Chapter 1

One

"Keep your guard up, Fieran!"

Fieran Laesornysh scrambled to get his practice swords up, but not soon enough. His father's sword whipped past his head, so close he felt the brush of the breeze and the crackle of his father's magic coating the blade. Fieran stumbled backwards on the slushy dirt, trying to gain space to get his swords up before his father's next strike.

His father, the legendary elven warrior Farrendel Laesornysh, was all crackling magic, flying silver-blond hair, and arcing twin swords.

With a war cry, Fieran's sister Adriana, usually called Adry, leapt forward, her own twin swords flashing and her blue magic—identical to Fieran's and their father's—crackling down her blades and sparking against the ground at her feet. Her strawberry-blonde hair tossed around her face, her blue eyes flashing with the light of battle.

Dacha—elvish for father—fended her off easily, and still had enough time to block Fieran's next attack as well.

Adry whirled, swinging her swords even faster. She always had taken to the morning sword and magic practices more than Fieran had. Oh, he didn't mind the swords or training with the powerful elven magic he'd inherited from his dacha. It was the discipline of it that grated on him.

That, and he preferred a gun in his hand more than a sword. Something he'd gotten from his human mother's side of the family. But swords were more useful for learning how to direct the elven magic, which tended to just incinerate bullets.

The magic would have incinerated the practice swords too, if they'd been using wooden practice swords instead of ones forged with dwarven magic that Dacha and Mama had given them when they came into their magic. Even then, Fieran still had to concentrate to keep his magic crackling along the blade instead of devouring it.

Fieran lunged again, his swords coated in magic. Dacha blocked his strike as easily as swatting away a fly.

Not too surprising. Fieran and Adry had been training with Dacha from the moment they had been old enough to hold a pair of wooden training swords, even before they'd come into their magic, but Dacha was the greatest living elven warrior. The stories of his exploits in the wars over seventy years ago were the stuff of myths.

"Fieran, the shield."

Dacha's mild tone made Fieran wince as he hurried to get a better grip on the dome of blue magic he was supposed to be holding in place. The magical shield ensured that the combined force of their magic didn't lash out and destroy the forested parkland in this back corner of their home of Treehaven in Fieran's mother's homeland of Escarland.

Each morning, Fieran and Adry took turns holding the shield to practice fighting with their magic and holding a protective barrier at the same time.

Dacha was big on practice.

Louise, one of Fieran's other sisters, sat cross-legged on a log to keep herself off the muddy ground as she held her magic in a second barrier around Fieran's. Her magic was a lighter blue, almost white, yet she still wielded the magic of the ancient kings that everyone in Fieran's family had, even if it was a milder form of it. While she trained in swords like the rest of them, she preferred to practice her magic in other ways.

She waved her hand and sparked her magic against his, shooting him a look for letting his magic get even that much out of control.

Oops. Fieran settled his grip on the power flooding from him, both into the air, across the ground, and coating his blades.

The whipping of a blade through the air snapped his attention back to Dacha, and Fieran barely ducked in time to avoid Dacha's sword. Fieran scrambled backwards, getting his swords back up. He'd let himself get distracted with the shield and had lost the rhythm of the sword fight before him.

Dacha whirled to parry Adry's swing, his movements fluid, his long elven hair flying around him. Dacha's silver-blue eyes glinted hard, flashing with that warrior's light he always got when wielding his swords and magic. Fieran could only imagine how terrifying his dacha had been when he'd earned the warrior title Laesornysh, meaning "Death on the Wind" in elvish.

It was a warrior name Fieran inherited rather than earned, something most elves would never let him forget, even if they didn't dare say such things around his dacha or his uncle Weylind, the king of the elves of the kingdom of Tarenhiel.

Dacha's sword snagged his, and the next thing Fieran knew, one of his swords was flying out of his hand to land with a splat in a patch of slush. The flat of Dacha's sword rested across his chest. Across from him, Adry was breathing hard, Dacha's other sword resting on her shoulder.

Fieran sighed and lowered his remaining sword. He mentally grabbed his magic, wrestling with the surging power for a moment before he cut it off, letting the magic in the air fizzle out into a burst of sparks. He swiped his sleeve over his forehead, smearing sweat despite the chill air of the late winter morning. Strands of his short red hair stuck to his forehead. "I know, you don't have to say it. I was distracted this morning."

Adry, too, let her magic dissipate into the air. She grinned at him as she sheathed her swords across her back. "Nothing new for you."

