Aubade rising, p.1
Aubade Rising, page 1
Published by Hayley Pierce Writes
© Hayley Pierce, 2025
The author’s moral rights have been asserted.
First published, 2025
This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The right of Hayley Pierce to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form, binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of Hayley Pierce writes, its publishers.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available
978-1-0681684-0-6 – Paperback
978-1-0681684-1-3 – eBook
Printed by Amazon.
Edited by Author’s Pen.
Typesetting and proofreading by Helen Jones.
Cover design by Aby Thompson.
Interior map by: @shepengal
To the new mums, in the thick fog of post-partum,
hang in there.
You’re not alone.
Prologue
Years of my life. Total isolation. Set-back after set-back. So much potential smothered. So many voices silenced. But a tidal storm is coming. Strong winds of change are gathering and new sunlight will burn away the stagnant waters.
Chapter 1
Irrevocably changing the world is a fool’s dream. For most people anyway. But not for me. I’m teetering on the edge of something incredible. The sun flickers out from behind heavy clouds, coating my face with a weak winter warmth. My meagre magic stirs. It knows what’s coming. Waiting any longer is impossible. I promised Dervla I wouldn’t do this without her. But as the sun vanishes, leaving me cold, I falter. If this experiment doesn’t work, if my theory doesn’t hold, then I don’t want a witness to my failure. I straighten my spine. It will work; it has to.
A small lump of quartz, veined with copper, weighs heavily in my palm. I place it on my workbench and retreat across the laboratory. My theory is simple: I’ve been searching for a material that can absorb magic, to hold it in stasis until it’s called upon to be used. For Aubades like me, with such little magic, succeeding means we will be able to stand on equal footing with the Mordros, our rulers, and demand they lift the many restrictions which keep us bound to poverty. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Magic is forbidden in Trevesiga and it’s critical I keep this research secret. I steady myself with a deep breath and lock the laboratory door. I turn back towards the workbench, failing to quiet the bubbling excitement from my magic as it fizzes in my chest. It’s been years since I’ve dared to let it out.
My hands rise, twisting in shapes learnt in secret from my mother before she died and I call my magic forward. It comes gladly, filling my palms with white light. I shove it towards the worktop, aiming for the stone sat on it. The magic sizzles through the air and into the quartz. The bright light vanishes and I hear my heartbeat loudly in my ears. Smoke starts seeping through the copper veins towards me and I dart behind a large storage cabinet. The room shudders and I’m thrown against the wall.
The fall-out from the blast leaves me covered in a fine metallic dust. Eyes watering, head throbbing, ears ringing, I flex each of my fingers in turn and flinch at the numb hollowing in my chest where my magic is housed. It’s completely empty. I’ve failed.
The workbench, at the epicentre of the destruction, suffered the most. Its top has disintegrated along with one of the legs. The three remaining legs smoulder, covered in dark ash, an awkward triangle of kindling. The storage cupboard behind leans unsteadily to the left, threatening to fall over. Its doors have been ripped away and measuring instruments warped by the heat spill onto the floor. Vast swathes of scorch marks radiate across the stone walls. Every window has been blown out, shards of glass sprinkled on the floor. I feel grateful to be alive.
My hand presses against my sternum, grounding me, my lungs push against it while adrenaline washes through me. Deep breaths. I inhale the metallic dust and struggle to suppress a coughing fit. It’s important to focus, to be certain nothing else will catch fire. I stumble towards the workbench legs, grabbing my cloak from the cabinet to smother the embers. My throat burns as ash billows at the movement.
I need a cover story for the destruction. Some disturbance is expected in a research laboratory but I can’t get away with such a substantial explosion; the broken glass windows alone will draw attention. Thankfully, it’s late enough in the day that the neighbouring labs are empty; no one bangs on the door to check on me but the smell of smoke will raise questions in the morning.
I peer blearily out of the empty window frame. The last few rays of sunlight are disappearing over the domed roof and towering spires of the Academy. My hands move in repetitive, practised motions, summoning the last few seconds of sunlight to me to replenish my magic for the night ahead. A warmth spreads through my chest and my magic hums contentedly, happy to have been utilised for the experiment instead of being suppressed as usual. My magic doesn’t care about failure, it only cares about escaping the tight leash of control I’m forced to maintain.
My legs shake as I attempt to sweep the shattered glass into a corner; cleaning up feels overwhelming. I wrap myself in my spare cloak, leaving the one covering the workbench legs well alone, and turn the collar up to protect against the winter gales.
The laboratory is a chaotic mess: very little is salvageable. Tomorrow I’ll make a note of what needs to be replaced and how much it will cost. It won’t be cheap and I’ll need approval from my sponsor, Dervla. Once the door is closed on the destruction, I check it’s firmly locked before leaving.
To say today was unsuccessful is an understatement. It’s been a long time since I’ve had an experiment fail and, even then, they don’t blow up half the room.
