Page 17 of Spring Guardians & Songbirds

Sebastian rubbed a hand over his stubble. “So, we have no lead whatsoever on any of the pieces. We have no lead anywhere on this whole situation.”

Albius hummed. “We are chasing a spirit. Perhaps we might need to find its grave and dig out the skeletons.”

“What are you saying?” Moriko asked.

The old man pursed in thought. “Figure out the guardian before we try to figure out the sceptre. Crafters back then were cunning and wily, they would have thought this to the roots of it, manufactured ways and gears to control the joining of the sceptre. There might be other ways around it, perhaps it is how Silas is leading his hunt. We could be tackling this situation too aggressively by chasing him around.”

And it clicked. “Exactly how my father would expect us to deal with it if he knew we all knew,” I said, finally piecing together some of my father’s strategy. Send us after the pieces, make us chase circles around attempting to locate them and while we are distracted, he is collecting them all. “You’re right, Albius.”

Not long ago it felt like I had the steering wheel of my father’s ship. And I still did, it was just that all my galleys were steering in different directions while I led them aimlessly with a blindfold on. However, there was one who could give me some direction.

I turned to my friend again. “Nia, I need you to bring someone to Taren for me.”

“Who?”

My smile grew. “Driada Castemont.”

Chapter four

Nox

Kilian

A week had passed since the Isjordian attack. A week had passed since Olympia had come to existence again. A week had passed since Snow destroyed the Night court and forced me to appoint a new council. A week had passed since I figured out how all our misfortune had come to be. The lilies, the monster, the unblessed, the tides, the rain, the hale, the frost. Adriata was in shambles. People were scared before. Now they were terrified. Not only had a war instigated between us and Isjord, but the old fear that hunted my lands for years had returned. She had hidden everything so well, one would never even doubt. But I wasn't just anyone. How had the presence of such strong magic never been caught by my senses?

The skies groaned with unshed storms and a strong wind blew in the highest cliff of Lyra, like the sound of a flute it whistled while it passed between the five feet long sarsen stones that once opened the gate to Cynth.

A dire wolf of war and frost, a dragon of wind and clouds, a thunderbird of lightning risen by the cold white ash. Children of two lands, the Elding children. One would spin the sky to the void, the other would freeze the lands and the last would crack the realm in half with lightning. Three Aura born under the sky of Nubil and the lands of Krig, the wrath Ybrises.

The prophecy still swirled in ink black shadows over the fifth stone. Somehow, I was glad it did. It meant that she was still alive. It meant that seeing her again that day had not been a product of my sick heart. She was alive, but why was I aching as if she wasn’t?

“I-It is fascinating,” Atlas said from beside me, his words drowned by the unnatural storm gurgling above. His attention pinched on the prophecy stone that was meant to carry the fate of our realm. “How she is able to control it. Never have I heard or read about an Ybris who can command their power. Controlled by their own magic, not in control of their magic—it is how Astrum liber describes them to be.” A strangled laugh left him. “Never have I heard an Ybris to have lived to her age either.”

“There is craft inked on her back, some patterns from the old language of gods. Nothing I could decipher without looking at an alphabet. I reckon it is how she has managed to control it.”

Young Atlas gnawed on his thumb. “W-Whoever would craft something of this sort? Who would even think of creating a craft of this sort?”

I pried his bleeding thumb away from his teeth. A terrible habit of his that I’d tried to help him eliminate for years. “A prime Dark Crafter. Only they can still use the old markings of gods in this realm.”

“A prime Dark Crafter?” He blinked wildly. “But there is only one bloodline of prime Dark Crafters.”

“The Delcours.” The bloodline that founded Red Coven, the same bloodline which the Grand Maiden comes from. There were not many left. Melanthe and her sister, Urinthia and her daughter were the last of them. One of them had to have crafted Snow’s seal. And out of the four, only two were really eligible. Urinthia and her daughter. But that would mean both knew what Snow was.

Atlas shivered, his massive lavender robes swaying with the motion. “S-She was terrifying without even knowing she had magic. And now? Terrifying would be an understatement. Not to mention she almost killed you. T-Twice.”

I couldn't help but crack a smile. “Atlas, if she had wanted me dead, I would be dead.” And for what reason she didn’t want me dead I did not know. The way her head worked was a peculiarity I still hadn’t managed to fathom.

“My king,” a guard called from behind us. “The council has gathered.”

Atlas sighed and righted his robes that hung too big for his smaller frame. “F-From one chaos to another.”

More than two dozen confused faces stared anxiously in my direction. Beside Larg and Triad, the Umbra Commander, who had fought in the battle with Isjord, all were new to their position. Along with Larg and Atlas, we’d selected the new members of Moon court. From priests to scholars, I’d managed to filter the best of the crop to sit in my court. Nesrin was the only one who had rectified her father’s position which belonged to her by blood right. No other heir of the previous Moon court had wanted a hand in the matter, mostly out of fear that a similar fate to their parents would heed them despite knowing their parents were paying the price of a war crime not that of pettiness.

“I’m sure you will learn to mask your fear better from now on,” I said, and a few flutters of flush embarrassment joined the ash colour of fear dancing from them.

“The Olympian soldiers man the Highwall along with our own. Are we under invasion, Your Majesty?” a young priest asked, he was probably a few years older than Atlas and chosen by him too.

“No,” I simply answered. “But we are under threat.” It was no better, but in no era had Adriata surrendered without a fight, we wouldn’t do so now.