Three years ago…

The Emperor’s Table was full. Jaysynn was surprised he himself was even there, sitting in his traditional seat: the fourth one down from the head of the table on the “princes’ side.”

At the head of the table were his parents, Emperor Thorynn and Empress Zebel. His father, ever the traditionalist, wore black royal robes, his purple cape, and the jewel-encrusted crown bearing the “lightning fist” insignia of Thyrion. His mother was dressed similarly, minus the cape, but it was her face that struck Jaysynn. Her expression was cold. While the Emperor’s eyes flared with power, hers were icy sapphires. Her skin looked like a frozen lake. Mist emitted from her nostrils with every breath and from her mouth whenever she spoke, which wasn’t often, but when she did, her voice was the whisper of a wintry wind. A youth defying her years seemed to have been frozen on her body.

Jaysynn and his brothers all wore their finest tailored suits. Across from them were his sisters, each of whom wore the dresses that had made them the envy of every woman in the kingdom. They had but to look outside to be blinded by the reporters’ flashing cameras. Filling the remaining chairs on both the princes’ and princesses’ sides were several Thyrian military officers Jaysynn did not recognize.

At the opposite head of the table, however, were seated Gen. Dracon and High Priest Pelag, the head of the Temple of Thyrion. The general wore his dress uniform while the gray-haired high priest was clad in his finest white robe.

This is no ordinary meeting, thought Jaysynn. It has to be important if all of us have to be here, even me.

Thorynn stood, stretching to his full height.

Dracon and Pelag then stood and, with heads bowed, saluted the Emperor by pressing their right arms on their chests and then extending their clenched fists to him. With that, the soldier and priest sat back down.

“I will forego trivialities and tell you why we are meeting,” Thorynn said in a voice like distant thunder. “I am going to re-conquer Remirion.”

Everyone—even the Empress—looked surprised.

Remirion? thought Jaysynn. It was a name he had not heard since he was boy. Unfortunately, he voiced his next thought. “Don’t they call themselves ‘Falcon Point’ now?”

A growl rumbled from Thorynn’s throat. “Do not use its rebel name,” he said, pointing at Jaysynn. “Its name is, and always shall be, Remirion, the name given it by my ancestors.”

Jaysynn hung his head to avoid the shaming glares everyone at the table was throwing at him.

Dracon was the next one to speak up. “My Emperor, this would be our third campaign to bring that city back under the Thyrian flag. The last one was years ago. Thousands of Thyrian soldiers died in that long, fruitless war.”

“We are wiser and stronger now,” said the Emperor, raising a clenched fist. “Remirion will learn that it is always under Thyrion’s rule.”

“My Emperor, I fought in that war,” said Dracon. “The Remirians have a highly defensible position in the Mericon Mountains. And they are expert fighters. Their military is small, but it is highly trained.”

“Thyrion has crushed stronger enemies under its heel,” said Thorynn. “This…thorn in my side will be no different.”

Dracon turned to Zebel. “What do you have to say to this, my Empress?”

The slender figure of the Thyrian Empress rose. “I am in agreement with my husband. If we do not subjugate Remirion, other cities under our dominion may dare to rebel against us.”

“Father and Mother are right,” said Shar. “They have defied Thyrion for over a generation. Their rebellion can’t be tolerated.”

The other princes and princesses voiced their vehement agreement—all except Jaysynn, who remained silent as he sat back and crossed his arms. I’d say something, but they wouldn’t care, he thought.

“I agree,” said Dracon. “I just want to avoid rushing headlong into a foolhardy war.”

“Where does the Temple stand on this?” Thorynn asked Pelag.

The high priest slowly stood with his wrinkled hands folded in front of his face. His bones creaked loudly. “I have communed with Elthor in prayer. I have sought wisdom from the Book of Thyr in the Scared Tomes. If I speak falsely in what I am to say, may I be punished most severely.” He paused. “Remirion has rebelled against its masters, and in their pride, its people established their own nation. The High Lord has looked upon their sins with disgust and appointed Thyrion to judge them. He will deliver the rebel city to you so that it will be smote by his righteous hammer. You have the Temple’s blessing.”

“Then it is settled,” said Thorynn. “We cannot fail now.” He turned to the eldest prince. “Shar, my son, it is time for you to prove your mettle as my heir, so I appoint you commander-in-chief of the armies in this campaign.”

Shar smirked. “Thank you, father. It will be an honor.”

Jaysynn shot a glare at his brother while the rest of their siblings applauded him and showered him with congratulations.

Dracon, on the other hand, looked annoyed. He spoke over the applause, saying, “My Emperor, I must respectfully disagree with your choice of leader.”

Everyone fell silent, turning to him in shock. Jaysynn, however, was trying to hide a small smile.

“You dare question my decision!” shot Thorynn.

“My apologies, my Emperor,” replied Dracon, who looked to be using all his discipline to remain calm. “But Shar is not ready to lead. He is inexperienced on the battlefield.”

“He is the best fighter of all my father’s children,” interjected Talynn.

“And the smartest,” chimed Chel.

Jaysynn’s stomach turned at hearing their almost worshipful praise.

“Prowess and intelligence are no substitutes for experience,” retorted Dracon.

A moment of silence followed.

Jaysynn secretly hoped this meant the general’s comment had changed their minds. It’s better coming from him than me.

“You are correct, Dracon,” the Emperor began, “and that is why you will accompany Shar as his military advisor.”

Jaysynn’s jaw dropped.

Dracon clenched his fist but managed to refrain from pounding the table. “My Emperor, I have several other campaigns I must manage.”

“Remirion will be squelched!” thundered Thorynn, lightning flaring in his eyes. “They are already sowing seeds of defiance in other cities. Let its punishment be a warning to them—God-Emperor Thorynn will tolerate no rebellion!”

Silence.

Sweat beaded on Jaysynn’s forehead.

For several eternal seconds, Dracon stared with barely hidden contempt at the Emperor. Neither man would back down.

Finally, the general sat down. “It will be done as you command…my Emperor.”

