The soul is the principal thing.All the treasures of the earth cannot outweigh it. Proceeding out of it is an invisible energy. A Halo. It cannot be seen by the eye, only felt. Some souls emit a vast halo, others emit a quiet one, barely a stir in the air, easy to miss.But the soul beneath is the same.Doran's halo was weak. It had always been this way.But the soul beneath it was his, and he had chosen what to do with it. The sky above Wall Iros exploded.Not fire. Not lightning. A sphere of absolute darkness, darker than the night around it, streaking across the sky like a hole in the world. It struck the outer wall at the western gate, and the sound that followed was not an explosion. It was a swallow.The wall that was supposed to be protected by The Great Aldric's seal, the wall that had stood for centuries, crumpled inward. Stone shattered. The shockwave hurled soldiers from the parapets like dolls. Dust and debris rained across the outer district, choking the air. People ra

The training grounds sat in the shadow of Wall Aldric, a wide yard of packed dirt and trampled grass wedged between the garrison barracks and the eastern guard tower. It smelled of sweat and iron. Soldiers drilled in clusters. City guards sparred with wooden blades. You could feel their halos. A blacksmith's apprentice hauled a crate of practice swords toward a storage shed, his arms trembling under the weight.Soren stood at the edge of the yard.His legs had carried him here without permission. He had meant to go back. He had told himself to go back. But his body had other instincts, and those instincts had led him through the inner gate, past the markets, past the guild halls, and brought him here. At a training yard. Like a soldier reporting for duty.He didn't belong here. His clothes announced it. Blue wool. Silver buckles. A few of the soldiers glanced his way, assessed him as harmless, and looked elsewhere.He found a spot against the outer fence, half-hidden by a stack of wor

Soren returned to the training yard at dawn.He had barely slept. Again. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt the pulse in his chest—surging, contained, but undeniably there. A halo. His halo. Not something inherited. Not something remembered. Something entirely new. The Stone had shown nothing when he was six. The Stone had been wrong. Or something had changed. He didn't know which. He only knew that the pulse was growing, and he needed to understand it.The inner city was still waking. Cobblestones wet with dew. Woodsmoke from the bakeries. Servants with bread baskets. Soren walked with purpose, his hands loose at his sides.He was halfway to the garrison when he saw him.A company of soldiers was assembled near the inner gate. Their halos pressed outward in disciplined unison—not vast, most of them, but steady. Trained. At their head stood a man with a scarred face and brown eyes. Younger than the face in Doran's memory. Unscarred by years that hadn't happened yet. His halo was f

Bran had learned patience the hard way.As a child, he had waited for his father to notice him. Rordan had been busy with Aldric—the heir, the firstborn, the one who showed a flicker of potential at the Crimson Stone. A ring of light that wasn't vast but wasn't nothing. Enough to matter. So Bran waited. He learned to ride. To hunt. To close a deal before Aldric could finish his sums. None of it worked. His father's eyes slid past him the way they slid past furniture.He had waited for his mother to hold him the way she held Soren. Maren had been busy with the baby—the still Stone, the broken one, the one who needed protecting. Soren got the attention. Soren got the soft words and the searching looks and the hand on the shoulder at dinner. Bran got a kiss on the forehead and a reminder to wash before meals.He had stopped waiting years ago. He had made peace with it. The middle son. The weak halo. The one nobody invested in.But he had never stopped watching.The morning after the beas