When Rourn failed to show at the evening feast, Atticus assumed he was still training. From his sleeping quarters, Atticus traded his spear for his short sword and went to find Rourn.

His boots scuffed the ebony steps spiraling up the Tower of Tribulation’s twenty stories. He had made the stair run twice a day for as long as he could walk.

This was the third time today.

Cresting the top, he adjusted the dark green bandana keeping his long red hair from his eyes. Across the battlement, he spotted Rourn, head down, hands clasped in prayer. A similar green bandana circled Rourn’s head. His black hair hung to his waist.

“Forgive me, God,” Rourn whispered.

Rourn had the most beloved soul of the Order. Why would he need to ask for repentance? Had he disappointed one of the Elders?

Rourn palmed the parapet, glancing across the vast desert.

An acrid scent hung in the air. Twilight brushed over the compound and darkened sands flowed endlessly around the settlement. A buzzard circled overhead while an ornery jackass fussed below in the barnyard.

“You missed the last feast, brother,” Atticus said.

Sighing, Rourn folded his arms over the stone wall. “I am not hungry.”

“Are you ill?”

Silence.

Atticus clapped Rourn on the back. “Elder Cai made a trip to Red Rock Bluff and saw Old Lady Ebben again. When he got back he was drunk as a crow in the agave garden. I say we sneak into his room and steal us a bottle. Are you with me?”

“That rancid stuff is akin to iguana bile left in the desert sun. Awful concoction.”

Atticus rested his rump on the parapet. He leaned back on his hands. “When the Sacred Inauguration is over I intend to fetch a bottle, with or without you.”

A familiar look of disapproval crossed Rourn’s face. “You best not tempt the brandy. As a Paladin knight you must always remain alert. This is especially true for you.”

“Relax, my brother. A little brandy does little harm. Besides, after all our effort we deserve to live like rogues for a night.”

“We are Paladins. Not reckless scoundrels.”

Atticus, attempting to lead the discussion elsewhere, said, “Rosemary finished seaming that peach dress she’s been working on.” He waggled his brows. “It fits quite nicely, if I may say so.”

Rourn huffed. “You must take your training more seriously. You failed greatly today at your letinyasa technique.”

“That technique is more of a folk dance then a tactical maneuver. I don’t see its practicality in the throes of battle.”

Rourn spun to face him, a strange ornamental dagger in his hand. Fragmented sunlight glinted off its blade. He glared at Atticus then lifted the dagger over his head and stared skyward.

Atticus grimaced. “Bat heads, brother. You are mad.”

With his free hand, Rourn drew his sword. A deep snarl on his twisted lips. “I bring a grave message that you must heed.”

Atticus stepped backwards. “We have trained enough for today. The feast hall will close soon. You need to eat.”

Rourn scowled. He charged.

Atticus drew his saber, deflected Rourn’s blade and parried the next thrusting strike. Swords crossed with a clatter of steel.

Atticus pushed forward, boots gripping the stone, eyes squinting. “Blazing ghosts! What foolishness plagues you?”

“I know you possess more.” Rourn shoved, causing Atticus to stumble backwards. With one long stride, Rourn approached him. “You are but one of the great chosen who can defeat the Beast. You must all be prepared for the Reckoning.”

Blades crossed with another shattering clang. Atticus’ arms trembled from the exertion of holding back Rourn’s broadsword. Searing webs of pain burned his wrists and shot up the muscles of his arms.

What if Atticus could defeat Rourn? The thought evoked a smile.

Atticus charged.

Blades sparked and sang with clamor.

Rourn uttered an incantation, his blade flashed blue and a coil of electricity surged through Atticus’ sword and into his hands and arms.

Atticus jolted backward. He scowled at his the burnt hair on his forearm. “Groveling ghouls! You hurt me!”

“So I did.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not who you think I am.” Rourn shook his head, sheathed his sword and set the strange dagger on the wall. An expression of sadness reached his eyes. “Perhaps it’s only obvious to me and I need to confide in you.”

In frustration, Atticus exhaled. “Confide what?”

“You are as complacent as a fat bullfrog floating on a sea of gnats. Unless you train in earnest, your speed will slow, your agility will succumb to clumsiness and your wit will dull with inadequacy. The sea of gnats will consume the plump frog.”

