The Clairvoyant Thief

Lord Arion

Lord Arion passed silently through the stone walls of Castle Caravelia. He yearned to feel the floor beneath his feet, to brush his fingers across the rough stone and feel their rough texture. But he was merely a wraith, disembodied and immaterial.

He rose and emerged through the floor above, stopping at the door to his daughter’s apartment. For a moment, he considered passing inside, but then he remembered the last time he had passed into that space. Sorrow pierced his ghostly heart as he recalled how she’d pored over the ancient tome of magic, the hideous black evil of the Serpent’s Eye desecrating her desk.

“Lyra, my child,” he whispered softly. “If only I could reach you.”

Of course, the awful truth was that she wasn’t beyond his reach. At any time, he could pierce the veil and speak to her one last time. In her current state, was he sure that she would listen? Would her father’s last words be enough to bring her back from the darkness? Or would she ignore him and continue on her chosen course?

He drifted down into the great hall, where courtiers mingled. Their idle chatter and vapid laughter hardly improved his mood. How many of them were secret allies of the Dark Brotherhood? How could they all carry on so blithely while darkness festered in their midst?

His gaze fell upon Lord Blackwood, deep in conversation with one of the king’s advisors. At the very sight of him, rage and despair warred within Arion’s heart.

“You monster,” he hissed. “You slew me in cold blood, and now you seek to ensnare my daughter? By all that is good and holy in this world, I swear that I will find a way to stop you!”

He paused, his gaze falling upon a cluster of mages engaged in hushed conversation near the hearth. One of them cast a sidelong glance at him, subtle enough that no one else noticed.

A clairvoyant, Lord Arion thought to himself. One with the magical gift to see and speak with the dead. Clairvoyance was rare, but not unheard of. Many of those who possessed the gift preferred to keep it secret, developing their other talents instead.

For a fleeting moment, Lord Arion considered approaching the mage. Yet a nagging suspicion stayed his hand. From observing Lord Blackwood, he knew that the Dark Brotherhood had already infiltrated the ranks of the kingdom’s magical elite. And of course, everyone else had their own devious schemes. Could he trust any of the clairvoyants at the court? No—the risk of exposing himself to his enemies was simply too great.

Dismayed, he drifted up from the hall, passing through the rafters and rough stone walls. So deeply did he brood over his troubled thoughts that he hardly noticed where he was going until he emerged in his daughter’s chamber, illuminated in the flickering light of a single candle. Lyra sat hunched over her desk, her midnight-black hair spilling over her shoulders. With one hand, she idly stroked the Serpent’s Eye.

“I will bring you justice, father,” she murmured. “I swear it.”

Arion’s heart clenched. “No!” he screamed. “My killer is Lord Blackwood, child! The very man you’ve chosen to make your mentor!”

Lyra shivered suddenly, wrapping her arms around her chest. “Are you here, Father?” she asked softly. “Sometimes, it almost seems like I can feel you.”

Lord Arion reached out to her, his ghostly fingers passing through her cheek. “I’m here, child,” he whispered.

For a fleeting moment, he wondered if she could feel his ethereal touch. But then, she shook her head and returned to her studies.

Unable to bear his helplessness any longer, Arion soared through the castle walls and up into the night sky. The city sprawled beneath him, the light of countless torches flickering in the shadowed streets.

There had to be someone down there who could help him reach out to his wayward daughter. But where?

Corin

Corin darted across the dark alley, leaping between the crates and barrels in his way. He slowed as he rounded the corner, careful to watch for any dangerous figures lurking in the shadows. But once he knew they were clear, he wore the shadows like an old familiar cloak over his threadbare rags.

“I told you,” he hissed under his breath. “I don’t do this anymore. Find someone else to help.”

The ghost of a middle-aged man followed him, his pudgy face creased with worry. “Please, young man. My daughter is in danger—you’re the only one who can help!”

Corin quickly scanned his surroundings, and not just for the usual threats. Anyone who saw him would think him mad—his ghostly companion was invisible to everyone else.

“Look,” he whispered harshly, “I’m sorry about Mariah. Truly, I am. But from what you’ve told me, I’m liable to end up floating face-down in the river if I go after her. And I rather like breathing.”

“But if you do nothing, she’ll die!”

Corin winced, though he did his best to hide it. “Yeah, well, we all go sooner or later. I’m not a hero. Why don’t you go ask someone respectable, with one of those big, fancy swords?”

“Do you think I haven’t tried? None of them can see or hear me. Only you have the gift!”

“Some gift,” Corin snorted, leaping over a putrid rivulet of freshly-dumped sewage. “All it’s ever brought me is trouble.”