Finally, Dacha lowered his swords and released his magic. A slight sheen glistened on his forehead, but he didn't appear quite as sweat-soaked and grimy as Fieran felt.

It sure would have been nice to inherit a bit more of that elven glow. Instead, Fieran sweated gross, more like a human than an elf.

Dacha sheathed his swords and spoke quietly with Adry, likely telling her she had done well that morning.

Louise pushed to her feet, swiping a strand of her white-blonde hair behind her ear. She glared at Fieran. "You distracted me. I might have burned some of the trees if I lost control."

"Sorry about that." Fieran grinned as he retrieved the sword he'd lost.

At least there wasn't much she could have burned. All the trees around them were spindly and bare, not yet even budding with spring. No undergrowth sprouted yet, leaving the loam a muddy mess beneath their boots.

Louise just rolled her eyes, then brushed off her clothes as Dacha turned to her.

Adry shared a glance with Fieran, then broke into a run, her boots squelching on the forest floor. "Dibs on the zip line!"

"No fair!" Louise took off after Adry, racing toward the tree that held the end of the zip line linking this back corner of Treehaven with the rest of the expansive estate.

Fieran sighed and sheathed his swords. He would have joined the race for the zip line, but Dacha was turning to him, something severe in his gaze this morning.

Dacha's hard warrior mask hadn't faded yet, and his swords rested far more easily across his back than Fieran's did his. "You were particularly undisciplined this morning, sason."

That elven word for son showed the warmth to Dacha's words beyond the flint in his eyes. Elves often addressed each other by their familial relationship. More than merely stating the relationship, it was an endearment that signified particular closeness.

"Yes, yes, I know." Fieran shifted, glancing away.

Dacha sighed, crossing his arms. "War is coming, Fieran."

He nodded, though he didn't meet his dacha's eyes. For nearly seventy years, the Alliance Kingdoms of Kostaria, Tarenhiel, and Escarland had been on the brink of war with the increasingly powerful Mongavarian Empire. But recently, reports of Mongavarian soldiers in the ogre kingdom of Groyria to the south of Escarland, increased production of Mongavarian airships, and their navy patrolling international waters off the coast of Kostaria, had all pointed toward war being imminent.

Fieran shrugged and gestured to his dacha. "It won't be much of a war. The Wall will keep Mongavaria from invading."

The Wall was a magical barrier that Fieran's dacha had created sixty-nine years ago, with help from Fieran's uncles Weylind, king of the elves, and Rharreth, king of the trolls. The Wall had initially stretched between Escarland and Mongavaria, but over the years, it had been expanded to fully surround all three Alliance Kingdoms. As much as the Mongavarian Empire might want to invade, they couldn't get past the Wall.

All they could do was go over it with airships and the newfangled aeroplanes. The Wall was powerful, but it could only extend so far into the sky. Still, airships and aeroplanes couldn't launch much of an invasion all by themselves.

"They will figure out a way eventually. War creates invention." Dacha held Fieran's gaze, his silver-blue eyes especially stern this morning.

Fieran gave a slight shrug at that. He was rather familiar with inventions. Inventing had, after all, defined most of his life.

Over sixty years ago, Dacha, Uncle Iyrinder, and Uncle Lance had started the Alliance Magical Power Company—AMPC—which created magical power cells with Dacha's magic. Those magical power cells fueled Escarland's entire infrastructure, from trains to motorized vehicles to aeroplanes.

Fieran had grown up helping where he could, then he'd gotten a degree in magical engineering so that he was certified to use his magic to fill power cells. His sisters Adry and Louise also worked at AMPC, though Louise was the only one who had inherited Dacha's love of fiddling and inventing. Fieran and Adry just did it because it was something to do with their magic.

Dacha reached out and gripped Fieran's shoulders, tighter than was usual for the elven-style shoulder hug. "When war does come, our family will be expected to take the brunt of the fighting. You will need to be ready, sason."

Fieran tried to nod solemnly, even if his heart was racing more with excitement than fear. Was it bad that he was almost eager for this long-awaited war to finally start? War would be his chance to prove he was worthy of carrying the name Laesornysh and wielding the magic of the ancient kings, as the elves called it. "I'll be ready, Dacha. You've trained all of us well."

Dacha's gaze searched his face before he sighed and shook his head with an almost resigned tilt. He released Fieran's shoulders and stepped back. "Go on. Breakfast must be nearly ready."

