Oracle: Chapter 1
Bonds of Youth
Estimated Reading Time: 18 Minutes
Estimated Audio Time: 31 Minutes, 10 Seconds
This chapter is the 1st chapter, but second post, in a serialized fiction novel. Please click below to be redirected to the prologue where the series begins.
Previously from the Prologue:
In the dead of night, the exiled sorcerer, Mazir, sacrificed the Granthari Oracle upon the altar of Bau, believing the murder to be the price of a bargain with the forgotten Dragon Queen, Urkhamet. Haunted by memories of exile, starvation, and injustice, he convinced himself that the bloodshed was not murder, but the first step toward vengeance. As the ritual reached its climax, the shrine answered. Blood moved of its own accord. Shadows grew wings. An ancient voice whispered, “The path is open.” By dawn, Mazir knew only one thing for certain:
The sacrifice had been accepted.
In Memoriam
For D.S. Millaway
Gone too soon. Beloved still.
A regional map to help orient the reader within this portion of Sphyra.
An author-read narration of the text for those who prefer audio. (Recommended to listen as you read)
I
Bonds of Youth
21 Years Later…
D E V Y N
It was time for him to go now. Devyn Flintson tilted his brow against the sun as the golden hour of the day swept across the foothills of the Veil and cast long shadows on the tall trees that had been touched by the first signs of autumn.
It was at that part of the wheel where the long days of summer languished, and the golden sheaves of the harvest out in Blackveil’s fields were nearly ready to be reaped.
Devyn bent over the banks of the calm stream that flowed below him and hardly recognized the reflection of the man he had become just this summer. Dark brown hair, short and uneven; it was about time to hack it off with his knife again.
He tried to smooth down a stubborn cowlick that raged against the order to lie down at his crown. He frowned at the boyish swooshes his bangs made just at his brow. He studied the eyes that peered back at him—storm-gray seas of dark blue all flecked together with just the slightest twinge of gold—just like his father’s.
Da would be proud.
He was about to make Da proud.
At length he gave up on trying to change the things he couldn’t and stretched himself out lazily on the grass, supporting himself by his thick forearms. The veins in his arms bulged like cords across the contrast of his sun-browned skin and wind-burned cast.
He was in the prime of his youth and he believed he could spend all his days in the sun if allowed. He had come here to the banks of the stream to meet with his old friend who had been at his side since as long as he could remember.
Late. Devyn thought to himself; grim, yet almost laughing. He’ll be late to his own funeral...and probably mine as well.
He folded his arms behind his head and could not stop a half smile from forcing its way to the corner of his lips. He glanced up to the sky; the light lingered, golden but thin, as though even the sun knew its time was running out.
As he lay there, soaking in the last hours of the day, he closed his eyes and tuned to his surroundings. Beside him, the stream burbled over stones slick with moss, and the air smelled faintly of woodsmoke drifting somewhere from the village, across the woods behind him.
Devyn let the moment hang; eyes still closed as though he could hold onto this hour by will alone.
Then he heard it—light, but quick footsteps shuffling through the forest floor. The sound of those footsteps carried through the thick canopy of evergreen mountain shrubs that crowded around the stream bank.
Devyn didn’t have to open his eyes—he already knew who it would be.
Even the sound of those footsteps announced a sort of guilt or contrition, betraying the boy who made the sound. Arien came down the slope with his healer’s satchel strapped tight at his side.
Devyn opened his eyes, studying his friend as he shambled down the embankment. Arien’s hair was fair - almost as golden as the last few rays of the sun—wavy, straight, and chopped short, just enough for two small pointed ears to poke out from beneath.
His face—his entire skin really—was pale; perhaps from too many hours in the Chantry’s cloisters—or perhaps because the elvish portion of his heritage would not let his skin be any other hue. But his eyes, an ethereal sky-blue, looked like they belonged more to a creature from the Feylands than to a half-elf.
And still Devyn saw pain there; haunting and searching. He’d always seemed older than his years.
Arien wore a well-worn gray traveling robe dirty and tattered at the bottom that furrowed around his ankles as he walked—barefoot—and appeared like a caricature of a pilgrim trying to make his way to some distant, holy land.
He was older than Devyn - but only by a few months.
Arien had been born during the early whimsey of spring when it still flirted with winter’s kiss, and Devyn during the emboldened heat of a summer later in the same year.
The young half-elf’s brow was furrowed, knit with worry; his pale cheeks were lightly flushed and his soft, pink lips were pursed.
