Page 49 of The Shadowed Oracle (The Bonded Worlds #1)

The first book she’d plucked from the shelves was titled Wielders, Witchcraft, and Wayward Prophecy , hoping to get some insight into her supposed powers. She learned about all manner of Spell-crafters, Magi, glyph-painters, symbol scholars, elemental magic wielders, but nothing about her own kind.

Not until the very last chapter.

The research done by the author, it seemed, was exhaustive but mostly speculative. The only actionable bits appeared when the author spoke of Izadora, the first Oracle in Ealis, all those thousands of years ago.

Queen Izadora of the East , the pages read, had as common an upbringing as any of the extraordinary Viator written about in these pages.

She’d been born to impecunious farmers in the rolling stretch of unclaimed green land that would later become part of Seerside.

She grew up tilling the field and breeding livestock, primed to take over her family business.

But by the age of thirteen, she began to show proclivities toward magic that, at that point, had never been seen in Ealis, let alone named.

As deep as I have researched the histories, searching for the earliest documentation on wielders of the age, I have, alas, found myself terribly wanting.

Before the great Queen, there were only fairy tales of gifted individuals, elemental all, and none nearly as noteworthy as Izadora.

This might lead even the most learned historians to assume she was one of, if not the first, fortunate few to be blessed with Ealis’ gifts.

Ingrid read on, having to double-back a few times due to the speed at which she was devouring the paragraphs.

The chapter as a whole felt like a history book written too distantly from the time period in which it took place.

It was mostly filled with generic details documenting the queen’s rise and her many battles in the first Great War.

She read on hopefully, gratefully, ultimately finding only one sentence that offered any insight applicable to her motive. A quote from the great queen herself, transcribed from her speech at the conclusion of the war by one of her followers.

A wielder divided internally will never be whole enough to send their power into the external world.

Ingrid wrote the passage down in a small journal Callinora had provided her. Underlined it. Pondered it for a few minutes. Then decided it was too vague to be of any help at that juncture, quickly picked up another book, and read until she could read no longer.

A leather-bound, rather dusty tome titled Killian Portnalius’ Prophecies and Fairy Tales: One Wielder’s Dream of Peace was plopped open over Ingrid’s lap, a fingernail holding her spot as she slept.

She intended to read all night and well into the next day, yet after so much information in such a short amount of time, her eyelids couldn’t remain open any longer.

Her rest was deep, with small, slow breaths.

The flames from the stone fireplace bounced off her serene features, her chest barely moving.

Dreams, airy and fleeting began to flutter around her peaceful mind.

Scenes of tall trees and bright nights, of cozy cloudy weather and the smell after a rainstorm.

She dreamt of Ealis. She dreamt of San Bruno.

She dreamt of Franky. And she dreamt of Dean.

He’d come to her room, sitting in a large chair by the balcony, as if he’d flown in from the sky and sat down to watch her sleep. She called out to him, but got no response.

“Dean,” she called out to him again.

Dean.

No answer. She could only see his silhouette. The fire’s light didn’t catch his face, and that shadowed figure of his body didn’t move, no matter how loud she called his name.

Dean?

He was so still. So unnervingly quiet. The silence draped over her like broiling black smoke seeping into the pores of her skin.

And then she realized… this was not Dean.

The fear caused a sudden lucidity to strike her.

She knew she was dreaming now, but her body was still submerged in it, ice cold and prickling despite the burning flame nearby.

She tried to move, to stand, to do anything, but could only shoot her eyes around the room in protest.

Help.

I can’t move…

I can’t…

Something else dawned on her then. She hadn’t been speaking at all, hadn’t been able to call out.

She was only thinking it. The words were simply echoing in her mind.

She couldn’t even move her mouth. Her lips had been closed tight, her neck frozen, feet and arms weighed down.

But still she tried to speak. Even the smallest of whimpers would do.

Just a rumble in her vocal cords. If she could take some control of her body in the dream, she thought, then that would shake her awake.

But nothing worked.

What is happening to me? she called out from the front of her mind. Why can’t I move? Why won’t I wake up?

There was no answer from the silhouette. Not that she expected one. Her eyes burned and watered, keeping them wide open and locked onto the figure in the dark corner of her room.

Slowly, like a midnight vision in the void of her mind, he stood and moved closer.

All oxygen escaped her.

It couldn’t be real

He couldn’t be real.

This was Maradenn. Next to Hydor, it was the most fortified castle in the most impenetrable city in all of Ealis. She was dreaming, she reminded herself. This was all in her mind. All a nightmare. Her mind playing tricks.

