Page 68 of Thorns & Fire (The Ashes of Thezmarr #2)

Wren

‘History bears witness to the undeniable power of prophecy across the midrealms...’

– The Midrealms Chronicles

F UCK , I LOVE you . Torj had spoken into her mind. His rich, husky tone had skittered along her bones, as real as if he’d spoken the words into the shell of her ear.

Wren clung to those words the next day as she gathered her things in her room.

Her hands moved through the familiar motions of packing, but her mind raced with all the ways her presentation could go wrong.

One miscalculation, one trembling hand during the demonstration, and she could lose everything she’d worked for.

Dusk was upon her all too soon, and she was meticulous as she prepared the vials of counter-alchemy and shuffled her notes together. She was as prepared as she’d ever be, and Torj grounded her like no one else. So she shouldered her satchel and held her head high.

The Bear Slayer was waiting outside her room. ‘You’re ready,’ he said. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, and there was no quaver in his voice, no room for doubt.

‘Yes.’

They didn’t speak as they made their way to the lecture hall. It was as though Torj could sense that she needed to centre herself, to find the calm within. They crossed the foyer, beneath the great tree that reached up through the levels, and when they arrived at the door to the hall, Torj stopped.

Wren’s breath caught as his lips brushed over hers. It was a whisper of a kiss, but she felt his love for her as though he’d poured it directly into her veins.

‘You can do this,’ he told her, and opened the door.

Wren entered alone, as she’d been instructed, and the vast lecture hall swallowed her footsteps.

Torches cast pools of amber light down the tiered rows of empty seats – hundreds of them, all facing the demonstration space like a silent audience.

The air held the sharp tang of cleaning solution beneath more subtle notes of aged wood and chalk dust. The auditorium was empty but for the five seats occupied at the front.

There sat Master Crawford, Master Norlander, Master Mercer, Farissa and the High Chancellor.

Taking a steadying breath, Wren approached and stood before them.

The polished wooden floor gleamed beneath her feet, worn smooth by countless students who had stood in the very same spot.

From somewhere high in the rafters came the soft flutter of wings – several sparrows had found their way inside.

The sound made the space feel even larger, even more hollow.

‘What is the opus you present to us today, Elwren?’ Master Norlander asked, clasping his hands in front of him.

Her palms grew damp, and she resisted the urge to wipe them on her apron as she noted the familiar faces now sharp with scrutiny.

‘I chose to create a counter-alchemy to that which has been used by the enemies of the midrealms to mute and eradicate royal magic.’ Wren placed her satchel on the table that had been set up for her and unpacked the things she needed. ‘If you’d like to come forward to view my demonstration?’

Her fingers trembled slightly as she laid out the shallow dishes, each clearly labelled with whose blood it contained.

The glass clinked softly against the wooden table, its surface etched with tiny marks and stains from past experiments.

Wren distantly wondered how many had succeeded and how many had failed.

But the familiar scent of her alchemy equipment – clean glass, cork stoppers and the metallic tang of blood – helped steady her nerves. This was her domain.

When the masters and High Chancellor stood before her table, peering down at her alchemy equipment, Wren started to speak.

‘In these dishes are samples of the blood of magic wielders.’ She pointed. ‘This is mine. This is Althea Embervale’s. And this is Zavier Terling’s. Three samples of different royal blood.’

‘Would you not argue that you only have two samples?’ Master Norlander asked. ‘Given that you and your sister share the same blood?’

‘I have reason to suspect they are different in nature,’ Wren said.

‘But for now, the blood is untainted, taken straight from the vein.’ She uncorked another vial.

‘This is the substance the enemy has been using on their weapons. It is also the alchemy they forced Queen Reyna to drink, subduing much of her power.’

Wren poured the enemy’s concoction into each sample. The reaction was immediate and violent – the blood didn’t just shrink away; it writhed like a living thing. Where the two substances met, tiny sparks of magic crackled and died, leaving behind a residue that looked like tarnished silver.

‘See how the blood shrinks away?’ She pointed to where the blood was moving in the dishes, as though trying to escape the alchemy.

‘I know from personal experience with this creation that the magic of the wielder retreats from this alchemy’s touch, that it burrows deep inside the host to escape it. ’

‘Very well, Elwren,’ Master Mercer said. ‘And your counter-alchemy?’

Wren uncorked another vial. The cork came free with a soft hiss, releasing a scent like burnt metal and oranges.

The liquid inside seemed to bend the light around it unnaturally.

‘I broke the dark alchemy down into its numerous elements.’ She gestured to her notes, where complex diagrams showed the various structures she’d discovered through countless hours of observation.

Each component had been carefully isolated and tested; the results meticulously documented, and so she forged on.

‘One part of lifelore that has always fascinated me is that the antidote to a poison often contains traces of the poison itself. I applied this logic to my methods here. I arrived at the perfect balance to disengage the active ingredients within the dark alchemy. See for yourself...’

She tapped several drops from the vial into each sample dish and watched as it took effect.

Her creation was almost luminescent as it made contact with the corrupted blood, spreading like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

Her cure drew the dark alchemy away from the blood and seemed to absorb it, the reaction causing a gentle hiss and a ribbon of steam to rise, producing tiny specks that danced in the air before dissipating.

‘Fascinating...’ Master Norlander said, peering into the dishes.

‘Indeed.’ The High Chancellor nodded. ‘Though have you tested on a live subject?’

Wren nodded. ‘Several mice. The Prince of Naarva, at the end of the attack after the Gauntlet. And myself.’

‘Given the nature of this opus, and its importance to the current conflict, I think it prudent to witness a live test for ourselves...’ Master Crawford motioned to someone at the far side of the hall.