Arien paused for a moment, standing at Devyn’s head without introducing himself.
“You’re late.” Devyn said, trying not to look at Arien.
Devyn tried for casual, but there was a crack in it, thin as the line in a glass that was about to shatter.
“I had duties,” Arien replied as he lowered himself to the grass beside him. His movements were careful, as though sitting in Devyn’s shadow required a ritual.
“Besides - you know the Chantry doesn’t forgive an absence.” He flecked his smooth, bare toes out from beneath his robes and padded them into the soft moss beneath him.
Devyn’s eyes opened softly.
“Oh really?” Devyn cracked wryly - a mischievous smirk creased the corner of his lips. “And exactly how do they feel about tardies?”
Arien winced. The words stung the half-elf. Devyn knew they would. That was the plan. Devyn sat up and as he did so, Arien rolled his eyes and shifted his body just a little closer towards his human companion and for a moment, their shoulders brushed, just barely, and Devyn felt the weight of it more than any armor.
Arien shifted his soft blue eyes to the stream that ran below them and considered it. For a while, both simply listened to the stream. The silence between them was laden with everything unsaid.
Arien moved his hand to rest on the earth—as though he meant to connect himself to something that would last and traced his fingers idly in circles in the dirt.
Devyn’s own hand twitched once, and for a moment, thought to cover Arien’s, then he closed it into a fist against the grass instead.
“You’ll be gone before dawn.” Arien said suddenly, and each word stung Devyn with that painful realization.
Devyn nodded, but kept his eyes on the stream below them. He shifted his body uncomfortably, away from the half-elf, moving an arm to rest above his knee.
“Don’t say it like I’m already dead,” Devyn murmured, eyes darting to the side, feeling everything, but being unwilling to express anything.
Arien opened his mouth and closed it again.
The evening air smelled of pine and woodsmoke. The harvest fields whispered beyond the trees. The half-elf hesitated for a moment when Devyn looked to him: as though he wanted to say something, but the words turned to ash on his tongue.
“Then promise me one thing,” the half-elf said suddenly.
Devyn inclined his body toward him, shifting against the grass. “What’s that?”
“That you’ll come back.”
The words were weak.
His voice cracked with a subtle softness. The silence that followed was longer than any vow.
Devyn reached out, brushed his thumb across a scar on Arien’s wrist—a mark he’d accidentally given him years ago when they were children—just boys swinging sticks, pretending like the ordinary was mythic.
He let his hand fall away.
“Can’t promise that,” he said, voice gruff but somehow softer than the words deserved.
“Then why? Why go at all?” Arien shot back, fighting tears that dared to darken the corners of his soft blue eyes.
There was a storm behind them and a desperation in his voice that served no purpose other than to pain Devyn from a soft inevitability and a grim possibility.
Devyn shifted, reeled even, jerking his head away from his companion.
“Arien. We’ve been through this.”
“Then let’s go through it again!” Arien snapped, “Because obviously it hasn’t sank in with you.”
Devyn chose to bite back.
“You think I haven’t thought of that?” He asked—gruff voice raising—not in wrath, but in something that fell frustratingly between agreement and determination.
“Remember why I’m going. I’m going to protect you. Your mom. My dad. I’m going to end this - just like your dad tried to do.”
“Yeah, and that worked out so well for him didn’t it?” Arien snapped back. “Devyn—I’m a talented healer, but death is something I can’t bring you back from.” The half-elf bit his bottom lip as unsolicited tears welled in his soft blue eyes.
“And no one is asking you to,” Devyn said too quickly.
They’d been through this before. His resolve hadn’t changed.
“Gods dammit, Arien - that’s your fault, you know? You can’t heal the world when the world hasn’t asked for it.”
Arien’s soft pink lips parted.
Devyn hadn’t wanted this.
Hadn’t meant for this to be the last couple of hours they spent together before he took his place at the Wall.
“Look, you found your place,” Devyn said at last—trying to find some common ground. “So just…let me find mine? Okay?”
Arien looked like he was beginning to protest.
“—Don’t.” Devyn cut sharply, locking eyes with his companion.
“Fighting’s the only thing I’m good at. And I’m damn good at it. Got no purpose otherwise.” Devyn objected. “And if I can use that to protect the things that mean so much to us, then it’s worth it … and if it ends, at least it ends nobly.” Devyn’s words fell barely above a whisper.