This couldn’t have been him.

Even in her dream, Sylan couldn’t be here.

Who are you? she asked. Or thought. Or whatever it was she was doing to communicate with the shadow.

“Have you forgotten me so easily?” the figure said. His voice was so deep and rumbling it sent a rhythm through the air between them, hitting Ingrid square in the chest.

She couldn’t answer. Couldn’t decide if she wanted him to move further into the light, or to disappear. Making up her mind was impossible. She couldn’t string two thoughts together without a third thought pulverizing any semblance of a plan. She was helpless—again.

“No, you remember.” The figure swaggered into view, standing not three feet from Ingrid, leering over her.

Sylan.

It really was him. Or, the memory of him at least. He’d somehow grown since she first saw him.

Perched atop that jail cell and praying for the portal to accept them through, she couldn’t fully gauge the bastard prince’s true stature.

Seven or eight inches over six feet, taller even than Raidinn.

All lean, natural muscle that was needed for the kind of speed he possessed.

He wore a thin black tunic rolled up at the sleeves now, in the stead of the full-body armor she’d seen him in back on Earth.

The lack of coverage revealed symbols and images inked into the entirety of his chest, forearms and hands.

His hair was slightly disheveled and a little longer.

But his eyes… his eyes still possessed that wild animal nature.

Fiery gold with an amber ring around the pupil, almost like a viseer stone brimming with untapped power.

How did you find me? Ingrid asked. Even if this wasn’t a dream, only another facet of her power, or a piece of the real Sylan floating in the collective consciousness of Ealis, then she still might learn something from her enemy. Maybe she could foresee something that might help them in this war.

Does your King still have you hunting me? she asked.

“Yes,” Sylan said gruffly. “Finding the Oracle is my only mission. You… are my only destination.”

Ingrid fought the urge to scream. Makkar needs me that badly? Afraid of a little world-walker, is he?

“More than he’ll admit.” Sylan turned his head toward the bookshelf, then looked down at the books on the floor, the flapping pages and bent spines. “The longer you are alive here, finding your power, your way, the more frightened Makkar becomes.”

Obviously. Ingrid tried to convey sarcasm, but fell short.

“I suppose it is, yes.” Sylan moved closer, narrowing his gaze to inspect Ingrid with studious deliberation. “You don’t fear me, do you?”

I’d say yes, but you aren’t real.

The young general held his arms out, clasping his hands and flipping them over to survey his palms. “Am I not?”

No. This is a dream. You are in my head.

“What evidence do you have of this?”

There’s no possible way you could be here. No way you could’ve found me, let alone gotten through Maradenn’s walls.

“Oh, I see.” The night-cloaked image of her enemy bent to one knee, reaching his hand out. “Then you won’t mind if I touch you, Oracle? If I test the theory myself?”

Ingrid might’ve stiffened, recoiled, revolted or even run if she wasn’t still incapable of moving an inch. She could only watch as the nightmare of Sylan teasingly raised a finger, and calmly lowered it until he met the skin of her cheek.

She could feel it. Could feel a sickly plainness in his touch that seemed almost excruciating in the absence of any other sensation.

“Well?” Sylan asked. “Did I pass your test? Am I real?”

Ingrid couldn’t think. She couldn’t do anything. She was right back in the throes of panic.

“Am I real?” the cruel prince said again. “Or am I just in your head?”

She closed her eyes and willed herself to awaken. She lifted mental hammers and began banging them against the inside of her skull, clenching her lids over her eyeballs forcefully until her head ached.

Wake up. Wake up.

Every fiber of her soul ached and tugged at one another. Her blood boiled, skin prickled, hair follicles burned. This was worse than any visions she’d had on Earth. Worse than the constant torment from the Shades. This was a small death, nipping away at her in agonizingly small bites.

She dug deep inside herself and willed it to stop.

Wake up , she demanded.

Wake up.

WAKE UP!

She opened her eyes.

The room was the same as she’d left it. The fire was still burning. The starlight still danced on the floor. But Sylan, the nightmare of her enemy, he had dissipated as fast as he’d descended upon her.

She shot upright, staring at the spot her dark psyche had placed Sylan in, almost expecting him to reappear.

That chair, she thought, it would have to go. She’d ask Callinora to take it away as soon as possible. Burn it. Throw it in the sea. As long as she never had to look at it again. As long as she never had to think of it again. Of him. Of her enemy.

She didn’t tell a soul about the vision.