Deep in the mountains, a small brook chattered endlessly, its cold, crystal-clear water dancing over smooth rocks and submerged branches. Eyes closed, Miles Nazau cleared his mind, the happy sound of the chattering brook the only thing on his mind. It had been over a week since he should have returned home, but each time he tried to go, his courage failed him—the image of his disappointed father looming before him. Using the sounds of the water to drown out his insecurities, he tried to become one with the mountain; the cool stone underneath him grounded him to the world. The longer he spent time in the mountains, the more his tired heart wished he could stay here forever.

  I wish father understood me, he thought, picturing the anger on his father’s face. I know he wants me to be better, but he doesn’t realize that I’m trying.

  Standing and brushing the dirt from his pants, he followed the brook whimsically, watching a small stick float down, the energetic brook spinning it against its will as it brought it downstream. Glancing at the evergreen trees standing next to trees that have lost their leaves, he wished he could just vanish into the wilderness, all responsibility and reputation thrown away, everything that had happened to him in the past year just a distant memory.

  Standing there, he closed his eyes until the cheerful chirping from a group of red-beaked finches brought him back to the present. The tiny birds were looking down at him from the branches of the trees, singing to each other until the rustle of the wind made them all fly away.

  Taking a deep breath, Miles sadly knew he didn’t have what it takes to walk away from his family. At the end of the day, he loved them, and they loved him. Crouching, he plunged his hands into the cold river. Gritting his teeth, he braced himself, then splashed the cold water over his face. The cold mountain water shocked him. Gasping, he shook his head, causing droplets of water to fly all over the place.

  “Time to go home!” he shouted skyward, hoping that hearing his own voice would steel his resolve.

  Slowly, he returned to the small clearing where he had made camp, pausing in dread when he remembered that his uncle was visiting. He had forgotten!

  Miles had never met his uncle; when his uncle was a child, he was adopted by the main branch of their family and raised in their ancestral lands. From what he knew, this would be the first time since his uncle's adoption that he would visit. Groaning audibly, he started to break camp. He was in so much trouble. His father had made everyone promise to be present for their uncle’s return.

  Oh, Gera, Alumas, and any god that can hear me. Please allow me to get back home before my uncle arrives. Picturing his father grabbing a wooden stick and beating him, Miles rushed around his camp.

  When he had finished packing, Miles slung his pack onto his back and hopped down from a large rock, his hunting bow clutched to his chest. He quickly headed in the direction of the small village where he had left his horse. The earnest farmers had insisted on caring for the horse free of charge, but Miles had talked them out of it, explaining to them that as the son of the lord, he could not be seen abusing his power. Smiling at the memory of the village children jumping up and down in joy as he had handed out sweets, he quickened his steps.

  As he neared the village, his heart began to race; each step caused his stomach to churn nauseously. Stopping beneath a large tree, he concentrated on breathing, the intertwined branches of the tree creating a woven sky above his head. Putting down his pack, he pulled out a water-skin and took a sip to calm his nerves.

  Maybe I should go back to the mountain, he joked to himself. Knowing that since he had already set his mind on returning home, he would.

  Taking another sip of his water—that did nothing to help his stomach—he sighed before slinging the pack over his shoulder again and picking up his bow. Why do I always get so nervous when returning home? he wondered.

  Cursing his weakness, he started to move again, taking a small detour around a patch of thorny berry bushes—the berries long eaten by birds. Stepping onto a trail made by some deer, he followed it until he neared the village. His nose twitched at the smell of smoke.

  That’s a lot of smoke, he thought, stopping in puzzlement. Are the villagers burning something? Taking a moment to sniff the air, he frowned as the smell of smoke grew stronger. “That's a lot of smoke,” he muttered out loud. Something was wrong.

  Miles broke into a run towards the village. The smoke was much too dense for an ordinary fire. A house might be burning—if so, they would need help!

  Rushing past the trees and underbrush that clawed at his clothes as if to keep him in the forest, Miles burst into the village. His eyes widened as he took in the scene before him. In front of him stood a group of men wielding cruel-looking weapons, their filthy bodies wrapped in makeshift armor. Behind them, houses burned.

  Mind working in a frenzy, Miles tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Nothing added up. Who are they? Where are the villagers? Why is the village burning?

  The men stared back at him with equal shock—both sides frozen. The men were clearly not villagers; their fur-covered armor cut in a fashion foreign to this region. Eyes widening, Miles noticed that the furs on the men were matted with fresh blood. He stumbled back, falling on his butt.

  “We missed one!” one of the men shouted, his beady eyes locking onto Miles. The sword in his hand dripped blood onto the ground.

  Breaking out of his petrified state, Miles glanced down at his hands, gulping in realization that his hunting bow was still in his hand.

  Stand up! Shoot! Shoot! Move!

  Scrambling up in a panic, he clumsily grabbed an arrow from the quiver at his hip. Drawing the arrow, he tried to aim, but his fingers were stiff with fear. Stomach plummeting, he jerked the arrow as he released. The poorly shot arrow harmlessly flew past the man, embedding itself into a wall quite a ways away. Seeing the arrow pass by his face, the man’s face turned red with rage.

