I woke up the next morning after the ordeal of nearly getting my braid cut off and Astrid almost committing several crimes against fellow clan members. I rubbed my brown eyes, trying my best to wake up after that ordeal, and focused on the problems of today. Which was, well, truthfully, I didn't know, but then something flashed into my mind from yesterday.
I can bring her home.
"Bring her home," I muttered quietly.
Bringing Mom home was something I had dreamed about ever since she didn't come back that day. But that was just a child's fantasy, a longing of a kid who missed their mother. Now, after nine years, I could bring her home and see her again.
I thrust my arms down at my sides, standing firm and tall, ready to show the world my confidence. I braided my hair into the familiar warrior braid of the Maris Clan, then quickly got dressed. I chose a long-sleeved white blouse and added a blue vest over it. Next, I threw on some brown shorts that were a little too short for me and pulled up my socks. I finished off my outfit with brown loafers and tied a blue ribbon around my chest, creating a collar that completed my look. I fastened my Anima to my belt, making sure it was secure. I glanced in the mirror for a brief moment, and I frowned. I hated how I looked. I appeared so much like a child; in fact, I felt like I looked like a girl. Many people who didn't know me often mistook me for one at first glance, and even after that, they still struggled to figure it out. The boys my age were a few inches taller than I was and significantly more athletic and muscular. In addition, some of the girls were taller than I was.
I simply sighed. There was no time worrying about that. I need answers about Mom, and the first person to ask about her would be his father, Callan Everwind. He rarely spoke about her, and even when he did, it was always somber, never about the time she left.
I hope he is willing to talk about her. I thought
I stepped out of my room and glided down the polished wooden staircase, the sound echoing softly against the walls. As I wandered through the hallway, I peeked into the various sunlit rooms, my heart set on finding Father. The Everwind Household was a harmonious blend of comfort and elegance—not overly grand, yet not diminutive—tailored perfectly to meet their needs.
The inviting scent of home-cooked meals wafted from the kitchen, while the multiple bedrooms promised warmth and rest. A sturdy storehouse stood ready to protect their provisions, and the cool ambient air hinted at the secrets hidden in the cellar. The dining room, filled with rustic charm, awaited laughter and feasts, while Father's private study offered a quiet retreat for contemplation and creativity. What truly set this home apart, though, was the luxurious internal bathhouse, where steaming water flowed effortlessly—a marvel of dwarven engineering, a testament to their alliance with the illustrious Virelian Empire from the mainland. Here, amidst the walls of solid stone and warm wood, the essence of connection and comfort enveloped the Everwind Household, making it a sanctuary for all who dwelled within. I found Father in the dining room, already seated and eating breakfast. The early light coming through the tall windows glinted faintly off his armor — a polished breastplate that seemed to catch every stray ray of morning sun. Even at home, he dressed the part of the king's war counselor, ever prepared, his olive cloak draped neatly over his shoulders and his posture upright with the quiet authority of someone long accustomed to command. His hair, a soft gold tied back loosely at the nape, framed a face that carried both kindness and discipline — the kind of expression that could reassure soldiers one moment and silence a court the next. The green of his eyes, sharp yet warm, flicked up briefly when he noticed me, and he smiled in that calm, knowing way of his. I had woken up early enough to catch him before he left for Calbourne, where his duties awaited him — advising the king and overseeing the clan's military affairs. Still, despite being my own father, walking up to him felt awkward and strangely difficult. The matter I had come to speak about made my chest tighten with nerves, and for a moment, I almost wished I had stayed in bed.
He noticed me approaching and gestured for me to sit down. "Good morning, Lorien," he said, "It's good to see you up bright and early."
I sat down at the table with him, fidgeting, trying to keep myself composed for the difficult conversation ahead.
"Good morning, Father." I said quietly, "I uh I have something important to ask you if it is alright, that is." I added, each word a struggle to say as I avoided eye contact.
Father obviously noticed my discomfort; it was hard to hide anything from a warrior with such keen awareness.
"What's wrong, Lorien?" he asked with a fatherly tone.
