Page 58 of A Queen’s Betrayal (Legends of Worldbinders #1)
As the late morning sun streamed through the castle, Arenna found herself wandering its twisting corridors and stony hallways, her day off a perfect opportunity to explore.
Eventually, she stumbled upon a large wooden door adorned with intricate black ironwork.
It stood slightly ajar, and a colorful array of curses spilled forth from within.
Curiosity piqued, Arenna pushed the door open and peeked inside.
There, hunched over a worktable, was Itta, surrounded by an assortment of glass jars in various shapes and sizes.
Arenna hadn’t seen her since she’d greeted them at the door upon their arrival.
Each jar contained bubbling, smoking liquids in hues of red, green, blue, and purple.
The apothecary felt like something out of a dream with mahogany shelves stretching to the ceiling that was crammed with jars and ancient tomes.
Massive podiums arched gracefully at both the front and back of the room, while lanterns and unfamiliar trinkets dangled from the rafters.
Various plants and flowers adorned the surfaces, some potted and others seemingly growing straight from the walls.
At the very back of the room, an oval window framed a breathtaking view of Worden’s gardens and the mountains stretching far into the horizon.
Itta looked wind-blown and scattered, yet somehow still put together.
Arenna couldn’t determine her age, and she was too wise to ask.
Though the alchemist’s gray hair and slightly wrinkled skin hinted at her advancing years in Fae years.
“Are you going to come all the way in or continue poking your head in like a little mouse?” Without glancing up from the vial of iridescent red liquid in front of her, Itta let her round glasses slide down to the tip of her nose.
“Sorry,” Arenna mumbled, taking a few hesitant steps inside. She paused to survey the room. “I was mustering up the courage to bother you.”
Itta’s blue eyes flicked upward. “You’re never a bother, dear.” She straightened, removing the thick glasses from the bridge of her nose. “I was wondering when I would find you here.”
Arenna settled into the seat across from the alchemist, the red liquid’s scent—sweet and reminiscent of cherries—bringing back long-forgotten memories of certain shops from her home in Craydon. “What are you working on?”
“Tonics,” Itta replied. “Specifically, a healing tonic for the blood. Fae bodies can heal themselves to a certain degree, and healers can mend broken bones, fix torn skin, and even stop the flow of blood.” Her gaze sharpened.
“But what about beings who cannot do these things? Shouldn’t they have something too? ”
“You’re making healing potions for humans?
” Arenna’s stomach flipped at the thought.
Even though she had escaped Brookworth and now lived among Fae, magic, and life, she couldn’t forget those she had left behind.
When she accepted her role as the Firewielder, she had also made a promise to return for them.
Itta nodded, pouring the red liquid into a large glass.
It thickly oozed out like jelly rather than liquid.
As it landed in the secondary glass, it returned to a smooth flow.
“I know what humans think of Fae and magic. I know the history your books teach you. But believe me, dear, we desire goodness to be restored. We yearn for peace.”
Peace . What a beautiful, deadly thing. So many would die for it, even if they would not live to witness its arrival. But if their descendants could catch even a sliver of it, then suddenly it was all worth it. “I know that now,” Arenna said softly.
“Do you believe Pheanixios could be restored, Firewielder?”
She had no idea. “All I know is that I will try.”
Itta stood, her simple cotton dress flowing gracefully down to her ankles.
As she leaned down to pick something up, the ties on her corset brushed against the wooden surface.
“What I ask goes deeper than merely rejoining the continents. I want to know if you believe Pheanixios can truly be restored.” She laid a portrait against the table, turning it so Arenna could see it better.
On the faded parchment was a large tree, its four branches intertwining at various points.
Each branch was adorned with a ribbon: one white, another red, the third brown, and the last blue.
“This is an ancient symbol from the beginning of our world,” Itta explained, pushing it closer to Arenna.
Arenna traced a finger along the branches, following the natural curves of each ribbon. Within the blue ribbon, she spotted scaled tails. “Medryd,” she whispered. “This symbolizes merpeople?”
A look of satisfaction danced in Itta’s eyes. “Correct. The red flames represent Draka, brown earth signifies Fae, and white air for humans.”
Restoring Varios and Vlazias to their former glory would unite the continents again, bringing back Pheanixios.
But did Itta believe that would also restore the lost species?
