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5

THE KNIGHT

CEDRIC

Sweat dripped from Cedric Thorne’s brow as he moved through the training yard. He stepped back as Tristan’s sword whistled through the air, passing a finger’s width from Cedric’s chest. His mettle was certainly being put to the test today. He supposed he should have known better than to expect anything less when he made a sparring partner of Tristan Hale.

The clangor of sword against shield filled the yard, the knights dancing around each other. Tristan lunged. Cedric spun. Then, he struck.

“You’re slow today, Ric,” Tristan teased, deftly angling his blade to repel Cedric’s thrust with a resounding clash of steel. “All that brooding you’ve been doing must be taxing indeed.”

“Hardly,” Cedric snorted, deflecting Tristan’s next strike. “ And what you call ‘brooding,’ I call staying focused. Not all of us are blessed with the capacity to fight with such happy humor.”

“That I cannot deny. Indeed, I am blessed.” Tristan laughed, the scarred line on his left cheek curving with his smile, before he feinted to the side. “ Enormously blessed, so my lovers tell me.”

Cedric pushed a lock of damp chestnut hair from his forehead with the back of his hand, a smirk playing on his lips. “What lovers? Pray, tell me his or her name so that I may recommend them to a healer. Clearly, they are in need of aid if they suffer such delusions.”

Tristan gasped in mock offense, swinging his sword in a wide arc. Cedric dodged it easily. “Whatever would Lord Church say, should he hear your egregious lies?”

“Alas, how I wish I was lying. But you forget how many times I’ve had the misfortune of seeing you naked, sir.”

Tristan sniffed. “Prick my skin and bleed my body, but never shall you wound my pride.”

“As you wish.” A laugh burst from Cedric as he threw his weight into his next strike, driving forward with crushing force. Tristan blocked with his shield, but the strength of the blow had the knight’s knee buckling. Cedric hammered down blow after blow, the dull edge of his practice blade roaring against the wood. Had they been using their actual weapons, Cedric had no doubt he’d have split the shield in two.

“Aurelia damn you!” Tristan’s knee hit the dirt, strands of blond hair falling into his eyes. “I yield.”

Cedric grinned as he tossed his weapon aside and removed his gauntlets. He extended a hand to his friend. “Perhaps you might try a bit more brooding. I am, after all, not the one on the ground.”

Tristan huffed as Cedric hauled him up, but he was smiling by the time he got to his feet. “And I’m glad for it. Anything that shows me you won’t be doing the same when fending off a fae blade.”

“It is not their blades he needs to worry about.” A booming baritone echoed over the yard. Cedric tensed, turning to meet the keen, assessing eye of Lord Leviathan Church. The nobleman stood next to the weapons rack, robes billowing in the breeze, his dark brown hair, peppered with gray, slicked back from his face.

“No, my lord.” Cedric bent at the waist in a respectful bow .

“What is the greatest threat posed by the fae?” The lord’s cane left pockmarks in the dirt as he limped toward the duo.

“Their magic,” answered Cedric.

“And why is that?”

Tristan arched an eyebrow. “Is that a serious question, your lordship?”

Lord Church leveled him with a cool stare. “Fae—all Arcanians, in fact—wield magic as easily as the breath in their lungs. It lives in their veins. They do not require assistance the same way we do.”

He drew his mana token from beneath his robes, the circular amulet hanging from a chain around his neck, the size of a large coin. The dark—almost black—metal seemed to suck in the light from around it, even as the single crimson gem set in its center glowed bright and lucent. It brimmed with mana.

He must have recently charged it , Cedric thought.

“I would like Sir Thorne’s reassurance that he has a thorough understanding of exactly what he’ll be facing in the Crucible,” Lord Church continued.

Tristan cleared his throat. “Yes, my lord. I only mean to say, even the smallest of children know the dangers of the fae. Of all the races of Old Arcanis. Cedric does not?—”

“You may take your leave, Sir Hale,” Lord Church commanded, interrupting him.

