Dravenholt’s Ring

“Yes, that’s it.” Fendrya turned her head slightly as Kalvaris rested his hand on her shoulder encouragingly. As if his words hadn’t carried enough enthusiasm.

Kalvaris, withered and worn, didn’t look at her. No, his attention remained fixed on the ring forming radiantly.

Starlight and sunbeams, twinning day and night, comprised the ring, a barrier sealing the scourge beyond Dravenholt’s borders. The blessed, those touched by magic, maintained the ring by sacred duty. Fendrya numbered among their dwindling numbers.

Dwindling. No, recently risen to two.

Kalvaris’s hand tightened. “You’re doing it.” Emotions flowed from the old man. Foremost among them, she sensed relief.

Relief that he wasn’t alone.

Relief that another helped bare the weight.

Relief that the protection would carry into the future.

“Now turn the ring,” he said. “Allow it to slide into the crystal matrix.” Fendrya glanced toward the matrix, the protection’s core. The crystals ringed Dravenholt and fed off of magic.

Off of them.

Fendrya stared at the ring. A symbol of eternity. Her mother had taught her that, and Kalvaris had reaffirmed it.

No beginning. No end.

Yet, Dravenholt had begun once. The barrier had been crafted. There had been a time before they lived within its bounds.

Fendrya fed the ring. As Kalvaris had. Fed it his life.

She flung the ring, the light dissipating into the darkness.

“No!” Kalvaris cried, stumbling forward even as the light vanished. “What have you done?”

Fendrya turned away. “Chosen to allow time to move forward. At last.”