1
The city square of Castlemere was alive with excitement that morning, for today the Vermilion Guard would execute the Necromancer. She had plagued the city for months with her curses and dark experiments. It was said that the Crimson Empress herself had hunted her down, though few believed that part of the story Narri Castlereagh rarely left her citadel on the hill.
Castlemere, walled and perched at the edge of the Dominion Forest, sat where the Mirage River met the Whispering Sea. The city was ruled and protected by the Crimson Empress, a powerful Archmage who governed from her hilltop citadel. Alongside her reigned the Vermilion Guard, her personal legion charged with policing and defending the city.
Syd, with little else to do that morning, decided to attend the hanging. A large, lively crowd had gathered in the square, cheering as the Vermilion Guard brought out Dramira the Deathlock, also known as the Necromancer. She was a short woman with long purple hair, a hallmark of one who practiced the dark arts, clad in black robes without a hint of dirt, mud, or wrinkle. As she raised her head to face the masses, the crowd fell silent. Even Syd seemed at a loss for words; one look into her eyes sent a shiver down his spine.
Dramira walked to the gallows unrestrained, the guards seemingly there only for show. For a moment, it appeared that the Hangman himself was the one on trial.
The process of a hanging was usually drawn out, meant to entertain the townsfolk, many of whom had traveled from the outskirts of the Mirage Desert. But not today. The Hangman quickly placed the noose around her neck, pulled the lever, and released the trap without even asking for the customary forgiveness.
The Necromancer spoke no words. No lengthy monologue, no cryptic declaration of “Death is eternal” or “I shall rise again.” She merely closed her eyes and dropped quick, silent, final.
For a long moment, the square was quiet, until a hesitant cheer arose, spreading until the crowd erupted in applause. Syd clapped along, but then noticed a tall, thin Elf in front of him, who did not cheer but scanned the crowd as if searching for someone. Syd might have ignored the Elf, but then a black-hooded figure slipped between them.
The Elf dropped to the ground instantly. Syd lunged to catch him, but as he held the Elf’s lifeless body, he saw the black onyx dagger protruding from his neck.
The hooded figure vanished into the crowd. Screams rang out—one, two, three. Fingers pointed at Syd. Before he could speak, red-tabarded Vermilion Guards closed in.
Syd dropped the body and ran. He knew better than to trust the judgment of a mob gathered for death, and given the city’s feelings toward Malakirs, fleeing seemed the only option.
Malakirs, like all other races, were allowed to live, work, and own land in the Empress’s domain. But cursed from birth by a demon of the Other Side, they were unpopular. Their light red skin and horns only reinforced the misconception that Malakirs were demons in plain sight rather than humans cursed.
Syd pushed through the trading bazaar, aiming for the port, hoping to lie low until nightfall and sail away.
This, however, was not to be.
Renwick and Fig had decided attending the morning hanging was a poor idea. It would not take long for the guards or street gangs to learn that the Human and Elf duo were selling “Magical Elf’s Potions,” claiming to grant the long life of Elves though the mixture was only saltwater and honey. So, instead, they opted for a quiet morning tea before traveling through the Mirage Desert to the next city.
“Just one more cup before we head out,” said Renwick, already refilling his cup.
Fig rolled her eyes. “I’d say we could have tea in the cart, but I’m not looking forward to hiking through that cursed forest.”
“Who says the Dominion is cursed?” Renwick said, tea dripping from his lips.
“A forest in the middle of the desert—no one needs to say it. But if you—” Fig began, only to be cut off by a sudden crash.
A red-skinned Malakir had smashed into their small table, knocking all three to the ground.
Before Renwick, Fig, or Syd could regain their bearings, the shouts of the Vermilion Guards surrounded them. Pushing, shoving, and the cold iron of shackles met their wrists.
2
Ashgate Hold was the oldest structure in Castlemere; once a fortress, later a hospital, then an asylum. Now it served as both the city’s jail and the garrison for the Vermilion Guard. Within its walls, the ancient and infamous lived alongside the arcane, the functional, and the bureaucratic.
Warden Margrave stood behind his podium, sizing up the three newest residents of Ashgate.
