The green grass of the plains rolled in deep waves as wind blew across their tops, huge swaths bending and standing as eddies of air swirled and danced across the surface. Naiela shivered as the ceaseless breeze cut through her thick, black cloak. The cold was only half the issue.

  Somewhere in these plains was the killer. The man who’d ritually slaughtered at least four wizards at this point. The man who’d destroyed the door to Triss’s castle as easily as a child knocking down a pile of wooden blocks.

  The man who - if Triss was right - was one of the legendary founders of the council.

  Naiela shook her head. It couldn’t be. He’d have to be a thousand years old! No one lived that long. And yet, something inside her said it was true. She’d heard rumours, half whispered as though the the words themselves were deadly. Wizards living unnaturally long lives. Wielding powers that were far beyond the reach of the ordinary wizard. It couldn’t be.

  And yet.

  Her mind kept drifting back to the castle. To the giant’s words. Describe me to the council. They will know. The high council will.

  Naiela had heard of the high council, usually whispered in the same breath as the rest of the rumours. A secret council, made of only the strongest wizards. Ruling from the shadows. Wielding powers that could crush nations in a single blow. She shivered again. It couldn’t be.

  Nightfang snorted, the sound interrupting her thoughts and bringing her blinking back to the present. She checked the horizon all around her. The temple was still far in the distance behind her. A sudden ache grew in her chest as she looked at it, and she quickly turned forward again. Thin grey clouds filled the skies, dimming the sun to a pale grey light that suffused rather than shone. Far in the distance, just at the edge of sight, the clouds seemed just a little darker. Was it the storm? Would it happen today? Part of her hoped. Part of her feared. And part of her still ached, despite her attempts to banish it.

  “She’s a dark wizard.” She muttered. Nightfang’s ears perked up, twisting back towards her. “Sorry. Not talking to you.”

  It was true though. Triss was a dark wizard. She was a coffee drinker. She consorted with known dark wizards. She was an idiot.

  And she was one of the kindest people Naiela had ever met.

  “What does that matter?” She asked Nightfang. “She’s a dark wizard. Dark wizards are evil. I could no more be her friend than I could breathe underwater.” Nightfang flicked his ears, then bent down and started grazing again.

  She took a deep breath, and continued watching the horizon. Was that spot growing darker? Or bigger? It was so damned hard to tell. Maybe a little -

  Blinding pain suddenly exploded in her side, and Nightfang suddenly disappeared from beneath her. Something slammed into her other side, and her head bounced as it also struck something. Her vision was completely white, and her thoughts turned to mist and fled. A high pitched ringing noise was all she could hear.

  Naiela tried to breathe, but her lungs weren’t working. She clawed at her chest, at the ground beneath her. Strips of wet grass ripped for the soil and stuck to her hand. There was another noise. Deep. Cold. Angry. She couldn’t separate it from the ringing.

  Her mind returned first. Someone had attacked her. She was on the ground. The pain - gods, the pain - was it a spell? She suddenly felt certain she was dying. Visions of her past rolled past. Fragments. The day she started class. Her first successful spell. Baking with Master Gelm. One by one, faster and faster the images rolled by. Thorln stealing her workbook and throwing it in the mud. The snap of the pain spell when she got her runes wrong. Thorln screaming as they dragged him away. The price of failure.

  The images slowed. Watching her own blood drip on the floor while her instructor screamed at her to get back up. Standing over master Horton with a knife, frozen. Triss pressing the crossbow wound in her shoulder. Singing to a crowd of drunken men. Laughing over stories at the inn.

  Telling Triss the truth at the monastery.

  Her chest suddenly loosened. She gasped, the sweet taste of fresh air rolling over her tongue and shooting down into her chest. Her breaths came fast and hard. Her vision began to darken as the white slowly faded, resolving into the dim clouded skies. The ringing stopped, and she heard a voice. Deep, and cold as winter’s heart.

  “I told you to stay out of my way.” Naiela turned her head towards the speaker. Pratorin. He stood on the grass a few feet away, his helmet cocked slightly to the side. There were no eyes visible in the slot of the helmet, just a deep black that seemed to stretch forever. He was the height of a normal man this time, though that did little to change how imposing of a figure he made. Fear squeezed at Naeila’s heart, a sensation that felt far too familiar to her. “Well?”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Naiela had thought this part over. She hadn’t expected to be attacked, but no matter. She would survive this. She would do that right thing. What the council would have her do. She rolled to her knees, bowing with her head pressed against the damp, cool grass. “I come bearing news. Lord Pratorin.” It was a risk, using the name. It was a bigger risk not to.

  There was an uncomfortable silence, and Naiela fought down the urge to lift her head and look. “So, you have discovered my name. Does that earn you your life, do you think?”

  “No, My lord. I come bearing news. Your enemies have made a trap for you. Three dark wizards wait for you at the temple.” Naiela mostly managed to keep the tremor out of her voice.

  “Fool. Do you think so little of me?” Anger sharpened the edge of his voice. “Do you think I would not know already of their plans?”

  “No, my lord. I mean. I am sorry my lord. I only wished to be of service.” Naiela said quickly.

