Chapter 6: Month of the Abyss

Flames rose from her feet, then vanished.

This was her twenty-third attempt.

Another failure.

Beads of sweat dotted Elara's forehead. She wiped them with the back of her hand, sending wisps of steam hissing into the air.

Without pause, she began her next trial. Her witch's uniform lay neatly folded nearby—had she not insisted on preserving it, the garments would have long turned to ash. Fortunately, Prince Cedric had ordered Tira to deliver an entire barrel of spare robes scavenged from the maids' quarters.

On the twenty-fourth attempt, flames bloomed in her palm instead of beneath her feet. She raised her arm cautiously, willing the fire toward her fingertips. The flicker wavered, then raced up her sleeve, devouring the fabric in a hungry rush.

Elara extinguished the blaze and tore off the charred remains expressionlessly, rummaging through the barrel for fresh clothing.

Each time this happened, Cedric averted his gaze—though she seemed indifferent to modesty. Had he not insisted, she'd likely practice naked. Yet watching her flame-clad form proved… distracting, especially given her lithe frame.

Cedric shook his head, banishing wayward thoughts. Mastering this power clearly demanded grueling effort. His current goal for her: conjure flames from palms or fingertips without igniting her robes, sustained at temperatures high enough to melt the iron ingots.

After the thirtieth failure, he intervened.

"Rest."

Elara stared blankly until he guided her to a stool.

"You're exhausted. Rest," he insisted, dabbing her damp brow. "We've time. Let's take afternoon tea."

Cedric knew nobles of Eldermarch Kingdom had no tradition of afternoon tea. In this resource-starved world, few could afford leisure for delicacies—three daily meals remained a luxury, let alone four. Idle aristocrats typically whiled away such hours in taverns or gambling dens.

No tradition? Create one. Pastries were manageable, and ale could substitute for tea. Before departing for the desolate Borderwatch, Cedric had brought his entire retinue—maids, servants, and even his royal chef.

Thus, the first afternoon tea convened in the garden shed.

Elara stared at the platter of exquisite treats, disbelief widening her eyes. How could food look so… artful?

Though she couldn't name the confections, their ivory-and-crimson hues enticed her. Delicate filigree edged each pastry, etching another crack in her worldview.

Cedric smirked at her awe. Just strawberry cream cakes. Country bumpkin. The berries, sugar-preserved, had lost their freshness—but she wouldn't know.

Watching her eat proved more entertaining. She nibbled a cake, azure eyes glimmering, chestnut hair swaying. For a moment, Cedric felt he'd stepped into a culinary anime.

If it doesn't glow, is it even gourmet?

Well, this "character development" had its charms.

Observing Elara's training and sharing tea became Cedric's routine. Governance? Bartholomew handled it impeccably.

Three days later, the steward delivered Borderwatch's compiled records—a mountain of reports the prince would've previously scorned.

In truth, he still did. Cedric skimmed two lines before groaning, "Read them aloud."

An hour into Bartholomew's recital, Cedric frowned. "Why are winter taxes and trade zero?"

Colder months lowered yields, but zero? Did locals hibernate?

Bartholomew coughed. "Your Highness, the Month of the Abyss? Borderwatch lacks defenses. All evacuate to Fort Everstone. Rest assured, your safety remains paramount."

"Month of the Abyss?" Cedric recalled the term—previously dismissed as primitive superstition. Yet witches existed. What of other legends?

During court tutelage, his history tutor had detailed it: the first winter snowfall dimmed the sun, opening the Gates of the Abyss within the Dragonfang Mountains.

Hellish miasma corrupted living beings, twisting animals into Abyssal Beasts that ravaged humanity. Most witches emerged during this season, their powers magnified.

"Have you seen these Gates?" Cedric asked.

"Your Highness, no mortal can!" Bartholomew shook his head. "The Dragonfang Mountains are impassable. Merely nearing them induces headaches or madness—unless…"

"Unless?"

"Unless one's a witch. Only the corrupted withstand the miasma." He glanced toward the garden where Elara trained.

"What of the beasts? Surely you've seen those?" Cedric rapped the table.

"I… haven't. Like you, I'm new to Borderwatch. In Eldermarch's heartlands, true evil rarely surfaces."

Annual evacuations? How can this territory prosper? Cedric seethed. What he'd deemed a salvageable backwater now seemed a death trap.

"Fort Everstone repels them. They can be killed. Why not here?"

"Fort Everstone has towering walls and Duke Lysander's elite garrison. Borderwatch?" Bartholomew shrugged. "A sentry post between Northslope Ridge and Crimsontide River—meant to warn the fortress."

A human shield on the enemy's path. Cedric's lips thinned.