The King moved past the Swordsman, pivoting hard to regain the advantage after the impossible parry. As he did so, Ariadne watched as the young man spun to face the King, dropped to both knees, his blade lain flat on the grass underneath his hands, his head bowed low to the ground in sign of surrender. It had been decades since Theo had felt so defeated and memories swarmed him.

  #

  "How did your training with Blademaster Zimossa go, young man?" Mareth sat cross-legged in a large well-cushioned chair by the fire in his study. Outside, the chill of an autumnal sea permeated the lands of the High King, leaving a brisk sharpness to the air. Inside the study the air was thick, almost muggy with the heat of Mareth's overwrought fire.

  "It's stifling in here, Mareth. How do you live in such heat?" Theon IV said, now no longer a boy but a young man, just approaching his twenty-first winter.

  "Stifling is it? Of course. Today we find out the true nature of your soul, Prince Theo. The thicker air will aid in my examination."

  The Prince raised his eyebrow and leaned against a nearby wall, resting his hand on his sword with the easy grace of a master. "And my training with the Blademaster is over now. He said he has nothing left to teach me. He called me a savant with the blade... though my father hardly seemed impressed." Theon's tone was a comingling of doubt, fear and, strangely, pride.

  "Fathers never see what we want them to see, young Prince. They always have higher standards than we can fathom, and ways and paths we cannot decipher. Fathers are cryptic things, my friend. Aloof, powerful, terrifying, yet marvelous and loving." Mareth's tone was wistful, peppered with longing.

  "You, the one we call Timedodger, who has lived since the very first of my line nearly a thousand years ago at least – perhaps you’ve been wandering since before the Ages of Madness? What could you possibly know of fathers?" Theon said.

  "We will not speak of history older than the dust in the core of Tilvaerelse. Suffice to say I too am a son seeking approval of a difficult father... But, down to business. It is time to see the make of your soul."

  Mareth stood, rickety yet sturdier than logic would dictate, as all ancient men who refuse to bend to the weight of years, and pulled a small wooden box from the desk drawer in his study. He placed it on a low table in front of Theon and opened the lid revealing three precious stones; a sapphire, a ruby, and a diamond.

  Mareth stood back, and said, "Take a deep breath, Timeborn." Mareth breathed deeply as well, and then exhaled with force. As he did so, the door slammed shut, and his eyes exuded shadow. The stagnant air in the room quaked. Theon felt pressure building beyond what he had ever felt from any other magic user, even his father. The sheer power drove Theon to his knees. Every fiber of his body began to ache and strain as he struggled to remain conscious. Blood dripped from his nose and spattered onto the stone floor as he was thrown forward onto all fours in order to keep from being crushed. He yelled but the sound was ripped away by the reverberating air. The weight forced every ounce of air from his lungs. His muscles ached. His joints popped and cracked. Pain shot through every muscle as he strained harder against the weight, as if his body weighed hundreds of times what was normal. His vision blurred and twisted. His jaw clenched with strength enough to chew steel. His vision narrowed. His breath caught. The pressure evaporated and the weight on him lifted, allowing air back into his lungs. The king to be threw up on the floor and struggled to his feet, every muscle already aching from the exertion. He took in breaths in great ragged gasps.

  "What..." the Prince began, heaving between words, "the Void... was... that." He stumbled forward and Mareth caught him, placing the young man back into a chair in front of the low table where the gems lay. There in the box the sapphire and ruby glowed brightly with their own shades of colour, but it was the Diamond that caught the Prince's eye. It was shining with the brilliance of every colour of the rainbow broken into a prismatic effect and hovering a few inches above the box spinning slowly. It cast its light over the whole room.

  Mareth laid his hand on Theon and spoke softly, "That was the Quickening of a Diamond Soul, more specifically the exact power level of Theon I, Firstborn among the Gods, your forebearer and the first Mishorer Rex – Sorcerer King. Your namesake, young Theon IV. No king since has achieved his power. Hardly a fraction in fact. And it was Theon who realized that by harnessing his Diamond Soul, combined with great emotional heights he could perform feats of magic unheard of. It was he who crafted the great castle in the North, Rimeward Keep, and he who sunk an entire Island in the East by the force of his power. It was he who, with nearly perfect vision, flawless words and a soul of Diamond managed to craft the first and most powerful of the Adamantine blades – Peacebringer. The sword that you will soon carry." Mareth stood in silence, letting the words smother Theon.

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  My father's power is like a child compared to this. How could I?

  "Emerald was the last you achieved young Theon. It was the gateway to ensure your soul was strong enough to affect crystal. Now we will find the true, specific quality of your soul. You will perform the Quickening." Mareth's voice was stern.

  "But, what if?" Theon's face was buried in his hands as sweat continued to trace rivulets into his visage. He was too tired to be surprised at his candor. His whole body was shaking not only with exertion but with a poison of fear which pricked him with shooting pains.