I paused momentarily, unsure how to phrase my question delicately. Then I took a deep breath. "Father, what can you tell me about mother, specifically why she left?" I quickly asked
Father held his brow and took a deep breath." I knew this day would come sooner or later," he said, "Although I thought I had a little longer before you would ask," he added
Huh? My mind stuttered, freezing up as I tried to grasp what he meant. A little longer… He was going to tell me later? Later, when I was stronger, braver, when I wasn't such a useless mess? When was I finally someone who could be called a warrior?
My chest tightened, breath catching. Don't panic, Lorien. Don't panic. I whispered it to myself like it might hold me together, but my hands still trembled. He hadn't told me because—because he thought I wasn't ready. Because maybe he believed what the others whispered about me. That I was too fragile, too strange, too small.
And yet… beneath the fear, a spark flickered. Maybe—just maybe—he thought I could be ready someday.
"What did you want to tell me?" I asked my voice to be lower than it was.
"Something that me, the King, and Mom discussed right before she left," he explained.
The King was involved? This was something I hadn't expected when I initially committed to this goal, as this conversation revealed more about Mom than I already knew. This just left me with a lot more questions than I had initially, but this was progress.
"What is it, Father?" I asked, "Why was the King in on why she left?" I exclaimed.
He stood up and grabbed his cloak with a smirk on his face. "Let's get with the King; he will help explain," his Father explained.
My face went pale as snow, "You mean meet Old King Tharion, the legendary hero of the War in the East!" I exclaimed.
I didn't think I could face-to-face with a legendary man, whose exploits had impressed the militaristic Virelian Empire and struck fear in the hearts of elves whom they had faced. I wasn't even born yet, even Father hadn't married Mom yet, only to Astrid's birth mother, who passed away during childbirth.
"You can drop the old part of it," his father said.
I exclaimed in embarrassment from my comment, "Of course, Father, I-uh apologize for disrespecting the king."
He playfully ruffled my hair. I didn't like it when people did that, as it usually messed up my efforts to maintain a neat appearance, but I knew he did it to show his affection for me.
"Can you stop, Father?" I said, batting his hand away. "If we're going to see the king, I need to look presentable."
He just laughed. "Of course, you don't want to embarrass yourself on your first meeting."
My face turned red, and I felt my cheeks heat up as I looked away from him. "That's not true," I said shyly.
That was a lie; I did care. I wasn't about to ask the King about Mom without looking presentable. I'll be an idiot; the clan already hated me for just existing. I didn't need to add more fuel to the fire.
"Come on, let's get going," Father said, breaking me from my thoughts.
We left our household and made our way through Ironclad toward Calbourne Hold—the palace and stronghold of my people. Built into the side of a formidable mountain, Ironclad was my home, a place of rugged beauty and unyielding strength. Stone buildings climbed in tiered layers up the mountainside, each offering a breathtaking view of the valley below. To strangers, the city might have seemed harsh and intimidating, but to me it was a monument to my ancestors' legacy. Nearly five centuries ago, the founders of the Maris Clan had carved it from the rock, making it endure. Our path led us to Calbourne Hold, the grand fortress where the King of Ironclad resided. The stronghold dominated the skyline, its towering battlements and impregnable walls merging seamlessly with the mountain's face. It was both a fortress and a symbol of power, its shadow stretching across the streets like a reminder of the city's strength. No matter how often I approached it, awe and unease stirred within me—the vastness of the stronghold always made me feel small. As my father and I wound our way through the narrow streets, I absorbed the sights and sounds that defined my daily life. The clang of hammers striking metal rang from the forges, a steady rhythm of industry that captured Ironclad's spirit. Armories and training grounds stood busy with warriors, honing their skills and preparing for whatever trials awaited. The air itself seemed weighted with purpose and pride, the breath of a city built on heritage and endurance. Yet Ironclad was not all stone and steel. For all its austere grandeur, the city pulsed with life. Marketplaces bustled with shouting merchants and bartering townsfolk, while communal halls echoed with laughter and conversation, warmth blossoming in the heart of the fortress-city. Temples dedicated to the Goddess of the Isles—the one who raised the islands from the sea and guided our three clans to their homes—stood watchful, their presence a constant reminder of our traditions and beliefs. From the higher echelons of the city, I saw the river valley below, where the farmers of the Maris Clan grew the food needed to support the powerful clan, and they were trained and capable warriors far better than I.