Fieran grinned, his mouth already watering at the thought of bacon. If he hurried, he might even have time for a quick shower. His family would appreciate it if he didn't reek of body odor at breakfast.

As he spun on his heel to race for the zip line tree, Uncle Iyrinder and Merrik strolled into view, weaving between the trunks of the barren winter trees.

Uncle Iyrinder wasn't really Fieran's uncle, nor was Uncle Lance. But as Dacha's friend, business partner, and one-time guard, Uncle Iyrinder and Aunt Patience were pretty much always there during Fieran's childhood. They owned a house here on the Treehaven estate, and they lived in a house on the forest floor near where Fieran's parents lived in Tarenhiel. Calling them aunt and uncle had come naturally.

Merrik, Uncle Iyrinder's and Aunt Patience's oldest, was only two years younger than Fieran, and the two of them had basically grown up like brothers. With hair that was shades of red—though Fieran's was bright red and Merrik's was a darker brown-orange chestnut—they were often mistaken for brothers.

While Merrik had inherited a bit more of the elven mannerisms from his elven father, including wearing his hair long, Fieran had always had a bit too much human in him. Too loud. Too boisterous. Too unconcerned with dirt and grime. Even his hair was just annoying the times he'd tried to wear it long. Despite using the magical elven shampoo and conditioner Aunt Illyna made, Fieran's hair still lacked that little extra something that elven hair had.

Another way Fieran just couldn't measure up to his dacha.

As Uncle Iyrinder joined Dacha, Fieran strode to Merrik's side and bumped his shoulder. "Done communing with the trees this morning?"

Merrik rolled his eyes. "Done causing explosions?"

"Not a chance." Fieran grinned and reached for the bottom rung of the ladder formed of living roots and branches that stretched down from the tree. "The latest shipment of engines for testing should be arriving today. You know how I love blowing a few of those up."

Merrik sent another look heavenward. "You have a problem, you know that? No one should love explosions that much."

"Explosions are a natural part of invention. Just ask Uncle Lance." Fieran scrambled up the ladder, then onto the higher of the two platforms grown from the tree using elven plant magic. A stainless-steel cable disappeared into the distance among the forest of Treehaven.

"There is a difference between an accidental explosion in the name of invention and relishing destruction." Merrik climbed up the ladder after him, resting his elbows on the edge of the platform as he waited for Fieran to get out of the way.

"But blowing stuff up is so much fun." Shooting Merrik one last grin, Fieran grabbed the handle that hung down from a pulley, then launched himself off the platform with a whoop. He was supposed to use the safety harness, but he and his siblings rarely bothered to take the time.

Merrik followed, also not bothering with the safety harness. He might protest Fieran's recklessness, but he was secretly just as bad.

Fieran whipped between the trees. The cold air slapped his face, smelling of that particular late winter mix of wet earth and fresh air that hinted of the coming spring. The pulley hissed against the cable until Fieran slowed as he reached another platform. This one formed a hub of lines, going off in various directions.

From this platform, Fieran could see the estate's original brick manor house, which had been claimed by Uncle Lance and Aunt Illyna. To one side of that, a large barn had been expanded and converted into a workshop that Uncle Lance, Uncle Iyrinder, and Dacha used when tinkering with inventions they weren't ready to unveil just yet. Their main inventions and power company was based in nearby Aldon, the capital city of Escarland.

Fieran's family's home, a large wooden manor house, was set to the other side of the broad lane from the brick manor, though they were shielded from each other with thick stands of trees. Uncle Iyrinder's and Aunt Patience's smaller house was tucked farther back in the woods.

With one last glance at Merrik, Fieran grabbed the handle for the zip line toward his parents' manor house and flung himself off the platform again. He zipped through the trees, the line lowering until his feet touched the ground.

The line dumped him out at the base of the tiered garden that ringed the balcony at the back of the turreted manor house perched on a small hill. A brick staircase wound up the terraces with iron handrails bordering each side.

Fieran launched himself up the stairs. Only a few steps up, something rolled beneath his foot, and he nearly tripped. He grabbed one of the iron handrails before he could face-plant into the bricks.

"Fieran!" His brother's voice rang from somewhere farther up the stairs.

Fieran froze, glancing down. He'd stepped on a row of toy soldiers, knocking them over and breaking one of them.

The stairs above him also had row upon row of soldiers, meticulously lined up. The soldiers were humans, elves, and trolls, all painted in bright colors and wielding a variety of weapons.

