A Realm of Shadows by Morgan Rice Page A

she herself had lived, now lay as a ruin,
but a few walls left standing. Its gate was open, gaping, as if inviting the
world to enter and see what it had once been.
    As she walked,
her heart pounding in her chest, Kyra knew she needed to see this, needed to see
what become of her people in order to feel a sense of resolution. As much as
she didn’t want to, Kyra forced herself to look, to take it all in. She saw bodies
of women and children, all lying dead in the streets, bodies twisted in unnatural
positions. She saw a dozen of her father’s men, Vidar in their center, all
lying dead, face first by the castle’s gate. She could see from the way they
held their swords that they had all put up a fight, made a stand here. She
shook her head in admiration: these brave men had fought fearlessly, despite
the odds, facing off against an army.
    Her eyes watered
at the sight. They were an inspiration to her. They died for the revolution
that she had sparked, and as she looked at them, she resolved that their
deaths not be in vain.
    Kyra’s heart
broke as she continued to walk, the signs of death all around her. What
monsters could have done this? She looked closely and saw the huge claw marks
on the bodies, and she knew this to be a troll attack. It was a sneak glimpse
of what awaited her on the other side of the Flames.
    Kyra slowly made
her way toward her old fort. She passed through the destroyed doorway and
entered the remnants of the building, eager to see this place she had once
inhabited, this place she had been so sure would never fall.
    It was cool in
here, swirling with dust, unnaturally damp, as if spirits hung in the air. It felt
conspicuously abandoned, felt as if she were visiting some distorted version of
her past. It was as if her childhood memories had been destroyed and replaced.
    Kyra passed what
remained of a gaping stairway, now shattered in half, unable to ascend. She continued
walking, straight ahead, in a daze, and entered what remained of her father’s Great
Hall, now nothing more than a pile of rubble. She passed behind a crack in the
stone wall and found the entrance, still hidden, to her father’s Chamber of Heroes.
    Kyra entered and
as she did, she stood there, numb. This small, hidden chamber, to her great
relief, had been preserved. It was here where she had spent so many of her
childhood days, dreaming, yearning, craving to be a warrior. There, to her
relief, were the sculptures of the great warriors, still standing, the ones
that had spurred her imagination as a child, had spurred her to want to achieve
greatness. Sunlight poured in through gaps in the walls, high up, shining down
on the sarcophagi of her ancestors. The outlines of their bodies lay face up in
the stone, facing up proudly to the sky, staring into the heavens, eyes wide,
as if even death held no fear for them. They were supposed to reside here for
thousands of years. This room was supposed to stand the test of time.
    “A powerful thing,
to face our own mortality.”
    Kyra spun,
raising her staff, tense, ready for battle, shocked that someone else was alive
here, in the room with her.
    But she relaxed
when she recognized who it was. Softis the Wise. Volis’s historian.
    It felt so good
to see an old face. There he stood, but feet away, looking older than ever. He
had always looked old, but now he looked ancient. He stood hunched over in his
robe, leaning on his staff, looking, if possible, even older than when she had left
him.
    “Softis.”
    She rushed forward,
embracing him, and he hugged her back with his weak grip. It was like having a
piece of her childhood restored to her once again.
    “You survived,”
she said with a rush of relief, wiping away tears with the back of her hand.
    He nodded,
smiling weakly.
    “My fate,” he
replied, his voice ancient and raspy, “my blessing and my curse. To survive
life at every turn. Long after everyone I have known and loved is dead.”
    He sighed.
    “They killed
them all,” he