Prologue

~Tranquility~

The Harrowing Chamber is colder than I remember.

I'm only vaguely aware that my entire body is shaking, but it's not about the cold. The last time I was in here, I was about to undertake a trial I knew, deep in my bones, that I would pass.

I'm a strong mage, a good mage. I can keep my wits about me in the Fade better than half the enchanters in the Tower. A tear creeps down my cheek-it's probably the last time I'll get to think that. Soon it'll be I was a strong mage. I was a good mage. I was able to cry.

A sob escapes my lungs, but I'm not ashamed, I'm grateful. I wish I didn't feel so removed from it, I wish my mind hadn't detached itself from my body, I wish that particular self-defense mechanism hadn't kicked in. I want to feel everything-the cold, the crying, the despair. Because soon, all of it will just be 'preference.'

I would prefer not to be made Tranquil.

One of my Templar guards shifts. They're all wearing full plate, helmets included, but I know who that one is. I know from his height, from the breadth of his shoulders, from the patterns of scratches on his left gauntlet and the tiny stain on his purple sash. He's Cullen Rutherford. My Templar. How many times had he retrieved books for me, smiled at me, blushed at me? He was always my rock in this place. Remember, Aderyn. You know Cullen. Templars are people, too. I could always latch onto that simple reminder. And even now, he's people. But he's the powerless sort. Like me. Neither of us has any say in what happens today.

It's all because I'm a fool. I might be able to resist demons, but I could never resist Jowan. He was my best friend, my brother. He tricked me into helping him escape, told me of course he wasn't a blood mage. Of course all his sneaking was about carrying on with Lily. And he got away. What had Irving said? This Rite of Tranquility will happen, child.

I hate that the First Enchanter is always right. I seize the feeling. It might be the last thing that I ever get to hate.

Cullen shifts again. Where is Irving? Where is Greagoir? Maybe...maybe Greagoir will change his mind. Maybe Irving is convincing him. Maybe I'll get to walk out of this room after all, maybe none of this will matter. I could be a Circle mage after all-and I would be the best mage that ever walked these halls. I'd never apply to leave the Tower; I'd never make a fuss. I'd pick something profoundly boring to study. Like plants. I could be a botanist. A really, truly boring botanist.

Because even that sounds like a richer life than the endless stretches of blank stares and mild preferences that I'll actually get.

"So. Okay," I say out loud. Terror shrinks my voice to something closer to a squeak than anything else. "Let's pass the time, shall we?" I'm getting hysterical. My cheeks are still wet from crying, but all I want is to feel my voice in my throat, to talk like myself just one more time. "We'll play a getting-to-know-you game. I'll start. My name is Aderyn Surana, and I'm about to lose my ability to have basic, heartfelt conversations with scary, well-armed people such as yourselves. Now. Your turn." I nod to Cullen, and I pray that he answers. I want to hear a friendly voice one last time.

His hand quivers atop his sword, and his armor creaks at the movement. A few of the others shuffle their feet. I'm not making this easy on them, but I'll be damned if I'll let my effective execution go easy on anyone. I shift my arms in their shackles-if there weren't a half dozen Templars actively trying to suppress my magic, I might've even made an escape attempt. I might do it anyway. Then they'd have to kill me.

It might be better for everyone if I just died. Especially me. It would be especially good for me.

I stare right at Cullen, and I know he's staring right at me. I shift my hands. I won't send my distraction fireball at him, even though it's going to be a pathetically small fireball. Maybe I'll just make a run for a window. Maybe I'll make an epic leap off the top of the Tower.

I can't be the first one who ever thought to do that. I vaguely remember hearing some kind of Apprentices' Quarters legend about somebody who survived it. And the falling to my death might be a bit more fun and dramatic than getting unceremoniously beheaded. Unless Cullen does it. 'Former First Enchanter's apprentice unceremoniously beheaded by a star-crossed, would-be lover' sounds like a good story for future apprentices to whisper to each other after curfew.

"Aderyn-" Cullen's voice carries through the room, muffled by his helm. He shakes head, ever so slightly. I wish I could see his eyes. I wish we could have one of those baffling, juvenile, wordless conversations we've had so many times before. Except maybe we are, maybe he really can tell I'm about to make a break for it, and he's telling me no. I'd rather see him telling me, you are extraordinary. I hope he can see me saying the same thing.

Maybe I'll run across the room into his arms instead. Maybe I'll tear off his helmet and run my fingers through his hair, just like I've imagined doing a thousand times.

Then someone else could kill me. That might be a fun story, too.

I shift to the balls of my feet. I could really do this. I could really dash away to Cullen or the window, towards the kind of pseudo-legendary status I never thought I'd want for myself. I always rolled my eyes at those late-night stories. I was too good, too diligent, too determined to need or want any distractions like that. Another Templar shifts. A third puts his hand on his sword.

I'm going to do it. Blaze of glory. Proper ending. I'm going to give myself a proper ending. My blood roars in my ears, adrenaline narrowing my vision to only a tunnel framed with black, ending with a pretty window.

Footsteps clack against fancy marble floors. Someone is here. More than one someone. I should turn to look at them, but I don't want to see. Voices are dulled by the unsteady beat of my own pulse. They don't ever have to be real for me. But a hand falls on my shoulder, and my head snaps toward the person beside me.

Irving. Irving is here.

"Hello, child," he says. His eyes look bloodshot and sleepless under his heavy brows. Greagoir stands behind him, jaw firm and eyes stony. He's got the brand in his hand. The lyrium brand. The one that he's going to press to my forehead. The one that will take away my ability to feel, to cast spells, to laugh and make jokes and blush and love and hate and cry.

Another sob bubbles from my mouth. I watch as tears fall from my cheeks to the ground, and suddenly I can't stand up any longer, let alone take a running leap out of a window. My knees crash to the ground, and my recently shed tears soak through my silk robes.

It might have been more dignified to keep my composure. Cullen could've told people it was 'quickest, cleanest Rite of Tranquility he's ever seen.' But I have my whole life ahead for dignified. For quick and clean. These are my last moments for messy.

"It will be over soon, child. Think of it like a good rest."

"No," I say. It's the firmest my voice has sounded all morning. "Being blind and deaf is not rest."

But I let Irving, who has been my mentor these last twelve years, since I was barely six years old, help me off the ground. I look Greagoir straight in the eye as he approaches. I won't let him go without seeing me. I won't let him get away with this without watching the fire fade from my eyes.

"Aderyn Surana, you have been granted a mercy," he begins. More well-rehearsed words fall from his mouth, but my mind refuses to hear them.

Mercy. I wish someone would have asked my definition of the word.