Page 38 of Of Glass and of Gold

Making an escape, I hid away in my room and spent time stitching a shirt I hoped to salvage after Eucinda’s pathetic outburst. An accidental prick to my finger made a bead of red swell at the tip, and I cursed. Wielding two blades simultaneously was somehow easier than the tiniest little stick of metal.

My desk no longer shelved my daggers. I wouldn’t be leaving them in the open again. Instead, they would stay tucked under the false bottom of my armoire with my midnight outfit. Though a knife hadn’t been taken to it, it still hosted an array of natural frays and micro tears. Unlike Chol’s get-up, which was crafted with fine leather and flexible material.

My fingers worked a repeating stitch while my mind drowned in thoughts of my avenging twin cloaked in darkness. We hadn’t discussed when or where we’d meet again, but that was advantageous on my part. Knowing my precise location would only put me in jeopardy of an ambush. I didn’t suspect he would betray me, but then again, betrayal is known for being the great deceiver.

On the streets, under the shadows, the only thing I could count on for certain was my own abilities. My steadfast grip on the hilt of my daggers, the controlled placement of my feet. Just myself. No one else to use me or promise something they couldn’t deliver.

Relying on someone else could only set me up for failure or disappointment, like stepping into a lion’s open mouth and hoping it fought off the seduction of hunger. I’d put myself back together too many times to break again, foregoing the rocks to fortitude my heart. This time, I built those walls with steel.

Soon, I would sever the remaining ties that bound me to cruel people and watch as my self-made tidal wave of destruction wiped the slate clean. What became of me after didn’t so much matter, as long as I took back control.

Picking up my daggers no longer represented just fighting injustice. I was carving my own future. One made from my own hands, and not anyone else’s.

19

Nicholas

At my desk, in a room surrounded by barrels containing dozens of rolled up maps, cobwebs strung along the more outdated versions, I sat writing correspondence to allied kingdoms. Sometimes I retreated to this tiny space as opposed to my official office because the magnitude of issues felt smaller somehow. Less atmosphere for corroding problems to suffocate.

Responsibility could feel crippling at times.

I skimmed the letter in my hands again. King Amir Taja had been requesting increased trade lately. Iron from my mines, in almost any form—which was a new addendum to the usual—in exchange for their imported delicacy of miraja fruit. A versatile crop with a sweet, pink interior, wrapped in a green rind with thick leaves coiled around itself. The rind and leaves were used by many shops to create paper pulp, on top of being a nutritious snack.

My population possessed many Windguardian citizens, and thus, plenty of businesses operated based on resources they’d grown up around. I had no problem providing that to my people, but similar to all trade agreements, I limited iron exports.

Knowing the king’s stance on magic, and the fact that iron held magic suppressing properties, it wasn’t surprising that he wanted his kingdom overflowing with the metal. Here, however, we used the abundance of iron for many things, but always balanced the distribution with other metals such as steel, copper, etc.

Conceptually, magic hardly existed in Highcrest—but I knew better. My father had sought wise counsel on the issue. During his reign, he decreed that magic must survive in our kingdom. To be left without any would only leave us susceptible to those with that power.

A system had been put in place within the castle. Blessings were bestowed upon children from families who wished it. Though, given the stigma on the issue, few dared to expose their views by claiming them.

Occasionally, Nila, our previous resident transference caster, would be sent into the kingdom to bestow and keep record. If accounts were correctly recorded, about one in every dozen citizens possessed a kernel of magic today, given figures on descendants’ lineage and those who received blessings. Unfortunately, with Nila stepping away, I’d yet to find a replacement wielder with the gift of transference. It was on my list of things to get to.

A small set of magic supporters began holding meetings in various cities and towns across the kingdom, and they were granted access to some of the Crown’s treasury to fund their cause. I hoped that would encourage a wielder to step into the vacant role Nila left.

Ricks had attempted to sway my support, encouraging me to reserve funds for other causes he deemed “more worthy”. That sentiment always had me grinding my teeth. Deep-rooted resentment left to fester could divide a kingdom greater than a war. Ricks held a position of authority and respect, and while I had never shied away from making my stance known, I worried that those who looked up to him would follow his example. A small fear I kept tucked away, but made sure to keep an eye on.

Having Commander Druller, a man within my inner circle who shone as a beacon of strength for the kingdom, be vocal alongside me against that prejudice, helped me feel supported on the issue. Small steps that would get us closer to the dream of an undivided Highcrest where magic folk and non-wielders alike could thrive.

As I continued reading King Taja’s letter, I fell to the part where he wished me congratulations on the hunt for a wife.

My jaw tensed.

Footsteps gained volume until they reached my door, and a knock resounded.

“Sire?” Sebastian called.

“Come in.”

The door opened, and my fortified commander entered. “We found the murderer of the man on the beach.”

I lowered the letter, casting my gaze firmly upon him as I straightened, listening intently.

“Just some drunken brawl. He’s in the dungeons now. Put up quite a fight with my men and hasn’t been conscious since.”

“I wish to see him.” I rose from my chair, wood scraping against the marble floor.

“For what purpose, Your Highness? I doubt he’ll survive his injuries through the night.” His face wrinkled, obviously thinking it a waste of my time. Could always rely on him for his honesty; through words or unrestrained facial expressions.

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