A Promise of Fire

The crowd listened with utmost attention as Madeline Edelarc stood center stage of the Brochard Opera Hall; her silk black hair glimmered in the spotlight, and her ocean blue eyes shined. She sang her heart out to the massive crowd, one of the largest in Zaldean, and most certainly the largest she’d ever performed for. As the last notes left her lips, and the orchestra played its final measures, the crowd erupted into wild, thunderous applause.

It was everything she’d ever wanted. Basking in the light of the stage, the conductor gestured for her to take a bow, and she felt everything she’d worked for the past decade finally pay off. She’d done it. She’d performed for the lords and ladies of Singard, as well as some of the most well-known and respected conductors across the continent.

As the curtains closed and the performers returned to their dressing rooms, Madeline was congratulated by nearly all of her peers. The young ingé nue had proven to them that she was worthy to stand among them. From here, she thought, she could only go up.

She changed out of her performance gown and wiped the elaborate, colorful make up from her face. She slipped into a dress far less lavish, but still just as eloquent, befitting the Brochard’s future prima donna.

After she’d gotten dressed, she heard a knock on her dressing room door. “Come in!”

Lucien Ezair, the proprietor of the Brochard, sauntered in wearing his dapper green and gray suit. He had thin pepper-gray hair, a spindly black moustache atop his lip, and the kind of smile one would imagine a slimy pile of garbage would make if it could smile.

He applauded her wildly and said, “Bravo, mademoiselle! Brave!’ Madeline stood and curtseyed to the man who delicately kissed her hand. Ezair wasn’t a kind or generous man; he was an opportunist. If he was being this respectful to her, it meant he had a reason to. He cared not for the arts, but instead how much money he could make from them. “My darling, that was beyond words; wonderful, beautiful, fantastic, they all fail to capture your performance.”

“Thank you, monsieur,” she said curtseying. “To what do I owe these compliments?”

“If you’d be so kind, I’ve brought some men who would love to meet with you.”

If he’d done that, she thought, then he wasn’t asking her permission, but insisting that her career depended on her meeting these men. She gestured for him to lead the way, and he guided her out to the green room where a trio of lavishly dressed Elven men stood. Ezair introduced them as Lord Alecsander Dumal of Twinriver, and the Maestros Luc Bellor and Iskan Vortan of the Zaldean Academy of the Arts.

Madeline did as she imagined any aspiring prima donna would do in the face of such wealthy and powerful patrons: she offered her hand.

“Outstanding! Simply outstanding, mademoiselle,” said Lord Dumal of Twinriver kissing her hand just a bit too aggressively for her liking. “Every day, I’m more and more impressed with the immense talent that comes from our beautiful nation.”

“I must agree,” said Maestro Bellor, kissing her hand rather awkwardly for such a refined gentleman. “My dear, I must know: where did you study? A talent like yours isn’t one that just crops up in a barren field. No, talent like yours is carefully cultivated!”

Madeline laughed and said, “I’m sorry to disappoint, maestro, but I am–as you might say–homegrown right here in Zaldean. I’ve no formal training, just the natural gifts passed down to me from my mother.”

“You don’t say,” said Maestro Vortan. He strutted forward, taking and kissing her hand utterly perfectly. “If that’s true, then you must be descended from Lady Driel herself.” Madeline’s heart fluttered in her chest as the young maestro’s haunting yellow eyes met hers. She was enamored with his beauty: perfectly coifed jet-black hair and flawless, unblemished skin. “Master Ezair, where did you find this blossom?”

“Why, as she said, right here in the city, of course,” said Ezair delightfully. He stood proudly, as if he knew a secret that the three men were desperate to know. “It all started when I was perusing down Aldwin Alley, scouting out some of the smaller theaters and show halls for talent, when I heard the most beautiful singing voice. It was like something straight out of a dream; I say, she was hypnotizing!”

“Is that so,” said Maestro Vortan.

“Impossible,” cried Lord Dumal.

“Nay, I swear!” Ezair puffed out his chest proudly and said, “She was singing for pennies before I nabbed her up.”