His stomach growled. The only food he’d managed to scrounge up that day were some meager scraps from a refuse pile. Even when he managed to pinch a few silvers, the hunger always gnawed at him. It was his only constant companion in his hardscrabble existence—aside, of course, from the dead.

“Please,” the ghost moaned. “You are my daughter’s only hope.”

Corin clenched his jaw. Mariah was a friend, of a sort—at least, as much of a friend as one could have on the streets. He doubted she would come after him if their roles were reversed. But she might. Shouldn’t he… but no, every instinct screamed at him not to risk his neck. He hadn’t survived this long by always saying ‘yes’ to every ghost with a haunting sob story. Hadn’t he?

“Why do I always let myself get dragged into these things?” he muttered. The ghost’s face lit up immediately.

“Thank you, lad! You’ve no idea how much this means to—”

“Save it,” Corin growled. “Just guide me to her.”

The ghost nodded and led Corin deeper into the labyrinthine heart of the city’s slums. Worn and weathered buildings loomed over them, their once-grand facades now reduced to crumbling ruins. Shattered windows glinted in the moonlight, many boarded up with pinewood planks. The stench of mildew and raw sewage hung heavy in the air, so thick that it practically clung to Corin’s skin.

The ghost suddenly veered to the left, leading Corin towards a decrepit warehouse. A salty sea breeze from the harbor made its old, weathered boards groan ever so slightly.

“This is it,” the ghost whispered. “My daughter’s in there.”

Corin narrowed his eyes. “Your daughter got herself mixed up with Grim’s gang? Brilliant, that.”

“It wasn’t her fault! Times are hard, and—”

“Times are always hard,” Corin snapped. He ran a hand through his unkempt hair. “Look, if I do this—and that’s a big if—I’m gonna need more than just encouragement. You know the layout in there?”

“Aye, I’ll guide you. Just… please, save my little girl.”

Corin sighed. “I’ll do what I can. But don’t expect any miracles.”

The ghost’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Thank you, Corin. I knew I could count on you.”

Corin crept along the warehouse’s outer wall toward a rickety ladder. Pausing only to test if it would hold his weight, he nimbly scaled the rungs, slipping through a small hatch into a dark and dusty hayloft.

The pungent smell of moldy straw assaulted him as he crawled forward on his belly, peering through gaps in the floorboards. Mariah’s father hovered nearby, his ghostly form passing effortlessly through the wooden beams.

“There she is,” the ghost whispered, pointing downward.

Corin’s breath caught in his throat. Mariah sat bound and gagged in the center of the floor, her face a patchwork of ugly bruises. Corin recognized the hulking crime boss immediately, with his shaved head and a scar splitting his lip. Half a dozen thugs flanked the ugly man. He grabbed Mariah’s hair and yanked her head back, making Corin wince.

“Last chance, little seer,” Grim growled. “Tell me what I want to know, or I start to become unpleasant.”

Mariah’s eyes blazed with defiance. “Go to hell,” she spat.

“Wrong answer, little seer.”

“Hey boss,” said one of the thugs. “Want us to have some fun with her?”

“Yeah,” said another, puffing out his chest. “What about it, boss?”

Grim chuckled—a cold, mirthless sound that sent shivers down Corin’s spine. “Not yet,” he said, his eyes roving over Mariah’s battered body. “I want to hear her beg for mercy first.”

Corin felt a surge of anger in his gut. He knew he had to act fast. His eyes darted about the warehouse, falling on an oil lamp hanging from the rafters just below him. Below it lay a pile of oily rags.

“What are you thinking, lad?” the ghost asked.

“What I need is a distraction,” Corin muttered under his breath. “But what to do after—”

The sharp crack of a hand striking flesh cut him short. Mariah’s cry of pain echoed in the cavernous space below him.

“Blast it all,” Corin hissed. Right now, all that mattered was getting Mariah away. He’d figure out the rest as he went. With that decided, his hand slipped to the worn handle of his knife as he crept closer to the edge of the hayloft, his heart hammering.

Here goes nothing.

Corin sprang from his hiding spot and rolled as he hit the floor. The thugs whirled around at the sudden movement, but he was already in motion, running. His blade flashed as it sliced through the rope holding the lamp.

“What the—”

The lamp crashed and shattered. The flames licked hungrily at the oily rags, and the thugs hesitated, unsure whether to chase Corin or to put out the fire.

“Yah!” shouted Corin, lunging in a feint. The thugs instinctively moved to fight him, wasting the precious few seconds they had before the fire grew out of control.

“What are you doing?” Grim bellowed. “Smith, Carter—after that thief! The rest of you put out the fire!” But he was too late. The flames had already taken to the dry and weathered wood, filling the air with smoke.