Tristan’s blue eyes widened infinitesimally, but he dipped his head. “Be sure to find me before you leave, Ric,” he said, then strode away.

Cedric straightened, pushing aside the uncomfortable feeling their exchange stirred in his gut. “What news, my lord?”

“The aurora blooms. It is time.”

Cedric’s eyes shot to the sky. The sun burned brightly, but as he squinted, he could see the rainbow of colors shimmering behind the clouds. They would only grow more vivid as night approached.

His heartbeat quickened. “I am ready.”

A smile played on Lord Church’s lips. “I know you are. This is what you trained for.” Then, his expression grew stern, his amber eyes darkening. “But remember, the Arcane Crucible is more than a challenge of physical prowess. It is a test of mind and spirit—of your determination. And the Arcanians you shall meet in the Sanctum will be nothing if not determined. They want the crown.”

Heat flared in Cedric’s chest at the thought.

“And should they be allowed to claim it...” Lord Church trailed off, a faraway look in his eyes. “Space is already scarce here in Havensreach, our mana limited. With the power of the crown, Nyrundelle could finally reclaim the Midlands in full.” He frowned. “Worse, should they desire, they could widen the Chasm until Havensreach falls into the sea.”

Cedric pressed his lips in a tight line. The races of Old Arcanis—sylvan, dwarf, nocterrian, and fae alike—still harbored deep enmity for humans. The fae, according to Lord Church, most of all. Nearly two centuries had passed since the Great Betrayal, but their desire for retribution remained strong, since they decided all humans deserved to pay for the actions of one evil man.

It was nothing compared to Cedric’s own thirst for vengeance.

He brought a finger to his mouth, almost absentmindedly. To the scar that cut through his upper lip. “The crown shall never fall into Arcanian hands. I swear it.”

“Then show me how you intend to win.”

Cedric drew his own token from beneath his cuirass, a sense of calm settling over him as he wrapped his fingers around it. He opened his palm to reveal the midnight blue stone, veined with streaks of gleaming silver—frozen lightning. The emerald set in its center flickered. He would need to recharge it before they departed.

“Show me,” Lord Church beckoned again, a challenge in his voice.

Cedric felt the familiar hum of energy course through his veins as he drew the mana from his token. In his head, he recited the ancient words that would allow him to wield its power. Gripping the token in one hand, Cedric threw the other out to the side before pulling it close to his chest. His practice sword soared from the spot where he had discarded it; the next moment, its edge was pressed to Lord Leviathan Church’s neck.

“Good.” Lord Church nodded in approval. He wedged his cane between the blade and his skin. Were it Cedric’s regular weapon, it would have left a bloody slice behind.

Cedric loosened his mental grasp of the weapon. The sword fell away .

A heartbeat later, he was on his back.

“Did I yield?” Lord Church clutched his token in one hand. The other was still wrapped around the handle of his cane, a single finger outstretched. The man had barely moved. But the ache in Cedric’s chest was proof of the magical strike Lord Church made against him.

“No, my lord,” Cedric wheezed.

“Never drop your guard. Never relent.”

Cedric scrambled to his feet. “Yes, my lord.”

“Show me your control.”

With a clench of his fist, Cedric’s sword was in the air again. This time, it was joined by a dozen other blades that had been hanging on the weapons rack moments before. Cedric grunted with effort as the weapons fanned out around the lord, each one pointed at a different vulnerable spot—an artery, a tendon. They were not all practice swords, either.

Lord Church flinched as the sharp tip of a stiletto dagger touched the fleshy divot at the base of his throat. “I yield.”

Cedric returned the weapons to their original positions with a satisfied grin.

“Impressive.” Lord Church’s tone remained measured. “Though I’m afraid these small magics will not be enough if you intend to best your fellow champions.”

“Small magics?” Cedric scoffed. A searing bolt of defensiveness flared through him. He bit down on his tongue to prevent himself from saying something he would regret. He knew the lord did not mean to insult him.