Thorynn blinked, his expression softening, although it was like going from steel to stone. He spoke the Thyrian emperor’s traditional benediction, saying, “My will is the will of the High Lord.”

Pelag recited the traditional response: “It shall be obeyed.”

The Emperor and Empress stood. Everyone else stood after that and departed to carry out Thorynn’s decree. Except Jaysynn. He sat with his head buried in his hands. No one, not even Dracon, bothered to ask him why he looked depressed.

The general announced the emperor’s decree to the soldiers, ordering them to spread the word that they were to prepare for war. He began giving orders that he wanted relayed to Thyrion’s armies.

Jaysynn buried his face in his hands. I need to clear my head.

He meandered toward the gaping mouth of the crater.

Dracon called, “My Emperor, do not wander off without an escort!”

Jaysynn replied not as the emperor, but as an adventurous young man. “I doubt there are any assassins around here, General. And you know I can handle myself.”

Dracon huffed. “Ten minutes.”

Jaysynn nodded in reply.

He quickened his pace to a jog and quickly wished he was wearing more comfortable clothes. The shoes, while light, felt restrictive. The shirt and pants limited his movement. The coat weighed him down. He tired out faster than normal–he had been hiding in the bunker too long. So, he slowed down. Walking will have to do. But I miss running. It was so…freeing.

He stopped and inched toward the edge, gazing at the crater that seemed to stretch to the horizon. This gaping wound…would it be fatal to his homeland? Had he ascended to the throne only to watch his city die? Was this how he would be remembered?

What good can I do now? he thought. This is beyond me. Millions dead. Thousands fleeing the city. Our enemies waiting to strike. He hung his head. I just can’t—

Suddenly, the brittle ground crumbled beneath him. Within a second, he slipped into the black crater. Sliding down the slanted cliff face, he twisted around and clawed for a handhold, finding none in the wall. Sharp debris and protrusions cut his clothes and skin, adding fresh wounds to his healing cuts. I won’t die! Not like this!

His hand grabbed a wiry metal rod—the remains of a building’s foundation—and he halted his fall. For several seconds, Jaysynn was motionless, his eyes shut and his lungs gulping air. He felt several wounds across his body begin to bleed, soaking his suit. Slowly, he opened his eyes and looked up. He’d slid at least ten feet down. He could call for help, but would anyone hear him? Regardless, he should still try to climb out. There was no telling how long the soldiers would take to find him. He surveyed the wall above him. There were other protrusions from the destroyed foundation. If he was careful…

Jaysynn stretched his hand up and grabbed a slab of concrete, pulling himself up a few inches, his feet finding new footholds. It was his first step. For several long minutes, he inched his way back up. Sweat soaked his suit and stung his eyes, blurring his vision. He had to blink to clear his eyes and find his next handhold. Sweat also dampened his hands, so he could not grip handholds as easily. His mind was focused on finding his next step, so he climbed in silence, never looking higher than a foot or two. He couldn’t risk throwing off his balance with such unreliable holds. Could he handle another fall?

Just then, he heard footfalls above him. He dared to look up. The ledge was just a few feet up—and two Thyrian army officers stood near it.

Adrenaline-laced excitement surged through Jaysynn. He sucked in a breath, his cry for help just behind his lips, when the soldiers’ words silenced him.

“Our scouts keep reporting that the Cataclysm has devastated every city on the continent,” one said.

What? thought Jaysynn.

“So they’re no better off than we are?” asked the second officer.

“We were hit the hardest because we were the epicenter, but our devious neighbors have all lost power and their Wells are dry, just like us.”

“What about their Select?”

“The scouts aren’t sure, but initial reports say they’ve lost their powers, too.”

“No wonder they haven’t invaded.”

“We could’ve avoided this disaster if the Whispers had captured that engineer girl from Jalseion and brought her here in time.”

“Who knows? At least we got her arm and leg.”

“Those aren’t worth the lives we lost getting them.”

They kept talking, but their voices faded into the distance, barely becoming mumbles.

Jaysynn was glad. He did not want to announce his presence and risk arousing those officers’ suspicions, even if he was in trouble. His sweaty fingers were cramping. He’d been holding on too long, listening. He had to hurry.

It took Jaysynn several exhausting, tense moments, but he reached the ledge and pulled himself out of the crater. He crawled several feet from the edge, rolled over, and collapsed on the gravelly ground. Dirt caked on his wet face. His muscles screamed in agony. But it was his mind that was reeling.

I smell a conspiracy.

Hours passed. Jaysynn grew so used to the destruction he saw, he hardly noticed it anymore unless the damage was exceptional or he and his entourage were forced to climb over piles of debris. Where once stood buildings—whether old or new, pristine or dilapidated—housing someone’s home or business, were now mountains of broken dreams. The emperor took care to step lightly out of respect, especially since these hills were many Thyrians’ graves.

Finally, Jaysynn and his escorts came to a pile of debris that seemed as tall as a skyscraper and as long as a mountain range. This was where several of Thyrion’s taller buildings had crumbled upon each other. They were nearing the Heart of Thyrion now.

They scaled the debris for what seemed like forever, carefully avoiding disturbing the unstable tangle of the structure. Though it appeared firm, one wrong move could collapse it like a house of cards. Several soldiers had already been injured climbing it in the days since the Cataclysm, Jaysynn was told.

They neared the peak.

Silence fell. Even the wind died down. Fear pricked Jaysynn’s heart.

The soldiers in front of the emperor descended down the other side of the hill.

Jaysynn froze, staring.

A mere few hundred yards from this mountain of debris was a ten-mile-wide crater. It was an empty, seemingly perfect circle that was a charred black in color. This was where the Heart of Thyrion was supposed to be. Although Jalseion’s Well was the deepest, theirs was the largest well of magic in the world. It was the life-blood of the city, the source of its immense power. Jaysynn had grown up hearing the priests of the Temple of Thyrion say that Elthor had formed the first two human beings within the percolating magic in that Well. It was literally the wellspring of life.

Now the Heart of Thyrion had been ripped out, leaving the city as a shriveled corpse.