Defeated, I head down the worn, stone steps out of the Academic’s wing and almost make it across the central courtyard before a man’s voice rings out.
“Sage, a moment,” the please is conspicuously absent. Honestly, it’s not even really a request; it never is with Principal Alemond.
I stop walking but refuse to concede any distance and walk back towards him. His nose twitches as he recognises my counter power play. Intentionally irritating him has been one of my few joys. My latest scientific paper gained quite a bit of notoriety in the Academy and it rankles me that he takes credit for the initial idea. So I relish no longer pandering to his rank and stand my ground where I can.
“The explosion just then. Should I be concerned?” A simpering smile accompanies his shout, louder than needed. He remains fixed in place, his words reverberating intentionally. We both refuse to take a step towards each other.
“A small miscalculation.” My refusal to apologise irritates him more.
“I hope you can afford to repair the damage. Athnavar Academy is a historic building and we must treat it with care.”
I deflect with an internal eye roll. The Academy is barely older than the founding of Trevesiga, maybe one hundred and fifty years at most; granite stones and wooden rafters, nothing precious. Just a home for second-rate, under-achieving academics.
“If it’s too much of a disturbance, I could always follow up with the Academy in Pentargon? They did seem keen to accommodate my new research.” It’s a cheap shot, name-dropping the illustrious Pentargon Academy, but he started it and it feels good to take my bad day out on someone.
The conflict is visible across his face, and, if I had been in a better mood, I would have enjoyed watching him struggle whether to take the bait and continue this argument in public or to acknowledge I have bargaining power now and leave me alone. There’s no one around right now but the Academy is never truly empty. He takes it.
“I do hope this isn’t a sign that you’re a bit of a one-hit wonder. With all this additional attention, there are a lot more people to disappoint.” Smugness radiates from him in greasy, thick waves.
“One-hit wonder? I hardly think Sage needs to prove anything anymore.” A voice from behind me, soft on the breeze but dripping in derision. It belongs to Dervla Cairbre, my sponsor and the only person who holds Principal Alemond in a lower regard than I do. “She is working at the frontier of scientific development. Not many Academies have researchers that can claim the same.” Casually examining her meticulous fingernails, I notice a touch of irritation in her tone.
“Good evening, Ms Cairbre,” he greets Dervla with a false smile, almost a grimace.
“Goodnight to you too, Principal,” she says, effectively ending the conversation. She turns and links arms with me, steering me back towards my demolished laboratory.
All thoughts of running from my disastrous day and having an early night are abandoned when Dervla surveys the destruction and picks her way through the room, somehow managing to avoid spoiling her clothes.
“Clearly you decided to go ahead without me. I take it this wa s the result of our pet project then?” She lifts one dark eyebrow and gestures to the chaos. “How much is this disaster going to cost me to fix?”
I sink against the dented storage cabinet and fold my arms, “I haven’t added it all up yet but it won’t be cheap.” All of the laboratory equipment will need to be replaced, not to mention finding someone to fix the windows without asking too many questions.
Dervla has extensive business interests across Trevesiga and so, while she is my sponsor and closest friend, I don’t have a monopoly on her time and attention.
“It will be worth it when it works. I’ll move a few things around; you should get the funding by the end of the week.” I smile gratefully, relieved that she’s taken the explosion and damage in her stride. She shrugs delicately and surveys the detritus littering the floor. “Although, I maintain this is not the best place to conduct these sorts of experiments. You got lucky today, but it just takes one person to discover what you’re doing…”
She’s not wrong. My laboratory space isn’t exactly desirable. Athnavar Academy begrudgingly upgraded me after my last publication but before the explosion my predecessors’ ancient books and equipment cluttered the room. Now, tattered pages lie strewn across the floor and the old equipment is unsalvageable. With all of this cleared away, the space is still small and cramped. It’s not suitable for clandestine explosions either.
She gets to the point, checking her watch. “Is there anything I can do to make you consider that position in Pentargon?”
We’d put this to bed several times before, but she will not let it go. I should know by now that nothing stands in her way when she wants something. “No, nothing. Despite what I say to wind up the Principal.”
“I don’t mention it because of the funding. There are other benefits to taking up a position in the capital. Easier to conceal your work, more secure accommodation, better facilities and you’d be making it clear where your allegiance lies.” I observe her closely. This level of persistence is unusual, normally she trusts my judgement when it comes to the research part of our arrangement.
“And the drawbacks? More security means being watched, making it harder to achieve our project, unlimited funding comes with input and others’ ideas and perhaps I don’t have political aspirations.” Relocating to Pentargon sounds like punishment, constantly being observed and monitored, no autonomy or independence. And, with my family’s history with the city, it’s better avoided.
“I know it’s not what you want right now but I want you to seriously consider it. If you’re discovered here, I can’t protect you. Pentargon would give you more freedom than you know.” The thinnest hint of frustration starts to show through her tone now. “I’m concerned for your safety.”
