“You're a mage! How can you not know?”

Harding's incredulous voice strained to be heard above the sound of the rushing waters pouring into the chamber. Already the small stone room was filling up. The arcane glyph hovering before the sealed door shone with a blue-white radiance and slowly rotated in the air, symbols spinning clockwise like a valve to let the water flow in through several slits cut high up in the walls.

Early morning sun had burned the mist off the rolling fields, which shimmered with golden waves as the wheat, almost ready for harvest, danced in the breeze. Smoke from a campfire lazily swirled upward, wood crackling gently.

“So I've been thinking about Solas”, Zea said, lowering her tin cup of bitter and burned campfire coffee. “And I don't even know if I can kill a god”.

Viago de Riva's eyebrow twitched, and the muscles in his jaw tightened. His hand moved with precision, in a fluid motion borne from long practice. With a flick of his wrist, the king was dead.

“Checkmate”, he said in triumph.

“I'll get you next time, old man”, Zea replied, creasing her mouth into a half smile at the frown this quip drew upon Viago's face. He was probably less than a decade older than her, but Viago had mentored Zea during her training, and she enjoyed winding him up about it.

“You need to be less impulsive”, Viago explained with an air of exasperation. “Not every battle can be won through attack alone, Rook”.