Prologue

*copyrighted material*

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    Mother’s hand felt longingly tender that night, he recalled. He was just a toddler lovingly restrained by her caring grasp. He remembered the tumid, grey clouds framing the pale pink moon and its small mint-toned rock sister. The winter night air had felt sharper than ever, his first flight to Supernova, the home of the Orbies. Mother described it as ‘sublime’ and ‘sunlit’ all day and night, which Philleas found to be a charming description now as a grown Orbie who had never reached such a destination. An Orbie was a creature born from passing comets that heaved spells into stones when close to the planet’s orbit. Small, round, smooth bodies, a single eye, and a peculiar birthmark on their face, always one of a kind to every child. A naturally occurring wizardry that turned stones alive. All born hot on the inside with an orphic glow that—by the way—Renata loved keeping her hands warm with.

   Ren and Phill—as they had pet-named each other—met that same night, a tragedy amongst parades and celebratory incantations. Bands of conjurers masterfully cast rocketing pyrotechnics spells from every pointy rooftop of the city of Fubelshia as the flock flew above them on their way home, climbed on their magically stretching ladders to reach the skies, and wore their ceremonial tunics and tall cone-shaped hats for the kingdom’s independence anniversary. Philleas would not forget the sight of men rising from the city, their heads past the clouds, having a glimpse of their flock as it flew overhead. His people moved past in a gentle and mindless rhythm. Comet creatures were not strangers to humans and vice versa, but that didn’t mean they mixed frequently, as humans had dangerous antics such as playing with dark magic. A small taste of dark magic in clumsy minds, hearts, and hands could unchain unwilling spell castings of the same dark kind. Dark magic did not vanish completely from the body, and sometimes traces of it caused drastic . . . consequences.

    Even with such a low probability of being caught by an Evil Eye spell in the middle of the crowd, young Philleas released his mother’s spirit grasp and stopped at arm’s reach from a surging figure of a man from amongst the clouds in complete amazement. A golden mask 

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covered his face as he swayed gently back and forth at the top of his magic wooden, and platinum-encrusted ladder. The conjurer—the proper terminology to refer to a wizardry practician—carried a satchel from which he threw gunpowder balls and ignited them with the magic forged in his mask through loud whistles. Every whistle note taking the lights higher and lower and higher again with exceptional colors.

    Philleas’ eyes glimmered with genuine captivation as other men came into view in the distance, all of them masked. The young Orbie hovered behind the man. “MOM, DID YOU SEE THAT?!”

   “PHILLEAS?!” His mother cried realizing her child was away from the safety of the flock. Five feet away was too much. Their outburst was the worst thing they could have done.

   “WHAT THE H—” The masked man jerked back and twisted at the sound of their staggering voices before losing his footing, flapping his arms as he fell back. In a desperate attempt for steadiness, he closed his fist on Philleas on his way down. But that’s only what the naked eye caught in that swift moment. A series of consequential events occurred in a tick. Orbies, beings that ruled the element of light, presented a strong deficiency against dark magic since birth. That deficiency grew weaker as they grew older and their light stronger. A mature Orbie wouldn’t have succumbed to the fear in the eyes of the masked conjurer and therefore, succumbed to the Evil Eye spell that had erupted in his gaze during eye contact. Furthermore, if Philleas had been older, he wouldn’t have just deflected the spell but handled the man’s weight effortlessly. The comet creatures had incredible levitating strength. Yet, that had not been the case, dark magic had sealed the deal. Taking his levitation strength to breaking point, his ability to soar like his kind was absolutely gone.

    The masked conjurer plummeted to his death with the young Orbie inside his hand. The cries of his mother were overpowered by the cries of the crowd beneath them, as they observed in shock how the man approximated them at great speed. Certainly, there were heroes amongst the rest of the conjurers who’d tried to break the fall, eventually. Right? Yes, indeed. Spell after 

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spell, they tried in a matter of seconds. Incandescent lights of all colors flew after them. Oh, bother, another itty bitty problem.

“The spell morphed into a jinx.”

    Kallam Hasbell breathed to himself, as his gaze whipped down at his seven-year-old daughter, about to witness everything with her body up on the promenade railing with worrying eyes. Gently but swiftly, he covered her big blue eyes. The falling conjurer bounced his way down a couple of roofs before hitting the cobbled floor on the other side of the city with an ear-splitting sound not even his daughter would have missed. 

    “DADDY!” She stomped her feet. “Is he dead?”

    “. . . Let’s say we might have to stay up all night at the laboratory. The academy and the commissioner will come looking for answers. The kingdom won’t be happy, I know that much.” He scratched his head, spinning her around so she didn’t get a peek at the inert body then picked her up, to shoulder his way out of the crowd that was beginning to push them around for a better view of the tragic scene.

