Knock. Knock. Knock.

  Soft, bouncy footsteps approach the cherry door, and the handle, a clear, sparkling stone, twists, revealing the inside of the exquisite home. The smell of freshly baked blueberry pie wafts from the portrait drowned hall, the soft sunlight illuminating the smiling figure of Mrs. Kyne.

  “Mauven! I was wondering when we would be seeing you,” the elderly woman chirps, her white hair wound into a fine bun as usual, “Do come in, why don’t you?”

  I nod tentatively, a small, polite smile tugging at my lips, “Thank you, Mrs. Kyne.”

  “No matter, dear, no matter.” She trots ahead, her steps springy and light.

  Mrs. Kyne leads me to the kitchen; a beautiful mesh of polished, wooden cabinets, tall, crystal windows, and a tiled, red and white floor. A clock ticks above the bay window, and on the island sits the fresh pie, still sizzling from the oven.

  “How is your father, dear? Is Krein holding up alright?” She asks, pouring two mugs of tea and arranging a plate of biscuits.

  “He is doing as well as he can,” I answer honestly. There is no point in lying to Mrs. Kyne. She has a certain talent for sensing when one is not telling the truth.

  “Yes, that is to be expected, I suppose,” Mrs. Kyne sighs sympathetically, ushering me to the bay window, where she places the tea before us, “And how are you holding up, dear? In light of your adventure.”

  The clock ticks rhythmically as I take a sip of my scalding tea, the scent sweet honey and chamomile, one lump of sugar slowly dissolving at the bottom.

  “It is a great honor, to attend Etari…I am most concerned for my father.”

  Mrs. Kyne nods seriously, her hazel eyes piercing into mine, “That is natural, you have taken such great care of him since your mother passed, gods bless her soul. But Mauven,” she squeezes my hand, her grip wrinkled yet firm, “I will do all I can to help him. I swear it.”

  I smile back at her gratefully, bowing my head as I take another sip of my tea. It is a relief, that she will stay true to her promise. It makes what I am about to do much easier.

  “You will do well, Mauven,” Mrs. Kyne says firmly, so at odds with her typical cheery tune, “You have a very strong jaw, and glacial eyes, which see the truth. These features are not just physical, but run in your blood, too. You remember that, do you hear me?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Kyne,” my voice is thick as I stand from the plush, red cushion, “I hope to see you again, thank you for your help.”

  “Of course, dear,” she smiles motherly, leading me out of the home, waving as I latch her rose-covered gate closed.

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  “You will be on your best behavior,” he commands, his voice almost echoing, “You will do what they say, when they say it, and without any complaints. If you are lucky, you will blend in with the Whites, and mesh into the great machine.”

  Father has been like this since I returned; all throughout the washing, the preparing of canned food, and cooking of two meals. It is now close to the middle of the night, the seconds seeming to move faster as the time grows closer.

  “And do not forget to tell them of your brother, of the warrior he would have become. It is essential they know it is he who belongs, that the fates chose him, not you,”

  “Yes, Father,” I say from the kitchen, where I am folding the laundry.

  There is nothing else I can prepare for my departure. Nothing will keep me from fulfilling tonight’s task. It is essential I get there on time, I have precisely half an hour until I leave. Father is usually asleep by now, but the terror of what I may do to the sacred Fangera name has fired his mind alive.

  He acts as if it is my choice, to attend this school of war. But truthfully, I did not want this, and it was only by chance that Dax was chosen. Etari is traditional, a token to the gods whom used to rule this world; Helrion, the father of life and death, and Merikna, the mother of love and lies.

  The draft has always been a part of Leiyetta, almost like a sliver of her soul. 200 kids are chosen at 15, their names drawn by the most sacred of Mages. But it is not until they reach the age of 20 that Etari at last opens its halls.

  It was Dax whose name was chosen, but when he died, his conscription was passed on to me. I promised him I would try, even if I was sure I would die. But Dax took no notice or my fears, assuring me it would be fine. It was easy for him to say, when he would have enlisted even if his name was not chosen, likely the very day he came of age.

  Those who volunteer are trained on the continent, in Leiyetta’s homeland. But the selected students of Etari are sent to Isle Parisama, where the hidden castle lies deep within the mountain Evermeah.

  Within Etari, two civilizations lie, mixed together yet separate. There is the House of Helrion, home to the defenders of light, destined to bring honor to their bloodline. And then there is the House of Merikna, composed of shadow, filled with the deepest of secrets.

  But none of that comes until year two, which only half of the chosen will come to experience. The first year of training is brutal, unforgiving of any weakness.

  “Mauven, are you listening to me? I said to bring me my spirits,” Father demands, his depthless, black eyes lacking a soul.

  “I am sorry, Father,” I rush to his side, pouring a glass of poisonous smelling liquor.

  The clock chimes midnight, and my back goes rigid. It is time to leave. The ship will be silent at this hour, but it will not be for long.

  I straighten a blanket on the back of the couch, fluffing a deflated pillow and looking around the room. There is nothing else I can do. Not anymore.

  Turning to my father, head dipped and bangs curtaining my eyes, I whisper, “I must leave. I will write when I arrive.”

  Father’s eyes narrow to slits, “Do not write unless you have been placed into the Whites. There is nothing else I care to know.” He grumbles, then continuing on, “Daxton would have been put into the Shields, they would have seen it right away!” He exclaims, thumping a meaty fist on the arm of the chair, “You will never bring honor like he would have. You have never been a child of mine.”

  Swallowing heavy and nodding along, I wait until his rant comes to a close before bowing at the waist. I take soft steps to the door, avoiding the squeaky floorboard which always earns me a lecture.

  The only possession I am bringing is Dax’s favorite throwing knife, the leather handle worn and grooved, perfectly aligning with his agile fingers and holding precious memories. He gave it to me on his deathbed, tucking it into my hand, making me swear I will try, that I will not die at Etari, that I will make it out of the mysterious walls. I swore to him I would, that I would not go down a coward. But reaching for the door handle now, my hand trembling over the wooden knob, I have to wonder if it was right for me to promise him something that will not come true.

  “And Mauven,” Father growls, his back turned, “If you should make it to the choosing, and you are not sorted into the house of light, it would be better if you died.”