Page 34 of The Truth-Teller's Bargain
Roman Kentigern was not a sentimental man. The powerful Necromancer had almost no family and even fewer friends, but as Chosen of Nex and Headmaster of the Crystalline Academy, he was highly revered and respected across the Four Kingdoms. Nakir’s mentor was ageless, with dark brown hair past his ears, spectral blue eyes, and a cold stare that could freeze the sun. He was not a large man by any means, but his presence was larger than life.
“I tried to take them down,” Nakir explained, shaking his head as he tried to remember past the flurry of images in his head. “I was already spent from our travels, and...”
“And?”
The Aeshlien was shattered. He wasn’t supposed to be alive. It was supposed to have been enough for his parents to escape.
“And they were powerful. They had several Channelers. They were... too powerful.” Nakir stared at the hands he’d used to tear the life from so many. “And I ran out. I ran out of magic.”
“No, Nakir. You did notrun out of magic.”
Was that anger in his mentor’s voice? Nakir remembered the promise of revenge at the bottom of his well of magic, a whisper in the dark that there was so much more to take if he onlygave in.
Nakir’s voice broke as he realized the truth. “I burned out.”
“Yes. You burned out. You took what wasn’t yours, and the Weave exacted its price.”
He gaped at his mentor, eyes wide. “How am I...?” The words were whispered, as if he were afraid to break some spell that would reverse the ritual only ever performed by the mostcapable Healers. Nakir knew some Necromancers could snatch the dead from the afterlife, but there was always a cost. Any mage—Healer or Necromancer—who did so risked their own magic, forever.
Roman’s stare was exacting. “I resurrected you.”
“But—”
“There’s a problem, Nakir.”
His heart raced. “Have you lost your magic?”
Roman shook his head. Still, Nakir breathed a sigh of relief. If the most powerful Necromancer in the world had sacrificed his own magic just to raise him from the dead, he would never forgive himself.
Roman reached into his pocket and withdrew a familiar blue stone. A wyrdstone—a small but powerful rune-engraved gem that could be enchanted to detect mages. A similar one had been used on Nakir when he was a small boy by the very man next to him. The glowing stone had always represented new hope, a bright future, for the newly discovered mage. Nakir’s magic, though dark and feared, had given his parents hope that one day they would have the power to reclaim what had been taken from them.
But as Roman held it to Nakir’s chest, it did not glow.
“It’ll come back,” Nakir protested, pushing the wyrdstone away, unable to accept its judgment. “I... I just need to rest.”
When he pushed himself onto his knees, he realized he and Roman were not alone. Nakir could never forget the menacing Oracle Roman kept close by, his given name lost to time. His silver-white hair was bound tightly behind his head, the usual barely contained scowl planted firmly on his face. With pale skin and lilac eyes, he cut an intimidating figure. He was larger than either of them, and not someone Nakir would ever willingly enter conflict with. But it was the Bloodwright’s grave stare that struck true fear into his heart.
The Oracle’s tone was final. “No, it won’t. It’s gone.”
That was what it took to finally break him. The walls of the courtyard began to close in on Nakir, his breath coming too fast, his face heating to the point bile rose in his throat.
Roman put a grounding hand on his shoulder, a brief moment of affection, unusual even between the two of them. “You burned out, Nakir. There is a chance I didn’t get here in time—that when I performed the resurrection ritual, your magic had already returned to the Weave. We can speculate, but we may never know what truly happened.”
His parents, his magic. Both gone.Stolen.
Maybe the people who’d taken his throne were right about him. Maybe he was cursed.
Deep within him brewed a seething, burning anger. A hatred he had never been able to summon before. A true, unslakable thirst for vengeance.
Roman was speaking again, but the words were like water falling over a cliff, rushing past his ears. “When I pulled you back, the Bloodwright delivered a prophecy. You need to hear this.”
Nakir turned to face the man. The Bloodwright still stood ten feet away, leaning against one of the pillars marking the entryway into the courtyard, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on Roman with that same deadly stillness Nakir had always found unsettling. Not because of what the Bloodwright was—though that was reason enough—but because of what passed between him and Roman in moments like this one. A silence too heavy to be empty. The Bloodwright served Roman, that much was certain, but whether by choice was a question Nakir had never dared ask aloud. He suspected the answer lived somewhere in the long catalogue of things Roman Kentigern would carry with him into eternity—if Aevensor ever managed to claim him at all.
His deep voice rumbled across the sandy stones. “The prophecy is this, Nakir Hasan: Your magic is gone, but you may one day regain something of far greater consequence. Only withthe power of the Truth-Teller will you finally take back what is yours, the Kingdom of Lenorea, bought and paid for and promised to you by the blood of your ancestors.”
Nakir was so lost in the words he almost missed the glint in Roman’s eyes. All his parents had ever dreamed of was for the Hasan family to be restored to the throne. As they’d only had one child, that dream rested solely on his shoulders. But how was he supposed to take back the throne without magic? Without an army? Without allies?“Only with the power of the Truth-Teller will you finally take back what is yours.”Some ancient weapon? A powerful artifact?
Roman stood, brushing the sand from his black robes. “We must part ways, Nakir Hasan.” Without his magic, a part of their connection had been permanently severed. After everything they’d done together, Roman would have no use for him. He was no longer a mage.