“I say this not to belittle your abilities,” Lord Church said, as if he could read Cedric’s thoughts, “but more than a dozen other champions will be working against you in the Crucible, the least of whom will be spellweavers as capable as yourself.”

Cedric leaned against a nearby training post, his face neutral even as he scowled internally. Spellweaver. To equate what he could do with those who used their tokens to light candles and purify well water made his palms heat with irritation. He may not yet have earned an official designation as a sorcerer, nor would his paltry mastery of curative magic name him a saint. Still, Cedric knew his power went beyond that of a spellweaver, even if he wasn’t quite sure why he felt so strongly about it.

He said none of this, and if Lord Church sensed Cedric’s displeasure, he did not let it show. “Let us put aside the elemental magic of the Arcanians who shall be competing against you. My sources tell me that Cormac and Blackwood will be amongst those championing our kingdom beyond the Gate.”

Cedric pursed his lips. Leona Blackwood was a powerful sorcerer, her magical abilities said to rival even those of King Callum. And Cedric would be a fool to overlook Brandon Cormac. As a sage, he could easily learn of the plans and movements of the other champions. Whether he used his telepathic skills for active sabotage or simply to stay three steps ahead, Cedric would need to remain vigilant and keep his mental walls strong.

“Are there any others I should be aware of?”

Lord Church cocked his head. “Alden Ashford may be worth considering for an alliance. His healing prowess could most definitely be of use.”

Cedric made a mental note to keep an eye out for the saint.

“If there are any other humans of note set on entering the fray, though, I have not heard. And as for those from the other side of the Chasm”—Lord Church’s lip curled—“I do not have much information. Although...” Something that looked almost like chagrin flashed across his face.

Cedric’s eyebrows jumped up his forehead. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen that particular emotion from the nobleman in their many years together. He braced a hand on the training post and leaned closer. “Although what?”

Lord Church sighed. “Word has traveled across both Chasms of a great Arcanian warrior—a fae warrior—planning to take on the Crucible. There are even whispers of some movement stirring, rallying. The calls have grown louder for the Arcanians to make their move on the Midlands, with or without the crown.”

Red flared across Cedric’s vision. His hands felt hot. An array of violent images overtook his mind. Blazing fire. A maniacal laugh. The razor-sharp edge of a blade against his mouth. And blood. Everywhere, blood .

He blinked it all away. “You speak of the Revenant.”

If that fae demon was entering the Celestial Sanctum, Cedric would have to be on his guard indeed. At the same time, something sparked in his chest at the thought of facing the Revenant . An ember of yearning—a deep need to be the one to cut the monster down.

“Only Aurelia knows whether it is all hearsay or not,” Lord Church said, pulling Cedric’s attention back. “And I see your emotions roiling under the surface. Do not let them control you. There will be no room for distractions in the Sanctum.”

Cedric bit back the retort on his tongue. “Yes, my lord.”

“Our party departs for the Lost City in the morning. Be ready.”

His expression hard, Cedric nodded. “I shall.”

With an assessing look that made Cedric feel as if he’d been stripped of his armor, Lord Church exited the training yard.

Cedric sucked in a deep breath, thoughts spinning. He had to finish packing his belongings before they set off on their pilgrimage to Luminaria. He needed to visit the mana forge so the magicsmith could recharge his token before tomorrow. He wanted to find Tristan so he could say farewell. Should there be time, he’d like to visit the local tavern to find some lady with whom to spend his final hours too. He’d heard that the aurora put them in quite the mood.

He peeled his hand from the training post, only for his swirling thoughts to narrow into one of confused curiosity. The wood was charred where his fingers had been resting. He’d never noticed that before.

Something poked at him, lingering on the edge of his thoughts. He frowned, then dismissed the notion. He had much to do and little time to do it. So, Cedric turned and walked away, the scent of singed wood lingering in the air.