"Could we possibly have gotten seats any higher?" Niamh grumbled, hitching up her green skirts as they climbed the amphitheater's steep steps. "I can't climb these steps like I used to!"
Quietly, Amriel followed behind, just in case her pregnant friend took a misstep.
"And I'll need a spyglass to see anything," Mara added, not breaking stride. "But the lower levels wouldn't have worked."
"You're right, we'd have to put Riel on our shoulders so she could see," Niamh teased, pausing to catch her breath. "Though she's so lost in her thoughts, I'm not sure she'd notice the difference."
Amriel snapped back to the present and quickened her pace. "I'm present enough to notice when you're mocking my height. Or lack thereof."
"Whose idea was this anyways?" Niamh bemoaned as they continued to climb up the stairs between the ever rising rows of grandstands that encircled the amphitheatre.
Amriel felt a twinge of guilt watching her pregnant friend climb, even though the seats had been Niamh's choice. Not that she'd remind her of that fact when she was this pregnant. That could be more fraught with danger than any prophecy. Mara, however, did not seem to share the same objections.
"Actually," Mara continued with matter-of-fact precision, "these seats were your specific choice, Niamh. You identified them when we entered because—and I quote—'if we stay at ground level, our dear Riel won't see a thing over everyone's heads.'"
The silence stretched just long enough to become uncomfortable.
"I am aware of what I said, Mara," Niamh replied, her voice strained. "Thank you for the reminder."
"You seemed to have forgotten, so I thought clarification would be helpful," Mara said, genuinely puzzled by Niamh's tone. "I've read that pregnancy can cause temporary memory issues due to hormonal changes affecting the brain. This appears to be a documented example."
Niamh stopped climbing entirely and turned to stare at her friend.
Suddenly, Amriel wished she was anywhere except caught between these two. "Ladies, we're almost there," Amriel said, keeping her voice even and calm.
The massive amphitheater of Khymar, Vraycia's capital, was one of the lingering structures built by the God Kings of Toltaria. The other being the Dreadfort. Both were a calculated means of controlling the population of their kingdom on the far side of the Inner Sea. One through distraction, the other through blatant threat. A strategy that ultimately failed when rebellion swept the tyrants from power.
Yet both the arena, and the Dreadfort, outlasted its creators. For the amphitheater, at least, what began as a tool of the oppressors became a beloved tradition, its tournaments now celebrated as festivals of skill and courage that truly belonged to the people.
More politics than sport, these days. Amriel had heard her father say that about royal games.
"Where is Simon?" Mara asked as the three women took their seats. Immediately, the acolyte's fingers found her knee, tapping out her familiar sequence - thumb, index, middle, ring, pinky, then back again - the rhythm quickening as her eyes darted anxiously through the crowd, each completed cycle helping to steady her against the overwhelming sea of faces.
After much shifting and adjusting, Niamh finally settled into the least uncomfortable position the stone seats would allow. "He's over there somewhere," she waved toward an opening in the far side of the arena where a colorful pavilion of tents could be seen. "By evening, every piece of twisted metal from today's 'glorious combat' will end up on his anvil."
From their height, the entire tournament grounds unfurled below them like a masterful painting. The massive oval arena was formed by gracefully curved tiers of weathered gray stone that seemed to catch and amplify every sound from the crowd. Colorful standards bearing the sigils of great houses danced against the sullen spring sky, their brightness defiant beneath the lowering clouds that shrouded the capital.
Across from their seats, the royal box caught Amriel's attention. The black, purple and gold banners fluttered above the king's throne, where Marcus Drathex watched the crowd with sharp eyes that missed nothing. He reminded Amriel of a hawk peering down from his roost.
Father never liked these tournaments. He liked the king even less.
King Marcus Drathex was a man of middle years, his weathered face framed by once-dark chestnut hair now mostly gray. There was little kindness behind the dark eyes that swept over the people below. Beside him sat Queen Elara, who was resplendent in robes of deep royal purple. Unlike her husband's simple onyx and gold circlet, her crown was an intricate weaving of silver and gold threads that mimicked woven branches, each tip bearing a deep amethyst—the color of Witches.
At fifty-three, Elara's face remained remarkably unlined, her golden hair showing barely a thread of the silver that so abundantly adorned her husbands. The Queen's ability to harness Power had manifested unusually late, just as her second eldest daughter's had. The later the gift, the more Powerful the Witch. A saying her mother had mentioned more than once.