“Dirty little waif,” one of the thugs snarled as he drew a wicked dagger. Corin took that as his cue to dance.

The thug lunged at him, moving much faster than his hulking form seemed to allow. But Corin was faster. He darted to the side, tripping up a man with a water pail and causing him to spill it on the floor. Another thug tried to catch him, but slipped on the water and barreled into someone else.

Corin ran toward a stack of crates, leading his attackers away from Mariah, who still sat bound to her chair. The thugs crashed after him, knocking some of them over, but he had already doubled around behind them.

“Get him!” Grim roared, his face contorted with rage.

Corin had just enough time to duck before another thug came after him, swinging his meaty fists. He felt the whoosh of the air as the man’s arm passed over his head. Without thinking, he lashed out with his foot, catching his attacker in the knee. The man grunted and took a step back.

“My daughter!” the ghost yelled. “We have to save her before the place burns down!”

The warehouse was fully on fire now, the acrid smoke stinging Corin’s eyes and throat. He caught a glimpse of Mariah staring wide-eyed at the flames as men scrambled in vain to put them out. She was far too close to them for comfort.

But before Corin could run after her, the thugs came after him. Since they were both taller than him, though, the smoke stung their eyes enough for him to slip between them. He darted toward the opposite wall, coughing.

“A little help here?” he asked the ghost. The smoke was already thick enough that he could barely see anything.

“This way!” Mariah’s father called, urging him into the fire.

Corin followed, dodging started thugs and burning debris. Mariah’s muffled cries for help urged him to move faster. The acrid stench burned his lungs, but he ducked his head and pushed on.

“There she is!” the ghost cried out.

Through the haze, Corin spotted her. She’d been knocked to the floor in the commotion and was now struggling for her life against her bonds. When she saw him, her eyes widened.

“Corin? What are you doing here?”

“That’s a very good question,” he muttered, sawing at the ropes that bound her feet. As soon as they were cut, he grunted and hauled her up.

“Can you run?”

She nodded, her arms still bound behind her back. The timbers above them groaned and cracked, showering them with sparks and embers. But before they could run, a rough hand grabbed Corin’s shoulder.

“You little street rat,” Grim snarled, his face contorted with rage. “I’ll gut you myself!”

His knife was almost as long as Corin’s forearm. But before he could use it, Mariah landed a kick in the crime lord’s groin. Grim howled and doubled over.

“Run!” said Corin, grabbing Mariah by the arm. She didn’t need to be told twice. Together, they stumbled through the thickening smoke.

The burst out into the cool night air, coughing and gasping for breath. Behind them, angry shouts and roaring flames filled the air. Mariah staggered, and for a moment, it seemed that she was about to collapse.

“Don’t stop,” Corin gasped, pulling her back to her feet. “We’ve got to get away from here.”

Mariah nodded. Together, they plunged into the winding alleys of Caravelia, leaving the inferno far behind.

Corin

The old wharf groaned under Corin’s weight. He stumbled to the edge, letting his feet dangle over the water as he sat. The putrid stench of the river wafted up to greet him, a nauseating blend of sewage and rotting fish. As if that weren’t enough, the acrid smoke of the warehouse fire still clung to his rags.

“Think we lost ‘em,” he muttered as Mariah sat beside him. The distant shouts of the city guard echoed behind them through the narrow streets.

Mariah nodded. “For now, at least.” She sagged against a moldering wooden post, wincing at her bonds. “Lend a hand?”

“Right, sorry.” Corin fumbled for his knife and carefully sawed through the ropes binding her wrists. The raw, red welts stirred his anger.

“How badly did they hurt you?”

Mariah grimaced as she rubbed her chafed skin. “Ain’t nothing I can’t handle. You learn to take your licks on the streets.” She glanced at him, her eyes glinting. “Speaking of which, what were you doing there? How’d you know where to find me?”

Mariah’s father hovered at the edge of Corin’s vision. “Tell her,” he urged. But Corin couldn’t afford to let word get out about his gift.

“I heard a rumor,” he lied. “Thought I’d check it out, see if you needed my help.”

Mariah snorted. “Since when do you play the hero, Corey?”

“Maybe I just wanted to buck the trend for once.”

She stared at him for a while, then shook her head. “You’re a strange one. But… thanks. I mean it.”

“What were you doing getting mixed up with Grim’s crew anyway?” Corin asked. Mariah looked away, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“It’s… complicated,” she said evasively. “I got mixed up in something I shouldn’t have.”

Corin’s frown deepened. He knew all too well the kinds of people who ruled Caravelia’s underworld. It often felt like the city’s prosperity was built on a foundation of corruption and greed. The fact that Mariah didn’t want to talk about it obviously meant she was in over her head.