  “KILL HIM!”

  Flinching at the loud cry, Miles dropped his bow, his legs moving without his command. He had to run away!

  Sprinting towards the far side of the village, he felt his hands shaking, his vision narrowing in terror.

  What’s going on? Why are bandits in the village?

  The pounding sound of his heartbeat and the ragged breath that caused his dry throat to burn were the only things he could feel. He barely noticed the dead villagers as he sprinted past them. Fear overwhelmed him; he couldn’t think.

  Stumbling over something in the road, he screamed as he went tumbling, the palms of his hands breaking his fall. Ignoring the bits of dirt and small rocks that embedded themselves in his palm, he looked back and almost screamed again.

  Lying across the path was a small child, his lifeless eyes staring at Miles. In his small arms, he clutched a toy sword.

  “No, no, no,” Miles uttered as he clamped a hand over his mouth. He began to hyperventilate. His breath came in ragged gasps. Crawling backwards on his hands and knees, he heard the shouts of the bandits closing in, their laughter echoing between the burning homes.

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  “I THINK HE WENT THAT WAY!”

  “NO, HE DIDN’T! HE WENT THIS WAY!”

  “CIRCLE AROUND! FORCE HIM OUT OF HIDING!”

  Crawling as fast as he could, Miles reached the far side of the small village, his mind constantly screaming at him to move faster. Wildly scanning the area, he spotted a group of horses tied up nearby, a single young guard watching them.

  Maybe I can steal one!

  As he stepped towards the horses, his stomach dropped, realizing that hanging from the saddles were human heads!

  Trophies! Miles had heard of such practices, but he thought they were stories told to frighten little children.

  Gulping, he ducked behind an overturned cart pressed against a house and stifled as he saw a group of people already hiding there. Their tear-streaked faces turned to terror as he appeared.

  “I’m not with them,” he whispered urgently, his voice breaking. “Please… be quiet!”

  Hidden beneath a tarp attached to the cart was a family, holding onto each other in terror. There were five of them: a middle-aged man, three small children, and a woman desperately trying to shield the children from view. Miles recognized the man; he was the one who had sold him some rations when he had first come to this village. The recognition made his blood run cold.

  I should have come back sooner. If I’d been here, maybe I could have done something!

  He motioned for them to stay hidden as he tried to form a plan, but his mind was spinning in a constant loop of terror.

  “THIS WAY! HE WENT DOWN THIS PATH!”

  The bandits’ voices echoed between the burning buildings, each time closer than before. Crouching behind the cart, Miles looked towards the family. Deep within his heart, he knew that if he didn’t do anything, they would all die.

  Taking a deep ragged breath, he grabbed a large rock from the ground. His heart pounded so hard he could have sworn he could see his chest moving. Then, with a desperate yell, he dashed from under cover, his quivering voice cutting through the laughter of the bandits.

  “IF YOU WANT ME, I’M HERE! COME AND GET ME!”

  Charging the lone guard near the horses, Miles clumsily drew at the Aether that surrounded him. The wild energy surged throughout his body, filling his muscles with strength. As power rushed into him through the gate of power on the back of his hand, he struck the startled guard on his temple with the rock.

  A sickening crack of breaking bone resonated from the impact as the bandit dropped lifeless to the ground.

  Miles stared at the bloodied rock in his hand, his breath heaving. Letting it fall to the ground, he closed his eyes for a split second, fighting the urge to vomit.

  I killed him. I killed him. I didn’t want to, but I had no choice!

  It was the first time he had killed someone.

  “HE’S OVER HERE! HE KILLED CLAY!” a savage voice boomed.

  Hands shaking violently, Miles grabbed an axe the dead bandit had in his belt, the smooth handle easily slipping out from between the leather belt and the hide pants. Swinging the axe at the ropes that were holding the horses, he mindlessly cut them free, his pounding heart giving him strength.

  Jumping onto the nearest horse, he shouted, his voice causing the other horses to run.

  “GO! GO! GO!”

  Pointing the horse’s head towards Collina, he kicked the horse into motion.

  “CATCH ME IF YOU CAN!”

  “GET HIM!”

  Flattening his body as close to the horse as he could, Miles pushed the horse as hard as he could, his knuckles white around the reins. The sound of whistling tore past him as an arrow blew by his face. Screaming, he touched his face, making sure he wasn’t struck. Seeing his bloodless hand come back, he pushed his horse harder, willing the animal to run faster.

  “They’ll kill me and the villagers if I stop,” he whispered, pressing his face against the horse’s neck. “Please keep running. We need to lure them away but not get caught.”

  Rounding a corner, he unexpectedly struck a bandit who had just appeared in the road, sending the man sprawling to the ground. The horse stumbled but quickly regained its pace.

  “Thank the Ancestors,” Miles breathed out loud. If the horse had fallen, he would have been tossed off and could have broken his neck, or worse, been caught.

  Turning in his saddle, he looked back at his pursuers, noticing that only a few bandits were chasing him. That was not enough. He needed all of them to chase him.

