To the Sorcerers' Hall

With a sigh that was only slightly exaggerated, he gestured around the antechamber. “Navigating to this entrance was simple enough. The problem was getting through it. This door was sealed by a magic that only a practitioner could bypass. Since I was not one, I was faced with a choice: find a magic-user in Tor Alian and convince them to open it, or find a way to do it myself.”

Wells and Aria exchanged an anxious glance. A sickening feeling settled in Wells’s stomach as he realized where Nikolai’s story was heading. While the others listened, captivated, a desperate part of him wanted to grab his friends and flee, but he bit his tongue, knowing it was best to let Nikolai finish.

Nikolai’s words began to tumble out more quickly. “I knew I’d never find a warlock on the streets of Tor Alian,” he said. “They face abhorrent discrimination in Anolin—indeed, across all of Remira. And for what? For pursuing an unconventional path?” He shook his head. “No matter. I also knew no wizard here would ever agree to open a door leading to a chamber of warlock relics. My only option, therefore, was to find a magical ring.”

“But possessing a ring doesn’t grant you the ability to use magic,” Aria interjected, her first words since they had arrived. “You couldn’t even be certain you could perform magic.”

“I was certain, because I have,” Nikolai answered dismissively, not even glancing at her. “Galano informed me I had a high concentration of myran. That was enough to confirm I am Sirunai.”

He continued, “Finding a ring, however, was its own challenge. I scoured the library’s collections for another week. In the end, I decided to open the book.” He gestured toward the corridor outside. “I read it in its entirety, and in the final fifty pages, there was a hidden recess. And sitting inside…” He held up his right hand, displaying a ring set with a stunning green emerald on a plain gold band.

“It must be incredibly powerful,” Wells stated, holding his ground. “The warlocks wouldn’t have hidden it otherwise.”

“They didn’t hide it because of what it could do,” Nikolai said, lowering his hand. “They hid it because they knew the wizards had found their sanctum—their only safe place in Anolin. They hid it for fear of what the wizards would do to it.”

“Let me see it,” Wells said. He rose to his feet, surprised by the authority in his own voice.

After a brief hesitation, Nikolai allowed Wells to step forward and take his hand, perhaps more forcefully than he intended. Wells’s gaze locked onto the ring. It was identical to his own, save for the emerald stone. Aria began to ask, “Is that an—” but her words were cut off as both rings suddenly erupted in light.

“What’s happening?” Juliana cried, stumbling back as a shockwave of raw power blasted from the rings. Wells shot a worried glance at Nikolai, who, for the first time, wore the look of utter frustration he reserved for things he did not understand.

A second pulse hit them, and Wells felt as if he were drowning, a second heartbeat thrumming inside his own chest. His lungs seized, refusing his gasp for air. A third pulse slammed into them, and both he and Nikolai collapsed to the floor.

A fourth.

A fifth. They writhed on the ground, unable to breathe or control their limbs.

A sixth pulse struck, and it felt as if Wells’s very being were being torn apart.

Then, as abruptly as it began, the pulsation stopped. The pain vanished instantly, and Wells sucked in a grateful, ragged breath. He turned to Nikolai. “What was that?” No answer. “Nikolai?” Wells cried out. “Nikolai?!”

He scrambled to Nikolai’s side. He was lying motionless, facedown. Wells turned him over and saw, to his immense relief, that he was still breathing—shallow, rattling gasps that shook his entire body. His emerald ring still glowed, brighter than any magic Wells had ever seen.

“What happened?” Vance demanded. “What did you do, Wells?”

“Me? I did nothing!” Wells insisted. “It just… it just happened!”

“Well, what do we do?” Vance asked. “Leave him here?”

“Take him to Cirus,” Aria said without a moment’s hesitation. “He’ll know what to do.”

“How?” Juliana asked.

“Carry him,” Wells urged, kneeling to take Nikolai’s arms. “Aidan, you and Vance get his legs. Come on.” Vance and Aidan hung their torches in empty brackets on the wall. “Juliana,” Wells added, “take a torch and grab the book Nikolai found.”

