Every year had been the same since Daric’s birth—ten years of drought. Fields grew drier, the people of Leathen thinner, and the royal coffers lighter as Daric’s parents were forced to pay the surrounding kingdoms for water, grains, and provisions.

After another look around him to make sure all was quiet, Daric turned back to Braylian’s Cauldron. A thick column of mist rose from the sacred circle, but he knew that at any second, the elements could shift, turning into violent flames, bolts of lightning fierce enough to blind a man, gales that whipped and wailed, or shards of ice that exploded upward before raining down like daggers.

Children were warned away from the Cauldron from the moment they could understand fear. At least once a year, Daric joined the rest of the royal family at the volatile stone-lined circle to pay homage to Braylian, the goddess of the elements and the divine creator of the four seasons.

Usually, he was not alone to come before Braylian and beg for the return of water to Leathen’s lakes and rivers. And to his knowledge, no one had ever stood this close to the Cauldron. He was not too young to understand the consequences of this ongoing lack of true springtime. He saw the tension in his parents and the gauntness of his people. The fact that he and the drought were the same age made him even more determined to find a solution. Somehow, he felt responsible.

Gathering his courage, Daric stretched his hand into the mist again, this time losing sight of everything up to his wrist. It was cool, damp, and terrifying. He curled his hand into a fist and drew back. As he did, he could have sworn he felt a soft brush of fingers across his knuckles.

Daric shivered in a way he knew a brave young prince shouldn’t, and had he been a hallerhound, he’d have felt the hair on the back of his neck rise and quiver.

He squared his shoulders. Raana coveted Leathen’s orin mines. No longer satisfied with simply purchasing the strong, versatile metal, Illanna Nighthall had just successfully bartered for a nearly untapped mine that hugged the border. She had one shaft now. Next year, Daric feared she would have another.

Why spring rains would still water and nurture the surrounding kingdoms but not Leathen was a mystery. All Daric knew was that Leathen had faithfully guarded Braylian’s Cauldron for generations. It was time that Braylian returned the favor for Leathen.

“Braylian!” he called out, frightened, even though the stone circle seemed calm today. This was where spirits gathered, the seasons changed, and storms were born from nothing. “We need your help!”

No response came, and the mist remained quiet. He leaned forward, dipping his head into the column. To do so was bold and spine-chilling, but if the goddess saw him, maybe she would answer.