Chapter 3 — **Chapter 3**
Arisyn
THE FIRST THING Arisyn noticed was the stark contrast—a fortress of shadow and gloom thrust into the heart of a vibrant, blooming forest. As she ascended the moss-slicked steps, the oppressive weight of the black stone seemed to press against the surrounding life, though a few defiant vines snaked closer. Her overdone black and pine dress caught on the rough edges, but she barely noticed, her pace deliberate. If Baron Halric expected her unquestioning obedience, he’d be sorely disappointed.
The heavy iron doors groaned open, revealing a middle-aged servant in an emerald uniform, his honey eyes rimmed with kohl, brass buttons glinting under the flickering light of a massive chandelier. A chill draft swept past her as she crossed the threshold, the echo of her boots on the dark wood floor amplifying the fortress’s brooding silence.
“Welcome, channelers. Please step inside, and we will get you seated for dinner,” the servant intoned, gesturing toward the cavernous foyer.
Arisyn glanced at the two young women already waiting at the base of the steps when she’d emerged from her portal. Likely no older than her own twenty years, they shivered in their flimsy gowns—one in shimmering emerald with straps slipping off delicate shoulders, the other in sea-foam tulle, sheer fabric revealing muscular arms. Their eyes, bright with a mix of curiosity and unease, darted across the expansive black-walled hall, its dark wood and dreary tapestries swallowing the light.
“Welcome to Felgren, Arisyn.” The voice startled her, and she spun, her elbow clipping a vase of purple crocus on a nearby table. The speaker caught it mid-fall with a swift hand, grinning as he steadied it. That wide, earnest smile grated on her instantly. She crossed her arms, refusing to mirror it, and sized him up. Wavy black hair fell to broad shoulders, deep-set eyes sat beneath straight brows, and a firm chin framed a face she might have found striking under different circumstances. But not here, not now.
He glanced over his shoulder at the servant guiding the other women through a doorway before turning back. “My name is Rethan, your most humble of Barons.” He offered a slight bow, a glint of amusement in his eyes.
“Just Arisyn,” she muttered, her gaze narrowing as he straightened. “Call me Arisyn for the brief time I’m forced to be here.”
She despised her full name, especially in a place like this. Planting her hands on her hips, she added with a smirk, “I thought there was only *one* Baron of Felgren. And you’re certainly not him.”
He gave a light scoff. “Give it a chance, Arisyn, before you write off me and this place entirely.” He turned as the servant cleared his throat, gesturing toward the open door. “And you’re correct—usually, there’s only one Baron. I’m Halric’s successor, managing Felgren while he… attended to matters in your city.”
“Baron Halric is unwell?” Her brow creased. She hadn’t known the old Baron was grooming an heir, though she understood the tradition: Barons ruled until death, their power passing to a chosen successor.
A shadow flickered across Rethan’s face, gone as quickly as it came. “We needn’t discuss that now. Tonight is for celebration.” He flashed another smile, though this one seemed less certain. “I look forward to guiding you during your time here. We’ll be working closely, after all.”
Her eyebrows knit tighter. “I don’t *intend* to be here long, Baron Rethan,” she said, her tone sharp with unspoken defiance. “You can count on that.” Without waiting for a reply, she strode toward the door the servant held open.
It led to a grand dining room, glittering with gold accents, the chandelier’s gleam reflecting in her skeptical gaze. Arisyn, though not of royal blood, had seen enough of Caerithen’s elite to recognize such excess. The other women, however, gaped in awe, their eyes tracing every detail.
As they took their seats, Rethan moved to the head of the absurdly long table, raising his goblet with a nod to the others and a lingering glance at Arisyn. “Welcome, channelers, to your new home. I am Baron Rethan, future successor to Baron Halric. I trust you’ll rise to Felgren’s legacy during your stay. Fill your bellies tonight and rest well—training begins at dawn.”
He drank deeply, the others awkwardly following suit. Arisyn kept her arms crossed, her glare unwavering. She’d resist every step until they let her go.
Just as Rethan sat, the servant in green whispered something in his ear. “Please excuse me,” he said, rising. “There’s a matter I must attend to. Enjoy yourselves, and I’ll see you in the morning with Baron Halric.” He left swiftly, the servant trailing behind, and as the door shut, one of the women giggled.
“I’m so excited I might not eat a bite!” she exclaimed, though she piled yams and a turkey leg onto her plate regardless.
“My name’s Clairannia,” she continued, mouth full, black hair slipping from an intricate braid to frame her golden face and dark, almond eyes. Her conduit ring caught Arisyn’s eye—five rubies set in gold, diamonds flanking each stone, pulsing faintly as if alive. “Did either of you grow up near mountains? I miss the crisp air of the Spire already, though my Offering ceremony there was grand.”
“I’m Virelle,” the other replied, extending a hand. Her dark skin bore lunar tattoos, reddish braids swept up thickly, and her ring—a weave of orange and yellow stones on gold—seemed to shimmer with warmth. “I’m from the Attatock Mountains, a tiny village. Baron Halric’s arrival was a shock. I barely had time for the Offering—just the weight of the dagger in my hand, and then I was here.” Her pride faltered for a moment, a flicker of longing in her brown eyes as she sipped her wine.
They turned to Arisyn expectantly. “Arisyn,” she said curtly, spearing a slice of ham. She wouldn’t starve, even if she loathed being here.
“Nice to meet you both!” Clairannia chirped between bites. “Where are you from, Arisyn?”
“Caerithen,” she replied, her voice flat, though a spark of irritation flared at their wide-eyed shock.
“But… Caerithen is off limits,” Clairannia said, setting down her fork, turkey still speared. “The Treaty forbids channelers from there. It could start a war.”
“There was a… compromise,” Arisyn said, her jaw tight. She wasn’t sure how much she could reveal about the Black Fever or the secrecy shrouding Caerithen’s plight. “It doesn’t matter now. I’m here, though I won’t be for long.”
“Are you sure that’s the whole story?” Virelle asked calmly, her gaze steady. “History says no Baron has taken a Caerithen-born channeler since the Treaty, not since the slaughter.”
They all knew the tale—the mad Baron who butchered five channelers post-Offering, leading to the Treaty that let regions refuse such selections. Caerithen alone had declined. Yet here Arisyn sat.
“The Treaty didn’t apply in my case,” she sighed, leaning back in the overwrought chair, its black tassels absurdly ornate. “Life and death were at stake.” Her eyes drifted to the chandelier’s golden prongs, and memory seized her. The clink of a goblet echoed like the Queen’s desperate sob in Caerithen’s palace. Arisyn had stood frozen at the Prince’s door, the scent of medicinal herbs thick in the air, watching his eyes flutter open as Halric’s spell took hold. The Queen’s whispered prayers turned to cries of relief as she clutched her son, weeping into his dark curls. Arisyn’s hands had trembled on the doorframe, relief warring with dread. If the cure worked, she was the price—freely given, no war, no refusal.
“Where are you going? You don’t even know the Fortress!” Clairannia’s voice snapped her back as Arisyn rose abruptly, her earlier glance toward the door now a need for escape.
“I’ll manage,” she said, her stomach churning as she yanked open the dining hall doors and stepped into the foyer. The dark corridors loomed, swallowing sound and light. She hesitated, a locked side door catching her eye, its iron handle cold under her grip as she tested it, frustration mirroring her inner turmoil. She turned down the hall, back straight, eyes forward, unwilling to linger on a past she’d surrendered or a future she refused to accept.