    “They always come looking for you!” She beamed, wrapped in his arms.

    “Y—yeah . . .”

    “Daddy, the Orbie . . . You saw their élan was dropping fast.”

    “Renata.” Kallam put her back on her feet and took her hand, guiding her down the busy plaza, to a small stand selling blueberry muffins near a gazebo crammed with a comically large jazz band playing euphorically quick tunes that had their spectators in a dancing frenzy. An ordinary thing to see people do in this city after a long day of work.

    Kallam picked a muffing from the bunch, paid the employee, and placed the hot, buttery, and fluffy goodness on her hands. “Listen, nobody—at the exception of other conjurers up on the clouds—knows what truly happened. Let Dad do all the talking, okay? Do NOT mention what I saw.”

    “But they know you can do that too!” Renata frowned, butter tricking down her fingers.

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    Kallam crouched to tuck a short pink lock behind her ear and said, “They do, yes. I did see their élan. Of the both of them, actually. But I also saw something that could mean trouble, okay? Don’t say a peep!”

    “B—but the Orbie is alive, right?” She looked flustered. He nodded with a big grin.

“Thank goodness!” She came in for a hug, and her father snorted, his coat now stained with grease.

    The lush, plaza post clock declared eleven o’clock at night, and the rumors of an incident during the independence celebration of their Kingdom—the Kingdom of Vhalrahs—were in everyone’s mouth. Kallam expected the news to break out within the scarce minutes he had to comfort his daughter. Speculations would arise just as he knew his people would blindly believe them, things had not been the same since the climatic War of the Prima Donnas. It was times like these that had him wish for Clara’s return.

    As they made their way home, they bumped into concerned citizens discussing the news and the fanatic conjurers’ congregations he was waiting for to show up on the streets with deviant inquiries. Was it an accident? If not, was the Kingdom of Ufora behind it? Was this the work of Cadence Ellsworth herself by their orders? The loathed-by-all, traitor of their Kingdom, Cadence Ellsworth. ‘The Twin of Dusk’ had been one of her heroic names before her exile rite by King Adreth, the sovereign of Vhalrahs. She’d been previously bestowed with the title of the most powerful conjurer in the arts of dark magic in all of Vhalrahs, and honestly, no other had been able to fill the role after. Kallam pushed on the pace, and Renata could see a brand new emotion surging from his features. Brand new to her short existence. Fear, was it? 

    She sprinted to his rhythm, looking back as he pulled her from the elbow. The fanatics fell silent and unmoved at their presence, staring back at her with deadly glowing eyes in the shadows.

    The Kingdom of Vhalrahs—in spite of its majority of regular people with ordinary lives and jobs, people who enjoyed dancing to the sound of the trumpets, trombones, clarinets, bass, and drums—had fallen into dark times after losing the War of the Prima Donnas. Wizardry had 

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changed forever in the Kingdom, conjurers had lost all their confidence in their abilities to protect their people. The unexpected departure of Cadence to Ufora amidst the war where she was welcomed to join their forces against them had an unforgettable impact on the scholars’ community. 

    Ah yes, the academy, known as the Blackboard Conjuration School! The place for scholars or dare I say, Vhalrahs’ defense force scholars. Admission required a minimum of 45 élan points,  the academy could only measure élan through high-technology machines—the vital force magic needs to be transported from a living creature to a hammer-out accessory, culminating in a spell. Remember the celebrant conjurers and their golden masks? Now, imagine their surprise when one of their sophomore students could read élan with the naked eye.

    Kallam rummaged through his pockets looking for his house keys. By the next morning this street would be lively and busy as usual, he reminded himself. He looked around, everything in shades of darkness except the cozy lamppost next to his home, illuminating his small house porch. The door clicked to the twist of his key and he pushed it open with one shoulder, the interior revealed a timber-framed interior with rough hickory furniture such as chairs, the dining table and cabinets, tapestries of unicorn rabbits, and winged lizards, round clay pots with herbages. A cast iron wood burning stove that he quickly ignited. He felt his daughter’s eyes following him around as he cleaned around the house to welcome Commissioner Tortor and the academy’s Headmaster Adelheid.

    “Come on, angel, sit on the couch.” He chirped as he disappeared into the kitchen.

    “I WANT TO SEE!” She pled.

    “Fat chance, young lady!” The sound of tap water in the background.

    “BUT—”

    “We’ve discussed this SO MANY TIMES!”

    “BUT ITS YOUR JOB!”

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    “Necromancy isn’t always safe! HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I SAID IT?!” He sighed and fell silent for a minute or two. “Alright, the family cookbook is on the isle! Don’t you want to see what comes next?”

