Balc’s hands ground the malleable kaolin as sharp licks of magic prickled down his arms. His stomach coiled so tight he wasn’t sure he could keep his dinner down much longer. On a curved shoulder, Balc wiped the perspiration along his jawline, then dragged filthy palms across his linen tunic, powerless to stop their shaking. Powerless to ignore the treason he was committing. Powerless to forget the Queen of Vaie would demand his head.

The drae lord watching Balc cleared his throat from within the shadows of the crypt. In the middle of the night, he’d stolen Balc from his home to create an abomination. And, as if a threat by the all-powerful drae, who ought to follow the queen’s rules, wasn’t enough, his guards remained with Balc’s wife and their three great-grandchildren.

Balc’s pulse hammered in his ears.

“Hurry up, Spell Forger.” The lord’s callous undertone reaffirmed the promise of death. If they didn’t return to Balc’s home within three hours, Balc’s family would never see the morning.

Balc sprinted to the rear of the room, his toes sinking in the mud of his underground room. Beech tree roots wove through the walls like brown snakes. Long ago, Balc had carved them into shelves. Today, he wished they’d morph into real vipers.

With a bucket of purified water in hand, he curled a finger around the neck of a tiny bottle filled with sap from the last remaining weeping tree. Then he threaded a thumb through the handle of a wooden jar and returned to the table.

Nerves consumed him, but he needed to overcome them. Working in the crypt for most of his life, he’d never once felt threatened. Until tonight. He gestured to the lord in the shadows, indicating his compliance with the rules as he placed the bucket and vial at one end of the table.

Balc uncorked the jar. At once, the powdery scent of drae bones… a pungent sulfur… pinched his nostrils. He coughed, and his gut churned. Which of his people had the lord sacrificed for this sample? Descended from an extinct race of dragon shifters, the drae had lived in harmony for centuries. Their numbers halved after the Blood War with the Kingdom of Aripi. So, now even the loss of one of Balc’s fellow draes from the realm of Vaie was unforgivable.

His fingers squeezed the lid; his lungs refused to work for a few moments.

With hesitation, Balc sprinkled the ashes along the length of the clay and followed it with splashes of water. Not too much, or the form wouldn’t hold. His wife’s smiling face whirred through his mind, hushing his thoughts, driving the doubts aside, and focusing on the universe’s stillness. But he couldn’t quiet his quivering as he folded the ash into the clay and repeated a blessing in his mind.

Creatori. Dă-o viață. Dă-o minte. Dă-o limbă. Dați-i un suflet.

A flame engulfed his core, flaring and swirling in size with each recitation. Sweat dripped along his nose and over his chin, splashing across the clay. Every formation included a part of him. That was the way. Energy skated down Balc’s arms, into his fingers, his pale flesh darkening to a reddish hue, and energy blending into the clay.

His limbs weakened beneath him, and the room spun. Stumbling backward, his hand flayed outward, knocking the bucket over the edge of the table. Water splashed across his legs, its icy fingers clawing at his flesh. He caught himself, and the walls of the workshop seemed to close in around him. His work had always drained him, but never this fast.

The lord tsked, the sound rippling across the room.

Balc rushed to the far corner, gasping for breath, his feet making sucking sounds with each step. With the second bucket of water in hand, he returned to the table. Focus. No more mistakes.

From his pocket, he retrieved a folded piece of paper, his muddy prints marring the parchment. The note contained the lord’s secret instructions for the task desired of the clay creation.

“If you read it,” the lord’s jarring tone filled the room, “I’ll kill your wife bit by bit so she suffers.”

Balc’s dinner rose from his stomach, hitting the back of his throat. He gagged but pushed the acid back down. If he tainted the paper now, he’d have to start again. Desperation burned behind his eyes. His family depended on him.

After blessing the note in pure water, Balc shredded it in the bucket. He kneaded every tiny piece of paper into the clay, again and again. His mind focused on the craftsmanship, the energy sizzling beneath his skin.

Balc labored until he could no longer feel his hands. The slab on his table resembled a drae being, a soldier with legs and arms, shoulders, muscles, and a soft face. Performing this heinous act gnawed on his conscience. The knowledge of what he would release into the Tapestry world would haunt him for eternity. Through silent prayers, he injected the intent to love and care without the lord’s knowledge, hoping the Creators listened.

He’d read about these monsters being unleashed when drae ash was used in crafting. And here he was, bringing one to life.

For years, he’d created protectors for the realm under the queen’s command, made with clay and animal bones so they were easily controlled. Furywings were the eagles of the skies, while crawlers shared ash from moles and lived in the ground. But drae ash was something else. It mocked the Creators.

What he’d crafted in his crypt would kill anything in its path to complete the task on the note. An atrocity against the queen’s kingdom. After tonight, Balc swore to himself he’d retire from this work and move into the country with his wife. As far from the kingdom as possible. The change was overdue.

His unsteady hand lit a black candle, running the flame across the body. With a quick glance at the lord, he lowered his voice and returned attention to the clay form. “Bless this pure form with the power of the all mighty Creators. May he always follow the right path.”

On the soldier’s chest, Balc used his index finger, drawing a circle.

A silver energy streamed from his touch, seeping smoothly into the indent. Within the circle, he etched a moon and sun, assuring this being would remain part of day and night. Balc painted several runes to add life to the inanimate object. He placed his palm above the pattern, and his flesh tingled. Shards of light speared from his hand, bathing the soldier in a golden cloud.

“Creators, I call you. Bless this being. Give it life.”

At Balc’s next inhale, his body shuddered with exhaustion. His knees folded under him, and he collapsed in a heap on the muddy floor.

Each breath rattled on its way down his throat. He gasped for air. What had he done? His arms refused to move, every fiber screamed for him to stop. But he had to finish the assignment.

The horrendous possibility of losing his family filled him with the determination to continue. He gripped the edge of the table and pulled himself to his feet. Taking the glass vial in hand, Balc trickled the gluey sap across the carving in the chest. The clay absorbed the elixir like parched soil in a rainstorm. He lowered the flame from the candle once more to the pattern, and a blue blaze spread across the inscription, then it snuffed out as if an invisible breath extinguished the fire.

Life through magic.

After he grabbed a long length of cheesecloth from under the table and soaked it in the water in the bucket, he covered the soldier to prevent the clay from cracking because the next stage took a full night and day. Now it was up to the Creators to play their part.

One last glance at the face beneath the cloth and Balc hesitated to leave. He stood motionless for what seemed an eternity, still unable to accept what he’d crafted.

An Ash.

A guardian of clay made from drae bones. Unpredictable. Deadly. A soulless automaton warrior. Uneasiness spread through him.

But what had the note instructed the soldier to do?