Behind the royal family sat two figures of particular significance. To the Queen's left, Kortana, Leader of the Coven Tower, surveyed the crowd with watchful intensity, though her gaze kept returning to Princess Irina. To the king's right sat Master Archivist Hodgens, his pale, sharp eyes fixed on a book on his lap rather than the crowd.
"He's the youngest Master Archivist in Vraycia's history," Mara murmured, her gaze tracking Amriel's across the arena. "Thirty-two years old. Remarkable, really."
"Remarkable?" Niamh's voice carried a sharp edge. "We all know he's only warming that seat because his uncle holds sway over half the northern lords. Merit had nothing to do with it."
Mara tilted her head, considering. "Perhaps. Regardless, these chosen two represent the Knowledge and Power of Vraycia, they remain near the throne in order to offer their wisdom and guidance."
"More like trying to influence the crown for their own good," Niamh muttered, to which Mara responded with a shrug, her fingers continuing their rhythmic drumming pattern over her knee.
Below, the ceremonies of the second tournament of the day unfurled, but Amriel barely registered the spectacle. She couldn't tear her eyes off the Princess.
Queen Elara and Kortana carried their Power like she'd come to expect from their kind in public. Calm and contained, in a way that reminded her of a river well controlled by a dam, only to be unleashed upon command. But Irina's magic felt untamed, a torrent barely contained, ready to overrun its banks at any moment.
Like her siblings, Princess Elara had inherited her father's rich chestnut hair and her mother's delicate features. But where her family appeared at ease, tension etched lines across her pale face, and her knuckles whitened as she gripped her knees through her pale yellow gown.
She looks terrified. The iron ring around Amriel's neck suddenly grew cold against her skin. Her hand flew to her chest in surprise.
Mara—ever the Archivist —read Amriel like a book. "What's wrong?"
Nothing, Amriel wanted to say. But that would be a lie. "Just... the princess," Amriel's voice grew low, almost lost in the cheer of the crowds. "I think she's afraid." By the Daeude, I'm afraid, she thought as she continued to watch the princess unravel.
"Can you blame her?" Niamh murmured. "Irina's Power just manifested, and soon she'll be handed over to Kortana and her merry band of spell-weavers."
"To enter the Coven Tower of Vraycia is a great honor, not a punishment," Mara corrected. "She has come into a great gift. Many would kill to possess Power."
"Pragmatic as ever, Mara," Niamh rolled her eyes playfully. "Not everyone views a life overshadowed by Power as such a wonderful thing."
"Perhaps," Mara said with a nod. "Regardless, the princess would have been aware of this potential fate all of her life. Just as she would have been prepared for this transformation," she explained, her tone matter-of-fact. "As a Witch's daughter, she's been training since childhood for the possibility of inheriting Witch abilities. All children born to a Power wielder undergo this preparation—or at least they should. And the royal children are taught by none other than the Coven Leader herself, the most powerful Witch in the kingdom."
Mara paused for a moment, her fingers drummed softly. "In my opinion, becoming a Witch has been the princess's salvation. The Power that now flows through her veins has spared her from sharing her sister's unfortunate fate."
"Speak for yourself," Niamh smiled, her pale green eyes twinkling. "I'd rather be in my husband's bed than anywhere else."
Mara shrugged. "That is not a desired path for all." The acolyte Archivist had chosen the gray stone halls of the Illumination Tower, and its vast wealth of knowledge, over the prospect of marriage.
Before Niamh could respond, Amriel shook her head. "No. I don't think that's it." Even as the words slipped from her lips, a strange sensation washed over her—like the prickling awareness before a summer storm. And then, she saw it.
Silver threads spun from Irina's fingertips, diving toward the ground like the roots of a tree seeking water. Amriel understood instinctively what would happen the moment those ethereal tendrils made contact with the ground: Power would surge upward through them in a violent rush. The deeper Irina could drive these spectral roots into the earth below, the more devastating the torrent of Power that would flood back through them.
Too much. Too fast. Amriel's breath caught. "She can't control it."
"What did you just say?" Niamh asked, noticing the movement.
"What are you seeing, Riel?" Mara added.
As Amriel opened her mouth, another wave shimmered across the princess' form and the silver tendrils lengthened. Even across the arena, Irina's fight was obvious to Amriel. And it was just as painfully obvious that she was losing it.
Below the royal box, a small disturbance rippled through the crowd—a glass goblet suddenly shattered, fragments scattering across the stone. A servant hurried to clean it up, but Amriel noticed how Queen Elara's eyes darted to her daughter, concern flashing across her serene features.