Lifting Nikolai was awkward. Even though he wasn’t heavy, maneuvering him backward out of the antechamber and into the corridor was a clumsy struggle.

“Hold on,” Wells said. Gently lowering Nikolai’s torso, he focused his mind and sent a command to the heavy stone door, which slid shut with a low groan. He took Nikolai’s arms again. “Okay, let’s go.” They hoisted him back up. “Juliana, lead the way with the torch so Aidan and Vance can see.”

Aria fluttered from Wells’s shoulder to Juliana’s as she moved ahead. Hunched at an uncomfortable angle, Wells couldn’t see the stairs behind him. He shuffled backward, Nikolai’s dead weight making the ascent exponentially more difficult.

It took them far longer to climb than it had to descend. Wells was certain two hours had passed in near silence, broken only by a strained “slow down” when their arms ached past bearing.

About halfway up, a section of the ancient staircase crumbled under Aidan’s foot. He fell backward, pulling Nikolai, Vance, and Wells down with him. Wells lost his grip and staggered. There was a sickening crack as Nikolai’s head struck the stone wall. They all froze, exchanging terrified glances.

Grabbing Juliana’s torch, Wells quickly inspected Nikolai. There was no blood, but a large lump was already swelling on the side of his head. “He’s going to hate me for that,” Wells muttered. “Come on, let’s keep moving.”

They carefully navigated the broken stair and resumed the agonizing monotony of the climb. This time, the darkness felt less suffocating, as the single torch cast a wider circle of light. After what felt like another hour, Juliana’s head brushed against the flagstone ceiling. Faint footsteps echoed from the library above.

“We have to wait until they leave,” Wells whispered. “We can’t let anyone find this entrance.”

“Good idea,” Aria agreed.

They sat on the stairs, so close to their goal yet still trapped, and stared up in weary frustration. It felt like an eternity before the footsteps finally faded, leaving a silence broken only by Nikolai’s ragged breathing. In the torchlight, they looked at one another and nodded.

“I think it’s clear now,” Wells said. Juliana pushed the flagstone open, and they scrambled out as quickly as they could into the vast, deserted hall of the Royal Library. Juliana slid the heavy stone back into place.

They reoriented their grip, allowing Wells to finally move forward. As they hurried toward the main doors, a hesitant voice cried out, “Astalor’s hoof! What has happened?”

The old librarian stood before them, dressed in a nightgown and holding a candle. The four friends looked at each other in panic. “It’s… uh…” Juliana began.

“We’ll have an explanation, I promise,” Wells cut in hurriedly. “Tomorrow. Right now, we must get back to the castle.”

The librarian stared at them, her expression a mask of disbelief.

“Please,” Wells pleaded, deciding to embellish. “He might die if we don’t get him to Cirus Crewe.” It might even be true.

Her eyes swept over them again, lingering on Nikolai’s still form. “Very well,” she conceded at last. “But if you are not here tomorrow, I shall—”

“Thank you,” Wells said, and they rushed past as Juliana pulled the library doors open. They didn’t look back, but they could feel the librarian’s eyes on their backs until the doors closed.

The night was dark and still. Tor Alian was asleep. Realizing how late it must be, Wells cursed aloud. “Cirus is going to kill me.”

“No, he won’t kill you,” Aria chirped. “He’ll kill me, too.”

“How are we going to get into the castle?” Juliana interrupted desperately. “The guards won’t let us through!”

“They’ll let me through,” Aidan said with a weary groan. “Come on, hurry.”

The walk to the castle gates took less than a minute. After the profound silence of the stairway, the sounds of the night—crickets chirping, a distant owl hooting, the whisper of the wind—felt like a symphony. A chill slid down Wells’s spine.

“Halt!” an officer at the gate commanded. “Who goes there, and what is your—”

“I am Aidan McDowell,” Aidan said, his teeth gritted. “This boy needs to be taken to Cirus Crewe immediately. If you do not let us pass, I will have the king post you to the embassy in the Auran Empire.”

