Awoken

The glow of the lanterns illuminated the stone walls as Kallinvar walked along the edge of the sparring chamber, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes narrowed in focus.

The sparring chamber within the Temple of Achyron was easily two hundred feet in length and at least a hundred feet from side to side. Stone walkways divided it into ten large, sand covered sparring pits, one for each chapter. Nothing hung on the walls except for sconces and weapon racks; a sparring chamber had no need for ornamentation.

The sound of steel on steel rang through Kallinvar's ears as he skirted the edge of the sparring pit that was dedicated to The Second, the knights chapter under his command. On any other morning, he would have joined his brother and sister knights in training. But Lyrin had not yet returned from his journey to Camylin. That left nine knights, an odd number. Ten chapters, ten knights in each. That had always been the way.

With the exception of Kallinvar's knights, the massive chamber was empty. He preferred it that way. It was not that he did not appreciate the company of his brothers and sisters of the other chapters, but he liked to able to focus when he observed the sparring. Any weaknesses addressed then could save a life later.

A loud crash drew Kallinvar's attention. Young Arden stood over Ildris, who lay on his back in the sand, Arden's sword pressed against his neck. Arden had come along quickly since they found him only two years gone. The last Sigil Bearer. Nearly four hundred years to recover from that night in Ilnaen and rebuild the knighthood.

Physically, Arden was a specimen. His chest and shoulders were thick and broad, and his muscles were dense. By Kallinvar's gauge, he was almost six and a half feet in height. As he stood over Ildris now, his short brown hair was matted to his face with sweat and his bare chest heaved up and down in slow, measured strokes. Well, his chest would have been bare, were it not for the green Sigil at its centre, appearing as though it were a shimmering metallic tattoo. The Sigil of the Knights of Achyron – a downward-facing sword, set into a sunburst.

The young man had impressed Kallinvar at every turn. Not just with his skill in combat, but in his learning and his comprehension. He was already a fine Brother Knight, but he would become a great one. Of that, Kallinvar had no doubt.

"Yield," Arden said, his arm firm and unshaking as he held the blade to Ildris's neck.

"Never."

Arden smiled as he lowered his sword and held out his hand.

Ildris laughed, clasping Arden's outstretched hand, using it as leverage to pull himself to his feet. "You're getting better."

"Oh, I am? Why, thank you, Brother Knight." Arden gave a mocking bow as he spoke.

"Again," Kallinvar shouted, levelling a disapproving glare at Arden and Ildris.

Both knights stiffened, the laughter gone from their faces. "Yes, Brother-Captain."

Kallinvar nodded. A kinship between his knights was important. They needed to be willing to bleed for each other, and to die for each other if Achyron demanded it. But they could not afford to grow slack, not with the Blood Moon so close. He held his gaze over the two knights for a moment before continuing on to watch over the other sparring sessions.

Sister Ruon and Brother Tarron were locked in a fierce exchange, their swords ringing out across the stone as they fought with a fury. Ruon, Tarron, and Ildris had been with him the longest. Since before. Before their numbers had been decimated at The Fall. Achyron had asked a heavy price of them that night. Of one hundred knights, only seventeen had returned from that battle, a battle they had lost to the Shadow. In truth, their chapter had suffered the least, making up four of the seventeen survivors: Ruon, Tarron, Ildris, and Kallinvar. The Fourth, The Eighth, and The Ninth had been completely wiped out, sent to rest in Achyron's halls. Kallinvar sighed. The scars ran deep. He looked out over the training ground. With the exception of the survivors from that night, most of those before him had been knights for less than a century. It had been over seven hundred years since Kallinvar himself had first accepted the Sigil. For seven hundred years, he had served the will of Achyron. The Sigil would not permit him to die. Not that he would permit himself to either. To serve under The Warrior was the greatest honour a man could ever receive. Kallinvar's eyes fell on Brother Mirken and Sister Sylven. Flashes of green light pulsed from their Soulblades as the weapons collided in mid-air. Soulblades were weapons wrought from Spirit. They were pure energy that did not exist until called upon by a knight. The Soulblade was the weapon of the knighthood, gifted by the warrior god himself. Some mages or Draleid who were powerful enough could imitate it. They called them níthrals in the Old Tongue. But whatever they chose to call them, they did not understand the power of a true Soulblade, wrought from the soul of Achyron himself.

"Care to join, Brother-Captain?" Varlin called from the other side of the sparring pit. Sweat rolled down the woman's face as she leaned on the pommel of her sword, the tip of the blade buried in the sand. Varlin had a strong frame, layered with smooth muscle. The sides of her head were shaved, and the remainder of her straw-blonde hair was tied into a plat that ran down the back of her head in the style of her native Valtara. She was a warrior even before she had received the Sigil, a blademaster. Kallinvar had found her almost a hundred years ago, during the Valtaran uprising. She was exactly where the Grand Master had said she would be: in a field of bodies, about two hundred miles north of the Marin Mountains, at the base of an old willow tree, still clinging to life like a cornered hound.

Kallinvar smiled. "I still have bruises from the last time we sparred, Sister Varlin. You can continue to take your anger out on Brother Daynin, if it pleases you."