Jaysynn wept.

After a few seconds, Jaysynn covered his eyes with his hand and wiped away the tears. I must appear composed for the soldiers. Thyrion’s warriors need a morale boost.

Composed, he began his descent, accompanied by the general and the soldiers.

Reaching the ground sometime later, they marched toward the crater’s edge. Jaysynn’s feet felt heavier with each step, as if the land mystically repulsed him. It was more difficult than ever to keep pace with the soldiers.

Dracon noticed this and leaned over to whisper to Jaysynn: “You’ve come too far to stop now.”

Jaysynn, still walking, clenched his fists and took a deep breath.

They stopped ten feet from the crater’s edge. Jaysynn ordered the soldiers before him to part so he could see it. They obeyed.

The emperor stepped forward, inching toward the precipice, and gazed in.

Emptiness. Black, barren emptiness.

Jaysynn sealed his stinging eyes and swallowed his cries.

He felt the strong hand of Dracon on his shoulder.

“What could have done this?” Jaysynn asked.

The general’s reply was quick. “Not ‘what’—‘who.’”

“Are you serious?”

“This wasn’t natural. Undoubtedly it was an attack from Remirion in retaliation for their losses during our last war a year ago.”

“They don’t have weapons technology this powerful.”

“But Jalseion does.”

Jaysynn turned to Dracon, shocked. “Jalseion’s scientists may be pretentious and greedy, but I can’t believe they would make a weapon that could do this.”

“You underestimate Remirion’s resources and arrogance.”

Jaysynn sighed, his gaze falling. “You’re sure about this?”

“It’s the only logical explanation.”

“Then what should I…we do?”

Dracon looked at him with the grim expression of a warrior. It was a face Jaysynn only saw on his mentor just before going to war. “Prepare for an invasion. Our enemies will not hesitate to strike the killing blow.”

“Why haven’t they done it already?”

“Perhaps they wish to watch us suffer before destroying us.”

“That doesn’t seem like them.”

Annoyance was detectable in Dracon’s voice. “You never fought wars against them. I assure you they are fierce fighters.”

“But that doesn’t make them sadists.”

“Regardless, Thyrion is vulnerable. We must protect ourselves.”

Jaysynn hung his head.

“You know what must be done,” said Dracon gravely.

The emperor glanced at the general. “A truce would be preferable to war in our wounded state.”

Dracon scowled. “‘Thyrion does not negotiate with its enemies.’”

Jaysynn harrumphed quietly. I hate that mantra.

Jaysynn sighed again. “Do it.”

“It’s been a week. I have a right to inspect the city I rule, even if it’s been reduced to ash. But more importantly, the people need to see their emperor. It could give them desperately needed hope.”

With these words, the now Emperor Jaysynn convinced Gen. Dracon that morning to let him leave the emergency bunker. The general had been adamant about not letting him set foot outside. He said the chaos had to be quelled, the citizens pacified. Thyrians were a proud people, but in the Great Cataclysm, as they were calling it, panic destroyed dignity. Dracon feared dissidents might try to kill Jaysynn because they somehow blamed him for what happened or for perceived inaction. Worse yet, an assassin from an enemy city like Remirion might seize this opportunity to infiltrate Thyrion and murder Jaysynn amid the chaos. Despite his supreme authority, Jaysynn deferred to Dracon’s wisdom and experience on the matter–most of the time.

Now, however, he was on the surface. Dressed in a scavenged black silk suit and tie, Jaysynn emerged from the u-train station entrance accompanied by Dracon, who wore a field uniform. They met a squad of Thyrian soldiers with dirty and tattered fatigues. The squad circled around Jaysynn and Dracon to form a protective barrier. Some carried firearms, but Jaysynn knew now that they were only decoys for the few potential attackers who may not know guns did not work. None of the magic-powered weapons had worked since the Cataclysm. The only weapons those soldiers carried were their fierce expressions. However, some citizens were still intimidated because they feared the magic would return at any moment, powering the guns. Most of the soldiers, including Dracon, brandished their ceremonial sabers. Jaysynn swore a few of the swords were peppered with flakes of dry blood. He was glad he had slipped his knife into his pocket. This was doubly important since they were without the Emperor’s limousine, which could repel magic weaponry.

The city block was empty. Not a soul could be seen in the ravaged buildings or up and down the street. Gray dust covered everything in sight like snow, complete with hundreds of footprints, making it look like an early and dreary winter had struck Thyrion. Undoubtedly, this was dust from the skyscrapers whose collapse Jaysynn had barely escaped. Glass shards, derelict cars, broken bricks, and other debris littered the street under the coat of dust. The air smelled musty, like an old house, and tasted like chalk dust. Jaysynn rubbed the fine grit from his eyes. Silence enveloped everything.

It took every reserve of strength in Jaysynn not to weep. His eyes were already hot and moist under the dust caking on them.

“Where to, my Emperor?” asked Dracon.

“I want to see the Heart of Thyrion,” replied Jaysynn.

“My Emperor, the Great Well is gone.”

“Then take me to what’s left of it.”

The general’s jaw tightened. “I believe the Emperor’s time would be better suited elsewhere, perhaps giving a speech at Kyzer Square.”

“That can wait. You said you saw an explosion come from our magic Well. It must be the epicenter of this disaster. I have to see what’s become of it.”

Dracon huffed. “It shall be done, my Emperor.” He relayed the orders to the soldiers, and without breaking the protective circle, they marched down the street.

The city Jaysynn knew well had become an unrecognizable ghost. He could not identify any of the streets they walked. Many were blockaded by collapsed buildings, requiring them to take detours. Thankfully, the soldiers had familiarized themselves with this urban maze. The snowy dust never quite disappeared. Many skyscrapers—the pillars of Thyrion’s prestige—had collapsed, blanketing everything in their wake. Jaysynn recognized what were once his city’s famous shops, restaurants, plazas, and temples—many of which he had visited—all reduced to rubble, abandoned. The city’s color was gone, drained. The stench of death saturated the air, forcing Jaysynn to cover his nose at times to prevent himself from retching. How many bodies still remained buried under all the rubble?