"Amriel?" Mara paused her drumming long enough to nudge her side, but every fiber of Amriel's being was focused on Irina—and the potential danger she posed.
Nearby, a flock of pigeons resting on the tournament grounds' upper arches suddenly took flight, wings beating frantically. Amriel's skin crawled with awareness.
She won't be able to control it. All the training in the world doesn't seem to be helping her now, Amriel realized with a growing alarm. Whatever depth of Power she's able to access, it's too much for her.
A trumpet blast interrupted her thoughts, signaling the commencement of the next, and final, tournament—jousting. The crowd rose as the royal herald stepped forward, his voice amplified.
"Lords and ladies, honored guests, and good people of Vraycia! Today we celebrate the betrothal of Her Royal Highness, Princess Mhegan of House Drathex, to His Highness, Prince Damien of House Tiernan of Calvendria!"
Cheers erupted, though Amriel noted the enthusiasm seemed somewhat muted in the commoners' stands. Relations with Calvendria had been strained in recent years due to border disputes and trade disagreements. This marriage was entirely political rather than romantic—a fact lost on no one.
As the herald continued with formal introductions, Amriel watched as Irina struggled silently with her Power.
If she can just move, Amriel thought desperately.
That was the cruel trap of Power itself. To channel Power from the River, Witches and Warlocks had to plant themselves like trees—any movement would disturb their roots, their connection, and cut off the flow entirely. From what Amriel understood, sustaining the fragile connection demanded unwavering concentration—a single moment of distraction would cause the Power to slip away like water through cupped hands.
But in Irina's case, it seemed anything but. As Amriel watched, Irina's face contorted with obvious discomfort, her body straining against the force.
That's when the horrifying truth struck her.
By the Daeude, she's bound in place by the strength of her connection to Power! Amriel recoiled.
The shimmer Amriel had noticed earlier was intensifying, becoming a bright silver aura.
The iron ring burned against Amriel's chest now, almost painfully cold. She clutched it through her tunic, feeling its pulse match the crackling waves of energy emanating from the princess.
Around Irina, the air began to truly distort while tiny currents of what now looked like silver lightning danced between her fingertips.
She's reaching her breaking point, Amriel thought, her pulse hammering in her throat as ice filled her veins. That much concentrated Power—when it finally erupts, it'll take out anything in its path.
The Coven Leader had straightened in her seat, dark eyes fixed on the princess with intensity while her own tendrils emerged to seek out the River of Power.
Queen Elara leaned closer to her daughter, her hand discreetly gripping Irina's shoulder.
The herald's voice carried on as no one else seemed to notice the growing disturbance in the royal box. The crowd roared as knights entered on magnificent warhorses, their normally brilliant armor dull beneath the overcast sky.
"Ladies and gentlemen! I present to you our champions, who will compete for glory and the honor of being named Champion of the Betrothal!"
First up was Sir Randal and Sir Kristoff, who faced each other from opposite ends of the field, lances at the ready. Another trumpet blast, and they charged, horses thundering down the track, dust rising in their wake. A crash, splintering wood, and Sir Randal tumbled from his saddle, hitting the ground with a heavy thud that made the audience wince in collective sympathy.
"Magnificent!" Niamh exclaimed, clapping enthusiastically. "Did you see how cleanly he struck?"
"His timing was slightly late," Mara observed. "He was fortunate his opponent didn't adjust his shield."
Amriel barely heard them.
The Queen now had a firm grip on her daughter's shoulder, her expression tense behind her regal smile. Kortana, her own psychic tendrils bound to the River of Power, had shifted forward in her seat, one hand subtly extended, fingers moving in a containment gesture.
"She's going to lose control," Amriel said, her voice louder this time, rising slightly from her seat.
"What did you just say?" Niamh asked, her excitement fading as she noticed Amriel's concern. Instinctively, she wrapped her arms protectively around her belly.
Before Amriel could answer, Queen Elara rose to her feet in a desperate attempt to move her daughter and guide her away from the public. But the princess was frozen in place, too strongly rooted by her uncontrolled Power. Irina's eyes were wide with unbridled terror.
She's going to kill us all. The thought flashed through her mind with terrifying clarity as the silver energy expanded outward.
Then it happened. Amriel saw it in Irina's face—the flicker of panic, the widening eyes—as her feeble control over the Power crumbled.