Arien was silenced. Devyn knew he knew how this went. He’d made up his mind about this and once his mind had been made up about anything, he was just going to do it.
The babble of the brook and the waking calls of the whippoorwill as the evening began to dip into twilight filled the silence that crashed between the two.
The heavy scent of smoke and pine lingered and something old decayed in the woods somewhere.
“We’re not kids anymore.” Devyn said, sudden and soft—as though those words were meant to put an end to things.
His eyes drifted seamlessly again to the brook, then to the forest’s canopy as twilight filled in around them.
At that moment, and in a low, rumbling echo, the sound of a great horn rippled across the open air.
It was a call from the gate.
Devyn’s heart paused as he waited to count the number of calls again, but only one came.
Good.
One was a summon to the wall that represented the changing of duty.
Two meant Granthari were at the gates.
Three meant the city was breached.
Every citizen of Blackveil lived under the nervous anticipation of that horn’s tyranny.
The two returned their focus back to each other.
After a long pause, Devyn lifted his hand to the sky and pointed in the direction of the sound of the horn.
“And most of all,” he began, “I’m fighting so that stops,” he smirked.
“What can I do?” Arien mouthed softly; his words were his own surrender.
A light chuckle rolled from Devyn’s chest; deep and hardy and infectious.
Predictable.
“Well, you can wipe your eyes for starters.” Devyn turned his head again to meet his friend’s gaze.
“Grief isn’t a good look on you,” he said, unable to stop the smirk from coiling tight at the corner of his lips as he looked at his friend, who looked like he was about ready to slap him.
The half-elf rolled his eyes in protest, and after a reluctant beat, did exactly what Devyn suggested anyway.
He wiped his eyes on the cloth of his robe.
“Good,” Devyn said. “And next—you can walk me to the Wall.” His voice softened as he looked Arien over. He knew how much he meant to him. Even though he didn’t personally feel like he deserved it.
A soft smile came to Arien’s lips.
It may not have been acceptance, but it at least signified surrender.
“I’d walk with you anywhere,” he said quietly.
A calloused hand wrapped its way around Arien’s shoulder and patted him with an awkward roughness.
“Ready?” Devyn asked, trying to void all emotion.
“Yeah.” Arien said softly.
He wasn’t.
🙪
A R I E N
They had returned to the city proper just as dusk had fallen - having only been a short walk away. In the town square, the bustling sound of poor merchants eagerly selling their wares in the market stalls had been replaced by the shouting of soldiers who were making formations and drilling in the squares as the merchants closed down their kiosks and made their way home. Beggars were folding their mats, preparing for the day’s end, likely questioning where they might sleep for the night.
The guard was changing and the soldiers getting off duty, rushed towards the flophouses for their supper or to lose themselves at the bottom of a mug of rationed ale or, if they were lucky, between the thighs of some buxom tavern wench. His skin crawled and something in his veins ran hot when he imagined Devyn doing the same.
There was so much pain here. It struck Arien in the chest, sharp and overwhelming—nauseated by the suffering. Nauseated by the squalor. The people of the Veil were a desperate bunch—a city under siege—where no townsperson knew if they might live to see tomorrow.
The residents were starving. The poor cried for help and even the rich wondered just how far their own wealth would stretch.
And all around the settlement, nearly in every nook or cranny that one could look, banners coldly and proudly displayed the sigil of the Chantry, buffeted by the indifferent mountain winds.
Shrines were lit with far too many lurid candles, to the goddess Bau—the Lifemother, whose sphere encompassed both life and death—littered nearly the end of every alleyway to remind all of the citizens that the Chantry was omnipresent and always watching.
Imports and trade had been blocked years ago.
The Granthari, hulking half-men, half-giants had long since cut off their trade routes—intercepting both caravans who tried to leave or caravans who tried to reach the gates of Blackveil.
The settlement itself had been built directly on the side of the Aenondes Mountains and was divided into two distinct districts.
The lower hills contained the town square and market stalls and further on the peripheries of the lower district were the residential homes; while the upper plateau contained the Chantry—members of the clergy who governed Blackveil—and the Ars Templaria, which was the cloister that trained and housed members of the Templar - an order of holy paladins who enforced the Chantry’s, and Bau’s, will.
And gargantuanly massive and built as an impregnable fence around it all was the Wall.
But the one looming shadow that cast itself upon the whole of Blackveil was Mt. Aeon—an ancient and dormant volcano that silently smouldered and smoked, hovering just behind Blackveil. One could not wander anywhere within the Wall and not see it.