More people appeared as they went. Most wore ragged clothes and even more ragged expressions. Many hid inside the barely standing buildings. Some scavenged trashcans and dumpsters for food. Their stench mingled with the smell of death. All of them, if they didn’t look away, stared at Jaysynn and his entourage, either in contempt or pleading. Their hollow eyes bored into Jaysynn, haunted him. He had to look away.

I never should’ve declared martial law, thought Jaysynn. The people mistrust me. We can’t afford that now. I have to renege it…soon.

“The Watchman will save us!” Jaysynn heard one of the people say.

“But nobody’s seen him since the disaster. He’s probably dead,” said another man.

“No! I saw him running through the city right after the explosion. He’s alive. I know it! He wouldn’t abandon us,” said a woman.

Dracon shook his head, scowling. “My proud countrymen have been reduced to believing an urban legend will save them. If this ‘Watchman’ exists, he has used their desperation to poison their souls.” He clenched his fist.

If you only knew… thought Jaysynn, but his mind quickly turned to something else. I hope Kyrie is okay. I haven’t heard from her since before the Cataclysm. Is she alive? Is she still in the city? What about her family?

Jaysynn was lifted from his thoughts by Dracon’s continuing denunciations of the Watchman “legends,” so he decided to change the subject.

“Why aren’t the Select helping the people?” he asked.

“My Emperor, the Select…have all lost their powers,” replied Dracon.

Jaysynn’s jaw dropped. “Is it true? Are they powerless?”

“I had expected they would have regained their abilities by now, but their powers seem to have vanished with the magic itself.”

Jaysynn shook his head, worrying. “It’s times like this when we need them most.”

The general’s voice was full of indignation. “We are Thyrians. We are a great people with or without magic powers.” His tone softened. “Perhaps it’s better this way. Now we are all truly equals.”

“I hated them for their arrogance as much as anyone, but how can we rebuild without their abilities?”

“Have you forgotten everything I taught you?” asked Dracon in an agitated tone. “You don’t need magic abilities to be great and powerful. Weakness is the only disgrace.”

Jaysynn was silent. He knew his mentor was right. Wasn’t he?

As the sun fell behind the horizon, Dracon allowed Jaysynn to plop onto the dusty ground. The prince guzzled down water from a canteen, emptying it for the second time that day. Half of its contents he poured over his face, mingling it with his sweat. His hair was as muddy as the ground under him. Dracon, a little sweaty himself, stood over the prince with his hands clasped behind his back. Jaysynn glanced up, his eyes meeting the general’s. Dracon was smiling in approval.

“You would make a fine soldier,” said the general.

“I don’t want to be a soldier,” he replied between pants. “Although Father would probably let me enlist just so he didn’t have to have a non-Select prince in the palace. He may not even care if I died in battle. What’s the point of all this?”

Dracon’s smile transformed into a scowl. “Stand up!”

Jolted, Jaysynn’s looked up up wide eyes. But before he could say anything, Dracon repeated his order: “Stand up! Do not lie in the mud like a pig and wallow in self-pity!”

Jaysynn snapped to attention, dropping his canteen, and stood ramrod straight with his arms at his sides.

Dracon sighed. “Relax. You aren’t a soldier, so there’s no need to act like one.”

Jaysynn hesitated to move, wondering if this was another test, but after a second or two, he took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his moist hair. Just then, he felt the general’s strong hand squeeze his shoulder. The prince lowered his arm and looked into the face of his mentor. He saw only pride in his expression.

“There’s no need for embarrassment. Your father, despite his great power, is blind to who you are and what you are capable of.”

“It doesn’t matter because I’m not a Select.”

“It does matter,” replied Dracon, releasing the prince’s shoulder. “You’re a prince. But more importantly, you’re a Thyrian. You are a descendent of Thyr and Yeva, the first man and woman created by Elthor, who were formed from the magic within the Heart of Thyrion. Their city—your city—was the first city, the cradle of civilization. Elthor commanded them to rule all they saw, and so the Thyrian Empire was born. Were you never taught that you were destined to rule?”

“Shar is getting the throne, not me.”

“No,” said Dracon, pointing authoritatively at Jaysynn, “it is the birthright of all Thyrians to rule and to be great. That is why we are equal with the Select—we share a common heritage. It matters not if we were given magic gifts or common ones. Look at me. I am not a Select, yet I rose through the ranks and became the supreme general of Thyrion’s Army. I am surpassed in rank only by…the royal family.”

Dracon paused. As that fact sunk in, Jaysynn hung his head and his shoulders slumped.

The general then grabbed and squeezed both of Jaysynn’s shoulders. The prince could not bear to look Dracon in the face, which went against everything he had been taught.

“Never let anyone strip you of your pride. That’s what all my training has been about. It was to restore your birthright, not as a prince but as a Thyrian. One day you will put your family’s doubts to shame.”

A smile finally cracked on Jaysynn’s face. He raised his head and said, “Thank you for believing in me.”

Dracon nodded in reply, unhanding the prince.

Jaysynn bent down to pick up his canteen in preparation to leave, but as he straightened, Dracon gestured for him to stay.

“Every army recruit is given a gift when he graduates.” The general reached into his jacket and produced a combat knife in a brown leather sheath emblazoned with a golden Thyrian royal crest. “Let it be a reminder of your birthright,” he said, handing it hilt-first to Jaysynn.

The prince took the knife and unsheathed it. Gripping its black rubber-covered hilt, he admired its fierce but simple six-inch blade, which seemed to glimmer despite being gray. Such knives were handcrafted by Select who could focus energy into a laser beam, so they were the sharpest blades in the world. It was a craft that had existed for a thousand years.

“Thank you,” said Jaysynn, sheathing the knife and strapping it to his waistband.

Dracon nodded. “We’ll meet me here again tomorrow. I’ll make a tracer out of you yet.”

Jaysynn snickered. “Yes, sir.”

The general smiled as they walked away.