“Must’ve been some job,” he pressed. “Grim doesn’t tie people up for fun.”

Mariah’s lips tightened. “Look, I appreciate you saving me and all, but it’s better if you don’t know all the details. For both our sakes.”

Corin opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it. Why was he trying to get himself involved anyway? Everyone on the streets had their own dirty secrets.

“Fine,” he said. “Just… take care of yourself, alright? And if you need my help again—”

“Don’t worry, I’ll ask for it,” she said, turning away. But she couldn’t hide the gratitude in her eyes.

Maybe I just want to feel needed for a change, he thought, answering his own question. By someone who isn’t dead yet, he added quickly, turning away from the ghost.

“Tell her,” Mariah’s father pleaded. “Please, Corin. Tell her I’m here—that I love her.”

But Corin ignored the spectral being, fixing his gaze on the water instead. A small barge glided past them, its hull groaning as it made its way toward the harbor. Mariah noticed his sudden tension and frowned.

“What is it, Corey?” she asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“You have no idea.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Now, let’s get out of here before those goons catch up to us.”

Corin felt the ghost’s disappointment like a cold wind at his back. But he shoved the feeling aside. Survival came first—everything else was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

Lord Arion

Lord Arion silently watched the two ragged figures below. Though unremarkable to mortal eyes, the boy stood out among the thousands of other inhabitants of the capital city.

“He has the gift,” Lord Arion whispered. “The power to see beyond the veil of the Mortal Realm.”

Hope began to surge within him, a feeling he hadn’t felt very often since his demise. He swooped lower, watching as Corin parted ways with Mariah before slipping into a gaggle of drunken sailors. He blended in surprisingly well.

“He is so different from my Lyra,” Arion mused as he followed the boy through the city’s squalid streets. Where Lyra walked with the grace and poise of nobility, Corin slunk through the shadows, always watching his back. Where Lyra had a position at court, Corin trusted no one and always kept a knife on his belt.

“The streets haven’t been kind to you, have they, lad?” Arion murmured. He focused his otherworldly senses to peer into Corin’s heart. Beneath the boy’s gritty cynicism, a flicker of something pure still burned.

“There’s goodness there,” Arion decided. “Buried, perhaps, but not extinguished. You’re a good man, Corin—or at least, you want to be.”

Arion’s mind turned to the peril his daughter now courted. His rage burned at the thought of Dorian indoctrinating her in the ways of the Dark Brotherhood. She needed her father now more than ever—before she made a mistake that would fix the course of her life.

“The boy has the gift,” he repeated, steeling his resolve. It would not be easy, persuading a street urchin to turn from a life of petty thievery. But for Lyra’s sake, he had to try.

A Daughter’s Dedication

Lyra

Lyra Arion glided gracefully across the polished marble floor of Castle Caravelia’s great hall, her heart racing. It seemed as if the entire court had turned out for her debut. The sight of their resplendent dazzling uniforms and gorgeous gowns made her skin tingle with awe. And yet, even among them, she stood out like a vibrant gem. Her emerald green dress shimmered in the light of the chandeliers, her black hair adorned with a delicate silver circlet that made her feel like a queen. All eyes were drawn to her, and she knew it.

The musicians took up a song, and the floor filled with dancers. Lyra watched with unabashed delight, though inwardly, she felt conflicted. The ball had been thrown in her honor, celebrating her debut as a young lady of the court of King Leander. And yet, for all the wonder and joy at her coming of age, she still felt the loss of her father’s murder—a crime for which no one had yet been punished.

His killer was someone in this very court, she mused inwardly, even as she smiled and exchanged meaningless pleasantries. Perhaps even someone in this very room.

A portly merchant approached her with a plump, rich woman on his arm. She didn’t know the man, but the woman was Lady Estelle, a lady-in-waiting of the late queen. She smiled as her husband spoke.

“Lady Arion—what a pleasure! We’ve been eagerly awaiting your debut for some time now.”

Lyra curtseyed politely. “Thank you, sir. I’m honored to join the court.”

“You look positively radiant this evening,” gushed Lady Estelle. “That dress brings out the lovely color in your eyes.”

“Thank you, milady.”

“Your father would have been so proud to see you here tonight. He truly must be smiling down upon you now.”

Lyra’s heart constricted at the mention of her father. She forced a tight smile, her voice betraying none of her inner turmoil.

“You are too kind, Lady Estelle. I only wish he could be here to share this moment.”

“Quite, quite,” said the portly merchant, eyeing the buffet table a little too eagerly. “Well, don’t let us keep you, Lady Arion. May you have a wonderful evening.”

