Page 42 of Mountains of Mist and Magic (A World of Sun and Shadow #4)

P hillippe wiped his brow, the sweat stinging his eyes. The higher he climbed up the mountain, the warmer it became, defying all logic. It seemed like he had been ascending for hours, yet no matter how much progress he made, the peak remained as distant as it had been when he started. The air grew thinner with each step, making his lungs burn with the effort of breathing.

He began to wonder if this was his test. Was he meant to go in circles until he managed to break out of the pattern? Would he find a way? Phillippe suddenly felt woefully ill-prepared. Why him? Why was he the one selected for this? He had no magic, not even traces or memories of it. It made absolutely no sense to him.

A few more feet up, he spotted a large, rocky outcropping. Finally. A new landmark. He wasn't going in circles or on some crazy challenge after all. Relief washed over him, giving him a second wind.

As he drew closer, he realized that the rocky formation was a crudely carved temple situated on the side of the mountain. Its weathered surface spoke of ages past, with intricate designs barely visible under years of erosion.

“What in the world?” he wondered aloud, hoisting himself up the final rocky slope and onto the ledge. His muscles screamed in protest, but he ignored the pain, too intrigued by the discovery before him.

The temple was nestled in the shadow of the mountain, and Phillippe instantly felt cooler as he approached the opening. He could feel a draft against his face as if there were powerful winds inside. He gulped, feeling wholly unprepared for what lay ahead. Saying a silent prayer to the Gods, he moved inside the temple, slouching a bit and lowering his head as he entered the small space.

It was dry inside, but the smell of mist and mildew clung to his nose...along with something else. He couldn't quite figure out what the scent was, but it was oddly familiar. He looked around, trying to decipher the purpose of this place. The walls were made of smooth stones, engraved with drawings and symbols. The images were so weathered that he had trouble making them out. However, as Phillippe moved through the narrow passageway, he saw one picture that caught his attention. There was a man kneeling to some invisible force, his hair long and his jaw strong. Then, in the next image, the man was standing, his fingers outstretched as sparks seemed to shoot out.

Magic. Those sparks were magic. He was definitely on the right path. And the smell...it was magic. It wasn't necessarily a scent, but the way his nose tingled, and his body hummed slightly after being around massive amounts of power. He felt the same whenever he was around Renya, or even Beauty or Cyrus. He wondered if he was more in tune with the traces of magic since he possessed absolutely none himself.

He crept along the passageway until it opened up to a large room, dark and still. He could hear a few drops of water dripping from somewhere in the chamber, but it was largely silent. However, the second he walked into the room, torches lit on the wall, casting dancing shadows across the ancient stones. In front of him, he could see a small archway.

He inwardly groaned. Another archway? How many magic passages or portals did they have to go through just to get their magic back? This one was stationed in the center of the chamber, looking rather harmless.

Circling the archway, he noticed that there didn't seem to be any mystical force or invisible wall shimmering. It just appeared to be a normal archway. He inspected it more closely, running his hands over the rough stone, but nothing stood out to him. Phillippe searched the other sides of the chamber, but there was nothing there.

Was it a dead end? It couldn't be , he thought. He sensed power in this room, he was sure of it. He circled the archway again, feeling perplexed when nothing made sense.

Finally, Phillippe turned to head out of the room and back down the passage, when he thought he heard a noise coming from the archway. He rushed towards it, his heart pounding, and walked straight through.

He was instantly in a room of white. Brightness flooded his eyes, and he squinted as he tried to adjust from the low light of the room he was just in. The sudden change was disorienting, making him feel as if he were floating in nothingness.

“Hello?” he called out, looking around. He was caged in, four white walls on each side. The archway was gone, leaving no trace of where he had entered from.

“Phillippe Snowden...” a voice answered, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

“Ah, great...unseen voices. Like I haven't dealt with enough. Show yourself.” He tried to keep his voice steady, but a tremor of uncertainty crept in.

“It is not the time. Instead, it is time to give you a gift.”

“No thanks...I have a feeling that I'm not going to like it.” He spun around the room, looking for the voice's owner unsuccessfully. His hand instinctively went to his sword, but he found no comfort in the cold steel.

“You'll like this.” The voice held a hint of amusement, which only served to unnerve Phillippe further.

Before he could respond, he was immobilized, his hands bound magically to his sides. His vision turned black, and he wasn't sure if the room had darkened, or if something had actually happened to his eyes. Panic rose in his chest, threatening to overwhelm him.

“Hey!” He yelled, his voice echoing in the void. “You can't leave me in the dark!”

There was no response, but he felt the shiver of something hot and piercing move down his spine. He tried to roll his shoulders, trying to do something to stop the pain, but it kept flooding him, as if he was being repeatedly struck by lightning. Then, as suddenly as it started, the red hotness stopped. Relief sang through his body, every nerve ending tingling with the sudden absence of pain.

But it only lasted a second. The coldest chill he had ever experienced replaced the heat, and his body felt completely iced over. His teeth chattered uncontrollably, and he could swear he felt ice crystals forming on his skin.

When he was sixteen years old, he'd been swept up in a small avalanche. It was minuscule compared to the ones that frequented their lands now, but he remembered the undying cold he experienced as he had waited for several hours to be freed by his fellow soldiers. He had laughed off the experience, in true Phillippe fashion, but the numbing memories of the cold never fully left him. He had pushed those memories aside, thinking he'd never experience that type of cold again.

But he was wrong. He felt his entire body freeze, and like an icicle hanging from the rooftop, he waited to fall as he lost consciousness. His last thought before the darkness claimed him was of Esmeralda, and a silent promise that he would return to her, no matter what.