Six years ago…

Jaysynn stepped onto the outskirts of the military training grounds and surveyed it. Standing in the middle of the dusty grounds, which were the size of a sports field, amidst the mud pits and strangely shaped obstacles, was Dracon. Jaysynn, walking toward him, was puzzled at seeing the general had no equipment with him: no wooden swords, no boxing gear, no grappling hooks. During their previous lessons a few days ago, Dracon had simply told Jaysynn to meet him there after the recruits had turned in for the day. So, here they were standing in the Thyrian military’s proving grounds in the cool of the early evening. Here the ground was drenched with the blood, sweat, and tears of Thyrion’s soldiers, and—Jaysynn assumed—his would soon drench it, too.

The air nipped at Jaysynn, who wore a white shirt and athletic pants. It even cut through the tops of his athletic shoes. Meanwhile, the general looked comfortable in his black field uniform.

“Why are we here?” Jaysynn asked Dracon once he reached him.

“Training,” the general replied dryly. “Or did you forget what this place is?”

“No, sir,” retorted Jaysynn, smiling. “But I don’t get why you want me to run an obstacle course.”

“I don’t. I want you to learn something far more important.”

“And what’s that?”

“Tracing.”

“What?”

“Come with me,” said Dracon, motioning Jaysynn to follow.

The general led the prince over to a pair of ten-foot wooden pillars that held up a chain-link fence interwoven with barbed wire. The frayed tip of a severed rope dangled out of reach from the center of the cross beam that connected the pillars.

“Climb over this fence,” said Dracon.

Jaysynn’s eyes widened. “Without the rope, I can’t get a handhold without getting my hands sliced open.”

“Even after a year of my training, you still only see obstacles.”

Jaysynn huffed. “What am I supposed to see?”

“Opportunity.”

“How’s that? And what does it have to do with…‘tracing?’”

The general smiled slightly, as if to say, “I’m glad you asked.” His face became not that of a drill instructor or even a teacher, but that of a sage. “Tracing is a discipline taught to all Thyrian soldiers. It teaches them that any and all obstacles can be surmounted no matter how large or daunting. Nothing can block their path and keep them from their goals. And all of this is done with only their bodies and is limited only by their wits and creativity.”

“So, it’s like the martial arts you’ve been teaching me.”

“Somewhat, but it isn’t about combat. It’s about critical thinking and self-improvement through physical discipline.”

Jaysynn nodded, silently absorbing everything his mentor just said.

“Let’s begin,” said Dracon.

For the next thirty minutes, the general had Jaysynn do balance, strength, and endurance exercises: handstands, chin-ups, squats, running, and several others. All of this Jaysynn had done many times before with increasing ease. But the prince knew this was only a prelude to the real training, and he had a feeling it would be the most difficult he had had to date.

Finally, his shirt darkened with sweat and his muscles flaring, Jaysynn stood awaiting instruction from the general.

Dracon pointed up to the top of a twelve-foot wooden “tower” that looked like it was a bunch of beams of varying lengths stacked vertically and glued together. “You’re going to climb to the top of that.”

“What for?” asked Jaysynn. He was grateful he and the general had developed a more casual rapport than the general had with his subordinates in the military. Being one of Thyrion’s princes certainly helped. However, the general still did not let him slack off in training.

“To learn the first important element of tracing: tumbling.”

Jaysynn loosened his shoulders and listened intently.

“A large part of tracing is knowing how to take a fall,” Dracon continued. “Tracers can jump from ledge to ledge or fall from great heights with little or no injury by tumbling as they land.” The general stepped back. “As you land, immediately curl your body into an almost ball-like shape and roll along the ground.” He jogged a few steps, tuck-and-rolled, and rose to his feet right in front of a startled Jaysynn. “This will spread out the momentum from your fall, thereby minimizing the impact.”

Jaysynn sighed. “All right, here goes nothing.”

The prince stepped onto the shortest post and ascended. Dracon told him to stop when he was six feet up. From there, Jaysynn took his first jump. He landed and rolled as instructed. Not even a scratch.

“Good,” said the general. “Now go higher.”

For the next two hours, Dracon drilled Jaysynn. The prince slowly ascended the tower until he was jumping from its twelve-foot peak. He earned his stripes—literally—by jumping six or seven times from the top. The landings were more difficult. He walked away with bruises, but he was shocked to see he had no broken bones.

After that, Dracon showed him how to vault, climb, and jump over each of the different obstacles in the “easy route” course. This climaxed with Jaysynn running the course. Sweaty, bruised, and exhausted, he finished the course as Dracon watched with a stopwatch in hand. He told Jaysynn that while it was not a record time, he would have been recruited to the Thyrian Army on the spot.

The general told Elrik to shine the torch on the wall, which he did, revealing a light switch. Dracon flipped it. No light. He flipped it repeatedly for a few seconds. Still nothing.

“Whatever happened even knocked out the bunker’s generator,” Dracon said, albeit to no one in particular.

“It seems like anything that runs on magic is just, well, dead,” added Jaysynn.

Dracon sighed heavily. “I’ve noticed that, too.”

“How are we supposed to hide down here if we can’t even turn on a light?”

There was a brief pause until Elrik looked at Dracon and said, “Sir, I might be able to help.”

“How?”

“I’ve heard about a man who lives among the urchins down here who makes devices that don’t run on magic. Those same urchins also use glow sticks and light rods to get around in the dark.”

Jaysynn’s eyes narrowed. I thought I was the only one who knew about the Tinkerer.

“Would they be willing to share any of that with us?” asked Dracon.

“Sir, I’m not sure they’ll be there with all the chaos erupting on the surface. But if they’re not there, maybe I can scavenge a few things for us.”

“Go!” ordered Dracon, pointing toward the door. “And take the torch with you. If it burns out, use your other lighter.”

“Sir, that will leave you alone in the dark.”

“We’ll manage.”

“Yessir!”

With that, Elrik dashed to the door, opened it, ran out, and latched it shut.