“And you as well,” Lyra said, curtsying again as they parted ways. As soon as their backs were turned, she glared daggers at them. Could it be either of them? No—Lady Estelle’s head was far too empty to be able to hide the conspiracy for long, and as for her husband, she doubted he was of any consequence. Though if Lady Estelle had meant that comment as some sort of barb…

The arrogant Lord Haversmith simpered toward her, interrupting her thoughts. “Lady Arion,” he purred as he bowed, “you look absolutely radiant this evening.”

“Milord,” she answered curtly. But the young man didn’t take the hint. His gaze slid over her body, taking in every inch of her.

“Might I have the honor of a dance?”

Lyra covered her mouth, ostensibly in a coy laugh, but truthfully to hide a scowl. Even as a debutante, she knew how to play the game.

“You are too kind, my lord. Perhaps later this evening? I simply must rest my feet for a moment.”

He hesitated a moment before bowing stiffly again. “Of course,” he muttered, clearly annoyed. But Lyra didn’t care. She turned away, revealing her true emotions only in the subtle twitch of her eyebrow.

Her thoughts turned inward as she observed the whispered conversations along the edges of the great hall. There were many factions in King Leander’s court, all of them vying against each other in a hundred subtle ways. Which of them was responsible for the murder of her father? Was it Lord Aldric, with his too-bright smile and overly familiar manner? Or or perhaps the stern-faced Duke Bardolf, watching from an alcove with an inscrutable expression on his face? Now that she was one of them, Lyra finally had an opportunity to investigate the murder for herself. She could hardly wait to get started.

“Lady Lyra!” exclaimed Lady Forsythe. “How marvelous to see you.” Her voice was like a songbird’s trill, high-pitched and overly sweet. “Your debut has become quite the occasion for the court. That gown is simply divine.”

Lyra nodded. “Your dress is lovely as well,” she responded superficially. “And how fares your husband?”

At the mention of her spouse, Lady Forsythe launched into a seemingly endless monologue about his recent struggles with gout and the various remedies he had tried to cure it. As she prattled on, Lyra’s mind wondered. Could it be her? Or perhaps her foppish son?”

“…and of course, we simply must have you over for tea next week,” Lady Forsythe concluded.

Lyra inclined her head. “You’re too kind,” she replied noncommittally.

“Very well. Have a lovely evening, Lady Arion.”

As they parted, Lyra decided it couldn’t be her. Lady Forsythe was far too absorbed with her own husband. Or was that just a clever ruse?

Patience, Lyra chided herself, though inwardly she wanted to scream. She would find her father’s killer. She would see him brought to justice.

A hand touched Lyra’s elbow, startling her from her brooding thoughts. She turned to find herself face-to-face with a tall, gaunt man whose deep blue eyes seemed to pierce right through her.

“Lady Arion,” he said, his voice as smooth as silk. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. Lord Blackwood, at your service.”

Lyra curtseyed, her eyes never leaving his face. “Lord Blackwood. A pleasure.”

“Would you honor me with a dance?”

Lyra hesitated. Something about the man seemed off to her, but she could not refuse a second invitation without drawing unwanted attention. She forced a smile and placed her hand in his.

“Of course, Lord Blackwood.”

They glided across the marble floor, joining the other dancers. Dorian moved with surprising skill, stepping smoothly as he led her with a firm and confident hand.

“I must say, Lady Lyra, you look positively radiant tonight. The court is truly enriched by your presence.”

“Thank you, Milord,” Lyra replied uneasily. She had heard of Lord Blackwood, of course. He was a minor noble with a reputation for charm and wit. His flattery seemed a little too thick, though. She searched his face for sarcasm or malice, but found only a pleasant smile.

Just what was it about this man that put her on edge?

“You seem distracted,” Dorian observed as he guided her through a turn. “Is the ball not to your liking?”

“Not at all, Lord Blackwood. I’m simply… overwhelmed by the grandeur of it all.”

“Ah, yes. Though this isn’t your first time at court, isn’t it?” His grip on her waist tightened. “I seem to remember you accompanying your father, before his… unfortunate passing.”

The words hit Lyra like a physical blow. Memories flooded her mind: the pounding on the door, her grandmother’s ashen face, the terrible news that had shattered her world forever. She swallowed hard, struggling to keep her composure.

“Yes,” she managed. “His loss has been… difficult.”

“My deepest condolences, Lady Arion. We have all keenly felt his absence from court these past five years.”

The music swelled, relieving her from having to respond.

As they continued to dance, Lyra found herself studying Dorian more closely. His charm seemed practiced and stale, his words too carefully chosen. Could he have been involved?

“Tell me, Lord Blackwood: did you know my father?”