“Medryds and Draka were wiped out during the First War . I cannot bring them back, even if we succeed in rejoining the continents.”
Itta laughed lightly. “No, you cannot bring them back from the dead. But I believe Pheanixios can exist again,” she said, tapping the parchment. “I believe there are others like you— powerful and unique, yet trapped in lives that were not designed for them.”
That pit within Arenna’s chest hardened. “You’re speaking about Wind and Water.”
“I am.” Itta took a seat. “We have waited many years for your return, and I fear we do not have much longer until King Kayson can no longer protect our lands from the plague that has corrupted Varios.”
Arenna frowned, confused. “For my return? You mean the return of the fire element?”
The alchemist smiled sadly. “Yes, for fire.” She ran her fingers across a gold pendant around her neck, her smile deepening. “What do you know of Draka? The Draka Mountains?”
“Very little,” Arenna admitted. “Mainly old legends passed down through generations. My mother used to tell me stories of them, how they soared through skies beyond our lands and how the Draka and dragons were bonded through blood.” She looked down at her hands in her lap, the ache of nostalgia for her mother’s stories settling heavily within her.
“Mhm,” Itta drawled. She walked toward the apothecary doors, grabbing a handful of black powder from a small basin on her worktable. “Come with me; I think there’s something you’d like to see.”
Itta led Arenna through darkened corridors and shadowy halls until they reached a wooden door adorned with iron decals, four stories down from the apothecary.
She cranked a lever, and the door lifted, melding seamlessly into the space above the threshold.
The hall beyond was as dark as night, save for a faint golden glow flickering in the distance. “Ignite the torches, Arenna.”
Arenna snapped her gaze to the elderly alchemist. “We didn’t bring a torch.” Itta’s eyes narrowed. “Surely you cannot mean—”
“Light the torches.”
Arenna chuckled nervously. “I cannot.”
“Can’t, or won’t?”
“I have hardly trained in magic.” Arenna scowled. She purposefully left out nearly killing Bramnen, and failing to call flame with Kayson on a few occasions. “I don’t want to make a mistake and burn us both alive.”
Itta rolled her eyes, a grin breaking across her face. “Fear is what prevents you from advancing in your magic, Arenna. Raise your hand, envision your reservoir, and summon it.” The demand in Itta’s voice left no room for argument, nor did the wild gleam in her eyes.
“I cannot control it.”
“Try,” Itta urged, her voice softening.
With her heart pounding in her throat, Arenna obeyed, taking a deep breath as she slid her eyes closed. She envisioned the red water of her reservoir, or rather, flame , cradling it like a newborn in her hands. When she opened her eyes, the flame remained nestled within her trembling palms.
“Very good.” Itta hummed, her expression brightening. “Now direct it toward the torches. You only need to envision it to let it happen.”
“Direct it toward the torch,” Arenna repeated, her voice shaky.
She tried to push aside the self-doubt that clawed at her mind, a tactic Jaksen had instilled in her over the years of their relationship.
Some days, Arenna knew she could achieve anything.
Other days, she wondered if Jaksen was right—that she amounted to nothing.
She strained against the fatigue in her sore arms as she tried to move the glowing orb from her hands and wrap it around the torch. After a breathless heartbeat, the torch ignited, its flame flickering to life. Arenna straightened, a triumphant smile spreading across her face.
“Keep practicing, Firewielder. An elementalist should be able to do something that small in their sleep.” Itta moved into the crypt, grabbing the torch and lighting the rest as they walked.
A draft swept past, carrying the scent of ancient stone. Arenna shuddered, wishing she had thought to bring a cloak. Her tunic offered little warmth in this chilly expanse. “What is this place?”
“A way to remember our dead, both Draka and Fae.” Itta pressed the torch against the wall, igniting a trough of what appeared to be oil. Fire surged swiftly, weaving down the length of the trough and branching off in various directions. She repeated the process on the opposite side.
When the two flames met at the far end of the crypt, the entire room erupted in light. Chandeliers high in the vaulted ceilings ignited, candles blossoming from mere stubs into thick bases. Light flooded every corner of the room, illuminating cobwebs and dust alike.
Arenna held her breath as she descended the steps. Massive stone dragons loomed mere inches apart, each representing a different element—some water, some air, some fire, and earth. Beneath them lay a thick stone base, its center carved with an unreadable language.