In the introductory chapter of Oath & Ember, As the Cloud Dancer races toward Eola, Flur tends to Rhyslin’s unconscious form with deep guilt, feeling she failed to stop him from overextending his power. Rana offers wry support but ultimately snaps Flur out of her spiraling self-blame with fierce affection and a mock-threatening challenge, reminding her of the strength she must maintain. Flur contacts Ria through the mirror, confessing what happened. Ria, though initially angry and frustrated by the distance and delay in learning of Rhyslin’s condition, quickly sets aside blame and prepares to join them in Eola. She rallies her household, including Rowena and the ever-loyal Kenna, for an immediate departure.
In a surprising turn, Ria receives a message from the new sheriff of Eola—Balgair. His grounded, respectful manner catches her off-guard, warming her typically composed demeanor. With the mayor jailed, Balgair offers the mansion as lodging, and Ria accepts. Rowena confirms her bond to Rhyslin, further deepening their shared connection. The chapter closes with Ria and Rowena preparing to depart, the mirror’s encounter with Balgair leaving a subtle impression on Ria. Tensions soften into action, as the household mobilizes to reunite and care for their fallen leader—each woman determined to face the next chapter together.
The winter winds still blew through the small frontier town of Eola, bringing more snow from the Great North.
In the center of town, where the original courthouse still stood, a rarely used travel circle came to life, the gemstones set on the four cardinal elemental points lighting up in reds, blues, greens, and yellows. The long disuse of the circle caused it to smell of dust, granite, and rust.
Then, as if coaxed back to life, a great door of star metal appeared and unfurled to reveal a shadow portal behind it.
For a few minutes, the portal flickered, then settled into an inky darkness that released the smell of flower gardens from the other side of the portal.
Amidst the sights, sounds, and smells of the newly reactivated portal, a man stepped out. He scanned his surroundings as if looking for an enemy ambush. When none appeared, he raised his hands, pulled down the black cowl of his cloak, and sniffed the air. He was a man, that much was sure, but he wasn’t tiene, the basic stock of Crannic life. His dark skin, green eyes, and pointed ears marked him as a Ciad-Ghin, one of the first peoples of Crann Na Beatha.
If anyone asked, he would always say that he was a Mac nan Gainmheach Loisgte, a son of the Burning Sands, the great desert to the west of the Bazaan Confederacy.
His name was Torval, and he was here at the behest of the woman who was once queen Ilyriatri Sholliar Roinag, now Ria, the Bhanna of the enigmatic Draoidh, Rhyslin Darkblade.
After stepping away from the travel circle, he knelt on one knee and brushed away the snow. He could feel the Saorsa’s spirit in the small grass seedlings where they lay frozen in the ground, waiting for the coming of spring. “It should already be spring here.”
Since the forest goddess Astinmah created a storm to trap her son, Rhyslin, at Dùn nan Trì Aibhnichean back at the beginning of the year, it hadn’t been the same.
Torval rose, wondering if the world would ever be aright again.
Suddenly alert, he glanced around for the presence he could feel at the periphery of his thoughts.
“Suilad na Eola. Aníron i dhû naid ú-chebinin bain.”
Torval shook his head at the passable attempt at a greeting and completed his turn to find a tall man standing in the shadow of the old courthouse. He judged the man to be about six feet tall. Intelligent brown eyes peered out from under the brim of a black hat that was creased on one side. The strange-looking duster coat hid the rest of the man. The sound of the man shifting indicated a hard leather coat.
“Thank you for the greeting,” Torval spoke in concise Crannic. “I do speak common Crannic.” His right brow furrowed. “Though I do not think it was you who greeted me.”
The other man flashed a grin that faded back to caution. “You would be right. I didn’t greet you. She did.” He commented, stepping aside to reveal a Ciad-Ghin woman with long red hair and green eyes who was attempting a courtesy under the winter coat she wore. “Are you Torval?”
“I am,” Torval said, offering a half-bow. “You need not bow to me. I am a freeman of the Saorsa, just as you are.” His lips broke into a pleased smile, and he directed his next statement to the woman. “And you, M’Lady, should never need to bow at all.”
The woman stopped in mid-courtesy and glanced at the man beside her, whispering a murmur. “As you wish, sir.” She leaned closer to the leather-clad man. “I am Amelia, and this is my maighstir, Balgair.”
The man nodded, extending a hand, the smell of leather and iron filling the air between them. “Did Lady Ria send you to scout ahead?”
Torval’s brows furrowed as he inspected Balgair. His scent briefly overpowered the frozen water smell as he moved, while the silver star above his right breast pocket caught the fading sunlight.