“Not as well as I would have liked,” he replied smoothly. “But his reputation preceded him. Your father’s skill in the arcane arts was legendary. Did you inherit any of his… talents?”

The question sent a strange chill down her spine. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Lord Blackwood.”

“Oh, come now, Lady Arion. Surely you’ve felt the call of magic in your blood?”

“I have,” she answered carefully. “But I’m not sure what you’re implying, my lord. My training in the arcane arts is a matter of public record.”

To her relief, Lord Arion dropped the question. “My apologies if I’ve overstepped. I simply find you fascinating, Lady Arion.”

Yes, Lyra thought silently as she turned her gaze from his piercing blue eyes. Just like Lord Haversmith.

The final notes of the waltz faded away, and Lord Blackwood released her from his grasp. She stifled a sigh of relief, ignoring how his eyes seemed to linger. His grip on her waist had been far too possessive.

“Thank you for the dance,” she said, offering a curtsy.

Dorian bowed. “The pleasure was all mine, Lady Arion. I look forward to seeing more of you.”

The feeling is not mutual, Lyra thought but did not say.

As she turned her back to him, she decided that Dorian Blackwood was little more than a petty womanizer. Obviously, that was the only thing that had set her on edge, for what could he have possibly gained from the murder of her father? She would have to avoid him in the future.

She suddenly noticed the eyes of the nearby courtiers drawn to an approaching figure. Lyra turned to see Lady Seraphine, the court magician, gliding toward her with mesmerizing grace. Her long silver hair cascaded down her back, accentuating the purple lace of her gown. Her smile could have belonged equally to a face as young as five or as old as five hundred.

“My dear Lady Arion,” Lady Seraphine greeted her with a melodious voice. “How lovely to see you this evening. You’ve blossomed into such a beautiful young woman.”

Lyra’s spine stiffened. Could Lady Seraphine have been involved in her father’s murder? After all, she had succeeded him as court magician. Few others had gained so much from his untimely passing.

“Thank you, Lady Seraphine,” Lyra carefully chose her words. “The pleasure is mine, though I wish my father were here to see it.”

“His passing still looms like a shadow over this court. These are trying times, Lady Lyra. The kingdom faces many challenges, both from within and without.”

What’s that supposed to mean? Lyra wondered.

“But enough about politics,” the older lady purred. “I suppose a young woman such as yourself must be bored half to death by matters of the court.”

“On the contrary, I find such matters invigorating. There’s so much to consider.”

Lyra’s gaze met Lady Seraphine’s, and for a moment both women took stock of each other. The older sorceress’s violet eyes seemed to miss nothing.

“Your father spoke of you often, you know. He had high hopes for your future.”

Lyra’s throat tightened. “Did he?”

“Yes,” Lady Seraphine said softly. “Tell me, child, have you given any thought to following in his footsteps? The gift of magic often runs in families, after all. And your father’s talents were quite exceptional.”

The way Lady Seraphine called her a “child” made Lyra bristle ever so slightly. But she did her best to hide it, keeping her voice low and controlled.

“You flatter me, my lady. But I don’t think I could ever hope to match my father.”

The sorceress’s laugh was like the tinkling of crystal. “Oh, you underestimate yourself, child. I can see the spark in your eyes—the same fire that burned in your father’s.”

“And what became of that fire, Lady Seraphine? Did someone seek to extinguish it?”

For a fleeting moment, something flickered in the ageless woman’s eyes. But it disappeared just as quickly, replaced by her mask of serene elegance.

“Careful, child. The line between justice and vengeance is often thinner than we’d like to admit.”

“I’m not a child, anymore, Lady Seraphine. This very ball is meant to celebrate that fact. But tell me, how does it feel to wear the mantle of a dead man?”

Seraphine’s eyes flashed. “Your father was a great man, young child, but your grief at his passing does not give you license to lash out blindly.”

“And allow his killer to go unpunished?”

“Such talk is unbecoming of a lady. And dangerous, in these troubled times.” Lady Seraphine’s face smoothed into a placid smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe King Leander requires my company. Do enjoy the rest of the ball, my dear.”

With a swirl of shimmering robes, the sorceress glided away. Lyra trembled with fury, her cheeks hot and her heart pounding.

“By the seven seas,” Lyra muttered, “I need some air.”

Lyra

The pale light of the moon illuminated the castle with a soft, glowing light. A salt-tinged breeze blew gently from the sea, tossing Lyra’ hair and cooling her flushed cheeks. She paused to admire the view of the royal gardens below.

“I will find the truth, Father,” she whispered. “I will not rest until I’ve found them.”

A flicker of movement caught her eye. She turned and found herself face to face with a cloaked figure, his face concealed by an ornate mask. The suddenness of his appearance made her gasp.

