Chapter Zero: The Escape

  There was a saying: every cry of agony, wail of anguish, and wrenching heave made in these barracks was made in service to the empire. This place would forge boys and girls into instruments of martial justice, devotion through steel to the divine, to the empire.

  Selriph Daryth left more than his fair share within these cold, unyielding walls. Tonight, however, he sought to leave something else—not a noise, not a mark on scrawled stone.

  He wanted to engrave his absence.

  As he stared in contemplation at the wall before him, his surroundings hummed in the periphery of his attention—the faint sounds of slumber, rasps of breath, the soft gurgle of snores.

  Above, beyond the grates where the cool night air bled in, he heard the creak of wood on the raised walkways, along with the distant bark of superiors from the courtyard beyond.

  Tracing the moonlight from a narrow window, soft white light shone through to the floor, and the shadows of the bars stretched, elongated on the ground.

  The boy exhaled. The shabby, ragged blanket that wrapped his person fell with his ribcage; a meagre buffer against the cold that caressed this thin frame. His mind betrayed the feigned stillness of his exterior—a whirlwind of thoughts. It drifted to the chapel in the courtyard, a symbol of the Eldeitian Pantheon. Every soul in the capital was faithfully devoted to them.

  The boy held no such notions, for he had long abandoned any religious piety.

  Tonight, however, he did pray. A wordless entreaty. He did not seek deliverance, vengeance, or even salvation for all that had been wrought upon him.

  All he wanted was one thing: a chance to run.

  He twisted onto his side, reaching below his bunk. His fingers, almost by instinct, found the hidden seam in the stonework, deftly inserting into the gaps and pulling out a loose brick. In the dark void, his hand explored until it landed on a familiar touch: the coarse leather and thin straps of a small, packed item, pulling it from its hiding spot.

  Inside: a bundle of dried meat and coarse bread wrapped in a loose cloth—rations he had stolen. Some linen straps and salve jars pilfered from the infirmary, a rusted flint striker beside a loose collection of parchment; scavenged, like everything else he would need for this escape.

  At the bottom, wrapped in oilskin and bound, lay a pouch of coin, saved over years. It was no fortune, but enough to cover the deposit on a decent horse, enough to place distance between him and the city.

  If he made it that far.

  Once I am out, stay quiet, three doors to the left. Seventeen paces to enter the courtyard. Wait for the guards to pass … don’t hesitate, just go.

  The route played obsessively on his mind. The margin of error was evident; one misstep, one wrong patrol, and he’d be back in a cell, or worse.

  In stillness preceding the choreographed dance to freedom, the young boy’s eyes fluttered shut, not in slumber, but in contemplative recollection.

  “We Daryths face the world with steel and honour. That is your purpose, your calling.”

  But steel did not call to him. Magic did. Such displays would be called cowardice by the person who condemned him to this place, but it wasn’t that to the youth; it felt like sanctuary. He never intended to disrespect his wishes; he only wanted to experience something that spoke to him.

  He could never forget the thrill of the first flames dancing across his vision, the beautiful streaks of conjured lightning, the tranquillity of being bathed in magical energy, all away from the eyes in the estate he dwelt in.

  That fateful day came a few months before his thirteenth birthday, the scent of charred wood from a misdirected flame. And there, his mother’s silence, cold as iron. His father’s gaze—no words could depict it: disappointment, rejection, rage, all contorted into a singular twisted expression.

  If only I had been more careful…

  He was to be punished, sent to the Knights Templar, to be ‘straightened out’. What should have followed were drills, physical training to become a protector of the realm, a dedication to the empire through steel and grit, just a more trying version of his father’s training regimen.

  But no, it was far worse than that.

  His memories drifted to the clack of the whips, the numbing silence of the isolation cell, the pelt of stones and laughter in unfair duels, the grimy treads slammed in his abdomen, the knuckles crushed into his cheekbone, the plundered rations.

  That one superior, his face plastered with glee, was the symbol of his plight. All under the pretence of building ‘dedication’. For four years, he endured that.

  What a damnable joke.

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  But even here, in the depths of this nightmare, he found time, ways to channel his magic discreetly. A spark of flame behind closed doors, whispers of lightning between his fingertips, when no gaze was upon him.

  That was his only comfort, his solace between the drills, the beatings, and the ridicule:

  ‘Selriph Daryth, the son his father never wanted.’

  He sat up, careful not to stir the others. His feet slipped into worn leather boots. He lifted his gaze as he stood. Above, framed behind the grate, the second moon, Threxia, stood high, silver and full, a silent herald of midnight.

  The pack slid over his shoulder. He turned without a sound to the armament that never left his side. An estoc, a slender, balanced, and precise weapon. Too elegant for a knight templar, drawing him into endless mockery.

  It could not overwhelm through pure might; it wasn’t the typical symbol of martial force. However, in the right hands, it might deflect the toughest of blows. A honed strike could slip through the most impregnable of armour.

  He never dared to demonstrate the extent of his abilities with his fellow trainees; better he played the fool than attempt to plough his way through—an early lesson from the weighted sparring bouts.