The guards exchanged a glance, but upon seeing the royal crest on Aidan’s chest, they opened the gates. “Let them through!” one shouted to the sentries at the main entrance. The guards there leaped to attention, pulling the enormous doors wide. The five friends hurried inside as the doors boomed shut behind them, their relief palpable in the well-lit foyer.

“Come on, I think I know where they are,” Aidan said, leading the way. The castle corridors were deserted, and they soon arrived at the great double doors of the throne room, which stood ajar.

“There you are!” Cirus’s voice boomed with rage. He strode from the royal chamber, dressed only in a nightshirt. “Wells Barlow, I made you promise you wouldn’t leave the castle, and you’ve had us worried sick—Astalor’s hoof, what happened to Nikolai?”

“Can we put him down before I answer?” Wells asked, his arms screaming in protest. “He’s heavier than he looks.”

Cirus nodded, his fury vanishing, replaced by deep concern. They carried Nikolai into the throne room, where King Haelen himself, Sir Alaric, and Lady Isilde were gathered, their worried expressions turning to alarm. Cirus held up a hand to them. “Later,” he said. “A scolding is not as important as this.”

They gently laid Nikolai on the soft stone floor before the throne. Cirus knelt beside him, placing a hand on his chest. He closed his eyes and began muttering in a language Wells didn’t understand. As he whispered the incantation, his ring glowed with a dazzling amethyst light.

“What’s he doing?” Aidan asked loudly, earning a sharp shush from both Wells and Juliana.

For five minutes, Cirus held his hand on Nikolai’s chest, performing some complex spell. A thread of amethyst light unspooled from his ring, weaving a shimmering cocoon around Nikolai’s still form. It slipped into his nostrils, his ears, his slightly parted mouth. Though still faint, Nikolai’s breathing lost its rattling quality. His respiration evened out, and the green glow of his own ring dimmed to nothing.

At last, Cirus stopped. The purple light vanished. He rose with a long sigh, his anxiety palpable in the silent room. “This is… this is beyond my skill to heal,” he said. “To heal completely, I should say. The Ring of Resolve on his finger reacted violently with the Ring of Hope.” He wheeled on Wells. “Where did he get the Ring of Resolve?”

“Here, Lord Cirus,” Juliana said, stepping forward and holding out the ancient book.

Cirus took it. He opened it, and the four adults gathered around. “Astalor’s hoof,” Sir Alaric breathed. “This is—”

“I know what this is,” Cirus said gravely, “and I know what Nikolai has entangled himself in. There is a way to heal him, but the knowledge is almost lost.”

“Almost,” Aria repeated. “What is it, Cirus?”

“In the Sorcerers’ Hall, there is a horn that can cure all myran-related afflictions. It would require a very powerful wizard to correct an injury of this magnitude, but,” Cirus explained, “it can be done.”

“It can?” Wells asked, a flicker of hope in his eyes.

Cirus nodded. “We would need to travel to the Hall and request permission from Lord Silus. But a journey across Anolin at this time would be perilous. More dangerous than our fight against Lady Helena and Anais.”

“But it can be done?” Wells repeated, needing to hear it again.

“Yes.”

Wells looked down at Nikolai’s peaceful face. This is my fault, he thought, a cold weight settling in his chest. I am to blame for all of this. He glanced up at Vance, Aidan, and Juliana. They met his gaze with determined expressions and nodded in unison. Their message was clear, and a wave of gratitude washed over him—for their loyalty, their acceptance of his mistakes, for not blaming him for trapping them all in Remira.

Finally, he turned to Aria. She, too, gave a firm nod, her small form unflinching. Wells managed a smile. Despite their arguments, he knew in that moment she was as ready to risk her life for him as he was for her.

He mouthed, “Thank you,” to each of them. Then, taking a deep breath to steady himself, he turned back to Cirus.

“Okay, Cirus. We’ll help Nikolai.”