“Who are you?” Lyra demanded.

The figure tilted his head inquisitively “A friend, perhaps. That depends entirely on you, Lady Arion.”

A shiver ran down Lyra’s spine. Should she call for the guards? But if he wanted to harm her, he could have already done so.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I wasn’t aware that I needed one.”

The man chuckled. “And yet, here you are, alone at the grand ball in your honor. Clearly, something else is on your mind. Are you searching for something? Or perhaps for someone?”

Lyra’s cheeks flushed. Did he overhear my vow? she wondered silently.

“What do you know of my search?”

The figure leaned in closer, his voice dropping. “The man who killed your father is in this very castle.”

Her heart surged. “What do you know of him?”

“Only vagaries. The killer’s identity is a closely guarded secret, even from me.” He paused. “But your father’s murder casts a long shadow.”

Something in the way he spoke of her father made the words spill out of Lyra’s mouth. “He—he didn’t deserve to die like that,” she heard herself stammer. “He was a great man. Whoever killed him… I want them to suffer as I have suffered. As my father suffered in his final moments.”

“Is it justice you seek, or vengeance?”

“Both,” Lyra answered.

“Be careful, Lady Arion. Such desires can lead down dark paths.”

“Then so be it,” she said, lifting her chin. “I’ll walk any path if it leads me to my father’s killer.”

The masked figure nodded, as if coming to a decision. Without warning, he took Lyra’s hand. Her body tensed, but before she could pull away, she felt him press something smooth into her palm.

“Then perhaps this will aid you on your quest. It will guide you, if you have the will to use it.”

Lyra looked down at the object. It was a small obsidian artifact, like a stone worn smooth from the ocean waves. Its surface was as smooth as polished glass. At its center, a faint light pulsed. She could sense its deep magical power, dark and rich and alluring. Its weight filled her with a sense of pure, untapped possibility, as if she held a small world in her hands.

“But how do I—”

Her words trailed off. The battlements were empty. The masked figure had vanished as if he’d never been there at all.

Lyra

Lyra’s footsteps echoed through the castle as she hurried to her apartment in the east wing. She barely managed to resist the urge to reach for the magical orb, hidden within the folds of her elegant gown. Its powers seemed to course through her, urging her to call upon its dark power.

Not yet, she thought, stumbling a little as she climbed the stairs. She caught herself and reached her apartment without further incident.

Once inside, she bolted the door and hurried over to her writing desk. With trembling hands, she retrieved the enchanted obsidian sphere, placing it ever so carefully upon the polished wood. In the soft glow of the candlelight, it shimmered with an otherworldly allure. She sank into her chair, eyes fixed on the artifact.

“What are you?” she whispered, tracing a finger along its cool surface. She thought of the words of the masked figure who’d given it to her. Could this orb truly help her find her father’s killer? Lyra leaned closer, captivated by the swirling depths beneath its glassy surface. A faint, pulsing light emanated softly from its core.

“How do I use you?” she murmured.

“My lady,” a silky smooth voice purred behind her. “I believe I can assist you with that.”

Lyra whirled, her heart leaping into her throat. Dorian Blackwood stood in the corner of her chamber, appearing from the shadows almost like a ghost. His blue eyes gleamed in the candlelight.

“Lord Blackwood!” Lyra exclaimed, rising awkwardly. “How did you…”

“My apologies for the intrusion, Lady Arion. It was necessary to come in secret, for reasons that will soon be clear.” He glanced meaningfully at the orb. “You’ve made quite the acquisition. Such a fascinating artifact, wouldn’t you agree?”

Lyra’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know of it?”

“More than you might think,” Dorian answered, his eyes glinting in the candlelight. “If you wish to use it, I can give you the guidance you seek.”

Curiosity warred with suspicion in Lyra’s heart. She was half-minded to call the guards and throw him out, but his answer made her hesitate.

“Guidance? What do you mean?”

With a fluid motion, Dorian reached into the folds of his cloak. His long fingers emerged clutching a second magical orb, identical to the one on the table.

“Stars above,” Lyra gasped. “There are two of them?”

Dorian nodded. “The Serpent’s Eyes. Their true powers are only unlocked when they are held by a master and an apprentice. That is why every initiate into the dark arts receives one.”

“The—the dark arts?” Lyra asked, her eyes widening.

“Yes. You do wish to find your father’s killer, don’t you? This orb will help you unlock the gates of shadow. With proper training, you will be able to peer into the darkest corners of men’s souls and bend the very fabric of reality to your will.”

“But… aren’t the dark arts forbidden?”

“Yes,” said Dorian, his smile quickly turning to a scowl. “Those who cannot wield the power hate and fear those of us who can. That is why we must keep to the shadows… for now.”

She frowned. “Who do you mean by ‘we’? Are you speaking about—”

“The Dark Brotherhood? Yes. By taking the Eye, you have joined us, Lady Arion. Though as one of our acolytes, you need not fear our power.”

Now Lyra’s heart truly began to race. She had heard many things about the awful calamities the Brotherhood had wrought upon the world during the Time of Troubles long ago. Most people believed that they had been destroyed by their own power. But she’d also heard rumors that they’d merely been forced underground, biding their time until they could rise again.

“Most of what you’ve heard about us is false, of course,” Dorian continued. “We do not seek to enslave all men, but to liberate them. We seek power to build a better world—much as you seek justice for your father.”

Lyra took a deep breath, her mind spinning. Part of her screamed caution, but her raw, aching need for justice drowned it out.

“Could the dark arts really help me to find my father’s killer?”

“My dear girl, the dark arts could give you far more than that. With this power, you could make your own justice.”

A heady mix of emotions began to well up inside of her. “I’ve tried everything,” she confessed, her voice cracking. “But the investigation into his death has gone nowhere. Everyone at the court speaks so highly of him, but they won’t actually do anything about his death.”

“The foppish, preening peacocks are worse than useless,” Dorian agreed. “The court of King Leander is beyond saving. Your father’s untimely death is proof enough of that.”

“Do you know who killed him?”

He shook his head sadly. “Our influence in the court is far too tenuous, though hopefully that will soon change. But be assured, Lady Lyra—your father’s killer still walks these halls.”

Lyra clenched her fists, her emotions rising. Something in his words—in the quiet intensity of his voice—broke through the wall around Lyra’s heart.

“It’s been five years,” she murmured, her eyes beginning to sting. “Five awful, horrible years. I see his face in my dreams, Lord Blackwood. I hear him calling out to me. It makes me feel so—so powerless.”

Dorian placed a hand on her shoulder. “I understand your pain all too well, child. With my help, you can turn that pain into power.”

“Why would you help me?”

“Because we need you, Lady Arion. If we are to reshape the kingdom—to purge it of all corruption and injustice—we will need every mage who is willing to join our cause. If we had risen to power sooner, perhaps your father would still be alive.”

She sniffed and wiped her eyes. All her life, she’d been taught that the dark arts were evil. Had that all been a lie? I’ve tried everything else, she thought inwardly as her resolve began to harden. But no one else seems to care.

She lifted her chin to meet Dorian’s gaze. “When do we begin?”

“Soon,” Dorian promised. “But remember, secrecy is paramount. The penalty for practicing dark magic is death.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to avenge my father’s death.”

Dorian’s eyes glittered with a look of… gratification? Or was that triumph? In the dim light of the candle, it was difficult to tell.

“You have an unquenchable spirit, Lady Lyra. But you must exercise patience. Soon, the day is coming when we will be able to practice openly. But until that day, we must exercise prudence.”

He reached into his cloak and withdrew a small leather bound volume. Its cover and spine were non-descript, bearing no lettering at all. Muttering an incantation, he handed it carefully to her.

“Open it.”

Lyra undid the clasp, feeling a shiver of energy run down her spine. She saw at once that it was a manual of the forbidden arts, its pages deeply yellowed with age.

“The spell will cause the book to burst into flames if anyone opens it other than you,” Dorian explained. “Keep it clasped, and show it to no one.”

“I understand,” she said, flipping through the pages. Her heart leaped—even at a glance, she could tell that the volume contained a wealth of knowledge.

“I must go now,” Dorian told her. “It will be at least a fortnight until I return. Until then, study the book, and learn to draw on the power of the Serpent’s Eye. Let it be your teacher for now. Show it to no one, except those who belong to our Brotherhood.”

“How will I know who they are?”

“They will make themselves known to you by this sign,” he said, holding up his hand. Pressing his fingers together in the shape of a snake’s head, he curved two of them down to make the fangs. “You must keep the Serpent’s Eye on your person at all times. But show it to no one else. Do you understand?”

Lyra nodded. “I understand.”

“Good. Now, I must go. Do not attempt to contact me. When the time is right, I will contact you.”

He stepped back into the shadows, crossing his hands over his chest. His figure shimmered before dissipating like smoke in the air. Lyra slowly walked over to where he had been standing, carefully checking for any sign of him. But he was gone.

With a heavy sigh, she collapsed onto her bed, still holding the obsidian orb. As she gazed into its depths, she shivered in anticipation of the power that would soon be hers.

“Soon,” she whispered, smiling fiercely. “Soon, Father, I’ll have the power to make things right.”