Chapter 1. Arrival in Lorian
No one came to Lorian by accident. Those who crossed its gates either mastered fire – or were broken by it. Elissa knew this long before the carriage jolted on the mountain road and the scarlet towers of the Castle of Fire rose before her.
The carriage jolted suddenly as the wheels struck a large stone with a dull thud.
Elissa lurched forward and instinctively grabbed the edge of the seat.
“Damn it—” slipped from her lips, but she cut herself short.
A mage was sitting opposite her.
Elissa cast him a quick glance and immediately turned toward the window, biting her tongue. The court wizard looked as though the shaking, the road, and the journey itself had nothing to do with him. He sat perfectly still, back straight, fingers clasped on his knees, staring straight ahead.
I hate this journey, Elissa thought. This road. This winding path. This waiting. When will we finally reach the Castle…
The carriage creaked again as it climbed higher, and at last the view outside stole Elissa’s breath.
A scarlet sun rose above the horizon, bathing the walls of Castle Lorian in burning hues. Its towers, as if grown from frozen lava, glimmered with an inner light, as though living fire flowed within the stone. The castle stood atop a volcano—grim, majestic, terrifyingly beautiful.
A mix of awe and unease tightened Elissa’s chest.
She had always known Lorian was vast. Since childhood, she had seen it from Pyrenholm—distant, almost unreal. But now, so close, its sheer scale was overwhelming.
“We’re almost there,” the mage said quietly.
Elissa didn’t answer. She gripped the edge of her cloak, trying not to betray her anxiety.
Will I be enough? What if my magic isn’t strong enough? What if I fail their expectations…
She stole a glance at her companion. Tall and gaunt, with sharp, almost carved features. His gray hair was tied back in a short tail, and his black robe was adorned with dark crimson accents.
A high-ranking mage, Elissa thought. Father said only the strongest wear such mantles.
She had known his name for a long time.
Malker Airon.
The thought of him brought memories flooding back, sudden and vivid.
The room had been lined with black basalt slabs that held warmth even at night. Malker Airon stood in the center, motionless as a statue.
“You are a sorceress,” he had said then. “A Fire mage.”
He slowly opened his palm, and dark crimson flame flared between his fingers.
Elissa noticed, just for a moment, the thin white lines on his wrists—old burn scars.
“Power is not responsibility,” he continued. “That’s what the weak like to say. Power is a right.”
