Deep-Spire

The smoke cleared, the dust settled and the screams of the dying faded to whimpers.

  Riadamor walked across the battlefield. The ground that had once been smooth, was now gouged and cratered. It would bear the scars of this battle for many years to come. She picked her way carefully through the bodies, her gaze sweeping over them for any sign of life. Nothing.

  There had been heavy losses on both sides, but in the end the superior numbers of the Esquill had driven the Sentorân back. Trapped against a wall of impassable bramble thickets, they had eventually fallen.

  Riadamor was exhausted. Her limbs dragged and her pulse throbbed in her temples. Yet, the thrill of victory made her feel as if she were walking above the clouds.

  There, before her, were the gates of Deep-Spire.

  Great iron gates, bolted shut.

  Riadamor halted before them. Despite her fatigue, excitement coursed through her. She stood there, gathering her talent. She breathed deeply and let the exhaustion seep out of her into the parched earth. These gates would not stop her – nothing would.

  Riadamor extended her hands and flung forth a column of pale fire. It hit the iron gates with a resounding ‘boom’. She heard the groan of the metal under the strength of her talent. Gathering her power once more she sent another volley of fire at the gates. The iron squealed, as if in agony, and finally gave way.

  The doors swung inwards, revealing a wide space; a sea of white pebbles with a flagstone path leading up the centre. The path before her led up to granite steps, which in turn lead up to vast oaken doors. It was a sight she remembered as if it were yesterday.

  Deep-Spire had been her keeper – but no more. Now, it belonged to her. She was its mistress.

  Riadamor walked forward to claim her prize.