Azalea wakes to find herself away from Ostwick and on the run.
Blood. Blood everywhere. Pooled on the ground. Splattered on the walls. Dead staring eyes, the eyes of children. Sometimes. Sometimes it was adults. Sometimes it was impossible to tell, the bodies hacked apart, a hand here, half a head there. Her mouth was open slightly, she could taste the blood that pooled around her. And the smell. The smell of dead bodies, the reek of bowles that had let go, of intestines split open and spilling their contents and, over it all, the tangy metalic scent of drying blood. Blood. Blood everywhere.
Azalea woke with a gasp that quickly descended into a groan, a hand raising to her head. There were bandages there, and it hurt. Blinking, she tried to bring the world into focus as a face appeared before her, blurry, bloodied with a large gash over his face hastily stitched closed, but familiar. Richar. One corner of his mouth, the side that hadn't been sliced open, lifted in a small smile. "Glad to see you're awake," he said, his voice quiet. "We weren't sure if you would for a while."
"You look... Worse than I do," Azalea said, her voice croaky. Her body ached and she was sure she was covered in bruises, but apart from her head she didn't believe she was injured. Hearing the raspiness of her voice, Richar handed a water flask to her.
"Just a little, we don't have much," he said, and Azalea did as he requested, sipping a little of the stale water, swirling it around her mouth and swallowing before handing it back.
"Where are we? How... How did we get out?" she asked as she looked around. There were a few other mages around, a half dozen or so, and four acolytes, all of them injured but all of them alive.
"We're in a cave, somewhere south of Ostwick. After you were knocked out, I got the children to run and held off the templars as long as I could. This had just happened," he waved a hand over his face, "when a dagger opened the templar's throat. There was an elf there I didn't recognise, not a mage, who was fighting the templars alone. He killed them, including Derrek."
Hearing that, Azalea bit her lip and nodded slightly. It was expected, of course if she were alive then Derrek would have had to have died or he never would have stopped until all the mages under his care were killed. But it still hurt. "Was it quick, at least?" she asked. She knew that he didn't deserve a quick death, that he had murdered three students and who knew how many others, but the part that had, if not loved at least been very fond of him didn't want him to suffer.
Richar nodded. "It was. He went the same was as the others, the dagger across the throat so fast it could barely be seen. The elf then spoke in an Antivan accent, he said 'Stay alive, I'll be back once they are dead.' and he left. I did what I could for you when I saw you were still alive, as well as for Sarah, one of my students who was too frightened to run. The elf came back after the sounds of fighting had ended and made sure we got out alright. Thank the Maker the templars had waited until sunset to attack, it was dark by the time we fled and we got out unseen."
"Where's the elf now? I should thank him," Azalea said.
"Gone," Richar replied. "He left as soon as we were safely out of Ostwick. It was a 'happy accident. Or perhaps not so happy accent for those dead,' he said," Richar said, his voice imitating the Antivan accent almost perfectly.
Azalea sighed and closed her eyes, her hand resting on her forehead. "And so now we are apostates," she said, her voice pained. It was not something she had ever thought she would be. She enjoyed living in the circle and, for all its faults, believed it was a good system. The templars had always protected them and she had felt safe around them. Until now anyway.
"Now we're apostates," Richar repeated quietly. "We've decided that the best course of action will be to head south to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, to the Conclave there. Will you join us? Your noble birth could be beneficial, reassuring them that we aren't all blood mages and elves," he said with that same half smile. Richar and Azalea had gone through their training together, though Richar was a few years older than Azalea. The Daelish had always considered himself lucky. In some clans, he said, if a child was born with magic when there were already enough mages for the clan they could be killed. Others would send them to nearby clans who have less mages, or perhaps just abandon them completely. Richar had been sent to the circle instead when there were no other clans nearby who needed him. He had chafed under the circle restrictions more than Azalea had, but had never made any kind of move against them, understanding the need for such things in place. It was just bad luck, he said, to be born a mage and an elf.
"I don't have much of a choice," Azalea said quietly. "If I return home, I'll just bring danger to my family. Provided they even take me back after what's happened. Or I can strike out on my own, but a lone mage is guaranteed to be taken for true apostate or blood mage and killed." She shook her head. "No, I'll come with you. Maybe I can speak reason to this heated discussion, proof that not all circles were abusive all the time."
"Thank you," Richar said and Azalea was surprised to see the relief written on his face; she didn't think it would mean that much to him.
"I've always wanted to make a pilgrimage to the Temple of Sacred Ashes," she added with a half smile.
Richar gave a snort at that. "Well now you'll get to see it up close and personal. Get some rest. We'll be moving in a few hours."