Mythborn by V. Lakshman

and he turned to Gabreyl and asked, “What do you call yourselves?”
    “They are the seed of your father’s work, born from his blood and indomitable will, bound to protect and serve all those of his House,” Gabreyl said with a smile. “They name themselves ‘elves,’ and serve your father faithfully as defenders of his realm.”
    Arek didn’t miss a beat and asked, “And you don’t count yourself amongst them?”
    Gabreyl tilted his head as if acknowledging Arek’s insight and offered, “Though I share kinship with these elves, I am bound by more than flesh to my House, my lord.”
    “Who’s my father?” Arek asked directly.
    “Ah, I regret I cannot answer that yet, my lord. Your father has asked that he be the one to properly introduce himself.”
    Niall addressed Gabreyl then, saying, “That doesn’t seem right.”
    The winged man in armor bowed and replied, “Nevertheless, I am under very specific orders. May we continue this discussion as we make our way to the highlord’s abode? I promise all your questions will be answered, but we are in danger if we linger here too long.”
    Arek turned to Niall. “What do you think?”
    “What choice do we have?” replied the prince of Bara’cor as if completing Arek’s earlier thought. Niall continued, “We can’t just wander around.”
    Arek pursed his lips, his eyes running over these “elves” assembled as their escort. Despite the claim that this area was not safe, Gabreyl seemed unwilling to rush them along without their consent. That made him cautious. Arek was aware the man in armor had skillfully avoided answering any questions too directly.
    He thought about it a moment longer, then nodded and said, “Very well, you may escort us, but please provide us your station, sir, so that we may address you properly.”
    Gabreyl bowed once and said, “Armsmark Gabreyl, Your Grace… the highlord’s messenger.”

 
    Archmage
    It is said a man is only as smart
    As a woman half his age plus seven years.
    A simple thing to remember in conversation
    Harder still when your life is at stake…
    -            Alain the Farflung, A Guide to Westbay
    T he pain of transition was welcome, a sharp reminder that he was still alive. Duncan appeared where he’d expected, the invitation from Lilyth depositing him almost at her doorstep. He stood some thousand paces from her castle, a white structure that rose out of the ground like daggers pointing at the sky.
    He took stock of his surroundings. The smell of pine and a cool crispness permeating the air marked the season as Spring. The sky was lit orange by a sun that looked larger than the one he was used to. The analytical part of his mind immediately wondered if he was still on Edyn, or some other world connected by Lilyth’s Gate.
    It likely did not matter, as getting home was not a matter of distance but of his own perseverance. Almost there, he thought with a clarity he found refreshing. It was as if his time on Edyn had been a fugue, a mental lassitude Lilyth’s realm cleared away. He was seeing things now with a crystal acuteness that extended as much to his thinking as it did to his vision. The world before him was unambiguous in its reality, defined by sharp edges and clear outcomes. Suddenly choice had relevance, consequences had meaning.
    Before he could spend much more time appreciating this simple fact, two figures detached themselves from the castle’s wall, like gargoyles come to life. They flew toward him, angling downward to land lightly. Then one stepped forward and said, “Greetings, Lord Scythe. Welcome to Olympious. The Lady will see you now.”
    Duncan nodded, his pale eyes drinking in their details. They looked like twins, bearing bronze colored breastplates, greaves, and blades. Their features were essentially like his, except for the fact that their skin seemed to be made of a white stone, like marble. They waited patiently, evidently for his word of approval.
    “Lead on,”