Maestro Bellor looked Madeline up and down, scouring her for any sort of imperfections before he said, “I don’t believe a voice like this simply popped up on the street. No, I think you’re hiding something from us, Ezair. Mademoiselle, tell me who taught you? I don’t doubt your talents, but as Maestro Vortan said, I’d need to believe you share blood with Lady Driel.”

“Perhaps I do,” said Madeline. She smirked, proudly turning her nose at them and said, “They said the same things about my mother: Sadria Hivernale.”

The men gasped, and how could they not, thought Madeline. Sadria Hivernale–the Winter Bloom of Zaldean–was a household name across the city, or at least it should’ve been.

“I should’ve known,” said Bellor. “Your mother and I attended the academy together, you know. Mother’s blessings, now that you say it, it couldn’t be more clear! The resemblance is uncanny!”

“Though, it is an awful shame about what happened to her. You have my condolences, mademoiselle,” said Lord Dumal.

Maestro Vortan was the only one who didn’t seem taken aback by this. Instead, he continued to look Madeline up and down, almost as intently as Maestro Bellor had earlier. “I was not aware the Madame Hivernale had a daughter,” he said.

Madeline gestured theatrically to herself and said, “Well, here I am.”

The young maestro approached her and said, “How old are you, my dear?”

“Thirty-five come this summer, maestro,” said Madeline. Maestro Vortan silently repeated the age back to her, his bright eyes beaming with adoration.

“Thirty-five,” bellowed Lord Dumal, “she’s but a child, and already this gifted!”

Maestro Bellor scoffed and said, “Don’t be so egregious, milord. Young, yes, but hardly a child.”

“I suppose to an foggy like yourself, Lord Dumal, she would be a child wouldn’t she,” said Vortan. He smiled and said, “How old are you, milord? Coming up on your second century, I believe? And you maestro, a hundred and forty?”

The two older men chuckled at the young maestro’s bravado and confidence. Madeline was impressed with just how elegantly he wove his words. The way he spoke and carried himself, Madeline thought he had the presence of a man even older than Lord Dumal, but he certainly wasn’t that old; no, he looked only a bit older than she.

“What of you, maestro,” she asked. “How old are you?”

“Me? I just turned forty-one this winter.”

Madeline’s jaw dropped. Not even half a century old and already a university maestro? That’s impossible, she thought, but perhaps if she played her cards right…

“I suppose you must be quite the natural talent yourself,” she said seductively. She reached out and brushed her hand against the young maestro’s suit coat, gently caressing his chest.

“Much like you,” he said nonchalantly, “I inherited many gifts from my mother.”

“Ooh, the son of a fellow prima donna? What was her name?”

Vortan took her hand firmly in his and said, “My dear, my mother’s name would get me strung from the gallows.”

He stared deeply into her eyes as he kissed her hand, and Madeline thought her heart would burst from her chest. Yes, this man would be the one, she thought. A pair of brilliant and gifted young artists–still in their youths–could ascend to the highest levels of Singard’s artistic world.

Ezair cleared his throat, uncomfortable with how close Madeline was getting with the young maestro. “Well, sirs, shall we be on our way? I-I think the lady would more than appreciate a little rest after such a spectacular performance, don’t you agree?” He shot a gaze at her that said she shouldn’t get any ideas about leaving his theater; he made her who she was, and she best not betray his trust and generosity.

Madeline rolled her eyes.

“Yes, that seems like a good idea,” said Maestro Vortan, “though I would love to speak with you again sometime, if I may?”

Madeline curtseyed. “You may, maestro.”

“Yes, yes, let’s not hound the girl, Maestro Vortan,” said Lord Dumal oblivious to their flirting. He turned back to Ezair as they were being escorted from the room and said, “Now, let us talk business. I’m thinking with a little donation from your board, we could begin the construction of a theater in Twinriver. We’ve got quite the talent out there, perhaps comparable to what’s here in Zaldean, and I think it could be a good source of revenue for the town, and–don’t worry, you’d receive…”

As they were leaving, Maestro Vortan gave Madeline one last smile and a kiss on the cheek goodbye. She heard him whisper that he would see her soon, and with that they were gone.

Once alone, Madeline collapsed onto the green room’s chaise lounge. Giddily, she bit her lip, excited to see Maestro Vortan again. Perhaps she could make a trip to the university tomorrow and see him. Would he like that? Would that be proper of her? Who could say, but Madeline knew for certain that he was the one for her.

