The Flame Guard

Zaria Plamenov has never been afraid of the dark. Tonight is no different, despite the unnatural quiet of the Flame-Safe, where the only light is that of the Flame itself. Besides the eternal crackling of the Ravenmoor Flame, she can hear her own heart beating in her ears and her soft, controlled breaths. Her shoes make whispers on the stone floor as she patrols with measured steps, circling the Flame suspended in its gilded, magic-warded cage in the otherwise dark room.

The Flame is a magic thing, requiring magic for fuel rather than wood or other material. Legend has it that the city-flames, like this one belonging to Ravenmoor, were lit by the first mage-king of Aspela, centuries ago. But how this flame came into being is of little consequence to Zaria; what matters now is that, as a Flame Guard, she is sworn to protect the Ravenmoor Flame until her dying breath, and that Ravenmoor is under siege.

Zaria cannot hear or see any signs of battle inside the Flame-Safe. The only ways in and out are the magic-warded, locked door by which she entered at the beginning of her shift and the convoluted ventilation shaft through which she sent her familiar, Yuna, to bring news. The Flame-Safe is deep below Duke Ravenmoor’s castle, at the center of a labyrinth.

“As long as this Flame burns, we will hold them back,” Zaria whispers periodically as she patrols the room. The siege has gone on for weeks, but Ravenmoor’s army is one of the best in Aspela. She has faith that they can withstand the onslaught of the Toshobarian forces at the gates for as long as they need to. Other cities in Aspela have fallen to similar sieges, but Ravenmoor will be different. They are the last stronghold between Toshobarian forces and the Aspelan capital city of Kristalgrad. Whatever comes, Ravenmoor must endure.

The Flame flickers, and Zaria reaches a hand towards it. A small gust of sparkling orange light jumps from her palm into The Flame, and it steadies, becoming brighter. This is her task–to feed the Ravenmoor Flame with her own magic, to keep the light from going out.

Fluttering overhead catches Zaria’s attention. Yuna descends from the ventilation shaft, almost silent. Her snowy feathers look orange in the light of The Flame. Zaria extends an arm, and the owl lands on it, letting out low hoots and trills.

The forces on the walls are struggling. The night is darker than this room–no moon, no stars, only clouds and bitter cold wind, Yuna’s message echoes in Zaria’s mind. The mage nods gravely, then turns her attention to The Flame again. Yuna moves to Zaria’s shoulder as the mage lifts both hands towards The Flame and takes a wide stance.

“Aht-Zakaahl!” she commands, and a stream of fire pours from her palms into the golden cage. The Ravenmoor Flame absorbs her fire, swelling and brightening and dancing with gratitude. “Make them strong. Keep them safe. Let us win.”

Something slams into the door of the Fire-Safe. Yuna darts into the ventilation shaft and Zaria takes her glaive from where it’s leaned against the stone wall, then brandishes it at the door.

“Tsekera-nikhto,” she whispers, casting a simple spell to tell her whether the source of the noise is friend or foe. The blade of her glaive glows red: An enemy approaches. She presses the blade gently against the door and whispers a repetitive chant, strengthening the wards keeping it sealed. On the other side, a man yelps, then curses in Toshobarian. Zaria wishes she hadn’t studied that language as part of her training as a warrior mage.

How did one of theirs get through the labyrinth? Zaria wonders, but then she feels the wards on the door break and decides she has bigger problems to contend with. A moment later, the door swings open. A large, masculine figure is just barely discernible, clad in black against the deep darkness of the labyrinth. His eyes glitter with a reflection of the Ravenmoor Flame.

“Oh, cute,” he chuckles. “They’ve left a child to guard the city flame.”

In response, Zaria shoots a fireball out of the end of her glaive, directly into the intruder’s face. She’s used to people underestimating her because of her diminutive height–not even five feet tall, tiny for an adult human–but that has never made the insults any less infuriating.