  "Theon IV, Prince of Poets and future King, you will perform the Quickening. You must, for the sake of your Kingdom and your family line. Do not fear. I have set this room, in all its heat and stifling, stagnant air to be an insulator. Soul and spirit is breath and air and wind. You will perform the quickening. Now, I will reset the stones." Mareth simply reached out and touched each stone, first the Sapphire, then the Ruby, and finally the Diamond.

  With his touch each lost its glow and returned to its regular state resting in its respective box and casting only the natural gleams of flawless gems. "Now, you must Quicken your soul. The life of a man is ever internalized to produce enlivening power to the body and the mind. The Quickening is the release of that internal force to an outward force that will act upon the physical world to either create or destroy. We measure souls by their ability to affect different materials, as you know, measuring materials by hardness. Beyond that, the Quickening provides a measure for a soul's weight – though weight is a bit of a misnomer, but I will not prate on.

  This test will measure the particular quality of your soul. There have been powerful Kings, such as Telopali the Giver who was as near the level of Diamond in power as any since Theon I, but not in temperament. Between Ruby and Sapphire there is a minor distinction in power, but a larger distinction in personality, their hardness being almost equivalent. Do you understand?"

  Theon raised his head with a puzzled look, "I understand I suppose, but how do I actually perform the Quickening? I cannot will that my soul depart my own body."

  "Of course not. Even Theon the First could not quicken his own soul. It must be done externally by one who has learned. Then you must control it. After that point you will be able to Quicken and harness your soul like the flexing of a muscle.” Mareth's wine-dark eyes looked heavy as if he were tired, yet inside there seemed to be a small fire burning.

  "Mareth, before we begin, may I ask a question?" Theon said, eyes fixed on the floor where he had vomited a few moments before.

  "Hmm, I suppose you may."

  "Why did you call me Timeborn?" Theon raised his face to look directly into the old Seer's wine-dark eyes.

  "You wouldn't believe me if I told you, young Prince."

  "Tell me anyway."

  Mareth stepped in behind the young Prince and placed both his hands on the young man’s shoulderblades and began to hum softly to himself. The Prince felt power rising up within himself like a great geyser. "I am Marwolaeth, exiled of the Adeiladwyr, Timeless in Service to the True God of God's the Great POET, Elohei Shir, whose true name cannot be spoken in mortal tongue." Mareth paused for a moment then forced his palms outward pressing into the Prince's back and Theon felt a burst of power escape from him far beyond what he ever thought he could bear. A new agony tore through every fiber of his being and he thought he would black out. Where before he felt as though he would be crushed beneath the weight of the universe, now it was as if his body would explode outward leaving him in mangled pieces across the study. His life force became a great, raging lion tearing to escape from his flesh. He could not hold on long enough to hear Mareth's final words. Oblivion consumed him.

  #

  The Prince awoke with a throbbing headache, sprawled out on the ground, his chest covered in his own spittle and vomit. He couldn't remember anything except the rush of his own life force out from his body. It felt like casting a spell, or weaving a poem, but it was so much more than that. It was his very essence turned inside out, ready to make a mark upon the world. It was terrible freedom. As he slowly rose to his knees he looked into the box and saw the three gems. The diamond sat still in its regular state, untouched, unscathed, as did the Sapphire, but the Ruby hovered in the air burning with the incandescence of molten steel. It thrummed to the tune of his heartbeat. As he watched, the colour shifted to a stunning crimson and glowed brighter. He reached out to touch the stone and was greeted by a wave of warmth through his body. All of his senses sharpened as the stone's colour faded, and it dropped back into the box with a dull thud.

  "A Ruby Soul... I could have guessed it. Fiery, impetuous and passionate. You've a soul more potent for war than peace." Mareth said, an odd look spreading across his face.

  "Seer, I seem to have forgotten something..." Theon was staring into the fireplace, now burning low in Mareth's study. "What happened right before you Quickened me?"

  "Little, my Lord, little of importance. By the way, would you like to know how you measure?"

  The Prince breathed out and allowed his soul to flow, Quickening in a moment and harnessing it a moment later. "Just like flexing a muscle. You weren't lying. May I guess? I'm of the Fifth Order, a middling Poet Prince by all rights..."

  "Actually you are of the Fourth Order, but only just. It is respectable, though. Still, you have a Ruby Soul, a Warrior's Soul. Of the fourteen Kings to date, only two bore a Ruby Soul. One, Theon I, bore a Diamond Soul, a Timeless Soul, and the rest bore the Sapphire Soul, the Ruler's Soul. Time shall tell what to make of all of this, but a Warrior's Soul is not given lightly by the Great POET. It is a soul forged for combat, young Prince, forged for a time of war, a soul steeped in blood."