The Golden Palace lay in ruins. What was once one of the most beautiful structures humanity had ever created was now reduced to little more than a hollow ruin of past glory.

  Memories flickered through her mind as she walked through the grand entrance hall. The columns now barely holding the vaulted ceiling up were once made of the most beautiful river stones, kept together with gold. The floor that was falling apart beneath her feet was once covered with beautiful rugs depicting the many triumphs of Calador.

  “What will you do if you find the gift?”

  Her raven companions words gave her pause. “Perhaps I should deliver it to the new king.” Her lips curled down, and her brows furrowed.

  “To the usurper?” The raven asked. Clearly, her companion didn’t approve of that idea.

  “Calador has no defence against the golden flames,” She let out a sigh as she reached the doors on the other side of the grand entrance hall. As soon as she placed her hand on the door, it crumpled into sand. She held her breath, looking up to see it the ceiling was going to come down as well. A few moments passed in silence before she stepped over the pile of sand that once was the door and entered the throne room. “I cannot let a nation die over a man’s greed, old friend.”

  “It is not one man’s greed. Rule is given by those you serve.” The raven’s words mimicked those she had spoken in the past. “You warned the Empress – you warned the King, and you warned the Worshipper.”

  “I did.” She raised her gaze towards the pile of sand atop a set of half-crumpled stairs. A cold shiver ran down her spine. She stopped mid-step, her fingers clutched her crimson dress. “The Golden Throne is no more.”

  The raven landed on the ground next to her.

  “One of the Seven have been destroyed.” Her voice was but a whisper as she looked on in disbelief. Why hadn’t they taken the throne with them? Why had the old man let it burn?

  She rushed towards the steps, ignoring the floor crumpling under her feet. She knelt by the pile of sand and ran her fingers through it. Where was it? Where? It couldn’t burn – not even in the golden flames, it wouldn’t burn.

  Her fingers brushed against something in the fine sand. She drew a sharp breath and clutched it before slowly pulling her hand out of the sand.

  Stolen story; please report.

  She slowly turned her palm up and opened her fingers. In her palm lay a small, bean sized object. It was a smoky white colour and looked almost like glass. Too heavy for its size, and too small for its significance, it was undamaged.

  “What is that?”

  Circe breathed a sigh of relief as she gently wiped its surface with the hem of her dress. “Hope.” She said with a faint smile. Her fingers caressed the oval object’s smooth surface as she slowly stood back up.

  “I don’t understand.” Her companion tilted its head after a few moments of silence. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

  A smile flashed across her lips. “Of course you haven’t.” She said as she put the small object away. “These were given to the Seven eons ago. Each used to nurture a new civilisation. I feared the golden flames would have destroyed it, but it survived.” She took a deep breath as her gaze scoured the throne room. “Now, where is my gift?”

  * * *

  The arguments had ceased, any defiance snuffed out, and now the throne room was silent after his speech. The king sat on his throne, nodding, and the generals pondered over the maps, silently thinking.

  Satisfied, he allowed a smile to flash across his lips.

  “When do we begin?” A voice finally asked. “Time is needed to prepare.”

  “In a fortnight.” His deep voice echoed. “Calador will survive, no matter the cost. The desert will not be our end – it has simply ushered a new age. An age of prosperity awaits us, but only if we overcome the challenge before us.”

  They were so easy to manipulate – so easy to convince that this was their only way of survival. With the king dead, and his useless son on the throne, they immediately turned to him for information. Calador would soon enter an age of prosperity indeed – he wasn’t going to let anyone stop him.

  * * *

  The sound of crackling flames broke the calm silence in the Obsidian Halls. The throne was as uncomfortable as ever. Sitting there, his gaze was fixed on the papers in his hand. Reports from the Wall, and from the guards sent out to heal the tears in the veil.

  New tears formed as fast as they could mend them, and it had only been a few short days. Midhir and the Solus students were hard at work over at the Wall, and even with them, it simply wasn’t enough. The veil was being damaged faster than they could repair it.

  He didn’t even want to think about the tears need in the overgrowth. They couldn’t find them all. It was simply impossible. Even with most of the army mobilised, it simply wasn’t enough.

  His fingers caressed the stone ring on his right ring finger. Midhir’s words were fresh in his mind yet. It was an option. A terrible one, but one, nonetheless. He closed his eyes and let out a silent sigh.

  The cold ring on his finger suddenly warmed up. A wind snuffed out the flames of the braziers and rustled the papers in his hand. His eyes shot open, his hand rested on the hilt of the blade put against the armrest of the throne.

  Runes formed on the ground, at the foot of the steps leading to the Obsidian Throne. Reality seemed to twist, light fractured around the rune, and a moment later, a woman stood there.

  Her crimson hair cascaded behind her back, and she wore a dress of the same colour, its silken gown rustling with the dying wind. A raven sat upon her shoulder.

  Her eyelids fluttered open, and her gaze met with his.