    “I thought you wanted me to stay put on the couch like always!” She rushed into the kitchen.

    “Maybe, we need to spice up our routine a little bit.” Kallam grinned, slapping the book. “Come here, and open it!”

    Renata hopped on a chair and blinked rapidly looking at the lemon-colored leather cover of that massive cookbook that belonged to both of her parents. Her mother and father had shared a passion for cooking and magic. Together, they had enchanted that very same book to create memories with their newborn daughter Renata revolving around their culinary creations. However, their union in marriage would be a short one. At age three, Clara, her mother, packed her bags and left never to be seen again, shattering Kallam’s entire world.

    Despite her father being young and personable with good looks, brown fringy hair, and brown eyes, he’d skipped dating altogether. All after taking her Grade 1 teacher, Ms. Nanabella, on a date that one regretful time, making it impossible for him to show up during parent’s school to this date. Either way, he always ensured she knew it wasn’t Mom’s fault she had to leave.

    Fulbelshia’s brass-made speaking trumpets went off as her small hands flipped the book open. Kallam looked out the window to see the closest cone-shaped acoustic horn twining and hitching to the voice of a sentinel delivering the following words, “CITIZENS OF THE CAPITAL OF FUBELSHIA, BY ORDER OF KING ADRETH, THE COMMANDING LORD OF VHALRAHS, IT’S BEEN DECREED EVERY CONJURER OF THE KINGDOM IS PRESENT TO A  CONVOCATION TO RESTATE THEIR CREDENTIALS AFTER A STATUTORY CROSS-EXAMINATION ABOUT THE DARK PRACTICES. IF UNABLE TO MEET THE BLACKBOARD CONJURATION SCHOOL’S NEW CRITERIA OR IF UNABLE TO BE PRESENT FOR THE SAID CONVOCATION WITHOUT A QUALIFIED MEDICAL LEAVE OF ABSENCE NOTE, YOUR CREDENTIALS AND YOUR SERVICE WILL BE TERMINATED. THE DATE AND TIME OF THIS OCCURRENCE WILL BE PROPORTIONATE IN FURTHER NOTICE.”

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    Renata’s father quietly placed a hand by the sink and scratched his head, his daughter noticed a little bit of distress, and maybe even listened to him curse under his breath. But almost immediately after, there was a knock on the door. A very particular way to knock on the door, actually.

    “That’s Commissioner Tortor!” He said, coming out as an outburst. He sprinted for the door he motioned to her daughter to quiet down as if it had been her that made such a racket. She rolled her eyes and secretly awaited the moment Tortor, Headmaster Adelheid, and their convoy stepped in.

    “Kallam.” It was Tortor, as he had predicted, small in size but with a heavy build. Covering his face with the hood of his cloak, yet his thick mustache was still in plain sight. There was a light whistle to the night winds. “It’s never a good time, is it?”

    “Never.” He agreed, stepping out of the way for him, and another dozen cloaked figures to come in.

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   Renata held the cookbook, chin on the counter. Listening to the rattle of their concealed heavy armor and dangling swords and diverse weapons as they stepped in, one by one. She sensed her father leading the scholars into the house and to his laboratory, knowing the body always came in last on a stretcher. The little girl turned her head to the front door at the precise moment these men carried the deceased pyrotechnic conjurer’s squashed and bloodied body. Despite the thick, white sheets that mantled the body, the red-soaked fabrics screened his gaping, jagged jaw, and burst eyesockets. She cringed at the sight of death but followed the lifeless bodies with fearful eyes, the last cloaked figure of the convoy closed the door behind him. Noticing the distress on her face, he bowed his head with respect for the young lady and followed the others.

    She stayed put for a second and sighed, looking back at the enchanted cooking book in her grasp, with its aluminum details—where the magic went through—trying to convince herself she could channel her élan to trigger the book without her mind being clouded by the impulses she had to spy on her father. But as she expected, the papyrus pages remained blank and boring. 

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    She slammed a fist on the counter, then on the book with tears building up in her eyes, but to her surprise, her tiny hand left a full, inky print of her hand on the pages. Something that had never happened before. She blinked quickly as the stain remained, thinking she had ruined the only object her mother had left behind for her to remember her. But it was not so. Instructions for a spell were scratched on the thin paper instead of a cooking recipe, as would be usual.

Mirror Eyes (Light Element): Spell level 6. Allows the conjurer to cast the power of sight on any reflective surface for 10 minutes from a holding seeing glass of the conjurer’s choice—fast élan burner.

    “A… m—mirror spell?” She gasped, studying the paragraph carefully for an instant. 