The man curses again and bats out the flames on his mask and hood. “A child with attitude, I see. Normally I don’t fight children, but I guess tonight I have to make an exception. Emperor’s orders.” He leaps forward with dizzying speed, a knife in each hand, but Zaria fends him off with deft handling of her glaive. She sweeps it at his feet with a binding enchantment in the blade, but the magic bounces off of his clothes.

“What are you?!” Zaria hisses.

He swings his blades at her again, but she parries the blows with ease and sends one knife clattering across the floor.

“Not bad, for a teenager,” he admits grudgingly. “I suppose you’ve earned an answer. I am Lightbane.”

A chill runs down Zaria’s spine. She’s heard rumors of a Toshobarian spy who can shut down spells and extinguish city-flames, but she never believed they could be true, let alone that she’d find herself face-to-face with him. Her expression hardens and her grip on her glaive tightens.

“Vokhri Glaith!” she cries. Crackling blue and purple flames spiral down the polearm as she thrusts it towards her adversary. He blocks the blade with his own, creating a frightful crash of metal on metal that echoes in the Flame-Safe, but the flames rush down his arm and across his clothes. Sickly teal runes appear and shatter across the fabric wherever the Flame Guard’s spell touches. Then Zaria pivots around her enemy, drops the glaive to the floor, and trips him with it while he’s distracted.

While the Flame Guard’s maneuver works this time, Lightbane catches himself and pops back up to standing with seemingly minimal effort. “That’ll be enough of that,” he growls before shouting something that’s lost as a deafening silence fills the room.

Zaria tries to speak, but though her lips and tongue move, no sound is to be heard. Her mouth sets in a grim line. He’s cast a silencing spell, meaning that no magic requiring words to cast will work as long as his magic lasts.

She has spells she can still use, but Lightbane comes after her with a vengeance, once again with a knife in each hand. They dance through hand to hand combat all over the Flame-Safe, with Zaria always closest to the Ravenmoor Flame. With no sound, the fight is eerie and desperate, and Zaria can’t cast the spells she wants while he’s swinging swords at her like this. Something has to give, she thinks, and then she manages a parry that lets her slip next to Lightbane and plunge her own dagger into his bicep.

He roars in pain as the silence breaks with his concentration. Zaria takes one hand off her glaive and makes the signs to call forth fiery flowers from the floor. They rise in seconds, brightening the room with their orangey glow. Lightbane kicks one and shouts again as flames lick up his pant leg.

“You little witch,” he snarls.

“No child,” she smiles in satisfaction before lunging at him again with her glaive, intending to run it through his heart.

But Lightbane dodges, and as Zaria hurtles past him, he grabs her shoulders and slams her to the ground amongst her own fire-flowers. The flames tickle her but cause no harm; they do not burn their creator.

“Enough,” he says, his voice echoing in the small room. While Zaria clambers to her feet, Lightbane approaches the Ravenmoor Flame, presses his hands together, and then pushes them against the cage. “VAI KHRAVATIK!”

The Flame wavers a bit under this attack, but then bounces back. He tries again and again, louder and harder and faster each time, but The Flame remains resolute, flickering but never extinguishing.

Behind him, Zaria whispers “Aht-Zakaahl” over and over again, glaive and hand extended towards The Flame. Fire streams from her palms to the cage, more than replenishing whatever damage Lightbane’s spell might be doing.

“How long do you think you can keep that up?” Lightbane demands, whirling on her. She drops her spell and brandishes the glaive at him, ready to fight again. “You think Ravenmoor is special, that you won’t ultimately fall to Emperor Khatriku’s forces? Every city in Aspela has a flame like this that protects it and gives it life–Embermire and Arrowdale, Westmore and Shadowhorn, Elderreach and Blackwell. I extinguished them all.” He chuckles darkly, then looks down at her with terrifying determination. “And yours will be the next to fall.”

Zaria hears a whisper of wings overhead, and a small but confident smile lifts the corners of her lips. My sisters-at-arms are coming.

“Over my dead body,” she declares, lunging for him once again.