Page 4

A slight chuckle escaped the elderly man. “You're a Ruffio, aren't you? From the Snow Lands?”

Sion's eyes widened, and he felt a bead of sweat trickle down his neck despite the frigid air. He glanced nervously towards Brandle's tent, silently praying to the Gods that the man's snores continued. To his relief, the rhythmic sound still emanated from the canvas structure.

“I guessed right, didn't I?” Cyrus pressed, a hint of triumph in his voice. “I knew your father a bit. You look exactly like him. Anyone from the Snow Lands and a descendant of Markus Ruffio would never betray their own.”

Sion didn't dare speak of his double role, but he made no move to argue with this perceptive stranger either. He let the silence stretch between them as Cyrus finished his tea, the only sounds the crackling of the fire and the whisper of the wind through the snow-laden trees.

“How is King Efferon?” Cyrus asked suddenly, his tone so casual that it caught Sion off guard. It was jarring to hear this man, whom they had found organizing books in another realm, speak of the late king with such familiarity.

“He passed away about five years ago,” Sion replied, unable to keep the sadness from his voice. “The queen as well.” Grayden's parents had always been kind to him and his family. King Efferon had even been his godfather.

“Both?” Cyrus's brow crinkled with concern. “What happened?”

“A sickness,” Sion explained, the memories of that dark time flooding back. “None such as had ever been seen before. Healers were called from every corner of our world, but none could save them.”

Cyrus frowned, his eyes narrowing. “A sickness, you say? Did anyone else become ill?”

Sion's own frown deepened as he considered the question. No, no one else had fallen ill. The Snowden children had been kept away as a precaution, but even the healers and servants who had tended to the royal couple had remained healthy.

“Not a sickness, my boy,” Cyrus said quietly, his voice heavy with implication. “I'd wager they were poisoned.”

The words hit Sion like a physical blow. He felt suddenly dizzy, blood rushing to his head and then pooling in his cheeks. Fates, murdered. Why hadn't anyone considered this possibility? His mind raced back to those bleak days following the king and queen's deaths, when he had struggled to keep Grayden from falling apart completely. He remembered dunking his friend's head in the horse's water trough, desperate to sober him up enough to attend the funeral. Grayden had taken the loss of both parents incredibly hard, and being thrust into the role of ruler had only added to the crushing weight on his shoulders.

In the chaos of those days, with Tumwalt and Almory bustling about, trying to prepare Grayden and plan for the uncertain future, was it possible they had overlooked the true cause of the royal couple's demise?

Cyrus regarded Sion with sympathy, his eyes full of understanding as the young man grappled with this earth-shattering revelation.

“Who is ruling the Snow Lands now?” Cyrus inquired gently, steering the conversation to slightly less treacherous waters. “If I recall correctly, the eldest Snowden child had no magic. The other was practically a babe in leading strings.”

“Phillippe, the eldest, possesses no magic,” Sion confirmed, struggling to keep his voice neutral. “The younger, Grayden, now leads the lands.” Despite his best efforts, a note of pride crept into his tone as he spoke of his best friend.

“And it's him you serve, isn't it?” Cyrus pressed, his eyes knowing.

Sion nodded, just the quickest jerk of his head, but it was enough.

“Ah, I see,” Cyrus mused. “Tell me, what has Cressida been up to? Besides her plans for total domination, that is.”

“She's managed to bring dragons into this world,” Sion replied, unable to keep the note of fear from his voice.

It was Cyrus's turn to look shaken. “She didn't?” he breathed, disbelief etched across his features.

“I'm afraid so. Three, soon to be four,” Sion confirmed grimly. “She's practically unstoppable.” He glanced towards the horizon, where the first sliver of sun was beginning to climb into the sky, painting the snow-covered landscape in hues of pink and gold.

“Four dragons?” Cyrus shook his head in amazement. “I just—I can't believe she would go that far.”

“You have no idea how far her depravity goes,” Sion retorted bitterly, his hand unconsciously moving to his shoulder where the phantom pain of Cressida's bite marks still lingered.

Cyrus opened his mouth to respond but stopped abruptly as the sound of rustling emerged from Brandle's tent. Sion quickly moved away from Cyrus, returning to his position by the fire, his heart racing with the fear of discovery.

Brandle crawled out of the tent, his usually neat beard disheveled and his robes wrinkled. He looked thoroughly annoyed, his eyes narrowed as he surveyed the camp.

“Sleep well, Brandle?” Sion couldn't quite keep the smirk from his voice. It was oddly satisfying to see how poorly the pampered courtier was handling the rigors of outdoor travel.

Brandle scowled at Sion, then cast a suspicious glance at Cyrus. “Sion, get him up,” he barked. “I want to be back at the Shadow Realm by this evening. I refuse to spend another night in that accursed tent.”

Sion ignored Brandle's imperious tone, taking his time as he packed up his tent and supplies before securing them to his horse. While they were able to use magic to transport themselves for some of the journey, neither possessed enough power to transport their prisoner back to the cliff high above the Shadow Realm valley.

Snow crunched underfoot as Sion approached Cyrus once more. He cut through the ropes binding the old man to the tree, guilt washing over him as Cyrus struggled to his feet, his legs stiff from the cold. Sion moved to help him onto the horse, steadying him as he settled into the saddle. Brandle approached from behind, securing Cyrus to the saddle with fresh ropes. Sion tied the prisoner's horse to his own mount, then watched as Brandle extinguished the fire with a flick of his dark tendril of magic before climbing onto his own horse.