Brother Daynin glared at Kallinvar, a hint of a smile at the corner of his lips as he mouthed the words, "I will get you for this."

Footsteps of steel on stone echoed down the wide staircase at the far end of the chamber. "Brother-Captain Kallinvar, I see I've arrived just in time to teach you a few lessons in swordsmanship."

Kallinvar rolled his eyes as Lyrin descended the staircase. Lyrin had accepted the Sigil less than seven years past. He was a strong young man, almost a match for Arden in both strength and skill. His shoulder-length brown hair was meticulously groomed, to a point that it looked almost unnatural. His hair is just about the only thing he is meticulous about. Etiquette was not Lyrin's strong suit, and he could do with learning a lesson or two.

"Lyrin. I trust your trip to Camylin went as expected, then?"

"Indeed, Brother-Captain. The Thieves Guild in Camylin was happy to take our gold. We will receive weekly reports."

"Very good," Kallinvar said, rolling his shoulders back, feeling the stretch. The thrum of Kallinvar's Sigil coursed through his body as he called on his Soulblade. A white-hot sensation burned in his chest, where the Sigil had fused with him all those years ago, strands of pulsing green light rushing from either side of his hand. The strands wrapped and weaved around each other, melding together to form something greater.

Kallinvar didn't have to look to know that his fingers grasped the glowing green handle of his Soulblade. The piercing light had dissipated, and in its place was a low, pulsing glow. Kallinvar's Soulblade took the shape of a double-edged greatsword. It was as solid as if the green pulsing light had been cut from steel, though unlike steel, a Soulblade could draw blood from a Fade, and it could rip the dark creature's soul from the world of the living.

Lyrin's shoulders sagged, and he let out a resigned sigh.

Let's teach you some etiquette.

Kallinvar dropped himself into the firm leather chair that sat behind his stone-carved desk. Like the rest of the Great Temple, Kallinvar's study was cut from solid stone. The multitude of beeswax candles bathed the room in a soft, warm light, not that there was much to illuminate. Besides his desk and chair, all that resided in the room was a bookcase stocked with ancient texts, a long stone bench against the far wall, and a tapestry that depicted the day the Knights of Achyron had been formed. It was a simple room. Kallinvar enjoyed simplicity; life was complicated enough. He let out a sigh and wiped the sweat from his brow, his white cotton shirt clinging to his chest, weighed down with sweat from his sparring session with Lyrin. The young man was a good swordsman, but he still had a lot to learn.

"Brother-Captain Kallinvar."

Kallinvar straightened his back, seating himself properly in his chair. "Grandmaster Verathin. I was not aware that I should have expected you tonight."

"At ease, Kallinvar, we have known each other far too long for all of this formality," Verathin said, as he seated himself on the stone bench opposite from Kallinvar. "Are you well?"

Kallinvar narrowed his eyes. It was true, he and Verathin had known each other for a long time – since Kallinvar first took the Sigil – and they had grown to be close friends, but Verathin was a formal person. He always had been.

"I am," Kallinvar said cautiously.

Verathin laughed. "No, old friend. I am not here to simply see how you are doing."

Kallinvar did not speak, letting silence hang in the air, urging Verathin to continue.

"You have not changed in all these centuries," Verathin said, the slightest of smiles touching his face. Verathin held Kallinvar's gaze for a few moments before continuing. "The Blood Moon is upon us once more. It will taint the sky red within a year, and its effects will linger even longer."

Kallinvar grimaced at the thought. It had been four hundred years since the last Blood Moon, a time when the power of blood magic was heightened and when the traitor god could cast his hand into the world and grant terrible power to his followers. That was when The Order fell, the empire rose, and when his brothers and sisters died.

"We have known it was coming, and we have prepared. Our time has come once again. Also, I have received reports of which I first held suspicion, but as of now, I am sure." Verathin must have seen the curiosity in Kallinvar's eyes, for he did not wait for a response. "A new dragon has hatched."

Every hair on Kallinvar's body stood on end. A hatchling hadn't been born since The Fall. Nine Dragonguard still lived, and they were powerful enough, but if more eggs were starting to hatch, Fane Mortem and the empire would become unstoppable. "How is this possible?"

"I am not sure. But if the reports are true, the dragon – and its Draleid – do not fight for the empire and, in turn, the traitor god."

Draleid. It had been a long time since Kallinvar had heard that word. But it only served to raise even more questions. "Forgive me for my lack of knowledge, Grandmaster, but again, how?"

Verathin shook his head. "I do not know, Brother-Captain. But it is something we must ascertain."

Kallinvar sat back in his chair. This could change everything. A Draleid not loyal to the empire.

"If the Draleid and the dragon are not loyal to the empire… we must protect them," Kallinvar said. "They will be powerful allies against the coming Shadow."

"Agreed. And to that end, there are some things we must discuss."