“She did.” Torval cursed himself for not speaking more eloquently. “Even if she had not, I would have come. Sheriff Moeldr?” He wanted to make sure he had the right man before letting Ria, Rowena, and the maids walk through the portal into a strange town.
The Sheriff nodded, his face sporting a friendly smile. “The very one. As she said, welcome to Eola. I wish the circumstances were different.” Balgair’s scent faded away, leaving the smell of blown snow, a smell that was matched by crushed lilacs from the red-haired Ciad-Ghin.
“Ah yes, that,” Torval murmured, sadness in his tone, sadness that echoed in the surrounding air. “Lady Ilyriatri told me that the General almost hollowed himself fighting our lady.”
As if agreeing with the Ciad-Ghin, the ground rumbled beneath their feet.
Torval gazed at the old courthouse. “You didn’t tell Lady Ria that the circle was in an old part of town.” The Ciad-Ghin shook his head, a wry grin on his lips.
“About that,” Balgair shrugged. “I just assumed Eola had a public transport chamber.” He looked embarrassed, although the smell of leather and iron was just as strong. “I’m still trying to make heads or tails out of what the former mayor did during his tenure.”
At his side, Amelia sighed, echoing her maighstir’s distress.
When Balgair slipped an arm around her, she leaned into him.
“How bad is it, this malfeasance?” Torval, ever sharp of wit, wondered, leaning into the minor mystery.
“Bad enough,” Balgair commented. The smell of iron sharpened as he thought about what had happened since he had come to town. “Diversion of council funds, dismissal of a county council, conspiring with criminals and assassins.” He made an insignificant gesture toward the travel circle. “Shutting down the travel circle and courthouse.”
The Ciad-Ghin nodded as understanding set in. “Yes, yes. If it is safe, let me contact Lady Ria and bring her through the travel circle.” He glanced around as if looking for something. “Do you have a carriage waiting? She and the maids are unprepared for this environment. It should be spring here, but it’s not.”
Amelia nodded, her red hair bobbing as she curled her right hand around Balgair’s left arm. “The Saorsa calls out her distress.”
Balgair grunted. “In more ways than one, and the boss is in the center of everything.”
Beneath his feet, the ground rumbled again as if the Saorsa were trying to apologize.
“Isn’t he always?” Torval asked, his unchanging scent reinforcing the fact that he didn’t need an answer.
Balgair had the good grace to look embarrassed. If the snow weren’t so overwhelming, Torval fancied he could have smelled wheat on the cusp of molding. “It will not get any better, I’m afraid. I need his help, and it might not wait.”
“That sounds ominous,” the Ciad-Ghin from Oak Grove stated. “This place doesn’t look like it’s about to fall apart.”
The Sheriff reached up and tugged on the brim of his hat. “I’m a Black Swan. I learned how to spot enemies, take them out, work with Iron Guard operatives, and restore order to crisis areas.” His sigh, forlorn, was evidence that he was out of his depth and wasn’t afraid to ask for help. I am unfamiliar with council selection, lawmaking, budgeting, court establishment, and other aspects of effective town administration. He stared into the shifting portal. “I hoped that Rhyslin could help me.”
Amelia, proud of Balgair, took his hand and squeezed it. For a solitary second, the smell of freshly baked bread and warm honey rose from her skin, then the snow blew it away.
The desert-born Ciad-Ghin nodded in understanding. “If Rhyslin cannot help you, Lady Ria and Lady Flur might walk you through it.” A slight smile danced across his lips. “Both were royalty, and Ria set up a council years before she bonded with Mac Draoidheacd.”
Partially mollified, the Sheriff nodded. “If they can help, I would be grateful.”
As the snow continued to fall, he sighed. “I completely forgot to tell Lady Ria about our weather. I hope she does not think she’s stepping into a garden paradise.”
The desert-born Ciad-Ghin chuckled as he dropped to one knee and gathered a handful of snow. “It would be unfortunate if she were to get a face full of snow, wouldn’t it?”
Amelia blinked, shocked by the sight of the snowball. “You aren’t thinking of throwing that at her, are you?” She couldn’t fathom anyone throwing a snowball at a queen, even if she had stepped down from her throne. People never did that.
A devious smirk crossed Torval’s face before vanishing, leaving his serious demeanor behind. “Goddess, no, that would be inappropriate now, wouldn’t it?”
The Sheriff, seeing the outcome of the warrior’s strategy, backed up. “I think we’ll just go get the carriage. I didn’t see a thing; I didn’t hear a thing.”
“You have my thanks,” Torval said, his breath warming the air as a shimmer of heated sand spiraled briefly over the snow like desert laughter lost on the wind. The snowflakes stilled mid-air around him, suspended as if the Saorsa itself paused, uncertain whether to share in the mischief or to chide it.
