Chapter One

Chapter 1 - The Wards Will Fall

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MAXWELL took in the packed bar from a small battered table in the corner. The energetic crowd by the bandstand did little to distract him from the impending conversation he’d been dreading for weeks. In a misguided attempt at privacy, he’d picked the most out of the way spot in Dawn’s Warding.

The tiny table proved to be the most cramped seating in the bar. Now he was jammed uncomfortably close to Ivan Halli—close enough Ivan’s knees brushed his own any time either of them moved. The light touch only served as a reminder this was one of their last leave nights out together.

The timing was perfect for a celebratory drink. Despite the impending curfew, Dawn’s Warding was packed with townies and off-duty members of the Third Company, mingling for a night of dance. Dawn made a point to lure in performers with the promise of a fat payment one night a month—it was the only way a garrison town like South Point bordering the exclusion zone managed to draw in live bands at all.

In the last year it had been even harder to find a band willing to take the trip, given the increasingly dangerous conditions. This was the first in months. Dawn must have paid a hefty fee. Tonight the packed crowd rewarded the band’s bravery with endless enthusiasm and generous tips.

“To your future success.” The words tasted bitter. Maxwell raised his near-empty beer glass with forced cheer.

Ivan mirrored the gesture. Their glasses clinked. Maxwell took a sip to clear the unpleasant dejection from his mouth, but the stale beer only made it worse. He forced himself to swallow.

“Thanks. I was worried you’d be upset.” Ivan relaxed into his customary easy sprawl, an arm thrown casually across the seat back. He flashed the same charming grin that had immediately won Maxwell over when he’d first been paired with Ivan during coherence testing after garrison seer training.

Maxwell offered what he hoped was a matching smile. “You can’t pass up a promotion to RITD headquarters. No more late night hyssil alarms.”

“No more annoying patrols in the Southern Peaks through the rain.” Ivan sighed in pleasure.

Maxwell’s grin came a little easier. “No more of the terrible cooking from the second shift mess. I hear the food at RITD proper is top. Real chefs, not rotating shifts of garrison warders who are seeing a frying pan for the first time in their lives.”

“I admit it. That’s the whole reason I applied.” Ivan threw up his hands playfully with his mock confession. He sobered, eyes shining with excitement. “But it feels good to get out. The promotional panel was really impressed with the work I’ve been assisting Davis with. I’m so grateful he took an interest in me and offered me the opportunity to work with him on one of RITD’s special projects. Everything we know about the hyssil threat is going to be disrupted by the advancement of the cutting edge systems his department is working on.”

“I wish you could tell me more.” Ivan’s secret project with Theurgical Officer Davis was a sore spot. Ivan had been disappearing for months to work with Davis in the RITD’s restricted satellite wing of the Third Company garrison. It had hurt when Ivan closed off this part of his life from Maxwell, only offering that it was classified work into new technologies for dealing with the worsening hyssil threat.

“One day,” Ivan promised. “As soon as I can say more, you’ll be the first to know.”

Silence lapsed between them, heavy despite the loud roar of garrison warders drunkenly singing and dancing along to the band’s rendition of the popular “Our love higher than the walls of Eteln”. Maxwell resisted the desire to pound the rest of his lukewarm beer and flee to the bar with the safe excuse of needing another drink.

No, this was good. Maxwell was being selfish. Ivan would go on to be a world-class theurgist. Talmany would be better off. Ivan’s brilliance was wasted slogging through muddy mountain passes on increasingly dangerous patrols for the Third Company. Theurgists promoted into dedicated research positions at the esteemed Research Institute for Theurgical Development inevitably went on to great things.

Chancellors sitting on Parliament. Theurgical advisers implementing new methods of boundary protection and ward development. Working at the RITD campus in Eteln was a chance for many things, all of them amazing. Ivan deserved the recognition and the opportunity.

But they were dancing around a more serious topic. Maxwell wasn’t inclined to be the one to bring it up first. Ivan’s understanding of theurgy was unmatched. He was a rising star within the Third Company. And Maxwell—well. He was a seer adequate enough for garrison work. His Sight took time to unfurl. Though his range was better than average, his Sight only weakly showed the spirits of those around him.

He’d lucked into Ivan during coherence match-ups, their spiritual compatibility too strong for the training officers to pretend otherwise. No other newly initiated garrison seer had come close. The RITD only recruited the strongest seers to provide as pairings for their research theurgists. Ivan would be advancing to the RITD alone.

Ivan’s usual crooked smile settled into a serious line against his angular face. He took a deep breath. “We haven’t talked about what happens…after.”

Maxwell remained silent, waiting.

In the low lighting, Ivan’s normally warm brown eyes were impenetrable. He absently drew a theurgical warding mark in the condensation ring from his glass with a single pale finger, infusing it with power that flickered with an uneven weak light. His voice was hesitant when he continued.

“I checked if they’d make an exception for you, but they refused my request. They’re very insistent theurgists work with seers they employ. The Third Company will find you another theurgist to cohere with. Unpaireds happen all the time.”

Ivan’s words lanced deep. It was easy enough for Ivan to speak casually about Maxwell being matched with another theurgist. He wasn’t the one being left at the garrison to cohere with a stranger while risking his life against increasingly murderous spirits in the mountains.

