Had that been thunder?
Blinking away the distraction, I rushed down the hall into the ballroom. Several nobles remained inside, gathered in circles around their tables, chattering away while servants urged them to return to their rooms.
Two men walked side by side down the center of the room. One, an Aenir man with steel hair, bound by a circlet, a forest-green cape flowing behind him. The other, a Muirashin with short, neat hair, his sword drawn.
"Is that him?" I asked.
"That's the king," Ferris confirmed. "But?—"
He cut himself off. A familiar scent caressed my face, leaving a smoldering scar.
Smoke and flame.
Drawing my blade, I sprinted toward the man wearing the crown.
The governor leaped in front of the king, blade held high, but it wasn't to him my eyes were drawn. Something flashed beneath the glare of the furthest chandelier, as though intensifying the firelight.
I had but a second to react. A blade of light manifested and shot across the room, directly toward the king's back. Throwing myself past the governor, I jumped into its path, sword raised to deflect it.
The radiant blade slammed into mine at an awkward angle, forcing my arm back. It broke from the steel and tore down my bracer before thudding into the ground.
Screams erupted around the room. Blood pulsed in my ears, drowning them out.
The nightmare was here, hidden in the shadows, surrounded by the smoke slowly filling the ballroom.
Seeing his attack failed, the shadow retreated into the corner of the room, but not before I'd seen him in full: a cloaked man with a slim build, moving with the grace of a dancer.
"Get the king to safety!" A deep voice shouted.
Boots thundered on the floor, and someone shoved past my shoulder, but it was like the world had muted. The assassin darted from the safety of the smoke and shadows toward a back hall.
And I followed.
I heard another shout. "Ferris, stop!"
Risking a glance behind, I saw my cellmate a step behind me. Maybe he'd be good for something in a fight.
The smell of fire grew as I tore down the hall. The thin corridor ended at a spiral stairwell. I could hear the assassin above me, nearing the top.
Black cloth caught my eye, where his cloak hung through the wooden slats. Tearing after him, my heart thundered in time with my steps.
Akemi had not bested him. Would I?
I exited into a cluttered kitchen, abandoned by the servants. The assassin leaped over a counter, throwing cups and plates across the room.
He whirled around when he landed, eyes but a gleam of gold beneath his hood. Raising his hand, he extended his fingers toward a candle and drew.
Another sword formed from the light as the candle died, this time aimed at my heart.
Magic did not come easily. Most people never grasped it.
Catalysts barred us from the elements boiling in our blood, the thread connecting us to our magic. They were personal and oftentimes unpleasant. Only those willing to look inward and accept their truths ignited their spark.
Akemi had tried and failed to help me find mine. Only after his death did I wield magic for the first time.
My catalyst was him. After his death, our blacksmith had done me a favor: reforged Akemi's broken sword with his blood folded at its center, rather than ice.
And that blood was my link to my magic.