Arien remembered the legends: there was an old temple inside it to Bau that had been built by the dwarves in an age long before man and that ancient dwarven magic banked the fury of the mountain.
He was overwhelmed by the pain he saw around them: the sick who were dying, the poor who were suffering; all the destitute people reaching out for help from a city that could not even help itself.
This was why Arien had joined the Chantry when he had come of age—because he wanted to ease the suffering that he saw.
He wanted to help others.
And he had been met with a host of politics and excuses that prevented the Chantry from ministering to the destitution.
The two made their way across the square - headed toward the guard house where Devyn would enlist.
As they did so, they passed a host of wounded soldiers who were petitioning a priest—a member of the Chantry, Arien knew, because of the mantle the priest wore embroidered with the Chantry’s sigil.
Pretending not to notice, he heard the conversation. All too common.
The soldiers requested healing.
The priest refused unless they could pay with an offering.
Arien noticed. And he noticed Devyn noticing.
Everything within Arien urged him to intervene; an impulse he could not explain.
He took a step forward.
A hand on his shoulder halted his advance. He looked behind him and saw Devyn, face contorted, those storm-blue eyes glassy with a knowing gaze. There were words on his tongue, Arien knew, that he would not say.
“C’mon.” Devyn whispered, urging the half-elf to follow him to the guardhouse.
They reached the edge. The Wall.
The Wall rose from the earth like a scar that had never healed. It was not as tall as the stories claimed, nor as grand as the murals painted in the Chantry’s halls.
It was stone and iron and old mortar, patched and repatched by hands long dead. Wind crawled along its length, carrying with it the smell of ash and cold earth from the foothills beyond.
They gathered at its base in a loose, uneven line–boys, mostly.
Some with new cloaks still stiff from dye. Some were already wearing borrowed mail that they’d received from their families that didn’t quite fit. A few older men stood among them, quieter, eyes fixed forward, as though they knew better than to look back.
As they reached the scene, Devyn turned to Arien. “Well…” he began. “...this is it.” He said, cold and final. “You’ve come with me just about as far as you can.”
Arien drank in his best friend’s warm smile. Arien wanted to smile back. Wanted to give Devyn a parting worth remembering.
He couldn’t.
Thinking about what lay ahead for Devyn twisted something in his gut. If only he were a seer that could see the future. But he wasn’t.
He was a half-elf.
A 21-year-old acolyte that had not yet even been inducted officially into the priesthood of Bau.
A thousand words swarmed inside Arien’s skull like angry bees. He couldn’t summon a single one of them.
“Just…don’t die.”
And that’s all he could say.
He didn’t know what overcame him. He seized Devyn by the waist and pulled him in close before he even knew he had moved.
It was awkward.
And judging by the hesitation on Devyn’s face, uncomfortable for him.
The human paused for a moment before wrapping his hands around the half-elf’s shoulders and gave him a firm embrace before kindly, but forcefully pushing him back.
“No tears. They don’t do anyone any good. Okay?” He lightly slapped Arien’s cheeks and Arien nodded, unable to meet Devyn’s gaze.
Arien looked down, then turned away, before vanishing into the crowded streets.
He turned back, just at the last moment, to see Devyn watching him.
🙪
D E V Y N
Devyn watched Arien vanish. He felt a sinking feeling that was strong enough to rattle his resolve, but then took a deep breath and steadied himself.
No.
This is something he had to do. This is where he belonged.
His own farewell with his mother and siblings earlier that day had been painful enough. But this. This was a different kind of sting.
This was the question that never received an answer.
This was the thought of what could have been.
He turned.
And took his place without ceremony.
A captain stood before them, helm tucked beneath his arm. He did not give his name.
“Step forward when called,” he said, voice cold and monotone. “Speak clearly. Take what you’re given. And move on.”
That was all.
No prayers. No blessing. No words about honor or sacrifice. The first name was called.
The boy stepped forward, voice cracking as he spoke it. He was handed a spear, a shield with a dent already in it, and sent up the steps without another glance.
The process repeated. Name. Weapon. Assignment.
Devyn watched it like a man watching rain fall—aware, detached, already a little numb.
“Flintson,” the captain called.
At the call of his family name, Devyn felt his heart leap up into his throat as he jerked himself to attention.
“Devyn Flintson,” Devyn said. His voice held, steady as stone.
He was glad for that, at least.
