She broke off her gaze, quickly glancing around, almost as if she was searching something. Her lips parted as she breathed out, then drew a shallow breath.

  It could only be her. “Circe, I assume?” He spoke, leaning back on his throne. It had been three days since Midhir called for her – and now she had just appeared out of nowhere.

  Her gaze turned towards him again. “Eamon Ardagh, third of his name.” She bowed her head slightly. “Apologies for my abrupt entrance – one cannot choose where they arrive when travelling as I do.”

  “Clearly.” He furrowed his brows.

  “Then, excuse me.” She turned around, intending to leave.

  “Witch.” His voice stopped her in her tracks. “I have questions.”

  “Well, so do I. Where is my apprentice?” She whirled around, her fiery gaze meeting his. “Magic is scarce here – what has the Empire done to make this place barren of spiritual power?” The raven on her shoulder couldn’t keep its balance, it hopped off, landing on the ground.

  “Cadet Maloid is accompanying the other Solus students.” He replied as he rose from his throne and slowly descended the steps. “She is safe – as safe as any of us can be when reality itself is unravelling around us.” He raised his chin as he walked up to her. She looked up to meet his gaze, with no fear in her eyes.

  “I warned the child.”

  As if a warning of the obvious would do much good. They were all the same – these ancients who appeared throughout the ages, giving warnings and pointing at ill omens, only to disappear again to leave them mortals to try and stop whatever disaster was coming.

  “What do you want of him?” They never acted out of the goodness of their heart. He touched the cold, stone ring on his finger. There was always a reason – always a price.

  “A dear friend of mine asked me to save him.” She glared at him. “You were there. You know what happened as well as she does.”

  “I know you saved him. I know you saved him once more. What do you want of him? I know it wasn’t out of the goodness of your heart.”

  She pressed her lips together. “Don’t speak as if you know me, Emperor.”

  “I know your kind well enough.” His voice was ice cold. “Every time you or yours appeared throughout history, soon disaster struck. The stars vanished, or our capital fell to the hands of the undead. Our once fertile lands turned into forests, or waves struck the east, wiping out whole villages off the map. What do you want of my son?”

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  Circe clenched her fists. “The child carries cursed blood,” she hissed, “The last heir of a fallen house, watched by the Old Gods. Do not claim him as yours, Emperor. He should have never been given the Ardagh name.” She paused for a split second. “He lives on borrowed time – I protected his sight, but my power is finite. Less than a year from now, he will start seeing beyond the Veil.”

  “If the veil remains.” The Emperor gritted his teeth. “My son is trying to stop it from falling apart. And you will help him.”

  “I have helped plenty-“

  “You will help him.” He repeated himself. “Or I will be forced to use this – and surely a witch such as yourself would prefer to avoid that.” He raised his right hand, showing the Ring of Stone.

  The Vermillion Witch narrowed her eyes for a moment as she looked at his hand, clearly somewhat confused. Then, her eyes widened, and her lips formed a thin line. Her fingers clenched around the gown of her dress.

  “This will stop them from tearing the Veil apart, Witch.” It was also going to dismantle Eldoria’s northern defences. With how little they knew of Calador’s affairs right now, it was the worst choice he could make for Eldoria’s survival. The Empire needed those defences.

  The Witch remained silent for a moment. “I hadn’t expected an artifact from the dark ages to remain, still.” She finally spoke, her voice but a whisper as she instinctively took a step back. “That doesn’t belong in this world.”

  “I’m well aware.” He replied coldly. “Tell me, Vermillion Witch – is this our only option?”

  A choice between Eldoria and reality itself – it was a terrible crossroads to stand in.

  She seemed hesitant. “Depends.” She finally spoke.

  “Speak.”

  “How much are you willing to sacrifice?” She asked. “How much are you willing to risk?” She shrugged. “If you would risk all, the use the ring – you will stop the tear from breaking apart, for a while. However short lived it may be. But the bell will toll for Eldoria, as it has for Calador.”

  He scowled. “What do you mean?”

  “The golden flames are spreading – Midhir saw it too. The king failed in his duty, Calador will soon be reduced to sand. If you would have Eldoria suffer the same fate, then use the ring. The flames will eventually reach here too.” She raised her chin. “The veil can be healed, but not while more tears are formed. If you would ask for my power, then know it will cost something.”

  He narrowed his eyes, pondering over her words. “What will it cost?”

  A hollow smile flashed across her lips. “I don’t know. But it always costs something.” There was a sorrow in her voice. “And it’s never clear who pays the price…”

  ***

  Breakfast was as dull as ever at the border fort, though it didn’t seem to bother anyone. The last of the tear-sites had been cleared last night, and today more patrols were going out in search of the cultists.

  Sitting in the back of the room, Midhir watched the ben bet on who was going to find the cultists first.

  “Everyone’s cheerful.” Arwen’s voice startled him. He hadn’t noticed her approach. “Except for you. There’s something on your mind, isn’t it?”

  “They haven’t attacked.” He kept his voice low. “We gave them plenty of chances where I didn’t seem well defended at all.” He glanced at her darkening expression – there was no need to say more. She understood.