The click of boots echoed off the curved stone walls, heavy with urgency as two healers entered, holding up a slumped figure between them.

Queen Reyna.

Suddenly, the stakes of her demonstration crystallized with terrifying clarity.

This wasn’t just about Wren’s opus. It wasn’t even about the queen herself.

It was about the fate that awaited the midrealms should she fail.

That was what hung in the balance. The Queen of Aveum was a shell of her former self.

She looked frailer than she had when Wren had seen her after the death of her husband in the shadow war.

‘Your Majesty,’ Wren murmured, rushing to her side.

The queen’s voice was raw and throaty as she spoke. ‘They forced me to drink it when I was captured. Poured it down my throat.’

‘And this happened?’ Wren asked. ‘You became sick?’

Queen Reyna shook her head. ‘I felt my magic retreat, become muted... But beyond that, the effects were not so physical. I was able to ride to Aveum with the Warswords. I was in my palace for a time before I started to feel ill.’

Wren’s mind was racing. ‘A delayed reaction...’ she said to herself. ‘They wanted you to think you were well, only to have you fall ill later.’

The winter queen dipped her head in confirmation, the healers still holding her up on either side. ‘Elwren, I cannot see the future any more. I cannot feel a trace of my magic.’

‘She becomes weaker every day,’ one of the healers said.

‘I suspect that the aim was to use me as a scare tactic for the other royals,’ Queen Reyna rasped.

‘It’s why Silas let me go with the Warswords.

In the hopes I’d be taken right back here to incite panic, to show the rulers the fate that awaits them if they do not comply with his regime.

I tried to go back to Aveum. I tried to stay away. ..’

Her words sent a chill through Wren. As far as she knew, Silas was yet to make any demands. He had spread his poisonous words across the midrealms like a disease, had provoked death and violence in the name of liberation... but he hadn’t announced any ultimatums. Not yet.

One problem at a time, she told herself. The first step was to cure Queen Reyna. Then, and only then, could she deal with everything else.

Forgetting that the masters were there, Wren examined the queen.

Her skin was cold to the touch, and beneath it, Wren could sense the corrupted magic moving like sluggish ink through her veins.

Her heartbeat was slow, her complexion grey, and there was a blue tint to her lips, her fingernails.

.. A slow poisoning of dark alchemy indeed.

‘And usual healing methods?’ Wren asked. ‘Have they been effective for any kind of relief?’

‘No. They simply result in the acceleration of previous symptoms. They make things worse.’

Sometimes, in the presence of other magic wielders, Wren could feel their power, but with the fragile queen in her arms, she felt nothing.

‘I trust you, Elwren,’ Queen Reyna wheezed. ‘I entrust my magic, my life, to you.’

The healers lay her down on the ground, and suddenly Wren was keenly aware of all the masters crowding around her, their eyes boring holes in her back.

Gods, what if Reyna lost her magic for good?

What if she died ? The questions echoed in her mind with increasing urgency, each heartbeat bringing a new potential catastrophe to the surface.

Her fingers felt numb as they gripped the vial, and for a terrifying moment, she feared she might drop it.

Wren pushed the voices aside. The only thing that mattered now was that the cure worked .

Swiping another vial of antidote from the table and lifting the queen’s head into her lap, she tilted Reyna’s chin up so that the potion could slide down her throat.

‘You’re alright, Your Majesty,’ she murmured. ‘You’re going to be alright.’

The queen’s pupils dilated, and she stilled in Wren’s arms. The silence in the hall became absolute, pressing against Wren’s ears like a physical force.

Even the usual creaks and settling sounds of the old building seemed to hold their breath.

A drop of sweat rolled down Wren’s temple as she saw an array of possible futures branching out before her, all of them balanced on the edge of a blade – her mind.

The masters’ presence faded away until there was nothing but her, the queen and the desperate prayer that her cure would work.

As the minutes ticked by, the healers panicked, shoving her aside so they could check Queen Reyna’s pulse, her breathing, in a flurry of nervous movements—

‘Give her a moment,’ Wren hissed, watching with her heart in her throat.

A garbled noise escaped the queen, and she started to squirm against the healers’ grips. Wren surged forwards, helping her sit up, and peered into Reyna’s eyes as her pupils returned to normal size, as she caught her breath.

‘How do you feel, Your Majesty?’ Wren asked gently, still holding her trembling hand.

‘I feel...’ the queen rasped, taking in the eager stares of the masters gathered around them. ‘I feel... like myself, albeit still a little weak...’

Wren nodded. ‘That’s a start. Your body will need time to recover, as with usual illness—’

‘And what of your magic, Your Majesty?’ Master Crawford demanded. ‘Have your seer abilities returned?’

Wren cursed him silently, hating his impatience and insensitivity. The queen had been close to death – did she not deserve a moment to gather herself?

But Queen Reyna seemed to be testing herself, her brow furrowed. ‘Seer magic is not like lightning and fire to be summoned.’

‘But can you feel its presence? As you could before?’ Farissa asked softly.

Slowly, Reyna nodded. ‘I can.’

Master Norlander’s eyes narrowed. ‘Perhaps it’s still depleted. Maybe Elwren hasn’t perfected the—’

Queen Reyna gasped suddenly, her hand shooting out to clamp over Wren’s. ‘Gold will turn to silver in a blaze of iron and embers,’ she said, her grip almost bone-breaking. ‘Giving rise to ancient power long forgotten...’

Wren’s heart sank, her shoulders caving. Gods, she wished the masters weren’t here to see this failure. And Farissa, after all the support she’d given Wren, only to be let down so publicly.

She bowed her head. ‘That is a prophecy from the past, Your Majesty. It has already happened...’

But Queen Reyna placed a finger beneath her chin, lifting it with a knowing smile. ‘Has it?’