"Well, that's not something you see every day."
"They've found us."
"Whoever they are, they'll taste my broom," Elena muttered, gripping the broom handle tighter.
She marched toward the door. Using the very tip of the broom, she nudged it shut with exaggerated caution.
"See? Just the wind," she said, tapping the broom on the floor. "I didn't quite catch your name."
"I didn't give my name," the man replied. "It's Harthor."
"Well, Harthor, you do know it's rude to walk into people's houses uninvited." Elena put one hand on her hip, the other resting defiantly on the broom. "Wait… what's that sound?"
A deep vibrating hum filled the air like the roar of a tank rolling down the street. But they had no tanks in York Town. Not even close.
A missile-like whistle cut through the sky.
"Get DOWN!" Harthor barked, grabbing Elena and pulling her to the ground just as flaming arrows pierced through the walls. Wood cracked. Fire sparked. Elena screamed, covering her head.
"Stay down!" Harthor shouted over the chaos.
"Where else am I going to go?" she yelled back.
Harthor didn't answer. He stood, thrusting his hand forward; the air rippled like water. A shimmering blue force field erupted around the house, stopping the next wave of arrows mid-flight. They clattered harmlessly to the ground, sizzling.
Elena's eyes widened. "You're a… a mage," she whispered. A real mage. A living mage.
People in York Town had no magic ,none. To them, mages were legends, stories for children. Yet here stood Harthor, a full water mage, bending the elements like they were threads in his fingers.
And then it clicked.
"Oh my gods," she breathed. "You're Harthor. The King's Mage."
"Oh, now you recognize me," Harthor muttered, rolling his eyes. He snatched another arrow from mid-air just before it struck Elena. "I told you to stay down."
"Sorry," she said, flustered. "That was… impressive." She straightened. "What are you doing here?"
"I'll explain later. Right now we need to get out. Is there a back door?" Harthor asked as he reinforced the force field with both palms.
"The basement. It leads into the forest."
"Good. Go. I'm right behind you."
Elena dashed into her tiny bedroom, grabbed her bag, and shoved in whatever she could clothes, a loaf of bread, a knife, her mother's old compass. Her hands shook. The ground trembled under another hit.
She ran to the basement door and pushed but nothing. She cursed under her breath. She had locked it from the outside last week to keep raccoons from sneaking in.
She turned to run upstairs and call Harthor
A swirling blue portal tore open on the staircase.
Three armored soldiers stepped through.
Elena froze.
"Elena Lanstov," the lead soldier announced, "by order of Queen Isis, you are to be brought to Eldrador on account of treason."
"Treason? Treason?! What treason?" Elena shouted, completely bewildered.
"Grab her," the soldier ordered.
The two behind him vanished ,reappearing instantly at Elena's side. Each seized an arm.
"Let go of me! I'm innocent!" Elena struggled, kicking and twisting, but their grips were iron.
The head soldier waved his hand, and another portal formed in front of him ,larger and darker.
"You'll learn the truth once you stand before the Queen."
"Let go of me! HARTHOR! HELP ME!" Elena screamed, her voice cracking.
"And where do you think you're taking her?" Harthor said, appearing behind them like a blue flash.
"To Eldrador, Great Mage," the soldier said carefully, recognizing him at once.
"By whose order?" Harthor asked, stepping forward.
"By order of the Queen."
"Sorry," Harthor said coldly, "but she's mine."
He flicked his wrist and froze the portal solid. In the same movement, he lifted Elena into the air, suspending her safely above the soldiers. A blast of frost shot across the room, freezing the two guards holding her in an instant.
The head soldier crossed his arms in an X; a dark, shimmering shield appeared, blocking the frost. He broke the ice around his legs and stepped forward. With a flash of light, a sword materialized in his hand.
"Forgive me, Great Mage," he said, taking a combat stance. "But I have to take her."
Harthor smirked. "What's your name, soldier?"
"Theon."
"Well then, Theon. Let's finish this quickly. My shield won't hold forever."
Harthor hurled icicles at him. Theon slashed each one mid-air.
