Eld horns sounded the call to retreat. Enemy soldiers poured over the keep walls and fled in chaotic disarray. A dozen tairen flew after the remaining Mages, flames licking at enemy heels, while Celierian and Danae infantry pursued the fleeing soldiers. From the surrounding forest, a hail of Elvish arrows filled the sky, raining down upon the fleeing troops. A black and silver line of Fey warriors blocked off the only remaining avenue of escape.

Scarcely a chime or two later, it was over.

In the ensuing silence, mortal, Fey, Elf, and Danae walked the battlefield, gathering fallen friends and comrades. They helped the wounded to the healing tents, and laid the dead in neat lines at the edge of the forest.

The two black tairen swooped down from the sky, metamorphosing at the last moment into tall, black-haired Fey warriors. Rain Tairen Soul and his father, Rajahl.

A Celierian wearing gold-chased silver armor wiped the blood off his sword with the hem of his blue cape and sheathed the blade at his side. Every Celierian in the Council Chamber recognized the crossed blades and crowned hawk of the Torreval royal family crest.

"My Lord Rajahl. My Lord Rain." Dorian II reached out to clasp arms with the two Fey. "Well fought, my lords.”

Half a dozen mounted, mail-clad Celierian soldiers galloped in from the battlefield. One of the riders broke off from the group, guiding his horse towards the king and the two Tairen Souls. He pulled back on the reins and slid from the saddle with lithe, almost inhuman agility. His chest plate bore the Teleos family crest, a golden tairen rampant on the white field of a rising sun, honoring both their blood ties to the Fey and their devotion to the Church of Light.

"Your Majesty." The rider, Shanis Teleos, approached his king. He removed his helm, revealing Fey eyes of vivid green, shining bright in a face dark with blood and grime. Shanis dropped briefly to one knee in a swift, smooth bow "The enemy is routed, sire." He straightened and turned to the Tairen Souls. "My Lord Rajahl, Rain." A smile flashed in his battle-grimed face as he and Rain exchanged handclasps. "My thanks for your help. We could not have claimed victory without you. Give us a quarter bell to recover our dead and wounded from the field before you burn the Eld.”

"Be quick, my friend," Rain said. "An Elf scout spotted a suspicious caravan not two leagues from here. If there's a Primage or a Demon Prince among them, they'll soon be close enough to summon the souls of the dead. We don't have enough warriors to fight this army again in demon form. A quarter bell, and we fire the field.”

"Understood.”

"Sire!”

Dorian turned, a smile breaking over his face as he caught sight of the approaching knight. "Pellas! Cousin! I am glad to see you well and unhurt.”

Lord Pellas, the king's cousin, didn't return his royal kin's smile. "I'm unhurt, yes, but our uncle's son Theron wasn't so fortunate. Come quick, sire. He lies near death. The shei'dalin does not think she can save him.”

Dorian began to run.

As Dorian neared his waiting cousin, Lord Pellas's eyes darkened and the hand at his side curled tight around the long dagger at his hip, yanking it from its sheath.

"Sire! Beware!" Shanis cried the warning and leapt towards the king's cousin, blades flashing. He separated the assassin's head from his shoulders even as Rain and Rajahl's red Fey'cha thunked home with deadly accuracy in the man's chest.

"Pellas?" The king stared in horrified disbelief at the still-twitching, headless corpse of his cousin and at the blade still clutched in the dead man's hand.

"Did you not see his eyes just as he started to strike?" Shanis said. "They went black as night. I don't know how the Mages managed to turn him, sire, but he was Mage-claimed.”

"I don't believe it. He's close as a brother to me.”

Shanis pried the blade out of the dead man's hand. "This is a Feraz assassin's knife, sire. There is a hollow, poison-filled vein down the center of the blade. The tip is designed to break off inside the victim to release the poison." He planted a boot heel on the knife and snapped it in two. Three small drops of green liquid spilled onto the ground. The soil sizzled, wisps of smoke rising. Several handspans of trampled grass around the spot turned rapidly brown, then black.

"But ... how is it possible? How could I not have known?"

"Do not torment yourself, King Dorian," Rajahl said. "'Tis likely the Mages stole his memories so he was not even aware himself. There is no warning of who is Mage-claimed, until they strike.”

The Spirit weave faded. The ancient lords of Celieria melted into mist, and Rain turned once more to the nobles gathered in Dorian's Council Chamber.

"The Mages have returned. How many of them, I do not know But I do know this: Where there are Mages, there are Mage-claimed. They could live among you, break bread with you, celebrate the marriage of your children, and share the most intimate moments of your life. And the instant the Mages call upon them, they will murder every member of your family while you sleep-slit the throats of the smallest sleeping babes-to please their masters.

"The Fey do not hunger for power-we never have-but the Mages do. Do not open the borders to Eld. To do so is to usher in your own destruction."

Ellysetta crouched, panting. The fiery burn of sel'dor made every muscle tremble, but she forced her pain-wracked hands to move, fingers fumbling beneath her long skirts for the two bloodsworn Fey'cha blades strapped to her calves.