I let out a heavy sigh at the thought. Of course, they were born with fire in their veins and the drive to be proud warriors, while I stood apart, just a lonely mage in everyone's eyes. As I glanced around Ironclad, I could feel the stares burning into me, as though my very existence was offense enough. Even with Father at my side, their coldness didn't waver.
Sensing the weight on me, Father nudged my shoulder. "Hey, it's alright," he said gently.
I lifted my gaze to him, eyes wide and pleading, waiting for his wisdom to wash away the ache. "Is it?" I asked softly.
He hesitated, then sighed. "Some folk don't despise magic and mages the way the Clan does now. It's just—"
"It's just what?" I pressed.
He drew in another breath, heavier this time. "It's just that the war on the mainland changed us. Once, magic wasn't hated so fiercely, but still shunned. But the horrors left scars, and they hardened many—especially the king's son, Darion. He's been stirring up the younger ones, radicalizing them against all things arcane."
That didn't ease my thoughts; it just made it worse, and I feared for the worst when Darion took the crown, whatever he had planned for mages.
"That doesn't help ease my mind," I said, puffing out my cheeks.
"I know, but King Tharion likes magic; he liked Mom's spells," Father added.
My whole demeanor changed once he said that. The King likes magic? Hearing that made me feel a little better about my magic, so I smiled a little. "Really," I asked.
"Really," he simply said
In that moment, everything changed. I finally had some confidence in myself because of the king. The clan could change. I thought. Though I doubted that could happen in my lifetime, there was always hope. As we traveled through the city, Father finally arrived at the stronghold where the King resided. Calbourne Hold — the very heart of Ironclad — rose before us, carved into the mountainside itself. Founded by the First King of Ironclad, Maris of the Maris Clan, it stood as both a fortress and a monument to the indomitable spirit of our people. My breath caught as I looked up at it. The towering battlements and massive walls seemed to grow out of the mountain's face, a seamless blend of stone and strength. Every inch of it spoke of power, endurance, and the weight of history. The entrance was a colossal gate reinforced with iron, its surface etched with carvings of ancient battles and long-dead heroes. Guards in gleaming armor stood watch, their eyes sharp and unwavering. As I approached, pride and unease warred within me — pride in the legacy of Ironclad, and apprehension for what awaited inside. This was where the fate of our city was decided, where every word carried consequence.
Inside, Calbourne Hold was no less magnificent. The halls soared high, their ceilings upheld by massive stone pillars that echoed every footstep. Tapestries hung from the walls, their bright threads telling the Maris Clan's storied past, vivid even against the cold gray stone. The air smelled faintly of burning torches and metal — the scent of both ceremony and war. The central chamber was breathtaking: vast, solemn, dominated by a throne carved from a single piece of black stone. Symbols of power and protection adorned it — fitting for a ruler of Ironclad. Around it gathered advisors and warriors, their murmurs of strategy filling the air. Sunlight streamed through high windows, casting shifting patterns across polished floors that mirrored the flickering torchlight. Despite its beauty, the place carried a harshness — a utilitarian strength that reminded me this was no mere palace. It was a fortress built to rule and to endure. From the battlements, I could see the city of Ironclad sprawling below, the river valley stretching far into the distance. The view stole my breath. For a moment, I felt the full gravity of what this place meant — the heart and soul of our people, the embodiment of their resilience. Yet even as awe filled me, so did a sting of bitterness. The Clan might see me as less than nothing, but standing there, I felt the pulse of something greater — something worth fighting for. My father said nothing as he led me through the winding corridors until we reached a great pair of oak doors. I swallowed hard, the weight of Calbourne Hold pressing down on me, and stepped forward into whatever awaited beyond.
"Make sure to be on your best behavior," Father told me.
I nodded slowly. My heart was pounding, but I did my best to keep calm as we stepped into the chamber. The heavy doors creaked open, revealing the man I had only heard about in stories — the famed war hero of the War in the East, King Tharion.\
He appeared older than I'd imagined—perhaps in his late fifties or early sixties—with long, silver-gray hair pulled back in a loose braid and a neatly trimmed beard. His amber eyes were sharp and discerning, catching the light with a keen glimmer that made my own softer gaze feel almost dull by comparison.
