The Spellcaster

III

'Definition of a spellcaster: someone with magical abilities that allow them to cast spells.
Some believe that spellcasters inherited their abilities from the god Pyrodynn, or because one of their ancestors may have been one of the fae.
The fae were a race of people many years ago, when magic wasn't outlawed in some countries. Necromancy parlours, healers, enchanters and alchemists were all very common, and most of these were run by the fae. The fae were, in a theoretical sense, the first generation of spellcasters. Pointed ears, toes, and unnaturally bright eyes were common throughout the race, although some weakened down through bloodlines mixed with other races did not have these features.

The History Of Magic: Introduction To The Fae

*****

"Let her go, you monster!" A shrill scream ripped through the window, a gust of wind carrying it into the Crown Prince's sleeping ears. "She never did anything wrong!"

"Move out of the way, Miss." a rough voice replied, followed with the sounds of dragging footsteps and metal moving.

Soran lay fast asleep in his bed, unmoving. He had left his bedroom window wide open, allowing for fresh air and the sounds of desperate screaming to flood into his dreams. Heavy footsteps thudded up the corridor, becoming louder and louder the closer they got; and there was a short, quick knock at his door. When the prince didn't shout for the person to come in, his door was burst wide open regardless of whether the prince wanted him to or not. He sat bolt upright at the sound, pulling up his duvet in an attempt to keep warm. His heart thudded in his ears, and the palms of his hands felt moist and sticky.

"Jarlen," he groaned, his mouth dry, and his eyes still adjusting to the daylight. "What a wonderful surprise."

Jarlen himself seemed just as awake as Soran did. His hair was brushed back and stuck up recklessly, and his face had grown rough with stubble. His white shirt was buttoned up the wrong way, missing too many buttons to register as being 'decent'. His green silk waistcoat looked as if it had just been slung over the top of his clothes, and hadn't been buttoned up properly either. He leaned against the door frame, and his face and hairline were drenched in sweat. "As much as I'd love to stick around and chat," he panted so hard that breathing looked like a burden. "This is of an urgent matter, Your Highness."

"What in the name of Amyths could be happening that is so serious before mid day?" he grumbled, before motioning for Jarlen to get out of his bedchamber so that he could actually get some proper clothes on. "Come on, if it's so serious, you're going to have to leave me to get dressed."