“Safety?” I say sharply, taking greater note of Dervla’s expression. “Why are you concerned about my safety?”
“There’s been more activity from the rebel groups since the assassination.” My stomach drops. Trevesiga was rocked when a small group of rebels penetrated the palace security and murdered the King. They were caught and severely punished but it seems that wasn’t enough of a deterrent for the others.
“They seek a way to make magic more accessible, to turn it into weapons against us. If they knew what we were working on…” She pauses, uncertain, tightening the leather straps of the falconry gauntlet she wears on her arm. “They’re rallying now. It’s only a matter of time before a mistake like tonight draws their attention. Or worse, attracts the Mordros.”
“What if I don’t care what the Mordros think?” I’ve never reacted well to being cornered. I force myself to remember that Dervla cares about me and snapping at her is not productive. I centre myself with a deep breath and rub my aching chest with my knuckles again.
She patiently watches me gather myself and smother my growing anger. I know what happens to people who threaten the Mordros and, despite my resistance to moving, a slow prickle travels down my arms, the hairs standing to attention.
“My answer is still no.”
She hides her disappointment well, covering the small deflation in her body with a nonchalant shrug as she makes for the door. I grimace, recognising she doesn’t consider this conversation finished, just adjourned.
“Get me an inventory of the damaged equipment by the morning and I’ll ensure it is replaced. And don’t leave the laboratory in this state again – anyone could have discovered it.”
Suitably chastised and shivering from the icy wind blowing through the empty panes, I survey the damage and resign myself to a late night tidying and cataloguing. There’s not much I can do to hide the smashed windows but the rest I can tackle.
Chapter 2
Completing an inventory of the damage took a lot longer than I wanted and my shoulders and neck are aching by the time most of the debris is piled into a corner. Dervla was right to insist that the mess was cleaned up; my exhaustion made me sloppy and the mess could have easily been found and questions raised.
I retie my long ponytail ready for the windy walk home, thankfully clear of glass shards this time, when the earth begins to shake violently and all sound cuts out.
A pulse travels through my body and knocks me to the ground, vision blurring and ears ringing. My hands and knees are grazed and dripping blood from broken glass I’ve overlooked. Noise trickles in, but all I can decipher are screams and shouts of distress. The vast flagstones on the floor have cracked in half, deep grooves running under my hands and towards the door. Someone shakes my shoulder urgently, pulling me round to face them. Dervla has returned and her dark skin is ashen as she pulls me to my feet. Her mouth is grim and her hands are steady. She’s remarkably calm considering we’ve been attacked. Thick smoke creeps round the doorframe’s corner, curling towards us.
“We need to stay hidden.” She repeats it twice more and I realise, through the ringing in my ears, she’s waiting for my response. I manage a small nod before my vision fractures again and I lean on her shorter frame for support. She keeps a tight hold on my waist and pulls us out into the courtyard, away from the main entrance. As soon as I’m able to walk unsupported, she picks up the pace, leading me deeper into the older wing of the Academy, where the faculty work, along winding corridors I scarcely knew existed.
A few shell-shocked people brave the corridors too, stumbling around, all injured. Through the acrid stench of burning smoke, a cloying sweeter smell of burnt meat permeates and my stomach roils. Dust and mortar fall from the ceiling and my vision flickers with black spots. Through the shattered windows, I can see fire spreading from the buildings around us.
We don’t stop for anyone, avoiding eye contact and Dervla is walking faster and faster, almost running. We reach the bottom of a narrow flight of stairs and Dervla checks we are alone and looks at me with a sort of nervousness I haven’t seen on her face before dragging me into an unmarked office.
It’s empty and a thick layer of sticky dust grips my shoes to the floor. She strides across the room to the dark wooden panelling. I don’t see how she does it but a door opens and she gestures to me to go through. Confused and still dripping blood from my hands and knees, I venture through the doorway, into the total darkness and Dervla seals us in.
“You’ve channelled today?” she whispers fervently. “We’ll need your light.”
I don’t think to question her, even though using my magic in public is a capital offence, and summon a flash of light from my palm. Our faces are illuminated and before her pupils shrink and adjust, I catch a fleeting glimpse of fear in her brown eyes.
She looks at the flickering ball of light I’m holding. “We need to hurry.” It’s not clear whether the rush is because she doesn’t believe my magic will last or if she thinks there’s someone chasing us. I’m too afraid to ask.
She pushes me ahead to lead the way through the damp stone tunnel as it slopes gently downwards. We move in silence for no more than a few minutes before the tunnel opens into a small, underground quay. This must be an offshoot of the river that surrounds the city, as the water smells clean and fresh.
Dervla passes me, sinking her hands up to her elbows into the flowing stream. I assume she’s channelling until I hear her muttering under her breath and moving her hands in a complicated series of movements. I realise she’s wielding magic.