He found himself unable to meet the eyes of the Malakir. Something about them; living proof of the Other Side, always unsettled him. And Elves… Elves could never be trusted. In twenty years of service, he had never met one who wasn’t trying to tempt someone into trouble. Many of Ashgate’s residents were here because of such temptations.
Still, he thought, he’d never seen a short Elf before.
So instead, Margrave focused on Renwick. The man had spent a few short stints in Ashgate before, but never for anything this serious.
“Murder?” Margrave said, disbelief dripping from his voice. “Renwick? I suppose it was only a matter of time. Still, I’d have wagered gold on you being the one stabbed in the street.”
Renwick cleared his throat, but the Warden continued reading from the scroll.
“This says you stabbed a noble; in broad daylight, in a crowded street, with Vermilion nearby.” He looked up briefly. “That sounds exactly like something you’d think was a good idea.”
“We were having tea when—” Fig began, but a guard behind her shoved her roughly to the ground.
“Thought you were supposed to be nimble,” Margrave muttered, not looking up.
Syd felt a flicker of bitter relief. Being marked by a demon did wonders for one’s reputation in a place like this. Still, he knew the stories of Ashgate. Elves didn’t fare well inside — especially not female ones.
He considered pleading his case but thought better of it. A noble stabbed in broad daylight, surrounded by Guards, and no one but him saw the figure that truly struck the blow? That wasn’t a simple crime of opportunity . That was an assassination. And saying what he knew aloud would be a death sentence.
“I did it,” Syd said suddenly, louder than he meant to.
The room went still.
“That was quick,” Margrave said, raising an eyebrow. “Confession already?”
“I don’t know who these people are,” Syd continued, forcing his voice to sound rough, unpolished. “I just thought it’d be an easy payday.”
Margrave leaned on the podium, studying him. A Malakir in fine tailored silks, armed with a silvered short sword, hardly fit the company of two known street hustlers.
Renwick seized the moment. “We were planning to head into the desert, my lord, when this gentleman ran into our table!”
“Wonderful,” Margrave said, a glint of excitement lighting his eyes. “Because that is exactly where the three of you are going.”
The trio exchanged uneasy looks.
“You’re being sent to Deathlok Tower, Dramira Deathlok’s residence. I’ve orders to clear it out,” Margrave said, rolling the scroll. “And I’ve no intention of risking my Guards on the task.”
Fig blinked. “You want us to go to the Necromancer’s home? What, to mop the floors? She’s dead!”
“Asset forfeiture,” Margrave replied dryly, still not looking up. “And if you succeed, you’ll be free. But if you run”
At last, he raised his eyes and smiled thinly.
“And my men have to find you… you have my word; you won’t be brought back to Ashgate.”
3
“You know we’re not coming back from the desert alive, don’t you?” Renwick said to no one in particular.
The trio sat quietly in the Devil’s Tango tavern. Fig’s attention was fixed on the fight pit, where a humanoid lion and a giant crab were locked in a brutal, bare-knuckle match, if you could call it that since it was more claw than knuckle. Syd sat back, silent, weighing his options. After only a few hours in Ashgate, they had been released and told to begin their march into the desert at dawn.
The Devil’s Tango was a tavern for the lowborn; a place to spend what little coin you had on forgetting that fact. It offered strong ale, sour wine, and the company of creatures better left unnamed. The pit fights drew the desperate and the damned alike.
Syd had never set foot in the Tango before, though his family owned the land it stood on and held a controlling interest in the wine that fueled its patrons. He decided it was best that his new companions never learned that. If his father discovered he had been arrested, the old man would’ve used every ounce of power and influence he possessed to make sure Syd was convicted and locked away forever.
His father had never forgiven him for being Marked.
Still, there was one reason everyone felt safe in the Tango it was guarded by three giant crab demons who never left the tavern. No one was foolish enough to ask what the owner had sacrificed for such protection.
“So we’re running, right?” Fig asked suddenly, breaking Syd’s thoughts. “The red one can deal with this ‘asset forfeiture’ nonsense.”
“Syd,” he corrected. “That’s my name, little one. And running won’t make this problem go away.”
“He’s right,” Renwick said, leaning back in his chair. “We wouldn’t get far. Something tells me Margrave will have a dispatch trailing us”
He smirked. “So, Mister Syd, why’d you take the blame for a murder you didn’t commit? Who are you running from that makes Ashgate sound like the better option? Please tell me you don’t owe Alder. I just got clear of that woman.”