"Sorry!" Fieran shifted his feet, trying to find a safe spot. He fumbled to re-align the soldiers, but he couldn't get them as neat as they had been before.

"You are just making it worse." His brother Tryndar sounded even more indignant.

He glanced up to find Tryndar—his only brother and youngest sibling—with his bare feet braced against one handrail, his toes gripping the spindles, and one hand on the other rail in complete disregard for the cold winter morning. With his free hand, he was arranging soldiers on a step. His silver-blond hair tumbled around his face and shoulders, long and flowing like an elf child's.

While Tryndar was ten years old, he aged slower than a human but faster than a full elf. That put him more like five years old in human years.

That made quite the age gap between him and Fieran. At 68 in half-elf years, Fieran was about 136 for an elf, 21 to 23 for a human. The whole slow aging thing wasn't so bad, except for the fact that his parents only looked like they were 35 or so in human years since their aging had slowed so much. It got a little awkward when his parents looked more like his siblings than his actual siblings did.

"Sorry, sorry." Fieran stopped messing with the toy soldiers. Instead, he straddled the railing and shimmied up it so that he didn't knock over any more of his brother's carefully arranged warriors.

When he reached where Tryndar was braced across the stairs, Fieran rolled off the railing onto a step clear of toys. Before his brother had a chance to move, Fieran swept Tryndar up, then dangled him upside down. "Hey, monkey."

Tryndar gave a laughing shriek, wiggling and swinging in Fieran's grip. "I am not a monkey! I am an elf!"

"Really?" Fieran grinned at the running joke between him and Tryndar, ever since they'd visited the Aldon Zoological Park and Tryndar spent a full hour just watching the monkeys. "You shriek like a monkey. And wiggle like a monkey. And climb like a monkey. I think you must be a monkey."

"No!" Tryndar giggled harder, swinging around to put himself almost right side up. Once Fieran set him on his feet, Tryndar gestured at himself. "See. I am an elf."

"Hmm. Yes. You're right. You're an elf." Fieran squeezed his brother's shoulder, then turned his attention to the epic battle Tryndar had arranged. "Who's winning?"

"The Alliance, of course." Sitting cross-legged on the step, Tryndar rolled his eyes, as if that much should be glaringly obvious.

"Ah, of course." Fieran pointed at one of the elven warriors, this one with long blond hair and wielding two swords. It was hard to tell on the small figurine, but the face was a decent facsimile. "Is that Dacha?"

"Yes." Tryndar waved his hands and made a noise, as if trying to imitate the crackle that Dacha's magic made.

Fieran grinned and called up a hint of his magic, then let it crackle down the stairs, spreading out around the figurine of their dacha.

Tryndar sighed, his silver-blond hair lying so magically tamed and flowing around his shoulders. He swung bright green eyes up at Fieran. "I cannot wait until I get magic."

"I know it's hard to wait, but you'll come into your magic eventually. We all did." Fieran tapped Tryndar's forehead with a magic-laced finger.

"I suppose." Tryndar heaved a sigh. Then he wrinkled his nose. "You smell."

Fieran sniffed at his shirt. A bit ripe. A shower was definitely in order.

"There the two of you are." Mama strode down the steps. Her hair—red as Fieran's—draped in its customary braid down her back. She wore a simple, Escarlish-style brown skirt and light blue shirt. "It's time to come in and wash up for breakfast."

"Aw, Mama." Tryndar hopped to his feet. "Do I have to?"

"You can leave everything set up and come back after breakfast. But you can't eat bacon with grubby fingers." Mama turned Tryndar's hands over, showing off the black, sooty marks from rubbing against the iron handrails.

"Bacon is eaten with a fork, not fingers." Tryndar's nose wrinkled in that very elven way of showing disgust that he'd inherited from Dacha. Along with his propensity to use a fork for bacon rather than getting his fingers greasy.

But the sight of his dirty hands was enough to send him scampering toward the house.

Mama swept her gaze from Tryndar to Fieran, her eyebrows raising. "You need to wash up before breakfast even more than Tryndar."

Fieran peered down at himself. The rail had left a dirty streak down the center of his clothes, smeared into the darker spots where sweat had soaked through his shirt. Not that more dirt mattered at this point when added to all the sweat and grime from training.

"Don't want to smell me while eating?" Fieran grinned and gave her a quick good morning hug. Because what else was he going to do but distribute hugs when he was this gross and sweaty?