He charged, blade humming with magic, but Harthor blinked appearing behind him, then above him, then beside him, teasing him with every miss.
The two danced across the room in flashes of blue and steel, the air crackling with magic and heat.
"You seem to be enjoying this!" Elena called from above, still suspended. She pointed toward the door. "HELLO, more guards!"
Harthor glanced at the door and indeed, soldiers on the other side were ramming it, splintering the wood.
"Alright," he sighed, "playtime is over."
He twisted his hands in a circular motion. The very air shifted; the lights flickered. His eyes glowed a deep ocean blue.
Theon recognized the danger too late.
"Hayanæ," Harthor whispered.
A tidal wave of condensed magic blasted outward, hurling Theon through the wall and sweeping away the guards outside. Silence fell except for the crackle of dying flames.
Harthor snapped his fingers. Elena gently settled onto the ground, legs shaking.
"That… was… so COOL," she breathed. "You are so cool."
"I know," Harthor said lightly. Then his expression shifted to concern. "Can you run?"
"Yeah," she said, breathless but determined.
"Good," Harthor said. "Then we run."
And together, they sprinted into the Forest.
"Hold on… I need to catch my breath," Elena panted, stumbling toward a tree and bracing her palm against the rough bark.
"You do know the soldiers are right behind us, yes?" Harthor asked, one brow raised in mild disbelief.
"Even after we've been running for thirty minutes?" she said between gasps.
"It's only been ten," he replied flatly.
"Give me a minute," she muttered, fanning her face.
Before Harthor could retort, an arrow hissed through the air and buried itself in the tree trunk inches from Elena's head.
Her eyes widened.
"Time to go," Harthor said sharply, yanking her away as another arrow zipped past.
They broke into a sprint once again, feet pounding through the underbrush. The queen's soldiers were relentless, shadows moving between the trees, armor clattering, voices barking orders. Every few strides, Harthor spun around, releasing bursts of crackling magic to slow their pursuers.
But the soldiers kept coming.
They didn't stop until the forest abruptly ended.
Elena skidded to a halt, her breath catching for an entirely different reason this time.
A cliff.
A sheer drop.
And far below, a raging river that swallowed the sunlight.
"Harthor… there's nowhere to go."
He scanned the area quickly ,river in front of them, the queen's men closing in behind. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run.
Harthor exhaled. "Seems we have to jump."
"WHAT? I'm not jumping with you!" Elena cried, eyes blown wide in panic.
"It's either this," he said, gripping her shoulders, "or the Queen's guards."
A voice echoed across the cliffside.
"Harthor, in the name of the Queen stand down."
Both of them froze.
Harthor groaned. "I'd recognize that voice anywhere. Sir Rondon… is that you?"
A tall, broad man stepped into view, armor dark and gleaming.
"Hello, Harthor," Lancil Rondon replied coolly.
Sir Lancil Rondon ,Chief of the Royal Guard. Once the king's most loyal protector. But since the king's illness, his allegiance had shifted to Queen Isis. Rumor whispered he was more than just loyal… that he was the queen's favored companion.
Harthor smirked. "Still serving the queen faithfully, I see."
"It's over, Harthor," Lancil said, eyes cold. "Give me the girl."
Elena stiffened.
Harthor squeezed her hand. "I wish I could… but we have a ride to catch."
Lancil's expression hardened instantly. He knew that tone , he knew Harthor was about to do something reckless.
"Archers!" he barked. "Fire at will!"
Arrows rose into the air.
Harthor didn't hesitate.
He spun, grabbed Elena, and ran straight for the edge.
"Harthor, NO!"
They plunged off the cliff.
Wind roared past them. Arrows sliced overhead. Elena's scream was swallowed by the rush of air then the icy crash of water as they hit the raging river.
Lancil stepped to the cliff's edge, watching the waves churn far below.
"Where does this river lead?"
"Silvan's Glen, sir," Theon replied.
Lancil's jaw tightened.
"Then we ride to Silvan's Glen."
He turned sharply, his cloak snapping behind him as the soldiers moved to obey.