After the performers had wrapped up and gone home, Madeline made her way through the bustling streets of Zaldean. Of the city’s many names, Madeline always thought that the “City of Lights” was most fitting: Aether infused lanterns filled the city with beautiful green and blue lights after dark; taverns and businesses had glyphs engraved upon their signage that would illuminate them to the world no matter how dark or foggy outside, and some of those signs even had glyphs that could depict moving images, such as a woman pouring a glass of wine for a patron.

Her mother once told her that Zaldean was the greatest city on Ark, filled with luxuries and delicacies many thought impossible not even a century ago, and it was all thanks to the work and diligence of the Archmagus Aria Bellanoire and the arcanists of the Arcanum University. For the past sixty years, they’d been making strides in their aethereal advancements, developing new and experimental arcane runes with applications many thought impractical, but now given hundreds of uses: creating breezes of gentle cool air during the intense summers, or creating subtle heat on those frigid winters; they developed methods of preserving food far longer than ever thought natural; and they could communicate as far as a hundred miles away almost instantly.

Using some information they’d gathered from the dwarves of Masubai, they’d developed impressive machines that could accurately and intricately inscribe glyphs upon objects so minuscule that they were hardly noticeable; thanks to the harvesting of pure gemstones from the Savageplains, they were able to infuse those runes and glyphs with natural Aether without any elf interaction except for replacing them once their natural Aether had been drained.

The world was truly heading into a new era–one where the Dragons were no longer needed–and Singard would be at the front.

Madeline couldn’t believe how lucky she was to have been born in such a city, but not only that, she was lucky to have been born with her mother’s gift. She was one of only a few non-academical students performing at the Brochard, and as much as she despised the man, she was incredibly lucky that she met Ezair that day, even if he was an opportunistic slime who’d hire an orc to perform if he thought it would make him more money. But he was a man who recognized talent, and she wanted to share her talent with the world.

And then, Madeline stopped. A knot had formed itself in her stomach; it felt like the most painful stage fright she could possibly imagine. It was so awful she almost forgot to breathe. Madeline began to stumble, clutching her chest, and frantically looking all around, but there was nothing except a scant few people walking the streets.

Couldn’t they see she was struggling, she thought? Why were they just walking past her? No, she realized soon that no one was actually there. The streets were completely barren and empty. There wasn’t even the soul of a rat.

Madeline staggered forward, and unbeknownst to her, she’d walked into a near alleyway lined with rows and rows of trash and garbage. What was she doing? Why was she…

There was the faint whistle of a flute that hung in the air, a most faint and delicate sound that rang so cleanly in her ears. Madeline shuffled, looking around for the music. She tried to scream, but nothing came out. When she tried to run, she felt something latch itself to her ankle and twist. She collapsed to the ground, gasping with pain, but even that was eaten by something she couldn’t see, almost as if it was being consumed by the darkness itself.

Swirling around her were dozens–if not hundreds–of wispy white and black tendrils of smoke and shadow. She didn’t know what was going on, but fear struck Madeline to her core. She tried to hobble away–tears streaming down her cheeks–but the wisps seemed to hold her in place.

“Ze hAlm HaRAh uhL kASan?”

Madeline’s eyes darted around the dark alleyway when they suddenly landed on a figure at the far end. It was completely wreathed in shadows except for a pair of eyes that glistened like stars in the night sky. The figure spoke to her again, repeating the phrase in its otherworldly, songlike voice.

Madeline pleaded with the figure, begging to be let go, but there were no words no matter what she said; there was only silence.

The shadow stepped forward and said, “jEt BLacK hAir ANd oCEan BluE eYeS, yET sADly You ARe noT HEr. a PIty. YOu HaD sUCh A bEAutiFUl vOIce, bUt i SUppOSe It WAs fOOliSh To tHInk iT wAS You.” Madeline stared I horror. That voice was so familiar; it was so beautiful yet haunting. It was… “buT i cAN’t Let A TalENt LikE yOUrs Go tO wAStE, cAn I DArlINg?”

The shadow waved its hand, and the tendrils began to pull Madeline deeper into the darkness as she silently screamed for help.