Page 72 of The Iron Flower

The entire crowd listens, rapt, as he begins to read the ancient story of the prophetess Galliana. His voice swells when he describes how she rescued the blessed Magedom from an army of demons, wielding both the White Wand and the sacred, demon-slaying Ironflowers.

Gwynn frowns as she scans the crowd, her gaze lingering on the less strict women of the non-Styvian sect. Their tunics are close-fitting and edged with forbidden Fae colors—purple, gold, saffron, rose. Gwynn looks down at her own chaste, pure black tunic with pride. When Vogel’s impending heathen purge of Gardneria was announced, some of these non-Styvian Mages actually cried and protested the idea of surrendering their Urisk workers and servants. These Mages are objects of suspicion now—unholystaen’entraitors, forming ties with the heathens who seek to smite Mages.

A shudder of relief passes through Gwynn, followed by deep gratitude for her strict Styvian upbringing, her family above reproach and doing business only with other Styvian Gardnerians, avoiding all heathens and their polluting ways.

Geoffrey catches Gwynn’s eye and sends her a playful half smile. Sparks tingle down her spine as she remembers how he wrapped himself around her all night, and love swells in her heart.

We’ll have pure, blessed Mage children, Geoffrey and me. And they’ll grow up in a world free of Evil Ones.

Vogel finishes his reading and grows silent, pulling Gwynn’s attention from her blissful thoughts.

“The time of the Prophecy is upon us, Mages,” he says with searing import. “The heathens have their Icaral demon, but he is still a small baby, filled with depravity and easily slain.”

As Vogel details how the Fifth Division Mages are tracking the babe down, guilt rises and twists inside Gwynn. Guilt she can’t share with anyone.

She knows the mother of the Icaral demon.

Sage Gaffney was once her friend. They met when they were young girls of thirteen, brimming with excitement during their fasting day and caught up in Gwynn’s fanciful, wildly adventurous story about the White Wand.

What was I thinking?Gwynn agonizes.How could I have stolen that wand from Father’s armory? And how could I have given it to Sage?

And now, Sage has been twisted by the Evil Ones. She’s run off with a Kelt and broken her sacred fasting. And she’s given birth to an abomination of a child.

The Icaral of Prophecy.

Pain and deep regret stab through Gwynn. And warning—that horrific danger waits for any Mage who strays from the Ancient One’s strict path.

“Hold fast to your faith, Mages,” Vogel’s strident voice charges. “Just as one point of the Prophecy rises—” he pauses, eyes blazing “—so shall another.”

There’s a ripple of movement behind him as a young female Mage is brought forward, carefully supported by two young soldiers. Gwynn recognizes the young woman immediately, the crowd murmuring in dismay all around her.

Fallon Bane.

Gwynn’s heart falls like a stone as she takes in the young woman’s weakened state. Fallon Bane was supposed to be the shining point of the Prophecy. A new Black Witch—defender of Gardneria and destroyer of Icaral demons.

But she’s been struck down by the Evil Ones.

Fallon stands now at the front of the platform, propped up by the Mages beside her. With great effort, she pulls her wand from its sheath and thrusts it into the air.

Suddenly, a spinning cloud bursts up from Fallon’s upturned wand, and Gwynn gasps along with the entire crowd, her eyes widening with surprise. The cyclone rapidly gains size and speed, sending an icy wind through the plaza that abruptly extinguishes the flaming blessing stars.

Cold roars in.

Gwynn wraps her arms around her uncloaked body, the sudden chill biting and severe.

Fallon raises her wand higher, and the cyclone gives way to a dazzling spiral of crystalline ice. The crystals break free of the spiral and fountain high into the night sky, long as spears, fanning out over the plaza like a scattering flock of birds.

Gwynn’s teeth begin to chatter, the cold air needling her lungs as she watches the countless ice spears start their descent, whistling as they fall. The whole crowd murmurs in growing confusion, then cries out, arms raised high in a futile attempt to protect themselves from the incoming spears. Gwynn’s heart pounds against her ribs like a hammer, but she grits her teeth and faces the jagged ice shards boldly.

The Ancient One’s will be done. The Ancient One’s will be done.

Gwynn pulls in a hard breath as the spear that’s hurtling toward her stops a hand span from her face, quivering in the air just before her forehead. Before she can exhale, the spear explodes, along with all the others, into a puff of ice that rains down on her skin.

Gwynn looks around, stunned and cold, but filled with a strange elation. Mages are silently pulling themselves up from the ground, shock and fear stark on their ice-dusted faces.

“Pray with me, Mages,” Vogel says, bowing his head as Fallon is slowly led away. “Oh, most holy Ancient One,” Vogel intones. “You delivered us in primordial times from the jaws of demonic forces. You prophesized the Reaping Times to come.”

Vogel looks up from his prayer, a righteous fury pulsing out from him that Gwynn can sense straight through her affinity lines. “Mages, it is time to reap the unholy ones.” The High Mage’s voice pitches low with savage resolve. “We will flush them out of our cities. We will flush them out of the wilds. We will flush them out of this Realm and the next. We will flush them out with the full power of the Ancient One behind us.”

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