Page 66 of A Kiss of Hammer and Flame (Fated for Hael #1)

Dressed in a stolen Kolyath army tabard, her dark brown hair tucked beneath a large helmet, Wyldaern followed the path laid out by her vision, slipping through the enemy’s front lines all the way to Hael’stromia’s gate. She moved quietly inside.

Now, she raced down the capital’s streets, guided by her pendant’s subtle divination. She prayed her vision would lead her to Thelaema and the reason the High Oraculine had disappeared in the midst of the battle.

Wyldaern dashed around a corner only to stop short, a sob escaping her before she had the chance, the sense, to silence it.

The avenue to the pyramid lay in ruins, chunks from the majestic stone pedestals scattered like a broken puzzle, as though they had exploded. Two sky-high obelisks, looming behind an imposing statue, also bore the marks of the cataclysm. And at the far end of it all, Wyldaern spotted two figures.

The familiar form of her mentor stood in contrast with the bloody scene, as Thelaema drove a dagger into the chest of the stranger, the body sagging, folding under the weight of her High Oraculine’s blow.

Wyldaern dashed closer, each step bringing her within earshot of their final words.

‘No one will follow in your sinful footsteps,’ Thelaema murmured.

The dying man managed a grim smile, lips paling, wheezing with the words, ‘Yet, I have already chosen my disciple.’ His last breath escaped him in a moan.

Thelaema sighed heavily, face etched with exhaustion, as though she might do the same.

Frozen in disbelief, Wyldaern looked on as Thelaema wrenched the dagger free and sent it soaring into the air, silver glinting in the scant light.

An incantation on her lips, the blade halted mid-flight, spinning leisurely as it hovered.

Then it began to glow white-hot, transforming, dissolving into a cloud of fine ash. Thelaema sank to her knees.

With a sudden gust of wind, the remnants of the weapon were swept away, lost to the endless expanse of Hael’stromia’s blackened ground.

Then Wyldaern was scrambling, robe collecting sand as she pulled Thelaema to her. The torso and hem of the Oracle’s dress was ripped, bloody.

‘I survive yet,’ the Oraculine grumbled. This time, Wyldaern knew it to be bravado. The wound to Thelaema’s chest was too great; Wyldaern could hear the sucking sound of air through punctured lungs. The woman was powerful, long-lived, but she was no Reliquus.

‘It will be all right, child.’ Thelaema patted her hand, coughing.

‘It is the way of life. And I have endured for longer than I should have, to fulfil my omen’s role.

Now, it is time to bless a new Oraculine of the Order of Descry.

’ At Wyldaern’s shock, her teacher shushed her.

‘You have trained for this, Wyldaern, just as Thierre was trained to become King.’

Wyldaern fought to recall her decade of studies, saying shakily, ‘What must I do?’

Thelaema gazed up at her, a deep smile gracing the High Oracle’s wizened features. She seemed to grow older by the moment, lavender eyes paler, more translucent, as she said, ‘Take my hand, my dear.’

Wyldaern gripped both hands, not wanting to let go, but she could feel the weakness in Thelaema’s grasp as the woman held her hands in kind.

‘See,’ Thelaema whispered, so little breath left in that word.

Wyldaern’s eyes stung. No , she thought futilely. No. You cannot go.

And still, I must. Thelaema’s voice in her mind was comforting, but that did nothing to dull the ache of what Wyldaern knew would come.

I am not ready, not for this. It was true. But she also knew her thoughts were selfish, if only because she would miss her mentor dearly.

Well, that is a comfort. She heard Thelaema’s soft laughter.

Now then, there is much for us to do, and very little time in which to do it.

When the honour was bestowed upon me and I was initiated as you will be, I had the Order’s brothers and sisters for guidance.

I expect that this will be the hardest part for you.

But the Reliquus is well-versed in our ways, our rites.

He may resist, but he is loyal. Trustworthy. However, I must tell you.

Thelaema paused. The Scion and the Reliquus. They cannot be permitted to entangle.

She struggled to understand. Entangle? She could not possibly mean—

They cannot be. A liaison between a Scion and the Reliquus, should it end poorly, places the future of the Hael’stromian realm in jeopardy.

She is your Empress, and he is her fate-sworn servant, her Vassal Champion, forged to kill and protect her then outlive her, as Hael has done for a millennium to secure our domain.

Cahraelia is his Master. They cannot be.

Wyldaern was astounded. This is your concern?