For several long seconds, Jaysynn and Dracon stood in silence and darkness. The dark was absolute—Jaysynn could not even see his hand in front of his face.

The silence was broken by Jaysynn’s sigh. “So, tell me, General…what happened up there?” Jaysynn reflexively pointed up, forgetting his gesture could not be seen.

More silence. Was Dracon hesitating to answer? Jaysynn was about to repeat his question when the general answered: “Even I am not sure, my prince. I was driving down Imperial Avenue to meet with Emperor Thorynn at the Palace to discuss his latest campaigns on the outskirts of the continent when I heard a loud explosion. I caught a glimpse of a mushroom cloud in the corner of my eye. It seemed to be rising from the same area as the Great Well. Then I was struck with a shockwave made of white energy.”

“I remember the shockwave. It…knocked me out for a few minutes.”

“Where were you when this happened? You weren’t at the Palace.”

Jaysynn hesitated to answer. His mouth was dry but not from all his running. “I…went out into the city.”

“Why?” Dracon asked with a slight hint of annoyance.

“To…clear my head.”

“Without an armed escort?”

“…Yes…”

Dracon harrumphed. “It’s a good thing I trained you well.”

“Yes. So, do you think the shockwave came from the Great Well?”

A slight pause. “It seems that way. But I can’t think of anything that could cause such a catastrophic explosion. But that’s not what’s important now. The chaos in the streets must be quelled before panicking rioters tear the city apart.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Declare martial law. The people must be subdued, but with the military in shambles and the people in the grip of fear, force will be necessary.”

“But such a thing hasn’t happened since…”

“Since the Kyzer family seized the throne three hundred years ago.”

Jaysynn hung his head. He was thankful Dracon could not see him. “Do what you must.” Another pause. “What worries me is Elrik was unable to project a forcefield”—he hesitated to continue—“Just like my father seemed unable to use his magic.” Tears stung Jaysynn’s eyes. Why did he mourn the death of a father who hardly acknowledged his existence?

“It appears this disaster has affected the Select.”

Jaysynn wiped his eyes, again thankful it was dark. “Do you think it’s permanent?”

“There’s no way to know.”

Silence fell again. For how long, Jaysynn did not know.

Then they heard the door unlatch.

Jaysynn reflexively snapped to a combative pose.

In walked Elrik carrying a light rod but no torch.

“Sir, I was able to find some light rods, a lamp, and a few portable stove cans at an abandoned compound in a tunnel a half-mile away.”

The soldier placed the lamp on the table and turned its switch. It flickered to life, its flame illuminating the granite surface of the table in front of them.

“Good work, Sergeant Elrik,” said Jaysynn.

“Thank you, my prince,” replied the soldier, bowing slightly.

“Must I remind you, Elrik, that Jaysynn is not your prince.”

Jaysynn shot a befuddled look at the general.

Dracon turned to Jaysynn, their eyes locking, but his words seemed directed at the soldier: “He is now your emperor.”

Jaysynn’s confusion was destroyed by shock. He was petrified. His heartbeats rang in his ears. In all the chaos, he had forgotten the most critical thing. I am the last of the Kyzer royal family….

Finally, he veered onto the sidewalk and haphazardly dashed down the stairs, fighting to keep his balance. Darkness filled the station at the bottom of the stairs, but Jaysynn would not stop. He stumbled into the shadows on wobbly legs. Exhausted, his legs buckled and he fell to his hands and knees like a peasant bowing before his emperor. His muscles burned, his heart thundered in his ears, his clothes were soaked with sweat and blood, his lungs sucked in stale air. The bruises were fully formed now; he felt them. He opened his eyes, and they were stung by perspiration.

“I have fallen into Barathrum,” said Jaysynn.

“I’ve not found Mastema. You’re not dead yet,” replied a familiar voice.

Jaysynn looked up. On the edge of the light stood Dracon and Elrik, both bloodied and bruised, their uniforms ripped and tattered. The general hurried to Jaysynn and knelt over him.

“Can you stand?” he asked.

“I think so.” Jaysynn forced himself to stand in spite of everything.

“We can’t waste time,” said Dracon. “The panicking hordes may find their way down here, and we have no firearms to defend ourselves.”

“Why not?”

“They were destroyed in the cataclysm,” interjected Elrik.

“But how?”

“Your questions will wait,” snapped Dracon.

Jaysynn had flashbacks to when his mother, Empress Zebel, chided him as a child.

“Right now our most pressing concern is illuminating our path to the bunker,” continued the general. “The electricity is out in the entire city.”

The men paused to think. Screams reverberated from the streets above.

Jaysynn was the first to speak: “Do either of you have a lighter?”

“I have two,” replied Elrik, producing one from his pocket. He flipped it open and flicked it on, illuminating his battered face.

“What do you have that for?” asked Dracon.

Elrik closed the lighter, saying, “I…still haven’t quit smoking.”

“That’s beside the point. If we can find a stick or a rod, we can make a torch using our clothes,” said Jaysynn.

Dracon smiled and nodded at Jaysynn. “However, our clothes are soaked with fluids. We can’t be sure the torch will burn. We will use the lighter, but gather materials for a torch, just in case we need it.”

The three men scrambled. Jaysynn dared to venture close to the bottom of the staircase. He glanced at the thin handrail lining the stairs. He grabbed a piece of nearby mortar and struck the handrail with it. The clank echoed through the station. He struck it again and again, the mortar digging into his palm, and bent the rail. Dracon ordered Jaysynn to stop making noise lest he attract unwanted attention. Finally, the prince broke the handrail. With a few torques, he severed a one-foot section from it.

“I got it!” called Jaysynn, running toward the soldiers with the rod in hand.

Elrik flicked the lighter on, illuminating the dark tunnel.

“I hope that’ll last us long enough,” said Jaysynn.

“The bunker should only be a mile down that tunnel,” said Dracon. “But we must hurry before we’re followed. We must get you to safety.”