"Greetings, Your Majesty," my father said, bowing deeply. I followed his lead, lowering my head in respect.
The old King waved a hand dismissively. "There's no need for that, Callan."
My father rose, and I quickly mirrored his movements.
The King's eyes settled on me, his expression softening. "Hello, young man. You must be Loretta's son."
"Y-Yes, Your Majesty," I replied quietly, my voice catching a little.
He chuckled, his gaze warm. "I thought as much — you look just like your mother."
I felt heat rush to my face, a faint blush blooming across my cheeks. The King noticed, smiling kindly before gesturing for me to sit beside him.
"There's no need to be shy, Lorien," he said gently.
He leaned closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. "Most folks don't know this, but I've always liked magic."
My head tilted slightly. "Really?" I asked, surprised.
"I was quite fond of your mother's skill — and her power," he said, his tone fond and nostalgic.
My chest tightened. "What was she like?" I asked softly, my hands trembling slightly. "I-I don't remember what her mana felt like."
It was true. Mom rarely showed her magic, even when she trained me for the short time we had between when I awakened at seven and when she left shortly after. The few glimpses I'd seen were hazy in my memory — just flickers of light and warmth. Human magic drew its strength from emotion, and I always wondered what hers had felt like… what she had felt like.
The king's eyes grew distant as he recalled her. "It was wondrous," he said at last. "She was powerful — and the spells she wove were beautiful."
I took a seat beside him, the initial nervousness fading. The kindness in his voice soothed me, and a small smile crept onto my face.
"So, Lorien," the king said, "what can this old man do for you?"
"It's… It's about my Mom," I said hesitantly.
He sighed, much like my father had earlier that morning. "I see. Well then, where to start…" He closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his thoughts.
"Do you remember the Outbreak from seven years ago?" he asked.
"Yes, Your Majesty," I said. "I was very sick. Mom cared for me the whole time."
"That's right," he said, nodding. "Our alchemists struggled to find a cure. Your mother volunteered to go across the Isles to seek what we needed to save the clan."
He paused. "And as you know, she succeeded."
My throat tightened. "Then why didn't she stay? She saved the clan! Why isn't she back home with Astrid and me?"
The king's gaze softened, a shadow passing behind his eyes. "That," he murmured, "is… more complicated than I wish it were." He turned toward the window, the light catching on his crown before he faced me again. "When the clan began to heal, they needed someone to blame. They turned on her… and, in time, some even turned on me." His voice lowered. "She should have stayed, but she refused. She was convinced the Outbreak wasn't natural — that someone had cursed us."
A chill ran down my spine—hexes — forbidden, mysterious magic that could bend the world itself. I'd read about them in grimoires: curses capable of felling entire nations, said to be a twisted and mortal version of the power of the primordial Abyss.
"She came back briefly," the king continued, "long enough to deliver what we needed for the cure. Then she left again, determined to find the source of the Outbreak. I haven't heard from her since."
He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Lorien. I'm sorry for sending your mother out there. I'm sorry I robbed you and your sister of her."
I clenched my jaw, fighting the tears that burned at the corners of my eyes. My mother — somewhere out there, lost to the Isles or worse. I might never see her again.
"Thank… thank you, Your Majesty," I said shakily, forcing the words past the lump in my throat.
He nodded. "You're welcome, Lorien. And again — I am truly sorry."
I rose from my seat, bowing my head before turning toward the door. My father placed a firm hand on my shoulder.
"Wait outside for a moment, Lorien," he said quietly. "I need to speak with the king in private."
I nodded and stepped into the hall. The door closed behind me with a heavy thud, leaving me alone in the dim corridor.
Mom can't be dead, I thought. I know it in my heart. She's alive. She has to be.
Everything the king said, everything my father had told me — none of it changed what I felt deep inside. Mom was strong. Stronger than anyone.
I slid down against the cold stone wall, clutching my hands together and whispering a prayer. "Alaya, Lords of the Isles, please… keep her safe. Bring her back to us."
Then, as if a spark ignited inside me, I felt resolve take root. I wiped my eyes, stood tall, and tightened my hands firmly into fists in front of me.
"I'll find you, Mom," I whispered. "So please… be alive."
At that moment, I made myself a promise — one I would carry for the rest of my life. I would bring my mother home.