It is. Swear that you shall not permit such an entanglement, under your remit as the new Oraculine of the Order of Descry.

Wyldaern was not convinced her remit was Cahra’s intimate affairs, but she also knew Thelaema’s life force was dwindling. She swallowed.

I swear it. Now, the initiation of which you spoke. What must I do?

She could sense Thelaema’s smile, but it was fading. Nothing, dear. It is I who must confer my magicks, my learnings, to you.

Then Thelaema took Wyldaern’s head in her hands.

See…

And Wyldaern’s mind expanded, exponentially…

Somewhere, she heard Thelaema’s last words, as both their thoughts and memories swirled and Wyldaern absorbed Thelaema’s own. Every facet of the Oracle’s knowledge.

Aid Cahra and the Reliquus in the capital. When you are able, return to the cabin. You will find all that you desire there. You will always be my favoured pupil, dear Wyldaern. And our Order’s hope for the new era. Farewell.

When Wyldaern opened her eyes, Thelaema, like the elder robed man, was gone. Grauwynn, the old Oracularus, Wyldaern now knew. The initiation had worked.

As the lone surviving Oracle, Wyldaern had Thelaema’s memories, her knowledge.

Fortuitous, as she saw Hael in her mind’s eye, materialising with Cahra.

Wyldaern turned, Hael’s spell slicing a hole in the dimensional fabric between their mortal plane and the Nether’s veil.

The Reliquus, shrinking from one of his infernal forms into something more humanoid, studied Wyldaern as she quietly returned his fiery gaze.

Cahra bent over, looking pale, as though the teleportation might make her retch.

‘Well met, Seer. I am Hael, Reliquus to Empress Cahra and your Order of Descry.’ His voice was like the wind that howled to rattle dying leaves from autumn trees.

Wyldaern had been told about the appearance of the Reliquus, but Thelaema’s words were insufficient for what loomed before her – his spiked hair and milky skin, and by the blessed All-seeing, those fires!

She knew he had no eyes, for they had perished with his human body during the ritual that made him the weapon; but how did those flames burn so?

Inverted, blazing down but so as not to scorch his cheeks? It was a Nether-born mystery.

And so, Wyldaern endeavoured not to stare as the Reliquus – Hael , she corrected – stepped from Cahra’s side and bowed to Wyldaern, palms pressed together.

‘It is I who should be bowing to you, Hael, for you have secured our Empress.’ Wyldaern did so, curtseying deeply, for she was thankful.

‘The duty of the Reliquus,’ Hael told her, as if his actions necessitated explanation.

Yet his features were soft, humble, as he inclined his head to her, regarding Wyldaern in such a way that she had the distinct feeling he knew what had befallen her.

‘Such duties persist.’ His gaze flickered to Cahra.

‘Battle is waging outside the capital. If Kolyath and Ozumbre fail to capitulate, I must douse the flames of war.’

Cahra asked, ‘And how do you plan on doing that?’

Straightening to tower over his Master, Hael turned in the direction of the gate that faced Luminaux’s forces, now the battleground for its faraway kingdom. ‘With my own.’ Hael made to leave.

‘What?’ Cahra grabbed his arm. ‘You can’t go out there alone! Raiden said they have 20,000 men, and even with Luminaux behind you, you’re just one.’

Not one, and not a man, Wyldaern mused. Where are you going, Hael?

Hael’s eyes flashed to her. I have located Ozumbre’s King. Cahra nearly died at the hand of the Steward and that wretch. My powers may have healed her, yet the affront cannot be permitted. The capital’s justice must prevail. His fires sizzled black.

Wyldaern’s mouth fell open. Telepathy? How in the known realm… She had never managed it before, only Thelaema possessed that power—

The power of the Order’s spiritual leaders.

Hael offered her a smile, speaking aloud. ‘Please keep Cahra safe.’

Cahra huffed. ‘You really think she can protect me better than you can, or myself?’

Amusement kindled in Hael’s eyes as he beheld his Master.

Was Thelaema correct about the two of them?

‘I shall return to you,’ Hael said softly to Cahra, before looking askance to Wyldaern.

‘Besides, she is the new High Oracle.’ With that, Hael’s form dissolved into ash and smoke, vanishing behind the veil, to re-emerge and wreak havoc on Kolyath and Ozumbre’s soldiers, no doubt. Wyldaern could not blame him.

Meanwhile, Cahra blinked at her, stunned. ‘Wait, you’re the what ?!’