Page 5 of Mountains of Mist and Magic

“If I was back to my full strength, you wouldn't have achieved victory as quickly as you did.” Sion retrieved his fallen sword from the snow-covered ground, the metal leaving a crisp imprint in the white blanket. He leaned against a large fir tree, its branches heavy with snow.

Phillippe sheathed his broadsword and slung it over his back, the familiar weight settling comfortably across his shoulders. He always wore it, accustomed to its presence like a second skin. He watched Sion pant and gasp a bit, concern flickering in his eyes. His friend's injury had nearly cost him his life, yet he had gladly risked everything for the Snowden family. On multiple occasions.

The memory of their conversation in the hall, when Phillippe had first caught wind of the romance blooming between Sion and his sister, surfaced unbidden. His cheeks reddened in embarrassment over the harsh way he'd reacted. Though he'd apologized, the guilt still lingered, a persistent ache in his chest. He knew Grayden felt the same, but he had no idea how to repair the rift they'd caused. At least Grayden had been more restrained in his anger—but Phillippe, like usual, had acted emotionally and with no control.

He sighed, pushing his sweaty hair back off his forehead. The strands felt unfamiliar between his fingers; he normally kept it short, shorn to his head to keep out of his way during battle, but since he was stuck in the lodge, he hadn't bothered with it. The longer length was a constant reminder of his current confinement.

Sion started walking back to the lodge, and Phillippe followed him, their boots leaving footsteps in the snow. The silence between them was comfortable, born of years of friendship and shared experiences. Phillippe's mind wandered to the work awaiting him, debating whether to shower before tackling it. He decided to get the paperwork and his meeting with Tumwalt completed first, pushing aside his desire for comfort.

“Tomorrow?” Sion asked as they parted at the main staircase, his voice hopeful.

“You bet. I'm glad we can train together again. And I'm glad you're with our family—in every way.” Phillippe's words carried more weight than their casual tone suggested.

Sion nodded, understanding the deeper meaning behind Phillippe's statement. It was an acknowledgment not just of Sion's loyalty to the Snowdens, but also of his place in Selenia's life. The unspoken approval hung in the air between them, a bridge across the chasm Phillippe's abhorrent actions had created.

Phillippe watched Sion hurry up the stairs, but turned away as he saw his friend pause to rest on the landing. He knew Sion wouldn't want him to witness the toll their training had taken on his still-recovering body. With a sigh, Phillippe began the long walk to Grayden's study. Each step seemed to strip away the invigorating effects of the sparring session, replacing them with a sense of dread at the paperwork awaiting him.

He opened the heavy door, the hinges creaking in protest. The room, once belonging to their father, had remained unchanged under Grayden's occupation. Phillippe could even still detect the stale stench of his father's pipe, the scent triggering a flood of memories he'd rather leave buried. Perhaps that was another reason why he disliked the room—too many ghosts lingered within its walls.

Settling into his brother's chair, Phillippe stretched out, trying to adjust to the unfamiliar position behind the desk. His eyes fell on the stacks of parchment awaiting his attention, and he pulled them closer with a resigned sigh. The first document was a warrant for the arrest of a villager accused of stealing sheep and other livestock from local farmers. He signed his name messily, much unlike his brother’s neat and scrolling handwriting, then shuffled it to the back of the pile. More notices, more correspondence, more requests for supplies and money—he signed his name, penned replies, and feigned interest in his brother's world. The tedium of it all baffled him; he couldn't fathom how Grayden could stand it.

Before he could finish the stack, Tumwalt barged in, the door flying open with unexpected force. Phillippe looked up from the parchment, his eyebrows raised in surprise. Tumwalt, usually the picture of composure, appeared disheveled, his clothes askew and his face ashen.

“Anything the matter?” Phillippe questioned, concern coloring his voice.

“Not at all, my lord,” Tumwalt responded, hastily smoothing his tunic and straightening his hat. The action did little to disguise his flustered state.

Phillippe sighed, leaning back in the chair. “So, what do you have for me today?”

Tumwalt pulled a piece of parchment from inside his tunic, the paper slightly crumpled from its makeshift storage. “Almory has deciphered more of the scroll your brother recovered from the Sun Realm.”

Phillippe's eyebrows shot up in excitement, a spark of interest igniting in his eyes. “Really? Did it say anything about the origin of magic?”

Tumwalt cleared his throat and read, his voice taking on a formal tone:

“At Magic's end, go back to the start

To fix the fall and mend the heart.”

“That's it? Rhymes and guessing games?” Phillippe's excitement quickly turned into frustration. He was growing increasingly annoyed as they deciphered the scrolls. Everything was shrouded in hidden meanings and prophecies, which made no sense to him. Why couldn't their ancient ancestors just list specific instructions on how to fix these things? Or, better yet, just fix the problems themselves in the first place?

“I'm afraid so. I've sent out a hawk to King Cyrus to ask if he knows anything. I haven't heard back yet. But, there's another person we might ask—”

“Absolutely not,” Phillippe cut him off, his voice sharp. “I promised Grayden and Renya. No one shall speak with that hag in their absence. It's bad enough she's locked in our home. Just knowing she's beneath our feet makes me want to vomit.” The vehemence in his tone left no room for argument.

“Then we will await news from King Cyrus.” Tumwalt turned to leave, his shoulders slumping slightly. “Oh, and before I forget—” He reached into his tunic once more and pulled out another large stack of papers. “These need your attention as well.”

Phillippe wanted to throttle him. But instead, he rubbed his eyes and looked at the portrait of their family on the opposite wall. His mother and father looked regal, and so did Grayden. Phillippe's own likeness stared back at him, a reminder of his reluctance to embrace his duties. He had scowled for the portrait originally, annoyed at being forced inside and made to sit for hours on end. His mother had made the artist paint over his frown, so instead, his lips were pursed together, not quite a frown, but not quite a smile. Phillippe made the same expression now, but there was no one to paint over it. Instead, he sighed deeply and rubbed at his chin, turning away from the golden frame that held so many conflicting emotions.

“Tumwalt,” he called, his voice weary, “could you bring me some fireale before I get started?”

Chapter Four

Julietta closed her eyes, perspiration trickling down her forehead in tiny rivers. She ached to swipe it away, but feared that one wrong move might plunge the room into impenetrable darkness once more. Focusing intently, she bit the inside of her cheek, tasting the metallic tang of blood as she felt her power unfurling. Navy tendrils of magic snaked around the room, cool and ethereal.

“You've got it now, dear.” Her mother's voice, usually sharp and commanding, held a note of pride.

Julietta exhaled slowly and opened her eyes, allowing her power to flow back within her. The sensation was still foreign, a tingling warmth that coursed through her veins. She never imagined she would have her magic back, let alone need to learn how to control it. It was a gift, but one that came with its own set of challenges.

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