Break the Day (Nightstar Book 1)

Fennrin kept his head down as they entered the palace. If he had felt out of place before, now that feeling was on a different level. He tried not to think about this much, though, as it certainly didn’t help him feel less anxious.

The thought of soon meeting one of the leaders of Lys-Akkaria made his insides twist in on themselves. How could he possibly prepare for that, even if he had been given time? Fennrin wasn’t even certain if whatever first impression he made on the Bulwark would mean anything. Ainreth needed him to defeat a threat, so even if the Bulwark didn’t like him, she could hardly stop him from helping Ainreth if he chose to.

And yet his hands were shaking, and his heart was hammering away as he was led deeper and deeper inside of the building, walking through halls and corridors, until finally stopping in a large circular room with an equally circular table in the middle of it with around twenty chairs around it, and as many inkwells with quills on it. There was no one here, and yet Fennrin felt even more nervous as Ainreth told him to sit before doing so himself.

Fennrin ran his eyes over the room as he seated himself next to Ainreth, immediately fascinated by the large circular window on the wall opposite him, letting in sunlight. And yet the room was about halfway obscured in shadow. At least that was something Fennrin could cling onto. Shadows always made him feel calmer.

“They should show up soon,” Ainreth said, though he himself sounded annoyed as he tapped his fingers against the shiny dark wood of the table.

“They?”

Ainreth scoffed and shook his head, a scowl on his face as a strand of his slicked-back hair fell in his eyes. “The Herald is coming also. Apparently.”

Fennrin stared at Ainreth in shock. The High Herald? What would the de facto leader of their country want with Fennrin? Surely this was between them and the Bulwark. But perhaps the Herald expected trouble from him. Everyone always seemed to think Fennrin would cause trouble due to what he was, even though he had no history of such things.

He swallowed, looking down at the table. The surface was so well polished that he could vaguely see his reflection.

Ainreth proceeded to mutter something under his breath, most of which Fennrin didn’t manage to understand. He did manage to catch an insult, though, which likely encompassed the entire idea of whatever Ainreth had said, anyway.

So Ainreth didn’t like the High Herald. Fennrin wondered what he was going to think of the man.

He almost flinched when in that moment, a door on the right, close to the window, swung open, and into the room came a middle-aged woman in elegant, purple robes, her dark hair short. And right behind her, an equally middle-aged, ginger, bearded man walked in, dressed shockingly plainly next to the Bulwark, only wearing a simple white tunic with a dark gray vest over it paired with dark brown trousers. The dissonance between the style of dress was so strange to Fennrin, but there was no mistaking him—that was the Herald. He had seen him in a few drawings once, having led Lys-Akkaria for decades.

“Good afternoon,” said the Bulwark, sounding almost sarcastic as she took a seat on the other side of the table, the Herald following suit. Fennrin didn’t truly understand why the timing mattered so much, but he didn’t dare say anything. Not only did he already feel like an interloper, he was also rather intimidated by the woman’s hard gaze. He risked a glance at the Herald, relieved that the man seemed to be in a better mood, not outright smiling, but his face still positive. And he was studying Fennrin.

Oh. That also made Fennrin feel anxious, now aware of his every movement, feeling like he would be judged if he so much as shifted in his seat.

“It’s barely noon. Let’s not be dramatic,” Ainreth replied, rolling his eyes. Fennrin truly had a hard time accepting that this man was a soldier, acting this way to his commander. But he said nothing.

“Yes, Tysalin, let’s focus on what’s important,” the Herald spoke, his deep voice soothing. Fennrin clung onto it a little, wanting to let it lull him into some semblance of calmness. “Namely our new shadowforger friend here.”

Fennrin swallowed as the Bulwark looked at him immediately. “Hm. Yes. Shadowforger and friend, two words that definitely fit together.”

Fennrin winced, wanting to escape the room.

“I’ll have you know Fenn is perfectly nice!” snapped Ainreth, folding his arms over his chest. Fennrin had to amend his earlier thought to wanting to shrivel up and die.

“Oh, Fenn, is it?” asked the Herald, giving him a smile, which did help some of the horrible discomfort this situation was creating unwind itself from Fennrin’s body.

“What is your full name?” asked the Bulwark, grabbing an inkwell and quill off the table and moving it closer to herself, looking down at a piece of parchment on a wooden board that Fennrin hadn’t even noticed she’d brought in with her.

“Fennrin,” he replied, managing to avoid showing the anxiety in his voice.

“Your full name,” the Bulwark repeated even as she wrote down what he’d said. “Or do you not know from which family you hail?”

Fennrin scowled down at the table. He knew that perfectly well. He just didn’t want to mention it, given what his parents had done. But then he sighed as he gave in. The Bulwark was clearly not interested in his sob story. “Fennrin Tyr-Syrenten.”

“How skilled are you at using your power?”

Fennrin’s mouth went dry. He would now be forced to state outright that he was useless. And he still thought so, deep down, no matter what Ainreth had implied. Even if he did work through his fear of modifying existing shadows after what had happened the last time he’d tried it, he still didn’t believe he’d be all that useful.