  He had everything he needed on his person—the time had come, or at least, the window was closing. The other three souls in the bunk were deep in slumber; only a voice of command could rile them awake. He moved into a half crouch as he slipped out through the ajar door, footsteps as silent as a feline.

  He navigated the torch-lit corridor. His shadow danced at the periphery of his vision, a silent witness to the series of calculated yet fluid movements that flowed from Selriph; each step was planned like a dance as he made his way through the passageways. Around corners, past the pillars, and avoiding the loose board of wood that would groan under weight, towards the building’s exit.

  The moonlit courtyard came into view, open and exposed. He kept to the shadowed edges, past the training yard where he bled and shed tears. Past the chapel that had never known his prayers, past the other blocks of dormitory halls housing fervent initiates.

  At the far edge, he dropped into a crouch. Two knights passed by on their standard route, their armour gleaming, their words low yet sharply audible. He didn’t breathe until they vanished behind the garden wall.

  Then he saw his chance, slipping behind the supply hall, into the passage behind the kitchens. There would be the exit he had prepared for months in fleeting shifts, behind what seemed to be a dead end, half-choked with vines.

  A gate, eased away for months, ready to break through tonight; a tug should have sufficed for the lock to give way.

  The iron pin, however, remained seized. A stubborn rattle in place of what should have been yielding metal. He felt sure that he’d done enough to loosen it. He tugged once, then twice. Expecting it to give.

  Yet still, it remained; the cause was evident: someone had replaced the pin. Untimely coincidence, or deliberate obstruction?

  Selriph glanced back. The faintest sounds of distant footsteps. They felt like a series of pommel strikes to his ears, an unwelcome noise amplified by the obstacle before him.

  Curses, I don’t have time for this…

  His hand reached out, two fingers extended, hovering over the pin. The hint of metallic rust filled his nostrils as he inhaled. With it came the boiling of innate arcane energy as it bubbled to his fingers. A soft red hue of energy coalesced into a small, bright, blistering hot orange flame that materialised like flint striking steel.

  He guided the flame to the iron, and heat pressed against his face as smoky fumes wafted into his lungs. The metal hissed and glowed red-hot as it melted from the concentrated blaze that burned far hotter than mere torch flame. The forge-worthy heat slowly warped the pin into a mass of molten slag.

  With a snap, the latch finally gave way. He extinguished the flame with a quick flick. The fumes would no doubt waft into the chamber. If the distinct odour of charred slag did not give him away, the sight of blackened iron would.

  That is going to mark my escape. No hiding that now…

  The latch groaned as he removed it. He stepped through and replaced the grate as best he could. He then turned and took a few steps up to see the city as it rose before him like a tide made of urban structure and streets.

  Dancing haze of fumes drafted from the southeast industrial district—no doubt a byproduct of assembling the latest additions to the dark silhouettes that adorned the sky—the pride of the Eldeitian military apparatus.

  The floral sweetness of night flowers wafted in from the cathedral garden to the west. It was no courtly fragrance, but it was the best-smelling thing he had known in his time here.

  The Grand Cathedral towered ahead, its gilded spires extending into the dark. They reached skyward like glowing embered coals in the dark. The structure seemed to stare at him as he navigated to the side exit, towards the streets of the upper district.

  As he left the compound, he suppressed his relief; this was only the first hurdle overcome. With a pounding heart, he descended into the labyrinthine, darkened streets, escaping the barrack’s fading sounds.

  In his stride, the estoc struck his thigh, and the dagger dangled from his belt. The pack dug into his shoulder, his breath hot in his hasty sprint through the cool night air-his hands cold from the adrenaline.

  The streets were quieter at this hour, but patrols would still roam; not just Templar Knights adorned in silver garb, but also the city guard in crimson cloaks and stained steel. There would be gazes from rooftops and plazas, their eyes trained to catch the slightest hint of unlawful movement. As long as he kept away from the main streets, he could avoid their prying eyes.

  His mother might be among them. Sir Harwyn would surely be elsewhere, dedicated to training his true heir, more worthy of their family’s expectations.

  As he came around a bend, he could see it: the city’s lower districts unfurled like a scrambled mosaic of roofs, winding alleys, and market squares. Walls painted in soot and dust. Somewhere beyond them waited the city gates, and past those, the suburbs, then the open road, the horizon beyond.

  Escape wouldn’t be easy. It couldn’t be. They’d be hunting him soon; If he were lucky, he’d get an hour or two before they noticed his absence, more than enough time to make it to the suburbs. At least, that is what he hoped. So far, everything was going according to plan.

  Mostly.

  The distant toll of the midnight bell echoed through the city—the changing of the guard. The cue Selriph had been waiting for to cross the boundary into the lower district.

  Something else accompanied that sound; the unwelcome stirring of the Templar compound he had just left behind, whispers of distant shouts came with the breeze.

  Someone found the empty bunk.

  The alarm had been sounded.

  They would soon be on his tail.

  With the boy a mere stroll away from his former cage.