    Upon realizing what this was for, she removed her wooden sole leather shoes and sprinted to her bedroom upstairs. A peach-colored room with wall moldings, a hot water radiator, and a tented bed with furry, gray bed sheets awaited her. Pastel chalks and Dad’s current reads textbooks messily spilled on the floor, scratched colorfully with the same pigment sticks by no one, but her. To the sound of murmurs from under her feet—her dormitory was located exactly above the lab—she pulled a brass handheld mirror from her white vanity drawer and jumped to bed. Her mind was fixed on Dad’s mirror at the laboratory. Lifting her hand to her face, she looked at her reflection as she began to channel her élan through the object. She radiated spirit, and her eyes flared like blue flames as the spell turned her ordinary object into a window that crossed many vortexes to open sight to the interior of her father’s workplace.

    Kallam’s standing mirror faced from a corner to his workbench. An examination table juxtaposed with it. It projected a sideways yet decent view of the room, the abundant space for a mahogany roll-top desk, and a large arch window behind it. Peale green, velvet papering with vertical golden strips covered the walls. A toolset hung from one of those walls with saws, horse clippers, pincers, flathead screwdrivers, hammers of various sizes, and more. You see, necromancy sometimes demanded the autopsy of magically picturesque and sometimes hideous creatures with scales, thick fur, shells, horns, fangs, and bones that only top-heavy wizardry could cut through.

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    Kallam had just finished putting on his examination gear—disposable gloves, mask, hair cover, tunic, and rubber boots—while Tortor and he made small talk. How was the life of a single dad treating him? How was Renata doing in civvie school? Was he planning to enroll her at the Blackboard Conjuration School as a teen? Despite Clara’s decision to leave the kingdom, Adelheid insisted the girl was welcome to join the scholars. Renata perked up upon listening to that. After all, Kallam had remained a first-class conjurer, trustworthy to the kingdom, and perhaps even a bit too much for his taste as sometimes he had to deal with their secrets, too.

     “I’ll have to think about it thoroughly,” He said, motioning their men to put the corpse on his table. “I’m afraid of the . . . heritage component.” He removed, with one hard tug, the bloodied fabric sheathing the body and adjusted on his face, steel goggles. He cut the tunic´s breast and undershirt with wrought iron scissors and looked through the various lacerations on the man’s blueish flesh.

    “Your daughter’s genes could be indifferent to darkness . . . Kallam . . .”

    “That’s not how the kingdom thinks, with all due respect, Commissioner.”

Renata shook her head with denial growing in her and filling her chest and throat. She’d never heard her father say these things before. A foreign sight and feeling. She was discovering her father’s secrets, the fear he’d never let her see until tonight. Was there something wrong with her?

    “I’d have the same concerns, too, Tortor,” Adelheid looked back at his short, old friend and ran a hand through his long, straight white hair. “Our society isn’t what it used to be. We speak of possible persecution for the Hasbell family if things are handled poorly. However, I believe an early integration into the school and some mentorship could steer the girl in the right direction.” Still, Adelheid’s words didn’t kill the stir of emotions inside the little girl.

    “My own . . . line of work and ancestry could put the last nail in the coffin. Without mentioning Cad—” The necromancer fell silent as he looked at the dead conjurer from head to toe.

    “What is it, son?” Tortor questioned.

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    “There’s a youthful amount of élan spilling from somewhere.” To everyone’s surprise, the necromancer looked below the table and rose to his feet once more.

    Something clicked in Tortor’s mind, “The Orbie! We thought it must have soared away!”

    “Yep,” Kallam confirmed. “Somewhere in between the eighth and ninth rib.” He walked to his toolset and grabbed a hammer and chisel. “Gentlemen!” He said as a warning before he started to work. It was just mandatory protocol regarding the practice, although seldom necessary, as scholars had seen far worse during the war. The human body or that of any living creature, had different chemical reactions when in contact with magic, releasing all kinds of intense fragrances hard for any civilian to endure.

    While smoothening the wrinkles of the fabric, an almost unperceivable hole the size of a button with charred edges was located. Cutting the tunic down to the hips would reveal a severe burn on one side of the abdomen. Uncovering the wound released a horrible scent. The stench of cooked flesh, dunked in blood and putrid fluids came from an orifice created by a round object that had ripped through skin, tissue, and muscle and bounced around the ribcage to come to a halt when puncturing a lung.

    “I’m diving in,” He began to break the surrounding ribs with the chisel, and after some crunching noises inside the corpse. Crack, crack, crack. He then took a surgical knife to cut, layer by layer of muscles before him with delicacy as the body would be handed to the man’s family after this. But suddenly, a beam of light shot upwards and Kallam had seconds to move out of the way. “On the ground, NOW!” He hollered as it burst through the ceiling.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .