Dhegian Chronicles

Chains of Compassion

Chapter 1

“Every healing touch hides a sting,” Jorlan murmured—his mentor’s mantra to temper reckless experiments.

Candlelight flickered across the iron washbasin as he scrubbed dried ink and crushed Mawroot from his fingertips, working at the grit under his nails; the cold water did little—as if rinsing skin could wash away his failures. He studied the page before him: another grim tally of lives lost.

At the edge of his vision, Anwill lay beneath a threadbare blanket, his younger brother’s chest rising and falling in a shallow, uneven rhythm.

The bell’s low boom shook the wardsmith’s upper workshop, rattling the beams overhead and setting dust motes spinning; the acrid tang of Mawroot drifted over the spilled ink. Day Twelve of the Rot dawned—the Dandorians named it—and already the word curled through every shop and alley like poison smoke.

Jorlan drew a long, weary breath, shoulders sagging before he forced them square against the old, bone-deep ache each death left behind.

“Are you really going out again?” Anwill murmured, his voice thick with sleep, worry threading through the drowse.

Jorlan paused, a flicker of guilt tightening his jaw as his thumb smoothed the frayed satchel strap. He wanted only to stay, to keep his brother sheltered from the growing dread outside—but every hour he lingered meant another person in need he wouldn’t reach.

“I have to,” Jorlan said, hooking the strap across his chest; leather creaked and the weight settled against his ribs. “Stay inside and bar the door. I’ll be back before dusk.”

Anwill nodded once, eyes closing against the pale window-glow.

Jorlan slipped into the bustling Mage Quarters. A cluster of wizards in iron-gray cloaks, unbadged, drifted toward Camp Lifebloom—Bleakshore, as the locals called it.

Master Malgrim—his robes hemmed with trailing ivy stitching—stepped into Jorlan’s path, flanked by two green-robed acolytes. “Still here, I see.”

Jorlan said nothing, keeping his gaze on the hem rather than the eyes.

“We’ve had this talk, Jorlan—Interdict Seven. That binding is dangerous,” Malgrim said. “Or are you too stubborn to heed it?”

“With respect, Master: people are dying. I’m not Conclave—your Interdicts don’t govern me. If this method saves a life, I’ll use it—until you show me proof it harms,” Jorlan said, keeping his voice low.

The acolytes stepped in, their green robes fanning like shutters to bar his way. Silence thickened; breaths held, boots planted; an iron-capped rod hovered a handspan from his ribs.

Jorlan edged a half step sideways, palms open, measuring the alley gap and the rod’s swing.

“Next time, we won’t be so merciful.” Malgrim twitched his iron-rusted staff; the rods dipped, and the line parted. He turned, robes whispering, and tossed over his shoulder, “Go home, Dhegian.”

Jorlan’s chest tightened, not at the rebuke but at the silver diamond glinting over Malgrim’s heart—the Dandorian emblem of compassion. Tales of that age still shimmered in every hamlet—stories of Conclave wizards who brokered truces and carried aid across hostile borders. Now, in Malgrim’s hands, mercy had hardened into a warded gate.

He pressed on, shoulders squared, breath even. At Camp Lifebloom’s boundary, he seated his cracked ivory mask and thumb-checked the seal, its warding sigils beaded like tears; a tea-gold glimmer pooled in the grooves, then faded. He ducked between rope-staked rows of quarantine tents—canvas hovels crammed with the fevered and the fearful; coughs thudded like muffled drums.

The air reeked of copper and rot. He paused by a small girl wracked with coughing; scarlet-flecked spittle wetting the cloth at her chin—each spasm tugged at his wards and rattled his teeth. Gently, he took her cold hand and pressed it to his chest, counting three slow breaths as he fed warmth through his palm. For a heartbeat, her eyes cleared, then the fever’s flush leapt back across her cheeks again.

The weave steadies, then slips—time for the dose.

Jorlan drew a small vial from his coat, uncorked it, and tapped a measured pinch of crushed Mawroot into a waiting earthen bowl of water. The fibrous threads unfurled at once, spiraling through the water like rootlets tasting for a host. He set the bowl into a slow swirl with a flick of his wrist.

Keep the dose small; keep the motion slow.

He closed his eyes and whispered the old words of Luminal Binding, keeping his voice a thread above breath. For a moment, nothing stirred—then the water’s rim drew taut, a faint opaline ring at the edges, as if something curled beneath. Swallowing hard, Jorlan set a single Duskbloom petal adrift and waited for it to center, then tipped the bowl to the girl’s lips; a hair-fine filament trembled between her exhale and the surface, then snapped.

A crystalline tinkle echoed in the tent as golden mist bloomed above her, carrying the faint sweetness of chamomile and citrus peel. It clung to his tongue, honeyed with a trace of citrus pith; her ragged breath steadied, her ribs rising and falling like autumn leaves on a still pond.

When the light dimmed, the fever broke; her skin cooled beneath his palm, leaving a dusky, floral hush.

“Well done,” a soft voice said at his elbow.

He turned to find Lyora in her green robe, the silver diamond sigil of the Conclave glinting at her breast. She knelt beside him.

“You combined Mawroot with Luminal Binding—then tempered it with a single Duskbloom petal,” Lyora said. “That’s…remarkable—perilously close to the line.”

“Malgrim seems to think it’s more than close to the line,” Jorlan said. “I call it Twilight Blossom.”

Lyora met his gaze—relief, respect, and a tenderness she didn’t quite hide gleaming in her eyes.

They worked the camp side by side, tending the sick as they had since Day One, their routine smooth and unspoken. Lyora had become his closest ally. From the first fevered tent by the river wall to the last huddle near the camp gates, they moved in step—Lyora’s warding chants threading Jorlan’s healing touch, each life saved knitting their bond tighter.

By dusk, lanterns winked to life.

They reached the hastily erected infirmary at the camp’s edge on the outbound path and passed through the warded gateway-curtain: a veil of mist drawn thin as silk and laced with slow-turning glyphs. As they crossed, dust lifted from cloth and skin, streamed into the glyphs’ strokes, and went dark.

The standard cleansing before anyone left the rows for the city. Masks came off; they drew long, relieved breaths of the cool evening air.

Lyora leaned against the marble fountain, grinning. “I’ve grown to like you, Dhegian—did you know that?”

“I keep the bowls clean and try to be useful—I won’t argue with your good judgment.”

She jabbed his arm; he flinched in mock pain. “You Dhegians—so earnest.”

He caught her wrist lightly, waited for the answering tilt of her chin, and brushed a stray lock from her brow. She stood up to meet him; they kissed—quick and tender.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asked.

“The Spire is whispering,” Lyora murmured, not meeting his eyes. “Be careful.”

“And you?”

 “I’m careful—for both our sakes.” Her smile wavered in the lantern glow, sorrow shadowing her eyes.

He set his hands lightly on her shoulders. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You should.”

“Not without you.”

“Verdehold’s my home.”

Jorlan raised a finger to her lips. “I know. I’m not asking that—not now.”

“Someone will be blamed for the Rot.” Lyora turned the mask in her hands, the strap rasping her thumb. “Don’t let it be you.”

Jorlan let his mask hang from his fingers and paused, resolve hardening without ivory to hide behind. So long as the dying are saved—and Lyora walks free. Behind them, the curtain knit itself whole; on his tongue, a faint sweetness lingered.

Chapter 2

Jorlan etched a few entries in his journal for Day Twenty of the Rot—every stroke a quiet oath against despair. The quill scratched across the page, leaving black letters and Mawroot flecks gritting the margins like spores waiting on a spark. Camp Lifebloom steadied, but the death toll still gnawed at his heart.

A knock thudded against the door.

“I’ve got it,” Anwill called, already moving.

A low murmur rose beyond the door, then cut off into silence.

“Who was it?” Jorlan asked, noting how Anwill wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“A friend.” Anwill palmed something small and slid it into his coat pocket.

“At this hour?”

“I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up.” Anwill caught the latch, pulled the door open, and slipped out; the wood clicked shut before Jorlan could answer.

He rose and paused, his hand hovering over Anwill’s sparse belongings—Duty first. Forgive me. He went through them carefully, lifting a small brass compass stamped with the Conclave’s silver diamond, ivy scrolling its rim; sigils on the face gave a single pulse and the needle held steady, fixed on a bearing he couldn’t place. Is Anwill running messages for the Conclave?

A soft rap sounded at the door.

Jorlan opened the door; Lyora waited in the corridor, lantern light softening her features. Relief loosened his chest.

“Walk with me?” she asked, the hall empty around her, shoulders tucked, her free hand rubbing at her forearm.

“Of course,” Jorlan said, stepping into the hall. He turned the iron key and settled its cold weight at his throat. He offered his arm and fell in beside her.

They left the Mage Quarters and walked toward Verdant Square, the old market ringed in stalls.

Lyora paused at a stall and bought two wooden cups of Dandorian wine, the sharp-sweet scent curling up from the rims. She passed one to him. “I wager you’ve not tasted this.”

“I was saving it for a night like this.”

They touched cups and drank; the wine burned his throat, heat unfurling in his chest. Lyora’s laugh—light and warm—skimmed the square; a smile rose before he knew it.

“If it earns that laugh, I’ll have another,” he said, the words out before he could stop them, cheeks flushing as he raised his cup too fast.

She colored and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“So,” Jorlan said, rubbing the back of his neck, “when I was last here, these trees were dark-green—are they ailing?”

Lyora arched an amused brow. “What colors do your Dhegian woods wear in autumn?”

Jorlan lifted his gaze, eyes tracing the canopy turned red and gold. “They keep their green—always.”

They drank again; this time, Jorlan swallowed without a wince.

“I’d like to see them—your Dhegian forests,” Lyora said, stepping a fraction closer, her thumb circling the cup’s rim.

“And your family?”

“I’d have more opportunities in Dheg. Their mages are renowned. Why aren’t you with the Wizards’ Guild?”

“I was—for a time—but I needed to see beyond Dheg. And Anwill… he’s still finding his footing. I told our parents the road might give him room to grow—and tempers time to cool.”

Lyora held his gaze and lowered the cup to her side. “Have you seen enough?”

“I’m not sure yet.” He offered his hand; when she laced her fingers with his, he turned to face her. “If our future lies with the Guild, that’s where we’ll go—together. They shape Dheg’s affairs—diplomacy and war—everything.”

She rose to meet him. They kissed, slow and sure, while Verdant Square softened to lantern glow and distant footsteps.

“We’ll find a way,” Jorlan said. “A Dhegian delegation has set up an aid station in the Temple Quarters. First, we help Verdehold defeat the Rot. Then we journey to Dheg with them.”

“Jor…” Lyora whispered, squeezing his hand, color warming her cheeks. “Tomorrow evening—will you have dinner with my parents?”

“I would be honored.”

They walked to the Mage Quarters, hands entwined, warmth steadying in his chest.

“At first light tomorrow?” Lyora asked.

“Same time,” he said, giving her hand a brief squeeze.

A shroud unrolled like leaded cloth, smothering any flare of magic. Lyora’s smile guttered. He told his arms to move; they wouldn’t—stone-heavy. His breath thinned; a cold prickle climbed his ribs.

Three figures in emerald-lined robes slipped from the shadowed alley, Malgrim at their head, his gaze cold.

“Master Malgrim,” Lyora said, her voice catching. “What’s the meaning of this?”

Malgrim lifted a finger, and the words died on her tongue. Two acolytes closed and took Lyora’s arms while a third—broad-shouldered, grim—stepped in.

“I’ve warned you, Lyora,” Malgrim said. “Interdict Seven is doctrine, not whim—our hedge against harms we cannot anticipate. You were to turn him from it, not stand at his side.”

The sturdier acolyte drove a short, iron-capped rod into Lyora’s midsection; her knees buckled, but the others held her upright. Her cry broke in the alley.

Jorlan lunged, but the shroud cinched him in place. Black ward-threads coiled tight around his limbs, their grip cold and implacable. “Stop!”

“You are not Conclave, Dhegian—I cannot bind you to our law,” Malgrim continued. “But the Interdict exists to protect our people. Do not make us wait for proof written in graves.”

The acolyte drove the iron-capped rod in a measured cadence; Lyora folded against each strike, her strength ebbing. Blood flecked the stones.

“Let her go! I broke your Interdict—she tried to turn me. Bind me, not her.” Jorlan’s voice quivered.

“Thorlan, enough,” Malgrim said, his tone even. “Her lesson is done. You are a healer—see to her.”

Lyora crumpled to the cobbles.

The tendrils unwound. Jorlan sprang to her, golden mist coiled around his hand; a weight caught low in his core, drawing on his strength. He set his palm against her ribs over the cloth and pressed warmth in, keeping his count. The livid mottling along her forearm and the bruise-shadow at her cheek blanched and eased; she drew a fuller breath. Jorlan went to one knee, the stone leaching cold through his trousers.

The shroud dropped over him again; tendrils coiled back around his limbs, cinching tight.

“You are not under Conclave law, Dhegian; my duty is to those I can govern. Her discipline is mine to set—through her you will feel its weight,” Malgrim said. “Let this be your lesson. Consider your course; the Conclave will not shield you.”

Thorlan brought the iron-capped rod down twice into her side, then turned away, leaving her whimpering on the ground.

“At first bell tomorrow, report to the Spire, Lyora,” Malgrim said without looking back. “You are relieved of Camp Lifebloom duty.”

“No,” Lyora said, bracing a palm against her thigh and pushing to her feet, her breath catching before it steadied. “The camp still bleeds; I won’t abandon them.”

Thorlan thrust the iron-capped rod into her side; she folded. A second blow caught her across the back, and she spilled onto the cobbles. He raised the rod for a third strike; Malgrim lifted two fingers. “Enough.”

Lyora’s breath hitched; a thin sound slipped between her teeth as she curled on the cobbles, one hand pressed to her ribs.

“That was not a question,” Malgrim said. “This is an order.”

As Malgrim and his acolytes vanished into shadow, the tendrils uncoiled from Jorlan and he crawled to her side, gathering her carefully to his chest. He reached for the weave; the anchor Malgrim left in his core had quietly drawn him thin, and what warmth he had left drained away. He held her closer, matching his breath to hers—nothing else left to give.

A lantern wavered low; the alley swallowed the last echo of their boots. This is on me. I broke Interdict Seven and brought their hand to you—I’m sorry.

Chapter 3

Jorlan opened the door and hung his coat on the iron peg; Anwill had gone out. Three days since his encounter with Malgrim, and Lyora still hadn’t returned to Camp Lifebloom. Please be safe.

He sat on the straw-thick mattress with a thud and let out a long breath. A faint squeak came from within. His fingers slid under the ticking and searched the fill until they met a slender leather cylinder. He pulled it free and inspected the wax-sealed scroll case, bearing the Conclave’s silver diamond sigil inset in the lid. Green ward-light stirred beneath the metal—too alive for ornament.

Anwill’s had more than one like this. If I break the seal, he’ll know—worse, his sender will.

A pale glow flickered at the window, motes of light swirling like fireflies caught in glass. Aware. Watching. He stepped to the sill, but the lights scattered into the night as he neared. Jorlan looked out over the Mage Quarters. I used to love it here. Now… maybe it’s time to go home.

He snapped the curtain shut.

His hand hovered over the seal; a faint pink glow bloomed. A ward shivered beneath his touch—one wrong move and it would bind him instead. Footsteps sounded in the corridor; he slid the case back under the ticking where he’d found it.

The door swung open as Anwill stumbled in, grinning—“Brother!”—and barreled into him, kissing both cheeks, ale warm on his breath.

“Where have you been, An?”

“I know I haven’t been much of a brother—not good at all,” Anwill said with a hiccup. “I love you, Jor. You’re the best a man could hope for.”

Jorlan eased him onto the bed and tugged his boots off. Anwill’s coat fell open, revealing a hefty leather coin pouch at his belt. Jorlan unfastened it and peeked inside, startled by the weight and gleam.

“That’s… a lot.”

“My turn to take care of you,” Anwill mumbled.

“You’ve been working with the Conclave?”

Anwill forced his eyes open, two dark beads glinting in the lamplight. “Yes. They’re… good, Jor. Like you. Charitable.”

Jorlan swallowed; the lump rose anyway. He set the coins back in the pouch, disgust curling low in his gut.

“I’ll fix you a draught for morning,” Jorlan said, pinching Mawroot into water and setting it to a slow swirl. Dose small, motion slow. The pale slurry coiled like ghostly vines, and at the rim one tendril lifted—testing the air.

As he threaded a whisper of Luminal Binding and tempered it with a half-petal of Duskbloom, he raised the concoction so Anwill could see. “Three weeks since we sent out the first batches; the coins have begun to trickle in. Enough to keep us fed. You don’t need their work, An.” A faint opaline ring gathered at the surface; a hair-fine filament trembled toward Anwill’s breath, then snapped.

“I’ve been running errands for one of their masters,” Anwill said, lids lowering. “They’re helping a troublesome girl with… relo—”

His head dropped; a thin snore started. His breathing slowed, each exhale hollow.

Jorlan caught his shoulder and gave a gentle shake. “Anwill!”

This began with me. I owe her safety—I’ll bring her back.

With one last look at his sleeping brother, he took his cloak from the peg, settled it across his shoulders, and slipped out. He set his route in order—the Mage Quarters first—and stepped into the lantern-thin streets to pull every thread on where they’d taken Lyora and in what condition.

I’ll carry this burden alone.

Night took him in—damp and cold.

Chapter 4

Jorlan sat rigid at his desk, the afternoon sun slanted through the window, dust motes turning in the beam. Warm light spilled across his journal, open to Day Twenty-One of the Rot. The quill hovered over the first line, a bead of ink trembling as if the page demanded confession, and he steadied his breath.

Yesterday’s clandestine inquiry had yielded truth and peril alike, and the knowledge sat like a stone in his gut. He aligned the scattered papers—a small order against the rising worry. Lyora remained caged within the Emerald Spire; the thought left his knuckles numb against the desk. If he rushed, he’d blunder into her cell and make it worse. Who knows what cruelties they’re doing to her as I wait.

A sharp rap at the door snapped his heart into his throat. He touched the nib to the inkwell’s rim to take the bead, set the quill on the blotter, and rose, his boots creaking on the floorboards.

A city guard waited at the threshold—armor dented, eyes grim—with a wax-sealed parchment pinched between gauntleted fingers.

Jorlan’s chest constricted. “What news, sir?”

“Anwill Ironbry has been arrested. He now stands accused of unleashing the Rot upon Verdehold.”

Jorlan stumbled back, hip catching the desk and knocking the inkpot over. Ink pooled like blood across the table, racing for the journal; his hand shot out—too late. “Arrested? For the Rot?”

The guard nodded and lowered his voice. “Master Malgrim laid the charge before the Crown, asking that it be handled discreetly—for the Conclave’s sake. At his urging, the watch recovered documents bearing the Conclave’s sigil—scrolls outlining forbidden experiments.”

Before Jorlan could speak again, the guard withdrew from the threshold, his green watch-cloak snapping; the door’s latch clicked—a small metallic tick—and the room seemed to tighten around the spilled ink.

Jorlan sank into his chair, fingers trembling against the carved armrest, and steadied his breath. He eased the journal from the ink, drew the blotter across the creeping edge, and set both square, side by side. He stared at the spilled ink—irreversible, like the charge laid at his brother’s feet. One misstep, and Verdehold becomes Anwill’s tomb.

He rose and squared his shoulders. “I’ll clear your name, Anwill. I swear it.”

Wiping the ink from his fingers on a rag, he slid his notes into his satchel and shrugged into his cloak. The key turned in the lock; the bolt slid home. By the time he reached the Temple Quarter, his breath sawed at his throat and his resolve settled like armor. The Healing Mother Plaza spread out before him, the air sharp with vinegar and boiled linen. Crates thumped; stretchers jostled through the press. He kept to the edge of the flow.

Dhegian blue banners billowed above a makeshift command post, the black raven sigil hard-bright in the afternoon light. Soldiers distributed rations and medical supplies, and Jorlan intercepted one with a respectful nod. “Where may I find the envoy, sir?”

“That’s the prince himself, here to give aid to our Dandorian brothers,” the soldier said, pointing to the command post, where a broad-shouldered man roughly Jorlan’s age stood.

Manifest in hand, the prince ran a finger down the list and called: “Ten crates of salves to the field tents; five crates of bandages to the infirmary; the remainder to the apothecary’s workshop for compounding.”

Jorlan crossed the last steps quickly, then checked himself and bowed low, eyes down. “My prince.”

Stendun cut the twine and unpacked a box of linen bandages, testing a strip between thumb and forefinger. He turned to the young orderly beside him. “Store them flat; dampness will warp their weave.”

Then the prince turned to Jorlan, his deep brown gaze steady.

“May I have a word, my prince?” he asked, his tongue leaden.

Stendun placed a firm, reassuring hand on Jorlan’s shoulder and guided him a few steps aside, out of earshot. “You’re Dhegian?”

“Yes, my prince. Jorlan Ironbry.”

“Ironbry—an honorable name. I served with Brannic.”

“My uncle,” Jorlan said, bowing his head. “He admired you greatly.”

Stendun frowned; a narrow scar above his brow tightened. “I’ve heard damning news about Anwill Ironbry. Is that why you’re here?”

Jorlan lowered his gaze and nodded once. “We’ve been framed. My brother would never unleash the Rot—he isn’t a wizard, my prince.”

“I’ve reviewed the Conclave’s evidence. King Proclus is already inclined to order Anwill’s execution on that basis.”

Jorlan’s fingers brushed Stendun’s sleeve; he caught himself and withdrew at once. “Please, my prince. Forgive me. We are innocent. I suspect Master Malgrim—acting without the Conclave’s sanction—has conducted forbidden experiments. I’ve seen his methods: ruthless and clandestine. The evidence appears genuine because the work itself is real; he has simply laid the blame on Anwill—to put me out of the way, I believe.”

Stendun studied him, his eyes softening a fraction.

“I devised that potion, Twilight Blossom, from my own recipe and by my binding. I brew it in batches; it eases fevers, draws out infection, and steadies the pulse,” Jorlan said. “These bottles are legitimate wizardry, bound by my hand—not charlatanry. I don’t know what caused the Rot or who did, but it isn’t my brother.”

“I believe you,” the prince said at last. “I can stay the sentence for a time, but without clear proof Anwill did not cause the Rot, I cannot set aside the charge. Bring me such proof, and I will defend you before the Dandorian Crown.”

Jorlan bowed low. “Thank you, my prince.”

He stepped back into the press, breath loosening by a thread. A stay, not a dismissal. I will find the proof.

Chapter 5

The last embers of twilight died behind the western ramparts as Jorlan crouched beneath an overturned supply cart outside the Emerald Spire, breathing through the stink of old grain and wet iron.

It rose before him in the moonlight, its olive-tinted stone twisting upward like the gnarled trunk of some ancient tree. Each floor curved inward on smooth, living arcs, forming narrow, leaf-shaped terraces that caught stray tendrils of moonlight in silvery pools. Moss clung in dark lace to every seam, and faint runic sigils glowed where the stone flared a deeper green, half-hidden beneath the growth.

From the Spire’s base fanned four colossal wings, each aligned to a compass point. Wrapped in his freshly acquired green robe, Jorlan held himself rigid beneath it, every muscle coiled for the hours ahead, hating how the stolen cloth made him look like one of them.

He closed his eyes, picturing the prince’s steady hand on his shoulder—and Anwill’s frightened gaze. No more waiting. He drew a slow breath, tasting copper on his tongue.

When a Dandorian patrol drifted past the south wing—where, he judged, the wizards’ chambers lay—Jorlan slipped from cover and pressed himself flat against the cold stones. He climbed the wall hand over careful hand, and slipped through a narrow window.

Inside, a wizard lay snoring, mouth slack, one hand still curled around a quill. Jorlan tiptoed around him and left the room, hurrying through a low tunnel. Each step carried him deeper into Conclave territory.

Soon he emerged into the moonlit entrance of the Spire: statues of mages cast long shadows across mosaic floors, and high windows glowed with amber light. He slipped into the darkness between columns, heart racing with equal parts dread and determination, and forced his breathing quiet.

Ahead stood the archive doors, barred behind double wards and iron seals—behind them lay the scrolls that could clear Anwill’s name. Tonight, he would uncover the truth, even if it cost him the life he’d kept so carefully ordered.

As he drew near, a green-robed wizard emerged from the south wing; Jorlan pulled his hood lower and offered a subtle nod.

“Evening,” the man murmured, gaze fixed on the scroll in his hand.

“Evening,” Jorlan replied, keeping his voice plain and low.

The wizard ascended the spiral stairs without glancing back, already forgetting him.

Heart hammering, Jorlan pressed a gloved palm against the cold iron door; it yielded with a soft, unwilling sigh—unlatched. Someone’s already inside.

Rows of tomes and glass-cased ledgers stretched into shadow. Candleholders dangled from the ceiling on rusted chains, their flames guttering in the stale air. Jorlan’s breath caught when he saw Prince Stendun standing before the massive shelves, flipping through dusty scrolls, too calm for a man who could be diplomatically flayed for being there.

A wizard lay sprawled on the floor, motionless, a dark bruise blooming at his temple, and Jorlan’s stomach tightened—not with pity, but with the sick knowledge that the night had already turned ugly.

Stendun glanced back, eyes meeting Jorlan’s in the gloom. No surprise flickered there—only resolve. He gave a curt nod and vanished deeper into the vault.

Where are you, Lyora?

Jorlan swallowed his fear and turned away. His fingers itched to channel a ward to light his path, but he dared not risk exposing magic here. He pressed his back to the cool stone, chest heaving, and forced the air in and out until it stopped sounding like panic. Moonlight glinted on distant windows, each gleam a distant promise of safety he couldn’t reach. Jorlan closed his eyes and counted to three—then pressed on.

To the east, alchemical laboratories hissed with steam. She’s not there.

The Spire’s main entrance swung open, and Jorlan ducked for cover behind a statue, flattening himself into the carved mage’s shadow.

Through the opening burst Malgrim, green robes snapping, with an acolyte stumbling at his side. In Malgrim’s arms, a small boy lay cradled like a fallen bird—pale, eyes fluttering, and a gash at his temple weeping red.

Malgrim swept him onto the marble floor, pressing a hand above the wound. Jorlan’s heart thudded in his throat as he watched Malgrim’s fingers tremble over the boy’s skin—then clamp down, igniting a faint golden mist that pulsed once, twice, and stilled the bleeding.

“To the Healing Atrium. Now!” Malgrim ordered, his eyes shadowed with something Jorlan had never seen.

A desperate hope.

When Malgrim’s chant tapered off, Jorlan slipped into the north wing, moving on the echo of their footsteps before it fully died. A smaller, semi-hidden barred door caught his eye—its iron ajar just enough to reveal a sliver of darkness. Through the gap came the soft sound of weeping. Jorlan slipped inside and crept down the damp stone corridor to a lonely cell: a narrow stained cot, a chipped basin half-filled with stale water—and Lyora, huddled against the far wall, bare-skinned and bruised, arms wrapped tight around herself.

Jorlan clenched his fists until his nails drew blood—and even that sting felt cleaner than what they’d done to her; every moment she’d spent in captivity had been one too many.

“Lyora,” he whispered, soft as he could make it.

She started, then managed a wan, hopeful smile. “Jor…”

He knelt, pressing his hands against the ward sealing the door. Golden mist coalesced at his fingertips, ready to dissolve the lock—when a tall figure filled the doorway behind him.

Thorlan grinned viciously, like he’d been waiting for the moment Jorlan started to hope.

A white mist snaked from Thorlan’s hands and settled on Jorlan. He fought back, his own energy pushing against the oppressive chains. Strong hands grabbed his throat and lifted him off the ground, smashing his body against the bars with a rattling crack.

The enchantment clung to Jorlan, choking his magic dry, leaving him with nothing but lungs and will.

Thorlan dug his fingers into his neck. “Master Malgrim tends to the grand designs—so he leaves me the scraps. The mess. He can spare charity for her… and then he looks through me like I’m smoke.”

Jorlan kicked back, managing only weak rasps. Must… fight… His vision blurred. Anwill… Lyora…

Thorlan’s eyes widened in shock, and he released him. Jorlan fell to the floor, wheezing, the world ringing.

The brute stumbled, clutching his flank where blood spilled through his fingers. Thorlan turned slowly—then steel kissed his throat.

He crumpled.

Stendun stood over him, dagger in hand, blood splattered on his woolen chest, expression unreadable in the low light.

“My Prince…” Jorlan’s words trembled on his tongue as he grasped Stendun’s offered hand.

Stendun wiped his dagger on Thorlan’s cloak and sheathed it. “Get her out.”

Jorlan worked the ward and opened the cell door. Lyora rushed forward, collapsing into his arms. He brushed a knuckle across her cheek, finding wet warmth.

“I’m here,” Jorlan said, and meant more than the words could hold.

Lyora’s gaze flicked between them. “Malgrim… he… The Rot…”

Stendun tossed his woolen shirt to her, and she slipped it on gratefully. “Evidence alone would not save you. Sometimes, one must force the hand of justice.”

“My Prince,” Jorlan said, meeting Stendun’s gaze. “Did you find proof of Anwill’s innocence?”

Stendun shook his head, glancing at Thorlan’s still form. “Not yet. And if we’re found here, none of it will matter. This will spark a major diplomatic crisis if we’re discovered—we must leave quickly.”

Together, they slipped an arm under Lyora’s shoulders and helped her up.

She shivered and rasped, “An experiment gone wrong… Malgrim’s heart is blackened, and he’ll burn anyone who gets close enough to see it.”

They retraced their steps up the narrow stair, hurrying toward the south wing, and vanished into the night beyond the Emerald Spire.

Chapter 6

Morning light slanted through the high-arched windows of the Citadel’s Great Hall, casting pale bars across the marble dais where King Proclus sat in austere judgment. Cold stone and candle wax rode the air.

Jorlan stood at the front of the assembly—as close as the guard line allowed—no Lyora beside him, for she remained hidden. His palm stayed pressed to the inside of his coat, feeling the hard glass of the vial throb against his skin with every heartbeat. Only Conclave masters, Dandorian nobles, and the royal guard watched as Anwill knelt in shackles before the throne.

The herald’s trumpet call cut the hush: “By royal decree, we convene to hear the final sentence in the case of Anwill Ironbry, accused of unleashing The Rot.”

Anwill’s face went ashen. He lifted his head. “Lies! I was set up.” His gaze snapped to Jorlan—wild at first, then breaking into naked despair; his jaw trembled as if he were biting back a sob. For one breath, he looked like a man about to beg.

Master Malgrim stepped forward, voice cold as frost. “Your Majesty, the evidence is irrefutable. Stolen ritual scrolls, toxin-laced Duskbloom vials, and a signed confession leave no doubt: this man wove the plague that ravaged Verdehold.”

Malgrim never once looked at Anwill as he said it. He watched the king instead—measuring, steering. He gestured to the silver tray of exhibits. A sweet-bitter reek rolled up—Duskbloom’s perfume, cut with the acrid tang Jorlan knew too well from Mawroot powder ground into his own mortar—and Jorlan’s stomach tightened. The hall murmured, and Anwill’s head bowed under the weight of condemning proof.

A faint quiver showed in Malgrim’s fingertips as he swept the scrolls aside. “I move that Anwill be found guilty and condemned.”

As Malgrim paused, Anwill’s chest heaved in sudden agony. He clutched the edge of the dais, sweat beading on his brow. The shackles clinked as his whole body bucked, a harsh, helpless sound in a hall that had gone too quiet.

“Brother…” Jorlan stepped forward.

Anwill’s skin took on a jaundiced pallor, and his lips twitched with a dry cough that rattled through the silent hall. His eyes watered, and he fought for air, shoulders jerking against the chains.

Jorlan whipped open his coat and drew the vial of Twilight’s Blossom from his pocket. Muttering the words of Luminal Binding under his breath, he uncorked it and tilted Anwill’s chin with two steady fingers and poured the pale liquid onto Anwill’s tongue. His hand wanted to shake, but he forced it still, eyes fixed on Anwill’s throat.

His brother’s body sagged—then, against every expectation, the coughing fit stilled. A soft golden glow pulsed around Anwill’s windpipe, and color flushed back into his cheeks. A collective gasp rose from the assembly. Anwill drew one clean breath, then another, and Jorlan’s knees nearly gave.

King Proclus leaned forward, brow furrowed. “Your evidence is damning, Master Malgrim—but the Crown demands full certainty. Prince Stendun of Dheg has petitioned for additional review. Speak now, any who bears counterevidence.”

Malgrim continued, voice rising, “Anwill has sworn in confession that these actions were his alone—Dhegian interference is hereby renounced.” He swept a hand toward Stendun, who stood in the audience. “Let no accusation fall at Prince Stendun’s feet and his noble father’s crown.” He offered the words like a shield—too quickly, too eager.

King Proclus waited.

Soft murmurs ran through the crowd, and then a charged silence fell. Jorlan heard fabric shift, a throat clear, the faint scrape of a boot, and felt the moment narrowing.

The king’s voice echoed. “I have reviewed every plea. No further evidence rescues the accused. Let sentence be pronounced.”

Jorlan’s pulse thundered—then he stepped forward, breath ragged.

Heads turned.

“Your Majesty,” he forced out each word. “It was I who caused The Rot.”

A gasp rippled through the hall. Anwill looked up, startled; Malgrim’s eyes sharpened.

Jorlan locked his stance, feet planted hip-width apart. “I stole the scrolls from the Conclave vault. I poisoned the Duskbloom. My magic released the plague. Anwill is innocent.”

He forced the words through, each one a nail hammered into his own coffin. His heart battered his ribs, and the lie tasted like iron, but he didn’t let his hands show it. Anything for Anwill.

King Proclus’s eyes flicked from Jorlan to Malgrim. “You confess to high treason—and mass murder?”

Jorlan inclined his head. “Sentence me instead.” If blood must balance this, let it be mine.

Malgrim’s eyes darted from Jorlan’s steady gaze and settled on the stone floor. For the first time, his composure cracked—just a hairline fracture, gone as soon as it appeared.

“Enough.” The king’s voice cut like steel. He rose fully, regal and immovable. “Jorlan Ironbry, you stand guilty by your own admission. By the laws of Dandori, I hereby condemn you to death at dawn tomorrow.”

The words landed like a seal pressed into wax—final, indifferent, and clean. Jorlan bowed, and he met Stendun’s horrified gaze.

Anwill’s rune-warded manacles were opened. As guards advanced, Jorlan lifted his chin and let his face go calm, gentle—meant to reassure his brother. The manacles were clamped to Jorlan’s wrists, iron biting hard, and they led him away amid stunned whispers. Anwill lunged, but the guards caught him.

Jorlan didn’t look back. I can’t.

As he disappeared through the Citadel’s great doors, the echo of his footsteps marked the day justice failed two innocent men in Verdehold.

Chapter 7

The dim torchlight spat and hissed against the damp stone walls of the king’s dungeon. Jorlan perched on the narrow bunk, the manacle wards pulsing with every heartbeat as they choked off his magic until it became a phantom itch beneath his skin. Beyond his cell, the muffled clang of distant gates and the low murmur of sentries underscored the quiet.

During the escort to his cell, one guard’s elbow caught a vial in Jorlan’s coat, and a Mawroot elixir shattered against his ribs. He still felt the sting as splinters of glass and liquid burned into his side. He brushed at the pain, but the acrid tang of the potion had already soaked into his skin.

He closed his eyes, memories flooding in: Anwill’s laughter, Lyora’s smile beneath the marble fountain, the fevered child whose life he’d saved. Soon—too soon—everything would end.

A soft scrape sounded at the door. Jorlan snapped to alertness as the lock clicked. The heavy bar slid aside, and Prince Stendun’s broad silhouette filled the threshold. His eyes, shadowed with grief, fixed on Jorlan as if weighing him.

Stendun stepped in and closed the door behind him.

Jorlan looked up at the looming prince. “You must be wondering why I let them take me?”

“I am, too, an older brother—one who’s gone to extremes to keep him alive.” Stendun’s back curved under the weight of his own admission, his knuckles whitening on the iron bar.

A cold knot of understanding coiled in Jorlan’s gut.

Stendun knelt, then withdrew a small dagger from beneath his cloak. The blade’s hilt was carved with the black raven of Dheg; its edge caught the torchlight in a cold glint.

Jorlan’s breath caught. “My Prince—”

Stendun laid the dagger on the stone floor between them. “If you can’t bear this any longer—I offer you a choice.” His lips pressed into a thin line. “There’s no shame in it.”

Silence pressed in. Jorlan stared at the blade, fingers twitching. He rose and knelt by it, tracing the etched raven with a trembling fingertip. A world of pain and despair lay clear in its cold steel, and for one selfish instant, it promised quiet.

After a long moment, he shook his head and pushed the dagger away—not toward Stendun’s hand, but out of reach altogether—until it kissed the wall. His voice was low and fierce: “I refuse your mercy. Promise me you’ll take care of Anwill and Lyora.”