“I don’t understand where any of this is coming from?”

Rourn stepped toward the tower’s ledge. The last rays of sunlight shone upon him. A bleak expression contorted his stoic face. “Despite your ineptness, I envy you. You will graduate and go on to great and honorable feats. They will send you somewhere exotic where you will encounter new people of friend and foe. There you will face the grand Beast—who is far greater than the villains we imagined as children.”

“I will not be alone in this slaying. We will draw swords against the Beast together.” Atticus cupped a hand over his eyes, shading his vision from the descending sunlight.

The buzzard that had been circling the tower had descended closer.

Rourn leaned over the ledge. “I would have preferred you not sought me here this evening.”

Atticus looked over the ledge. The ground loomed two-hundred feet below. He gave Rourn a sidelong glance. “Why?”

The shrieking buzzard’s black feathers were cast in twilight’s glow.

“Ortho’s vision of my future is not what it seems,” Rourn said. “The ancient mage is a fool. I am not destined as one of the Twins you and the Order believe me to be. There is yet another path I must pursue.”

“You speak madness!”

“I would have been happier as a healer, or a teacher—not a fighter.”

Rourn a teacher? Atticus would’ve laughed if he wasn’t so distraught. “You are a Twin warrior! It is prophesized. You have believed this to be so since you were of sword-wielding age.” Sighing, he gripped Rourn’s shoulder. “What has brought this affliction of melancholy into your soul?”

Rourn sat upon the wall, his thighs straddled on either side. The dagger lay between his legs. “I now see that which has been blind to me until recently.”

Atticus’ gut twisted while he tried to make sense of Rourn’s rantings. For the first time he felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness. Perhaps it was because many were training in the tower or at the rec hall for the last meal of the day; or perhaps because Rourn, his brother-in-arms since childhood, was—at the least—entrapped in a shroud of sorrow and—at the worst—plagued by lunacy.

Atticus pushed from the wall and took a defensive stance, brandishing his sword. “Battle with me. I will prove I am prepared.”

“You have nothing to prove, at least not to me.”

Atticus lowered his sword. “What must I do or say to save you from this state of sorrow?”

“I will do my part to save all from the coming Beast and I ask you do the same. Take not your duty as a Twin nor your role as a Paladin warrior lightly.”

“You need not ask. I am loyal to the Order. I will offer my life for—”

Rourn held up a hand, silencing Atticus. “I have knowledge of the future, of your future and it is not as their puppet. They make mistakes. Do not offer your life to the whims of the Order, no matter the propaganda they preach.” His voice lowered, eyes darkened. “Promise me.”

Atticus had sworn his allegiance to the Order long ago and he thought Rourn had done the same. Was his Twin a traitor?

“Promise me,” Rourn repeated.

“My loyalty isn’t to myself or you.” Atticus shook his head. “My sword belongs to the Order of Abel and will do so until I take my final breath. I’m sorry, but I must follow my heart.”

“And I must follow mine.” Rourn tossed his other leg over the wall and disappeared.

Atticus stared unblinking at the spot where his blood-brother had sat. “I find no humor in this magic. What kind of trickery is this?”

The mysterious dagger shimmered on the tower’s ebony ledge. Atticus reached for it but it suddenly vanished like a wind-blown mist.

He glanced around the top of the tower. “Elder Cai? Is this a sorcerer's folly? A test?”

Silence.

With careful steps, he neared the ledge and glanced over.

Rourn lay face down in the sand far below.

Atticus’ body shuddered. His chest ground against the stone, his head spun. Vertigo gripped him.

The world slipped sideways.

Then upward.

And the buzzard’s funereal shrills pierced his soul.

A hand latched onto the back of his shoulder and tugged. “Damnation, Atticus. Come away!”

Tears blurred his vision. Atticus stumbled from the ledge, collapsing into the arms of his teacher and trainer, Elder Cai. He gripped the elder’s black robe. “It’s Rourn. Summon Healer Merrick!”

The Elder grimaced. “It’s too late, my son. It’s too late. He’s in destiny’s hands.”