Seers were uncommon, but not indispensable like theurgists. The Sight was little more than an innate trait a compatible theurgist could divert to take the seer’s Sight as their own. Becoming a theurgist took years of studying complex wardings and the money to pay for expensive training through the RITD’s theurgical schools. Most theurgists, Maxwell had found, were arrogant assholes, quick to discount seers as inconvenient necessities. Little more than tools to illuminate the shadowy hyssil in the night—the more familiar the better, but easily switched out if needed. No matter how many times Maxwell had tried to bring it up to Ivan, the theurgist hadn’t seen it. Or hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it.

There was no point in bringing it up again. Ivan’s stubborn refusal to listen was something Maxwell could chip his teeth on. But Maxwell couldn’t resist.

“If I’m lucky, I’ll find a theurgist who is minimally an asshole and not so green as to have never seen a hyssil before.”

Ivan’s expression slipped into something more pensive. He assessed Maxwell with a small frown. “There’s a lot of good theurgists within the Third Company who’ll need a new seer. And the Third Company is good about supporting new theurgists. They’ll find you a good fit.”

Maxwell drained the last of his beer. He couldn’t meet Ivan’s gaze. Not right now, not when his theurgist favored him with an observant concern that Maxwell found so disconcerting. Maxwell’s eyes only traveled to Ivan’s dark hair instead, shining and tousled perfectly, the warding tattoo on the shaved side of his head just exposed.

This was too much and yet, not enough. Maxwell rose from his seat, nearly toppling the chair in his haste. “Next round is on me.”

Maxwell pushed his way through the crowd to the only free space at the counter, right up next to one of the thick reinforced windows. The bartender swept by him without acknowledgment despite his raised hand, intent on a smiling man with a theurgist’s brass pin attached to his coat, flashing crisp banknotes.

Typical. Maxwell hunched into the polished wood bar top, gripping his glass tighter.

Despite his initial misgivings, he’d admired the uncanny ability with which Ivan seemed to know everyone everywhere he went. He’d favored Maxwell with this same attention. Maxwell had found himself slipping helplessly into respect, then admiration at genuine kindness. His heart had sunk on the train ride back to his hometown of Eteln after their first cycle of border patrols, already preparing himself for the end of their camaraderie outside of their garrison obligations. But Ivan had come calling that very night to drag Maxwell into the night life of the capital.

Maxwell enjoyed it all, but mainly because Ivan enjoyed it. It was hard not to, seeing the carefree laughter with which Ivan carried himself. Easy to get drawn into that, captivated by the theurgist’s charms and big dreams. Easy to spend nights together out on patrol in the Southern Peaks.

Harder to admit he wished for more.

But intimate relationships between theurgists and seers were a ticket to being written up or worse. His contract could be transferred to a different garrison company with a black mark, ensuring his service would be extended. He’d never find legitimate work as a seer again once his contract was up. Deep relationships of any kind created pairings that made it difficult to replace a seer, and the RITD wouldn’t tolerate any inconvenience for their precious theurgical research work. It was all for the safety of Talmany, after all. Only the RITD could provide the wardings to keep hyssil out.

Maxwell had been so absorbed in his own thoughts he didn’t notice at first that the pleasant buzz of laughter trailed off. The band had stopped playing. The bartender was motionless, attention turned towards the band platform.

Maxwell craned his neck to peer between the bar patrons. Lieutenant Westbrooke stood next to a frightened trumpet player, looking more somber than usual.

“Attention, please.” Lieutenant Westbrooke’s voice cracked sharply through the quiet bar.

Westbrooke was dressed in full officer uniform like she was preparing to lead patrol, her peaked officers cap trimmed in light blue held tightly in her hands. The golden wards tattooed there were striking against her dark skin. “Regretfully, I am here to call all Third Company members back to the garrison immediately. All hands are needed. A personnel truck is waiting in the town square and will leave in ten minutes. If you’re not on it by the time we leave, expect a formal reprimand.”

The scraping of chairs broke the silence. Voices murmured, loud and urgent.

“Silence. Please,” Westbrooke said, raising her voice and hands. “If you are a citizen of South Point, curfew starts now. It’s early, I know. But I urge you to take shelter—spread the word. Lock your doors. Sleep in your safe rooms for the night if you have them. Tomorrow will rise anew. Thank you.”

Westbrooke strode off the bandstand, readjusting the cap on her head to expose the additional warding tattoo there. She ignored the calls for more information with a wave of a hand and a shake of her head.

A knot of unease tightened in Maxwell’s stomach. Westbrooke’s presence in South Point could only mean hyssil. Their numbers had been increasing in the last few weeks despite the wards etched into the ancient passes through the mountains and increased patrols. He moved without thinking, heading back towards the small table, pushing through the crowd as the bar emptied.

Ivan met him on the way, eyes shining and excitement twitching his lips into a crooked grin. “Sounds like we might have one last fight together. Should we take bets on what kind of spirit slipped through?”

“They didn’t call everyone back to the garrison when one got past the wards last week.”

“But what else would they need us all for? Unless—” Ivan frowned, but didn’t finish his thought.

He didn’t have to. Maxwell already knew what he was thinking. Hyssil attacks had been increasing in frequency for months. The warder guards of the Third Company had collectively held their breath, knowing it was only a matter of time until a major breach.

They filed out the door with the other Third Company members on leave into a foggy autumn night. The street light above the bar illuminated the people hurrying back to their homes. Doors and windows shuttered as they made their way, citizens taking practiced precautions. The alarm bell purred and then roared into life as Maxwell and Ivan hurried towards the town square with the other off-duty members of the Third Company.

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