The captain looked him over—eyes settling on the breadth of his shoulders, the set of his jaw, the calluses on his hands.
A nod; neither approving nor dismissive.
“Wall patrol. Eastern reach. Third watch.”
A greatsword was pressed into Devyn’s hands.
Not new.
The leather grip was worn smooth where other palms had held it. The weight of it surprised him–not heavy, but final.
He took it.
“That’s it?” Devyn asked before he could stop himself.
The captain’s gaze flicked up, sharp and brief and annoyed. “That’s all.”
Devyn opened his mouth, then shut it again.
He stepped aside, sword resting against his shoulder, feeling its presence like a hand he didn’t yet know how to shake. Behind him, someone muttered, “That’s it, then.”
Another voice laughed–too loud, too forced. “Easy enough. Thought there’d be more to it.”
Devyn glanced back and caught the speaker’s eye.
A lanky boy with freckles and a grin stretched a little too wide.
“What, you wanted flowers?” Devyn didn’t know why he said the thing he said; they were in the same boat, after all. But something about the oppressive rigidity of this place made him feel the need to prove to the other men he was tough. Prove that he was meant for this.
“Maybe a song?”
The boy snorted. A few others laughed, the sound brittle and breaking apart as quickly as it had formed.
“Save me a verse when you write it then,” the boy retorted.
“If I do, it’ll be a short one,” Devyn said, unable to stop a sure smirk from cresting his lips.
That earned another laugh–and this one lingered just long enough to feel wrong.
They were sent up the Wall in small groups, boots scraping stone worn smooth by decades of passing feet.
Devyn climbed with the others, the world narrowing as the ground fell away beneath them. When he reached the top, the land beyond stretched out, vast and quiet—rolling toward the horizon like a living breath.
From here, he could see the brittle spine of the Aeondes Mountains to the north arcing eastward before turning south.
From the height of the Wall, he could even see the southwestern spine of the Aeondes stretching down to form the border between the Veil and Mor-Grhatul, and he could see all of the evergreen and deciduous canopy that thickly patched all of the landscape in between while the foothills rolled away.
He swore that as the sun’s last ray fell, he could even see the sparkle of the Midowood Lochs that contoured the western shores of Old Brevania.
He’d never been to Lochsmede before, but had heard how legendary the mead there was.
Excitement gripped his chest as he gazed out over the canvas of the world of Lesaya that was just simply too beautiful for words.
The crisp yellow-green foliage of the deciduous trees that also dotted the landscape reminded him that autumn would be upon them soon.
He swallowed his breath and tried to picture this sight filled with enemies—or epic battles that he would have out there beneath the thick canopy, while he repelled Granthari invaders.
He failed.
The captain moved among them, assigning positions.
Devyn was stationed near the eastern bend, where the Wall curved outward toward the foothills. The wind was stronger there, colder. It tugged at his cloak and whispered through the iron fittings like a warning it had given a thousand times before.
For a brief moment, he turned westward and could see the sleeping settlement of Blackveil: both the lower hills and the upper plateau.
He could spy the light of the Chantry. He thought instantly of Arien.
And as his gaze shifted upward: there it was—the hulking, looming shadow of Mt. Aeon just as the sun passed behind the mountains.
Its smoke billowed softly in the distance, like a slumbering dragon that one dared not wake.
Someone beside him shifted nervously.
“You ever been this far out?” the freckled boy asked.
Devyn shook his head. “You?”
“No.” A pause.
“Devyn Flintson,” Devyn said, extending his hand.
The freckled boy smiled widely then took Devyn’s hand and shook it firmly. “Altro.” He said. “Edmere Altro.” The boy introduced himself.
An unsolicited smile curled across Devyn’s lips. “Guess there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?”
The boy smiled again, smaller this time. “Yeah,” He mouthed as he too took in the sight of the landscape that outstretched itself before them.
Hours later–when the sun dipped low and the light thinned–a smaller horn sounded somewhere down the wall.
Orders were shouted. Boots thundered. Men moved. Devyn turned instinctively, scanning the line for Edmere.
He didn’t see him.
At first, he thought nothing of it.
At the Wall, people vanished all the time.
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—C.T. Finney
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The horn code, one call for a shift change, two for Granthari at the gates, three for a breach, is a nice bit of practical worldbuilding, and ending the chapter on Edmere simply vanishing, “people vanished all the time at the Wall,” is a quietly effective note to close on. Solid setup for what’s coming.