With that, the three men jumped onto the u-train rails and dashed down the tunnel. No one spoke. The tunnel was eerily quiet, like a tomb. Darkness filled it, broken only by the dying flame of the lighter. Jaysynn reminded himself that no u-train would come speeding down the rails with the power out. The lights in the tunnel did not even flicker. Sometimes the silence was broken by the low rumbles of stampeding crowds, collapsing buildings, and exploding cars on the streets above them. Jaysynn feared that eventually the ceiling would buckle and rain bodies and debris on them in a hypothetical cloudburst.

Suddenly, their light source died. Jaysynn heard Elrik flick the lighter to no avail, cursing in frustration. “It’s almost out of fuel,” the soldier said.

“We’ll need the other lighter for later,” said Dracon. He sighed. “Make the torch.”

Jaysynn handed the rod to Dracon and then pulled off his hoodie. Underneath was a white tank top stained red, which the prince quickly peeled from his still bleeding body. He wrung it out, bodily fluids dripping onto the floor, tore it into several strands, and wrapped the driest one around the end of the rail. Elrik cracked open the second lighter and poured a little of the fluid on the shirt, and then he flicked his lighter open and lit the wad of clothing. It took a few seconds, but their makeshift torch burned brightly.

They pressed on, always fearing the torch would fizzle out.

Finally, Dracon stopped. He motioned for Elrik and Jaysynn to follow him. Elrik held the last flickers of the torch above their heads as Dracon examined the wall, slowly running his hand across it, searching. His hand stopped and pressed a button disguised as a brick. A metallic grinding announced that a door was unlatched and a small gap appeared in the wall. Dracon pulled the hidden door open and gestured for Jaysynn and Elrik to go in. They entered. Dracon closed the door behind them and it latched shut.

Jaysynn was frozen, staring. He could not look away from the pile of burning rubble that was once the Emperor’s Palace—his home. This can’t be real, he thought. This is a nightmare. I just need to wake up. The smoke stinging his unblinking eyes burned the undeniable reality into him.

Slowly, the swirling noise around him broke through his seemingly deaf ears. He heard Dracon barking orders to his men to find a working vehicle so they could transport the prince to the secure bunker. The shouts of the crowd that had converged on the Palace gates were strangely absent. Had they retreated?

“Jaysynn!” shouted Dracon, grabbing the young man’s shoulder and jolting him back to reality.

The prince glanced over his shoulder at the general.

“We must get moving!” Dracon added.

Jaysynn nodded.

Adrenaline propelling his burning muscles, Jaysynn ran after Dracon through the now open Palace gates. Battered soldiers surrounded them. The distant screams and explosions droned in his ears. Where once a crowd swarmed was a street with wrecked cars strewn about. Had the soldiers somehow driven them away? Jaysynn had not heard any laser blasts from magic-powered rifles. Only a few even carried rifles. Maybe the destruction of the Palace terrified them?

Within seconds, none of that mattered.

“Sergeant Elrik!” called Dracon, pointing at an officer.

“Sir!”

“Project a shield around the prince. Maintain it until we reach the bunker.”

“Yessir!”

Elrik stepped Jaysynn while Dracon dispensed orders to the rest of the troops. Jaysynn recognized the dark-haired officer. He had once served as Shar’s bodyguard, before the prince arrogantly refused any protection.

Elrik stood in front of Jaysynn and held out his hands as if he was trying to push him back, his eyes focusing intently at the prince. Nothing. The officer’s fingers flicked and his arm muscles tensed. Still nothing. Frustration contorted his face. Jaysynn’s eyes widened as fear and confusion beset him.

Elrik lowered his arms and stared at his hands. “General Dracon, sir!”

“What is it, sergeant?” replied the general, walking up behind him.

“Sir, I…can’t do it.”

“Can’t do what?”

“Make a forcefield.” He turned to Dracon. “My power…it’s gone!”

The general clenched his fist and pounded the hood of a car next to him.

Just then, a sputtering truck crawled up to them. A soldier stuck his head out of the window to address the general. “This is the only working vehicle we could find, and its battery is about to die.”

“We only need to get to a u-train station a few miles down the street,” said Dracon. “The entrance to the bunker is in the tunnel.” He then called out the names of six soldiers, including Elrik, to accompany him and Jaysynn. The rest were to quell the chaos in any way possible. “Move!” he ordered.

Jaysynn, Dracon, and the six soldiers—who were all carrying guns—clambered into the truck’s big cargo bed. The rest of the soldiers scrambled.

“Go!” ordered Dracon.

The truck sputtered as it lurched forward. Dracon made Jaysynn crouch in the center of the truck bed while the soldiers surrounded him, brandishing guns that looked like they had been haphazardly pieced back together. Other guns had power packs that were not lit up.

Why are they using broken and depleted weapons? thought Jaysynn.

The prince felt the truck wind its way around overturned cars. He glanced up periodically. Skyscrapers still defiantly standing tall were soon on either side of them. The clamor of the crowds intensified. Dracon and his soldiers shouted at people to get out of the way. Those people shouted demands for the truck. The soldiers yelled threats at panicking citizens to keep them from attacking the truck. The soldiers pistol-whipped the desperate ones who did not listen to their warnings. Curses filled the air. Jaysynn imagined children and wives surrounded the men who now lay on the ground with bloodied and broken noses.

Never once did any soldier fire his weapon.

The crowds shouted louder. The soldiers tried to yell over them. The truck stopped. Jaysynn lifted his head to look around, but Dracon pushed it down and ordered him to stay down. But even from his crouched position, the prince could see that hordes of people were surrounding them.

“Back off or I’ll shoot!”

A babble of shouts bombarded them.

“Go ahead!”

“I don’t care!”

“Just give us the truck!”

“I’d rather die!”

“I know the guns don’t work!”

Metal smashed against bone. Hands clawed at the soldiers. More curses. The stench of body odor. The truck gasped through its exhaust pipe. The driver looked back at them through the rear windshield and shouted, “The battery’s dead!”