Stendun’s throat moved; he placed a hand over Jorlan’s. “I swear it,” he whispered.

Stendun opened the door, and Lyora slipped inside, hood drawn, eyes bright with unshed tears. At the sight of him, her lips quivered, and she crossed the few paces between them.

She knelt beside Jorlan and pressed her hand to his cheek. “I couldn’t stay away,” she breathed. “I love you.”

Jorlan leaned into her touch. “I love you, too.”

For a heartbeat, time stilled: no guards, no sentence, only their joined hands and the fragile warmth of hope.

“We’ll find something,” Lyora said. “I hate him, Jor. We’ll get Malgrim for this.”

“He’s misguided, drowning in his own lie. Don’t let him pull you down with him, Lyora. He’s not worth it.” Jorlan brushed a kiss to her palm, and then looked to Stendun, who offered a steady nod.

Lyora rose reluctantly. “Until tomorrow—my heart follows you.”

She slipped back into shadow. The lock clanged shut. Jorlan rose, shoulders straighter, resolve reforged in the empty space her warmth left behind.

Stendun paused at the grate. “I’m sorry, Jorlan.”

As they departed, Jorlan lay back against the cold wall and recalled the Conclave’s legacy. They once marched to save thousands at the cost of half their number. They forged peace in the Battle of the Burning Peaks, prying two days of truce from warring kings so all could bury their dead. He closed his eyes, tasting the bitterness in his mouth.

Even if Malgrim confesses, the Emerald Conclave will bleed out with him—its reputation shattered by a single act of cowardice. The vile actions of one master don’t erase the good they’ve done.

Jorlan watched the torchlight flicker on the iron bars, and in that glow found a final clarity: he would not surrender. Not yet. Not ever.

Chapter 8

The torch in Jorlan’s cell guttered, casting long, quivering shadows against the damp stone. He sat on the bunk, wrists chafed from the manacles, staring at the flickering circle of light on the floor. A cold calm settled behind his ribs—a final clarity in the face of oblivion.

A sharp clatter echoed down the corridor. Guards stepped inside, their torches snapping the chain of silence. Jorlan rose, heart steadying. They led him out.

The cell door clanged closed. Footsteps fell into formation: the scrape of boots on stone, a distant drip of water, and then the hollow rumble of the great portcullis grinding upward. Air shifted to damp dawn mist as the guards guided him forward.

He felt the corridor’s floor change from uneven dungeon stones to broad, polished slabs. A faint echo of distant bells rang as he reached the Citadel’s South Gate. Beyond, the plaza awaited, now empty of market carts and vendor benches, its vast cobbles clean and bare.

A searing tingled beneath his ribs, as if rot itself had reached inward to claim him. He blinked against the sudden haze of dizziness, even as a heavy hand caught his arm and guided him into Proclamation Square. The wind, crisp with morning dew, brushed his cheek, carrying the iron-tinged promise of blood. All around, the hush of the assembly deepened.

Ahead, a raised balcony spanned the Citadel steps. King Proclus stood there, robed in green and gold, scepter in hand, his stern gaze fixed on the condemned. Beside him, Prince Stendun offered a solemn nod.

The guards halted at the scaffold’s edge. The platform’s pale oak gleamed in torchlight, its guillotine frame stark against the arches framing the square. Jorlan’s breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. He blinked hard, tightening his jaw against a sudden wave of nausea that threatened to shame him in front of them all.

Commoners pressed tight against the low barrier—furrowed brows, hollow eyes—while behind them stood the Conclave masters in dark-green robes and Dandorian nobles in their finery.

“People of Verdehold,” Jorlan called, head lifted toward the square. His words cracked on the first syllable—an unexpected cough ripping from deep within. It startled him; the sound wet and racking, like that of a dying child.

A hush fell so absolute that Jorlan could hear his own heartbeat. He peeled back his sleeve. Beneath the skin, veins darkened in thorn-like patterns—much like the Mawroot—and snaked outward, from elbow to palm.

His blood ran cold. It wasn’t Malgrim…

The whispers in his mind—the scattered curses he’d heard in fever tents, the gasping wails of plague victims—rose in a crescendo, stacking breath on breath until he could hardly think.

The Rot I fought is The Rot I unleashed.

A hot tear traced down his cheek.

His boots scraped on the wooden boards as the guards brought him to his knees before the guillotine. One guard knelt and positioned his chin in the lower half of the lunette; another swung down the top board, the wood thumping against his shoulders. A sharp click echoed as the frame snapped shut around his neck, the hinge locking him in place. The weight of the oak pressed forward.

The executioner’s gauntleted hand hovered on the lever. Jorlan’s vision blurred with tears and dawn mist. The scent of damp stone, torch smoke, and river mist filled his nostrils—all of Verdehold distilled into a final, fleeting moment.

He drew a trembling breath and fought to steady it. Then, he saw them. Anwill and Lyora, huddled closely, tears flowing freely. Jorlan managed a weak smile for them, and closed his eyes, not for despair, but for absolution.

Behind his eyelids he saw a single, perfect memory: Lyora’s smile as she leaned in for their first kiss, the warmth of her hand against his cheek. He held that light in his mind against the coming darkness.

The executioner’s grip tightened on the lever.

Forgive the shadow cast by my compassion—

A soft click echoed against oak and steel.

—let its light guide those I could not save.

The blade fell.