“What makes you so certain I didn’t kill the man?” Syd asked, trying and failing to hide his surprise.
Renwick laughed. “Please. Your clothes are custom-tailored. Even for a Malbrin, you scream noble.”
“And nobles don’t do their own killing,” Fig added, eyes never leaving the pit.
Syd hesitated, then told them what he had seen in the crowd and how the whole affair had unfolded. Since their odds of surviving the Mirage Desert, let alone clearing out a Necromancer’s home, were near zero.
He let them think he was a lowborn noble with little coin to his name. The last thing he needed was the reminder that, even if he were ransomed, his family would never pay it.
Renwick suggested they stay the night at the Tango; it would likely be their last chance to sleep in a proper bed. Fig agreed, though she thought it was only proper for Syd to cover her losses from the fight pit.
Syd didn’t argue. He wasn’t the cause of their troubles, but he suspected that once the others learned about their “saltwater and honey” beverage venture, trouble would have found them regardless.
4
“Jade. Sage. Teal. Mint,” Fig muttered between short breaths.
“What are you on about?” Renwick snapped, his voice carrying more edge than he’d intended.
“Olive. Emerald. I’d even take seafoam at this point,” Fig continued.
“Those are shades of green,” Syd said evenly.
Renwick turned and stared at him. “It’s been two days in this desert. I didn’t know Elves could sweat.”
“Neither did I,” Fig said, finally breaking from her endless list. “I’m from the Fey Realm. We don’t do deserts. You, on the other hand, should be right at home in this heat, right, Red?”
“It’s been two days and we haven’t seen a single caravan or encampment,” Renwick said, forcing his voice to stay level. “You’d think we would’ve crossed paths with the Marr nomads by now. They handle all the caravans between Castlemere and Keshara.”
“The Marr keep their distance from the tower,” Syd replied. “And the Other Side isn’t all fire and brimstone, from what I’ve read. This heat isn’t exactly pleasant for me either.”
In truth, the heat barely bothered him but he wasn’t about to give Fig the satisfaction.
“And it’s Syd,” he added. “If you keep up with the ‘Red’ comments, I’ll be happy to introduce you to my people.”
Marked Ones didn’t actually communicate with the Other Side, but Fig didn’t know that.
She tried to pretend she hadn’t heard him. She failed miserably.
As midday bled into evening, the party spotted what they first assumed was a mirage fitting, given the desert’s name. A cluster of ruined structures stood beside a shallow water source, the remains of an outpost half-swallowed by sand. A dilapidated tower loomed at its edge, confusing Renwick and Fig, who briefly thought they’d stumbled upon Dramira’s tower.
“This is the Blacksands Outpost,” Syd said. “Or what’s left of it.”
He explained that it had once served as a border marker during the Castlemere War, when House Ravencrest fell and Keshara’s Shahbanu tested the lines. The outpost had stood as a warning, a quiet promise that the border would not move.
Syd considered elaborating on the war and the politics that shaped the region, but thought better of it given his audience.
“At least we’ll have fresh water and walls tonight,” Renwick said, already unpacking their gear.
As the evening fire burned low, Renwick settled onto the carpet Syd had laid out and leaned closer.
“You know you freaked Fig out with that little threat about summoning a demon.”
Syd smirked. “You know, that’s pretty clev—”
Renwick’s words were swallowed by the thunder of hooves.
A massive band of Marr surged into the camp, kicking up clouds of sand. Renwick drew both blades with a soldier’s practiced ease. Fig’s usually gentle expression hardened, her body loose and ready for violence.
As the dust settled, Syd finally saw them clearly.
The Marr nomads of the desert fierce Minotaur warriors mounted atop massive rhinoceroses. Guardians of the sands and the caverns beneath them, they watched the camp in silence, horns gleaming in the dying light.
5
“We are here for water, not battle,” said the large Minotaur, remaining astride his steed if steed was the right word for a domesticated rhinoceros.
The small band said nothing as the dust settled. Syd counted six mounted warriors, each carrying massive hammers and spears strapped across their backs.
“Syd,” Fig said flatly, “this is where you come in.”
