – to know people in places high enough to forge a sigil.
“They’re fakes, but to the untrained eye, they look real enough.” Taron extends one of the sigils, and I take it from him.
I place it in the centre of my palm, facing up, the way one would with a real sigil. The writing carved around the edge comes alive, emitting a warm orange glow before thestone embedded in the centre takes on a hazy grey colour to signify my talents as an Emo.
I rotate the medallion to read the writing.
Maeve Speck. Born on the 14th Day of Crea Full, Stellar Year 1180. No formal credentials.