  “You think I need your help?” There was a dangerous edge to Pratorin’s voice. A whispered threat hidden behind his words. Naiela swallowed. She’d considered this too. There was only one chance to make it out alive at this point, and if it didn’t work, she’d be dead for sure. She took a deep breath, and stood, staring straight into the empty helmet. Her side burned, and she had to force herself to stand straight.

  “My lord, only a fool would believe you need help. I am no fool. What I am, is eager. I wish to follow you, to learn, and to watch as you destroy these dark wizards for the glory of the council.” She stood still, staring into the helmet, unmoving. Tense seconds ticked by, and she felt beads of sweat roll down her forehead in spite of the chill.

  “Bold.” Pratorin said, and Naiela couldn’t tell if it was an accusation, or an acknowledgement. She waited. “Boldness is vital for a wizard. We deal in things beyond mortal understanding. Dangers unknowable. Boldness, can be good.” Naiela relaxed slightly.

  “I-“ She started to speak, but suddenly Pratorin’s steel fingers were around her throat, the distance between them vanishing as though it were an afterthought. He squeezed, and she felt his fingers digging deeply into her flesh.

  “Too much though.” He said smoothly, his voice reverberating slightly. “Too much is dangerous. Are you too bold, apprentice?”

  “No. My. Lord.” Naiela gasped out. She could breathe still, but barely. Spots began to dance in her vision, and tingling feeling crept up her arms and legs.

  Pratorin held her for a few more seconds before releasing her. She tried to stay standing, but her legs fell away from under her and she collapsed on her hands and knees, drawing in harsh, ragged breaths. “Good. Good. I will allow you to watch, apprentice. Follow my instructions, else you will regret it.”

  “Yes. Lord Pratorin.” Her voice was thick, coarse. Like she’d swallowed burning ash, and it caught in her throat. She stayed down, waiting to hear what he would say next. No more words came. She raised her head carefully. He was gone. She jumped to her feet, and instantly regretted it. Pain lanced through her side, and her head swam once more. She slowly lowered herself to one knee, breathing hard. Finally, reluctantly, she looked at the wound in her side.

  A hole the size of a loaf of bread was burned through the side of her robe and leather armour underneath. Her skin was visible beneath, pale white veined in deep black lines and angry red flesh. Blood oozed around the burns, slowly forming droplets that crept down her side. The scent of charred tissue lingered in the air, half scent, and half imagined. The pain started to grow, as though seeing it had finally made the injury real. Naiela bit down hard on the inside of her lip, forcing herself not to cry, not to react. Right now, that could mean death.

  She forced herself to stand. She clenched her teeth, hard, until she could felt like they might crack under the strain. Nightfang. She needed to find Nightfang. There were salves in her saddlebag that would numb the pain, let her keep moving. Vital for an assassin. If she could even call herself that. She shook her head. This was not the time to think about that. She turned in a slow circle, looking for Nightfang. She found Pratorin first.

  The black armoured wizard was two dozen paces off, kneeling in tall grass that nearly hid him. Only the two red horns on his helmet were clearly visible, rising like blood soaked lighthouses above the grassy ocean. What could he be doing? A ritual? On grass? She kept turning. Nightfang. She had to find him.

  Her heart leapt in her chest when she spotted the midnight stallion, a hundred yards away, almost directly behind where she had started. His body was turned away, as though he was ready to run, but he was looking her direction. She whistled sharply, and she could see his ears twitch at the sound. He took a few hesitant steps her direction. Naiela whistled again, and he began to slowly walk towards her, head high, tail flicking from side to side. “There, there. It’s ok.” She whispered to him when he reached her. His eyes were wide, the whites showing around the edges of his dark orbs. “It’s ok.” She said again, reaching up to rub his side.

  She carefully opened her saddlebag, trying not to spook Nightfang. It only took a few seconds to locate a glass jar in the bottom of the bag, sealed with a thick cork lid. She scooped a large glob of the semi-translucent medication with two fingers and rubbed it gently against the burns. The pain vanished within a few seconds, and she almost cried with relief. Nightfang bumped against her with his head, whinnying softly. “I’m ok. Shhhh. It’s all ok. We’re going to separate for a little bit now, ok? You’ll stay out here. I’ll be back for you soon. I promise.” She rubbed at the horse’s neck. “You behave yourself. I’ll be back soon, ok?” Nightfang bumped her again. She put the jar back after stoppering it, and started walking towards Pratorin. Nightfang didn’t follow.

  A section of the ground in front of Pratorin was bare, a circle nearly four feet across. The edges of the grass around it were blackened, drooping like they’d been without rain for a month. A ritual circle made of poured salt covered a third of the bare patch, far more intricate than Naiela would have thought possible without the use of chalk. Pratorin turned his head to look at her. “Do you understand this?”

  Naiela examined the circle. Some of the runes she knew, of course, but there were a number that were strange. They felt familiar, and somehow wrong. She stared at one symbol for several seconds before it came to her. “Some of those symbols. You drew them inverted.” She said.

  “Not completely useless then.” He turned back to the circle, holding his hands outstretched over it.

  “What does it do?” She asked.

  She heard the grin in his reply. “It brings us some reinforcements.”