For a moment, the imp and the disciplined warrior warred in Torval’s breast, then with a rueful sigh, he dropped the snowball to the ground, reached into his pocket, and curled his fingers around the palm-sized black gemstone. “It’s safe, Ria.”
As if answering Torval’s silent report, the portal’s edge shimmered, then darkened—each flicker of light a silent heartbeat announcing travelers inbound. The surrounding air tasted of charged metal and windswept stone, an unnatural stillness pressing against the skin.
Torval circled behind the travel circle, his boots crunching against snow crusted over frostbitten stone. His cloak whispered in the breeze, and his hand hovered near the rune-etched blade at his belt. No shadows moved, but that meant nothing. He would not see Ria or Rowena placed into foreign hands before Rhyslin saw them again.
The portal pulsed once more, and Ria stepped through.
She breathed out as her boots met snow. The cold stung her cheeks, but the absence, not the wind, fueled her caution. Where a scout should have been, there was none. No greeting. No warmth.
The auburn-haired Ciad-Ghin slipped her left hand into the deep pocket of her traveling skirt and closed her fingers around the smooth silver hilt of the dagger Rhyslin had given her. Its weight steadied her. She could almost feel the echo of his warmth in the metal, a silent vow pressed against her palm.
She tilted her head, ears alert, drawing in sound like a net pulling taut. Every gust of wind felt intrusive. Every snowflake, a question. Lavender oil lingered on her skin, where she’d dabbed it at her ears and throat in quiet ritual before stepping through the portal.
Her frown deepened as she catalogued the journey’s deficiencies: delay, poor positioning, absence of signals. The odds were mounting. She shifted two steps left, instinct guiding her into a defensive arc as the portal shimmered again.
Kenna emerged first, ears flattened, nostrils flaring. Snow brushed the hem of her maid’s skirt as she dropped low, one hand pressed to the ground, the other raised in a clawed gesture. The growl that rose in her throat wasn’t loud, but it vibrated with potential. Her green eyes darted, unsure where to settle—everything here was wrong. Too clean. Too still.
Her tail looped with restless tension. She tried to catch a scent, but the blanket of new snow dampened everything. The world had been hushed beneath a layer of frost that refused to give up its secrets.
The other two maids emerged in tandem, their movements a dance of practiced wariness. One held a steel fan as if fanning herself; the other let her fingers curl around what looked like long hairpins—but shimmered faintly with enchantment.
Rowena stepped out next, her boots quiet in the snow, her hand lifting her skirts as she moved backward without looking. Her back met K’Tek’s plated chest with a soft clang.
“Do you feel it?” she asked quietly, eyes narrowing.
K’Tek tilted his horned helm downward, steam curling from the narrow slits of his breathing vents. “Uggn. Where is Torval?”
He held the traveling trunks for a beat longer, then lowered them in a ring around his feet, protective, deliberate. His nose twitched, but the only scent he could isolate was Ria’s lavender oil—subtle, clinging to the folds of her scarf and the curve of her throat.
The sharp tang of axle grease rode in first, threaded with the darker warmth of oiled leather—familiar, heavy scents that caught in the throat like memory. A heartbeat later came the rasp of harness leather shifting against sweat-dark hide, low and rhythmic, followed by the soft groan of iron fittings—a half-choked squeal of metal grumbling against metal.
Kenna tilted her head toward the abandoned courthouse and bounded off before anyone could stop her.
Ria froze at the sounds, her mouth set in a disapproving line. The remaining maids, shaking their heads at Kenna’s disappearance, moved to take up positions between Ria and Rowena, and the approaching strangers.
When Torval, fleet-footed and silent, reappeared at Ria’s side, she growled under her breath. “Where did you disappear to?”
The scout, true to his nature, didn’t let her discomfort take him away from his primary task. “I thought it might be a good idea to check out the back side of the circle.” His eyes narrowed as he followed Kenna’s tracks in the snow. He wondered if he should have warned the sheriff about the cat-girl maid.
Torval didn’t know who was more surprised, Ria or himself. When the carriage appeared, Kenna sat propped up on the driver’s box, looking suspiciously pleased; her tail lazily circled in the air, and the sheriff had his hand on her head, softly stroking behind her ears. She stopped purring long enough to chirp. “Mira, Lina…look! It’s Captain Balgier.”
This story is a submersible meta fantastical handbook or guide to a future in which words regain their power, poets and philosophers their voices, creativity replaces profit, and hope rides a winged donkey. Combining fantasy, premature futuristic deviltry, direct thievery from life in freeze-frames of deformity. This is perhaps my favorite read of the month and I am most anticipating a creative willpower of reading eachothers work. I imagine our bonded will power with these exercises will bear much fruit. I'll be in touch.