Dracon and the soldiers shouted that news to the crowd, but not only did they not believe them, it fueled their blind rage. A deafening roar surrounded the truck. Sweat dripped from Jaysynn’s face and pooled on the truck bed. He wanted to shout something at Dracon, but he couldn’t hear his own thoughts. He heard rocks hiss by his ears. They pelted the truck. The soldiers groaned in pain.

Elthor, don’t let me die!

Suddenly, a shadow was cast over them.

Silence.

A loud creak.

They looked up—the 50-story skyscraper to their right was leaning over them. Was something leaning against it? The creaking was replaced by a loud crash. The building snapped ten storeys up. It smashed against the skyscraper across from it like a giant domino.

Panic.

Thyrian citizens fled.

“RUN!” shouted Dracon.

Everyone abandoned the truck and dove into the rushing river of frenzied people.

Glass shards fell like rain. Furniture crashed like meteorites. Bodies—living bodies—flailed and screamed in mid-air.

Jaysynn had no room to bob and weave. He could only run forward. If he stopped or tripped, he would be trampled. As the hailing debris fell, Jaysynn shielded himself with his arms, but the glass cut through his shirt, piercing his skin, and broken mortar and metal pelted him. Blood soaked his clothes. Bruises formed across his body. Larger debris thundered as it impacted around him. People vanished under it. Glass crunched under his shoes. He jumped over bodies. The shadow’s edge was ahead, but it seemed to be miles away. Jaysynn could not let himself feel pain or pity. Both would halt him. Both would kill him. He kept running.

Running.

Running.

Praying.

Running.

Sunlight suddenly beat down on Jaysynn’s bruised face. He was out from under the building! But he couldn’t stop. Not now.

Ten strides later, thunder roared behind him. A wave of black dust hit the back of his body. Jaysynn staggered, nearly stumbling over the debris. Some people around him fell. They screamed as they were trampled. The sooty air choked him. Grit caked the inside of his mouth and clouded his eyes. He blinked; he rubbed his eyes. Blindness equaled death.

Clearing the grit, he caught a glimpse of a staircase to his right that descended to a u-train station. Jaysynn veered sideways, pushing people out of his way and crossing two traffic lanes. Some shoved him back. He slowed to let them pass and kept veering. Nobody else was running toward it. Why? Where are Dracon and the soldiers?

The questions would have to wait.

The heir-apparent’s foil hissed through the air and swatted Jaysynn’s weapon from his hand. The black-garbed prince charged forward, thrusting his blade at his brother. Jaysynn, reacting instinctively, miraculously dodged the attacks by swaying. Then, seeing an opening, he lunged to Shar’s right to avoid his brother’s blade, rolled past him, grabbed the fallen foil, and sprang to his feet. With that, he thrust his weapon haphazardly at Shar, who merely stepped sideway, letting Jaysynn’s momentum carry him along. As Jaysynn stumbled past him, Shar smacked him on the buttocks with his foil like a father spanking a child.

Jaysynn staggered as he turned to face Shar. He felt a welt start to form on his backside. But the fight wasn’t over. Only a thrusting blow to the upper body could end a fencing duel. He’s playing with me! I hate that!

The young prince shot a few thrusts at Shar, but his opponent parried each one as if bored.

Suddenly, Jaysynn felt the button tip of his brother’s foil hit his chest, threatening to impale him. The bent blade arched into his vision. The boy clenched his unarmed hand into a fist. Jaysynn knew Shar was smirking under the mesh mask. That pierced his heart more than the foil ever could.

The elder prince laughed. Under his mask, his laughter was muffled and sounded hollow. He pulled of the mask. Shaking his head, he said, “If this was a real fight, I wouldn’t need magic to defeat you.”

Jaysynn hung his head.

“What a pity you’re the only non-Select member of the family. If you channeled magic like us, then maybe you’d stand a chance.”

“Maybe he’s adopted,” injected Bulon.

Jaysynn’s six older siblings guffawed.

The boy closed his eyes in hopes of shutting them out. But he could no more silence them than use magic. Every second they laughed was another needle pricking his heart. Now his eyelids were damming hot tears he desperately wanted to hide.

Thankfully, his siblings’ laughter slowly grew distant as they all left the gymnasium. When his siblings’ voices faded down the Palace’s hallway, Jaysynn slammed the foil he held on the floor, plopped onto the dueling strip, and buried his face in his hands.

“Damn them!” was all he could whisper.

“Stand up!” a voice from behind him commanded.

Jaysynn looked over his shoulder. Marching toward him from the gymnasium entrance was a tall man wearing a black Thyrian military officer’s uniform. Shiny medals hung from his chest. His cap and shoulders were emblazoned with four yellow lightning-like stripes, indicating he was a supreme general. His face, chiseled like a marble statue and dented by battle, bore a fatherly expression, although Jaysynn only knew this because he frequently saw the Emperor look at his oldest brother like that.

“A prince of Thyrion should never act like a scolded dog.”

Jaysynn did stand, but mostly because the general’s presence demanded it.

The man stood in front of Jaysynn, his slate-gray eyes seemingly peering into his soul. The prince’s gaze fell.

“Look at me!” ordered the general.

Jaysynn nervously looked up.

“I heard you challenge your brother while I was walking past the gymnasium. I watched your duel with him.”

“But I lost!”

“Yes, but I’ve never seen someone move so fast while dueling Shar.”

“So what?”

The general put his hand on Jaysynn’s shoulder and squeezed tightly. “I would like to train you, to refine your raw talent.”

“What talent? I’m not a Select.”

“Do you think only Select are capable of greatness?”

“Around here, yes.”

“Wrong. I am the commander of your father’s armies even though I can’t use magic.”

Jaysynn’s eyes widened. “General Dracon?”

A small smile appeared on the general’s face. “It took you long enough to realize who I am.”

“You can’t…use magic?”

“No. It’s not something your father likes to talk about.”

“Then how did you become a general?”

Dracon stepped back and offered an outstretched hand to Jaysynn. “Come with me and find out.” His eyes were full of sincerity.

Have I really found someone like me who’s accomplished great things? thought Jaysynn. A grin crept up his face.

Without hesitation, the prince grabbed the general’s hand and shook it.