She shot him a sidelong look. The fact that she used his name was not lost on him.
Syd searched his memory for anything he’d ever read about the Marr nomads. All he could recall was that they were guardians of the desert, protectors of the caravans that moved between the two desert nations.
“Water and rest is what we seek,” he said, enunciating carefully.
The Marr laughed. The one who had spoken dismounted and approached them at an unhurried pace. Renwick tensed, while Fig shifted closer behind Syd, her hands clenched at her sides.
“Relax, Malbrin,” the Minotaur said. “We are warriors, not raiders. And we speak the Standard.”
He glanced at Renwick. “You can lower your weapons. Desert law, there is no bloodshed at the water.”
He extended a hand. “Caldin, Guardian of the Marr.”
Syd clasped the Minotaur’s forearm. “Syd, from Castlemere. And these are—”
“We know who you are,” Caldin interrupted. “And you are not simply Syd from Castlemere. You are Sydney Calderwyn, Magi of the Rubicon, heir to House Calderwyn.”
Syd closed his eyes and released a slow, measured breath.
Behind him, he could already feel the weight of Renwick’s and Fig’s stares burning into his back.
Renwick let out a slow breath, blades lowering inch by inch until their tips rested against the sand. His eyes never left Syd’s back.
“Well,” he said at last, voice dry, “that explains the tailoring.”
6
“Well, Caldin of the Marr,” Syd said carefully, making a point of not looking at his companions, “how do you know who I am? There’s no chance my father sent you.”
“No,” Caldin replied. “We were tracking what we believed to be a lost cavern when we received a message asking for your whereabouts.”
“The Order…” Syd exhaled slowly. “I didn’t realize the Marr worked with the Order.”
“Rubicon has been good to our people,” the Marr warrior said with pride. “They provide medicines, knowledge, and gifts of the arcane.”
“You said you were tracking a lost caravan?” Renwick cut in.
One of the mounted Marr called out, “Yes. Turned out to be you.”
“Us?” Fig said at last. “We’re not lost. We’re headed to Deathlok Tower.”
Caldin looked down at her. “Yes, little one and you are a day’s travel in the wrong direction.”
Both Fig and Syd turned slowly toward Renwick.
“Hey,” Renwick said defensively, “maybe the Magi here could’ve spoken up.”
“We rest,” Caldin said, ending the discussion, “and on the morrow we will guide you to the tower.”
7
As the Marr made camp, Syd sat staring into the fire. Before long, Renwick and Fig joined him, lowering themselves onto the sand. Fig was the first to speak.
“Mind if we sit here, m’lord?” she asked, her sarcasm sharp enough to draw blood.
“Oh, shush,” Renwick said. “The real question is what is this Order, and why did they send the Marr to look for him? We can get back to the ‘m’lord’ nonsense later. And for what it’s worth, I get why you kept it quiet. A lord alone is just an invitation to get robbed.”
“The Order of the Rubicon is an ancient brotherhood of Knights and Magi,” Syd said. “They are keepers of arcane knowledge and history, and they serve as advisers to the powers that be.”
Renwick tilted his head. “How did you end up with them? Doesn’t sound like a job for an heir apparent.”
Syd figured honesty was the easiest path forward.
“When I was Marked, my father was furious. But as a prominent noble and with me as his only heir he couldn’t disown me. He never believed in the Order; thought it was a glorified myth. Since he couldn’t banish me outright, he sent me to them instead.”
He stared into the fire. “What he didn’t expect was that I’d excel… and earn the rank of Magi.”
Fig watched the flames, refusing to look at him. “So what is that? Some kind of warlock?”
Renwick blinked. “What’s a warlock?”
“No,” Syd said quickly. “I didn’t sell my soul to a demon. Warlocks are powerful, dangerously. They gain in moments what takes a lifetime in my trade to master. And I wouldn’t want to face one head-on.”
“Your trade?” Renwick asked, curiosity rekindled.
“The simplest word would be wizard.”
Fig finally met Syd’s gaze, her expression hard the same look he’d seen moments before violence erupted.
“Then why is the Order looking for you?”
“The Order keeps track of its members,” Syd said evenly. “And I haven’t checked in for a while.”
He let the silence settle, deciding that was enough truth for one night.