So maybe he could kill someone by bending the shadow of their head enough to break their neck. But even if he could get himself to do it, it didn’t seem very useful. How was he supposed to manage to concentrate enough to do it if Ainreth got attacked again and Fennrin was supposed to protect him in the rush of things? Not to mention that their enemy could control sound. All she would have to do was make enough noise to make it impossible for Fennrin to focus, and she could kill them both.

“Look, he’s going to learn everything,” Ainreth spoke before Fennrin could actually get around to answering the Bulwark’s question. “We have time. I’ll train him myself.”

The Bulwark raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I don’t doubt that, general.”

Whatever the Bulwark was insinuating, Ainreth continued, apparently not caring in the least as he leaned forward against the table, pressing his finger against it. “The only thing that matters here is that Fenn is a shadowforger. Do you not understand how rare and powerful shadowforgers are? I would have thought you’d want a soldier like that.”

Fennrin blinked at Ainreth, not sure how to feel about this. He seemed so sure of Fennrin’s usefulness. He didn’t understand it.

The Bulwark seemed unimpressed, her expression growing sour. “Yes, and what about their history of slaughtering and rampaging?”

Their what? Fennrin swallowed. He’d never heard about that. All he’d ever heard were vague mentions of being bad luck, that whenever a shadowforger came, they’d bring ruin and death. Nothing about other shadowforgers being murderers.

But that would make perfect sense, wouldn’t it? If this was true, then it would fit together with these rumors. Fennrin felt his heart sink, his insides twisting. If he was allowed to stay here and train, was that what was going to happen with him, as well? Was it predestined?

He didn’t want to believe that, but if all of the previous shadowforgers had been murderers, then perhaps this had been a mistake. Maybe he should have stayed, keeping his miserable little life. At least he wouldn’t hurt anyone, then.

“Oh, come now, Tysalin,” said the High Herald, looking at the Bulwark with his head tilted a little to the side. “There were shadowforgers who have done nothing but help this country. We shouldn’t judge az-ari based on the actions of their ancestors.” The Herald motioned to Ainreth without looking away from the Bulwark. “Lightweavers have not all been good, either, yet no one ever assumes our dear general here will slaughter anyone other than our enemy’s soldiers.”

Fennrin couldn’t help but feel touched that the High Herald of all people was defending him. He would have thought that he’d agree with the Bulwark.

“Yeah,” Ainreth confirmed through gritted teeth, glaring at the Herald, his formerly mostly relaxed pose now rigid.

Fennrin expected him to say more than that, but he stayed silent, continuing to scowl. Fennrin truly wondered why seemed to dislike the Herald so much. The man had so far seemed very reasonable.

“I honestly find it quite arrogant of us to act as though we are doing Fennrin a favor for asking him to help us, and not the other way around,” the Herald continued, locking eyes with Fennrin. “We cannot allow Ainreth to be killed by some mysterious az-ari woman from Orinovo. Without him, Orinovo would attack us the moment they heard the news. And given how large of a blow a tragedy like that would deal to our soldiers’ morale, Orinovo would most likely win.”

Then the Herald turned back to the Bulwark. “With a shadowforger on our side, Orinovo would think twice before starting anything. So I truly do not see why we shouldn’t be groveling at Fennrin’s feet, begging him to fight for us.”

Fennrin couldn’t wait to read those books Ainreth had mentioned. Why were shadowforgers regarded as so powerful? Ainreth could use the power of the sun to burn dozens of people to a crisp at once. What could Fennrin do? Kill them one by one when he focused really hard, hoping that they would wait for him to do so?

He had to be missing something if even the Herald agreed.

“If this goes wrong, it’s on your head, Daryan. Not mine,” the Bulwark told him, her words almost sounding like a threat despite her even, neutral tone. And Fennrin’s somewhat forgotten anxiety came rushing back. He might not know the man very well at all, but the idea of him suffering consequences for Fennrin’s actions was not something Fennrin wanted to happen. Especially because the Herald had just vouched for him, and given that Fennrin had nowhere else to go, he had no idea what he would have done if the Bulwark had decided not to accept him.

“Of course. I’m glad we agree,” the Herald replied easily, apparently not at all bothered by this as he gave Fennrin another soft smile. Then he turned his eyes to Ainreth. “I suggest you start training our new friend as quickly as possible, general. The sooner he can help defend you, the better.”

Fennrin couldn’t help but frown as Ainreth narrowed his eyes at the Herald, his lips drawn into a snarl. He didn’t understand where these reactions were coming from since the Herald wasn’t saying anything hostile or intent on insulting him. Ainreth himself had suggested training Fennrin just a moment ago, so surely it couldn’t be that he was annoyed with having to train him.

“Sure thing.” Ainreth’s voice was as cold as ice.

“Oh, and Fennrin,” the Herald said, still smiling warmly. “Thank you. Lys-Akkaria has need of you. Even if you don’t decide to join our army, I appreciate your willingness to help with this.”

Fennrin nodded, not sure what to say to that. He wasn’t used to people treating him respectfully, and they certainly weren’t grateful for his presence. And now he was saddled with the responsibility of causing trouble for the Herald if he did something wrong, which after his experience with using his powers he was paranoid about.

Still, he was determined to do his best. Things hadn’t been too bad so far. He would do his best to stay positive, as strange as it felt to consider that. Because for the first time, he actually wanted to be positive.

He just hoped he would be able to live up to Ainreth’s and the Herald’s expectations of him.