Three hundred years ago, the Earth split and the sky trembled. And then the monsters came.
The island of Lowynn is cursed. The Veil between worlds has torn, and now, monsters come with vengeance. They can only be placated by the blood of sorcerers...
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As they journeyed, Alana's sword was a gentle attacker, beating against the Skaara like his treacherous heart. The weight in his satchel was a constant distraction. It felt like a boulder around his neck. It felt like betrayal.
They broke for camp after an entire day of riding, once the Skaara noticed his companions sagging against their horses, fighting to stay awake.
The muddied, stiff ground would have been a suitable bed for him, but there were benefits to riding with a prince. Within a few minutes, their attendants erected a tent of red satin on the forest floor.
It was barely large enough for Dom to fully recline, and the Skaara was used to lying uncovered, even when it rained. But Dom insisted, and soon the two of them were lying back-to-back, strangled by the satin walls. The glow from a fire outside danced across the suffocating walls, casting dancing shadows across the tent. Honestly, he missed the stars.
It was past midnight, and they would be back on the trail at the first rays of dawn. But sleep did not come. Memories and fears and imaginings all bled together, swimming until his exhausted head was puzzled and aching.
The summer heat was suffocatingly sticky. It reminded him of flames, and the next time the Skaara tried to close his eyes he conjured up an image of the King sending him to his pyre for disobedience, and he prayed that Alana would keep quiet. How could he go on like this, knowing that he had forsaken his once chance of survival? It was perfect obedience that kept him alive, and now, the proof of his treachery lived and walked and breathed.
After what could have been hours, dreams finally found him. Once more, he was standing in front of a weeping Alana. Only this time, they were in an open field. The King was there, cruel and demanding.
The Skaara picked up his sword, and, in this dream world his hands were not shaking. He was certain of his purpose, as if there had never been another option. He didn't realize that his sword had been redirected towards the King until he had already lunged. But the moment before his weapon came crashing down, the face morphed, and Dom was standing before him instead. Desperately, the Skaara tried to deflect his blade, but it was too late.
He woke in a cold sweat. The empty tent gaped back at him, and he stumbled out of it quickly.
Outside, Dom sat watching the stars. The Skaara settled down beside him noiselessly. "Couldn't sleep?"
"No," the prince said. "I have too much to think about."
Of course. The Skaara had been so distracted by his own turmoil, he'd completely forgotten about Dom. Dom, whose lack of magic had been shared with the entire island. Whose apparent worthlessness was being used to topple his own family.
"I was wondering why I didn't hear any snoring," the Skaara said, voice full of false humor. "Normally, you could wake a dragon."
Dom smiled weakly. He looked down, picking listlessly at a smooth pebble on the grass. It took a moment for the Skaara to realize Dom had arranged twigs and stones in the concentric circles of a Fidchell board. Despite everything, he nearly laughed, raising his eyebrows at the effort.