Arden didn't think the Tranquil Garden would ever cease to amaze him. In truth, there wasn't a single thing that hadn't amazed him in the two years since he had taken the Sigil, but walking through the garden held its own sense of wonder. Beneath his leather boots, the ground was soft and pliable, covered by a carpet of varicoloured moss that played home to a multitude of insects and small animals. Around him, the long delicate branches of the Hallow trees whirled and spiralled in all directions, twisting and coiling in on themselves, tracing along the roof of the enormous cavern. Even the roots sprouted from the ground in seemingly random places, twisting into whirlpool shapes with lanterns hung on their ends. Overhead, the lush green of the canopy was interspersed with clusters of vibrant purple flowers that hung down over the branches, glowing with a dim light. There was no place in all of Epheria that filled him with such a sense of peace.

"Shit…"

Arden laughed as Lyrin's face twisted into a grimace of pain. A large blackish-blue bruise had already formed along the length of his friend's forearm, and the long, thin cut that ran along his cheekbone was raw and red. They had come to the Tranquil Garden after sparring to rest their bones in Heraya's Well. "You knew what you were doing."

Lyrin shrugged. He winced as he touched his finger against the cut on his cheek. "I'm going to beat him one day, mark my words."

"Sure you are," Arden said, tilting his head back and rolling his shoulders until he felt a crack. He closed his eyes and took a moment to let the sounds of the garden drift into his ears. The birdsong that floated through the air was as constant as the burbling of the many tiny streams that meandered through the garden like a network of cobwebs, all finding their way to Heraya's Well, a luminescent pool at the garden's centre.

"Are you coming?"

Arden opened his eyes again, just catching sight of a small orange and blue bird darting between the canopy of the trees above. "Sorry, I just needed a moment."

The rumbling sound of falling water softened most other noises as the two knights approached Heraya's Well. The ground fell away at the edges of the pool, with tangled strands of moss and dangling roots hanging down, brushing the surface of the shimmering water. Hundreds of tiny threadlike streams fed into the pool from all sides, tumbling down over the edge. The water held within the pool was like nothing else Arden had ever laid eyes on. It shimmered in a wide variety of vivid blues, as if the water itself were alive. Patches of the pool were as dark as the ocean at night, and laced through those patches of darkness were coruscating clusters of lighter, more vibrant blues.

"Do you think it is truly Heraya's Well?" Lyrin said, crouching down onto his haunches and running his hand through the water of one of the tiny streams. "The true Waters of Life…"

"Had you asked me that question two years ago, I would have said no. But now…" Arden traced his fingers over his sweat-soaked shirt, following the lines of the Sigil he bore on his chest. The Sigil that was burned into his flesh and fused with his soul. The Sigil that saved his life. "… now, I need no more proof that the gods stretch their fingertips into this world. Come, we don't have long before supper."

Arden tossed his clothes in a loose pile at the edge of the pool, and then slowly lowered himself into the water. He felt it immediately, the cooling sensation that flooded his body as he submerged himself. Every ache, every pain and minor irritation dissipated at the water's touch, melting away. The clusters of bright, vivid light swarmed around his body, pulsating as they touched his skin.

"It feels incredible," Lyrin said, the water shimmering around him as he dropped into the pool. "I think—"

"Five minutes," Arden said, cutting across Lyrin.

"Five minutes what?"

"Hold that thought for five minutes. Just five minutes of peace, Lyrin."

"I'll show you damned peace…"

Arden chuckled to himself as he closed his eyes and tossed his head back in the water, just letting himself float.

Not three minutes had passed when the silence was broken. "Ahem."

"Lyrin, I said five minutes."

"Brother Arden, Brother Lyrin."

Arden nearly leapt out of his skin when he recognised the voice. He snapped his eyes open and dropped his feet to the bottom of the pool. "Grandmaster Verathin, my apologies. We were rejuvenating after sparring. How may we serve?"

The Grandmaster stood at the edge of the pool, a white mantle draped over his shoulders with the Sigil of Achyron emblazoned across its front in a dark green. He was a tall man with a sharp jaw and short brown hair speckled with flecks of white. He always seemed to have a serious look in his eyes, as though he were weighing up everything he saw. Watching and judging. The Grandmaster was not alone. Watcher Gildrick, one of the priests of the temple, stood by his side. His robes were a dark green with a trim of white. The Watchers were a particular group of the Priests of Achyron, who were tasked with overseeing the knights and guiding them on their path. Arden liked Gildrick; he was a good man.

"That is perfectly all right, Brother Arden," Grandmaster Verathin said. "Heraya's Well is for us all. When you have finished, you are both required in the Heart Chamber. I have sensed a minor convergence of the Taint near a small town in the North – Helden. You will be going through the Rift."

"Yes, Grandmaster," Arden and Lyrin both replied at the same time.

"Good, we shall await you in the chamber."

With that, Verathin and Gildrick made their way back through the garden, leaving the two knights standing in Heraya's Well. Lyrin immediately broke out into laughter. "That was brilliant. 'Grandmaster Verathin, my apologies'. Serves you right."

Arden shot him a look that could kill. "Shut your mouth or I'll drown you."

"You can't drown me in here. It's the Waters of Life. Emphasis being on life."

"So, you'll just keep drowning indefinitely then?"

Lyrin snapped his mouth shut at that, pursing his lips inward as he realised the flaw in his thinking. "So… shall we go?"