  “I AM THE SON OF LORD NAZAU! IF YOU DON’T CATCH ME NOW, I WILL RETURN WITH AN ARMY AND HANG EVERY ONE OF YOU!” he shouted.

  Fear and Aether put strength into his voice, the mighty roar covering the whole village in waves of sound as Miles made his way out of the village.

  “THAT’S THE NAZAU BOY!” a thunderous voice bellowed behind him. Miles risked a glance back. Dozens of bandits poured out of the village like an army of ants, some giving chase on foot while others scrambled to catch the scattered horses. But Miles had a head start.

  As the miles flew by, the scenery became a blur of browns and grays, the pounding of the horse’s hooves and Miles’ own heartbeat, the only sound ringing in his ears.

  I have to get home. I have to get home, he thought to himself over and over again, almost like a prayer.

  Lost in his thoughts, he suddenly felt his horse stumble, a jolt of dismay running down his spine. The horse was faltering! Had he pushed it too hard?

  Hurriedly, he got off the panting animal and felt guilt strike him. The animal looked like it was on its last legs.

  “I’m so sorry,” he murmured, dropping down to inspect the horse’s hooves. They were in bad condition—blood and grime caked deep within the cracks. Grimacing, he moved along the horse’s legs, inspecting the rest of the animal. The animal was thin and frail, its eyes and coat lifeless. It should never have been ridden.

  He had to slow down. If he kept pushing, the animal would die before reaching Collina.

  Leading the animal on foot, Miles began the arduous trek back home, first walking with the horse for a mile or so before riding him for another mile, then a quick trot. Cycling between walking, riding, and trotting, he single-mindedly made his way back home.

  Traveling across the land, he felt his nerves stretched to breaking. Every few minutes, he kept glancing back, his mind constantly tricking him into thinking that he had heard the bandits. Every sound of an animal or bird caused him to flinch, his head swiveling back and forth in fearful anticipation. His mouth was dry as the desert, and his legs trembled from fatigue, but he kept moving.

  As the conifer-covered hills began to thin, Miles felt the fear that had accompanied him since the village turned to hope. He was almost home.

  “Just a little bit longer. Just a bit. You can do it,” he whispered. Stroking the laboring horse, he felt his heart leap excitedly as he passed stumps and rock formations he recognized. Just around the next bend, Collina would come into view. Ignoring his protesting muscles that had been clenched tight, he slid off the horse, knowing that even if he came into view of the Castle, it would take him another hour or so to reach its gate.

  “Once we reach home, I’ll have the stablemaster take good care of you,” he promised. “Just hang on a little longer. Once I’m home, I’ll ask Father to send his soldiers to take care of the bandits.”

  Turning the corner, he stopped; his mouth dropped open in shock. Collina lay in ruins, the once-proud castle burning softly in the distance.

  “No—no—no!” he muttered in a rabid chant that grew in volume.

  Jumping back onto the horse, Miles kicked it into a gallop, ignoring the protests from the animal.

  The last hour of the trip was a blur, Miles’ mind numb to everything but his need to reach home. The darkening sky threw long, spidery shadows across the land as he galloped by, dark fingers that constantly tried to trip the dying horse.

  When Miles finally reached the still-standing front gate, he slid off the spent horse, falling to his knees as he looked up at the gate. Hanging from the gate were the heads of his father and two brothers, their eye sockets empty, picked clean by crows.

  Tears streaming down his face, he opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Lifting his arms, he reached towards his family before collapsing into a small, broken ball before the gate. Curled on the ground, he started to cry, a timeless fog of agony and grief, his shattered heart tearing into his chest.

  In his mind, images of his family flickered by, his brothers smiling at him, his father laughing as Miles learned to ride a horse for the first time. Father, Cripton, Ryker, Ronan, I’m sorry. I failed you all. I should have been here!

  “There he is! Kill him!”

  “No! That's Lord Nazau’s son! King Borvak wants to kill every member of House Nazau personally!”

  Footsteps came from behind him.

  Not even having the will to resist them, Miles felt strong hands grab him, his hands and feet bound in tight knots. He didn’t even care what was happening.

  “Let's drag him to our king!”

  Physical pain joined emotional pain as Miles was dragged on the ground.

  “Make sure you don't kill him!”

  Laughter echoed between the bandits as Miles was dragged along, the cackling sound like scavengers that had found a dying animal.

  Slowly realizing that they were laughing at him, Miles felt as if the laughter were physical blows, the sound tearing into his soul. They were laughing at the death of his family. Losing himself, Miles started to scream like a tortured creature, a wild, piercing sound that tore itself from him.

  Pain and sorrow drove him mad, his emotions warping as he continued to be dragged, the fear, terror, and sadness changing to anger—an anger so deep and dark he felt his mind burn with it.

  Anger smelted his shattered mind together using the shards of glowing rage, darkness, and pain.

  I’ll kill them! I’ll kill them! I’ll kill them!

  Gritting his teeth so tight he heard his jaw crack, he honed his mind with the single thought of getting free. I’ll kill every one of them when I free myself. I’ll destroy everything they hold dear. I’ll kill them all! Kill them all!