Chapter Twelve

Carlos drew a breath. His large eyes brimmed with astonishment.

Bang!

A swirl of white mist erupted. The raven vanished, and in its place appeared the figures of two middle-aged men.

One was a burly man in black, his hooked parrot-like nose peering at Carlos; the other wore a gray cloak and a metal prosthetic arm—he was missing a hand.

Their faces were swathed in woolen scarves, leaving only their eyes and noses exposed for breathing. Clad in layers of black wool and leather, they appeared somewhat bloated. It seemed even black magicians feared the cold.

“Boy, what are you doing here?” the man in black asked.

“A raven… Who are you?” Carlos replied.

The two exchanged a glance of helplessness.

“Kid, ravens don’t fly up to the city walls,” the other man chuckled, shrugging. “Just don’t fall off, that’s all. We won’t be responsible.”

The wind atop the wall was fierce, biting cold against the skin, tugging at Carlos’s clothes like an impatient lover. The walkway was broad, so there was little danger of falling, but the stone walls were treacherously slick. The passage was strewn with gravel, yet years of footsteps had worn the surface smooth, allowing ice to fill the gaps and swallow the stones.

Behind the two men, Carlos noticed a low doorway to a sentry tower. He squeezed between them for a better look, glimpsing the dim glow of a brazier within, feeling a hint of warmth.

Without a cloak, Carlos’s black hair was dampened by snow, strands sticking wetly to his forehead and cheeks.

He eyed the two men and abruptly asked, “You say ravens don’t fly onto city walls?”

“Of course not,” the man in black replied. “There’s no wheat up here to feed them, and the wind is too strong for resting.”

“Then what is that?” Carlos pointed to the battlements behind them, where a gray-beaked raven perched, fixing the three men with a cold, unblinking stare.

The two magicians started at his words, their eyes clouding with confusion as they turned to look.

Upon seeing the raven—its feathers black as night, its eyes sharp and bright—they said nothing, but immediately turned and withdrew into the low sentry tower, vanishing into the glow of the brazier.

Carlos was left alone on the wall, save for the gray-beaked raven.

Fortunately, the situation was not entirely unfamiliar; he managed to keep his composure.

He sensed no danger in their gaze. He guessed these men were the elemental black magicians Dupu Yi had spoken of the previous night.

The raven had driven the magicians away and now regarded Carlos serenely. Carlos returned the look, blinking.

“Young master of the Stevenson family,” the raven spoke.

Carlos didn’t avert his gaze. He curled his lips in a half-smile, raised an eyebrow, and blinked—no words needed; his meaning was clear: Speak quickly if you have something to say.

His exposed cheeks were flushed red from the cold, and his feet had long since begun to protest.

“I am Cook, from the Westy Magic Association.”

Carlos frowned. This was the secret organization founded by high black magicians to unite the races of the Glorious Empire—its mission, to protect the world from demonic corruption. Independent of the Empire’s government, their creed was the antithesis of the radical wizards who hoped demons would raze the decaying world and build anew.

Carlos grew wary, unsure why such people would seek him out.

Since his visitor would not show his true face, Carlos addressed the raven: “So, what business do you have with me?”

The raven, Cook, fixed Carlos with its gaze and spoke a cryptic phrase.

“This world is beautiful, yet in you I foresee the future—a burning shadow about to devour it.”

Carlos was at a loss for words.

He wanted to press for more, but the raven showed no interest in answering. With that, it spread its wings and dove from the wall.

Carlos leaned over the battlements to watch it go. The wind howled at his ears, and the gravel ground beneath his feet.

The raven’s shadow shimmered like a diamond, a play of iridescent colors twisting skyward like a rainbow bow, rising higher and higher before finally vanishing beyond the northern horizon.

A vast red sun rose from the distant line, spilling its light across Carlos’s face.

He found no sign of the messenger raven he had hoped for, so he turned back, walking slowly.

He passed a colossal catapult as tall as the wall itself, its base sunk deep into the stones, the throwing arm removed for repairs and forgotten, leaving it lying there like a broken toy, half-buried in ice.

From the far side of the catapult came a breathless call: “Young master Carlos? What are you doing here?”

Carlos stopped and saw it was Conrad and Solly.

“Got lost. It’s freezing here,” Carlos replied.

Conrad approached, bundled in layer upon layer of fur and leather, looking even more massive. His cloak’s hood was pulled low over his face.

“Yes, it’s cold,” he said, pulling aside the scarf from his mouth. “But this isn’t a place where one easily gets lost.”

Carlos noticed the tall iron-tipped spear Conrad carried, a broadsword sheathed at his hip.

At Solly’s chest hung a gleaming black-and-silver horn.

“It’s not easy to get lost out here, but inside is a different story,” Carlos admitted. “Have someone make a map and send it to my chambers.”

“Of course. Will you be visiting the new training grounds for your squire candidates?” Solly asked, handing Carlos a white fur cloak.

Carlos stroked the ample fur, cast a final glance at Swordmaster’s Port beyond the walls, then turned to ask, “How did you find me here?”

Conrad pointed to a high tower behind them.

“Murray drew the day shift today. He saw you climbing the wall alone from the watchtower, so the two of us hurried over.”

Carlos looked up at the castle’s highest point, a gentle smile on his lips. “Conrad, Solly, has Maclean had you join the training?”

“Not yet,” Solly replied with a smile, “but Murray’s been allowed to. He even sparred with a squire this morning, and Melonhead no longer drops his sword as often as he used to.”

“Melonhead?”

Solly glanced at Conrad, who, bundled in his heavy gear, did indeed resemble a melon.

“A short fellow with big ears. He saw Conrad practicing sword drills alone in a corner and went over to teach him. Conrad still hasn’t learned the proper grip, so they nicknamed him Melonhead.”

Conrad protested, “Instructor Maclean says I have a talent for heavy cavalry. I don’t need to practice that dull swordplay anymore.”

“That’s just brute strength, not talent,” Solly retorted.

“Strength is a talent, too,” Carlos said with a laugh, and the three of them made their way back together under the newborn sunlight.