Silence crouched like a hunting beast over the packed chamber. All eyes strained toward the figure in chains at the foot of the cleric's dais. From the high platform, grim-faced members of the tribunal glared down at the small boy trembling before them. 

“Elyssandro Santara Ruadan, you stand accused of the capital crime of witchcraft,” Cleric Kraul's voice boomed from the vaulted ceiling. 

Ely kept his eyes fixed on the white-robed figure looming above. An iron gag clamped tight over his mouth. The cleric drew breath to continue his proceeding when the chamber doors burst open with a clang.

“Stop this madness!”

Ely’s heart skipped to a note of hope. Uncle Misha would save him. He was the king’s brother. They had to listen to him. Didn’t they? 

The prince limped toward the dais, his cane cracking thunder bursts against the stones. Red-hooded templars crossed blades before the platform, barring his path.

“Free him at once,” Prince Misha bid. 

Cleric Kraul peered down the length of his nose, a formidable scowl on his face. “No one is permitted to interfere in the tribunal of a witch. Your authority ends at the threshold of this chamber.”

The prince drew up, helpless in his fury. Ely's limbs began to tremble. Creeping cold whispered beneath his skin. 

Not now, he begged. 

The ice subsided, bending to the full concentration of his will. No one knew his secret. If he could only keep it hidden, they would let him go home.

“The House of Ruadan recognizes the authority of the Holy Canon, your Eminence,” the prince said, “for a credible accusation, but this is preposterous. My nephew is not a witch. He's just a child.”

“You may rest in comfort knowing the tribunal of the One does not convict absent proof,” the cleric replied.

“And what proof do you have?” Prince Misha demanded.

The cleric gestured to a templar at the small side door of the chamber. Ely inhaled sharply, knees knocking again as he took in the slender figure escorted to the witness stand. He was bloodied and bruised, one eye swollen shut but recognizable all the same. 

“State your name for the tribunal,” the cleric commanded.

“Al…Alexei…Prince Regent Alexei Santara Ruadan,” came the stammered reply. 

Ely stared at his brother, pleading silently. 

“State the accusation which you bring against Prince Elyssandro,” the cleric prompted.

“Ely…” Alexei faltered a moment. “Elyssandro used death magic to raise our mother…Terésa Santara's corpse from the grave.” 

“Your Eminence, it is clear that lies have been beaten into his mouth!” Prince Misha's exclamation rang, but a faceless templar restrained him. 

“He has Death’s Gaze across his ribs on the left side,” Alexei continued. 

The cleric motioned with his hand, and the templar seized Ely. His heart clanged in his chest. He froze. Unable to think. Unable to resist. The templar produced a knife and slit Ely's nightshirt, jerking the folds from his shoulders. Another forced his arms up as high as the shackles permitted. The crowd gasped at the raised scars revealed. A triad of stars standing out stark and pale against his copper skin. 

Hisses exploded through the chamber. 

“Witch!”

“Demon!”

“Monster!”

Fear rushed in once again, and the flicker inside him burst to full anarchy. This time he could not contain it. His eyes rolled toward the back of his skull, and he saw only a haze. Icy blackness slithered around his arms, shearing through his shackles and unlocking the gag. Freedom! 

The gathered men screamed as he leaped from the platform. Vacuous darkness spewed from him like smoke from flame. The doors of the chamber burst open with a flick of his hand. 

Ely charged into the cobblestone streets. His sight cleared as Death’s presence dissipated about him. He rounded a bend and collided with a figure that sent him toppling to the ground. Scrambling to his feet, he found himself face to face with his uncle. 

They stood immobile. Eyes locked. Ely's heart sank as he thought he saw Prince Misha reaching for the sword at his hip. Instead, his uncle tugged loose the buttons of his jacket and held out the garment. It draped to his knees as Ely threw it about his shoulders. His uncle removed his sword belt where rapier and dagger both clung. This too he offered. As Ely reached for the weapons, his uncle's hand closed about his wrist. 

“Run,” he commanded. 

“Uncle–”

Prince Misha squeezed his wrist, the pressure painful. “Do not stop until you find the other side of Death's Vale.” 

“Death's Vale?” Ely protested. “No one can cross–” 

“You can,” Prince Misha insisted. “If anyone can survive the Vale, it is you. Do not look back, Elyssandro, do you understand me?”

“Yes, Uncle,” he replied. 

The prince released him. A tear shimmered in his eye, but he blinked it away.

“Go!” he barked. 

Ely obeyed, securing the belt around his waist as he ran. Beyond the city walls, past the last watch tower, the dead waste greeted him with a howl of wind and a swirl of dust.

***

Eerie light spilled through the clouds onto stones twisted and crushed beneath thorn-ridged vines. Nothing stirred. Not a bird in the sky or a crawling insect. Perhaps it was the calm after the storm, or perhaps this land truly did not grant passage to the living. 

Ely had fled deep into the night, fighting the raging wind until he collapsed under the cover of a crumbling wall. After a fitful sleep, he wandered on, driven by terror of every shadow. It was near dusk when he began to hear the sounds of the dead. At first a rustle on the stones behind him. Then groans drifting from derelict ruins. 

A lurching collection of corroded flesh rose up from the ground before him. Ely drew his uncle's rapier from its sheath. He detested sword lessons, but the years of forced repetition might save him now. 

With an unbalanced vault and thrust, he dispatched the ungainly monster. Or so he thought. It rose once more with a chilling moan. Ely cut it down again, now breaking into a run toward a stone archway. A snarling corpse blocked his path, strips of thin, withered skin stretched taut over bleached bones.

Ely dodged the monster, tripping over a loose stone and striking his head on the hard ground. Pain vanished. Vision dimmed. Something else, something cold and vast, flowed into him. The monster sprang, bony fingers grasping. Ely raised a hand. The skeleton stopped, its arms dropping to its sides. It stood motionless. Waiting. 

Ely flexed his fingers, a silent command rippling between them. The corpse turned, its bones creaking as it walked away. 

“It's been a thousand years since your kind have walked the Vale,” hissed a voice like rusted, scraping metal.

A figure emerged from the shadows clad in a hooded gray cloak. Ely stood rooted in place, watching it draw closer. Though every instinct screamed to run, he could not bring his body to obey. 

Throwing back her hood, the stranger gazed at him through pale, milky eyes. Her waxy skin, mottled gray and green, looked half-decayed. Long silver hair draped her shoulders like cobwebs. 

“You're just a child,” she observed. “What is your name, warm blood?” 

“Elyssandro Santara Ruadan,” he replied. 

“Ruadan, is it?” the stranger mused. “Won't someone be missing you? I can return you to Saint Lucio if you've lost your way.” 

Ely shook his head. “I can't go back there.”

The stranger nodded. “I am Dr. Selene Faidra.”

“Good to meet you, Dr. Faidra,” Ely said with a stiff bow. 

The stranger laughed, exposing a row of sharp teeth, eerily stained red. “Such a polite little prince you are, Elyssandro Santara Ruadan.”

“Are you a witch?” Ely asked.

“I am a scientist and a scholar,” Dr. Faidra replied. She regarded him for a long moment, then finally commanded, “Follow me.” 

“Where are we going?” Ely asked. 

“You will be safe with me at the University,” she said. 

“And what do you need in return?” Ely asked, wary. 

“In time,” Dr. Faidra replied with an unsettling smile. “Do we have a bargain?” 

Ely inclined his head. “Yes.”

“Good. Then follow me, warm blood.”