Please enjoy the first chapter of The Eternal's Chosen
A time of dreams.
Spring, 982 A.D - Erebami: Two Lunar cycles before the Summer Solstice.
As the sun sets on the battlefield of Raven’s Pass, the air becomes heavy with a thick, pungent smell of burning flesh. His throat burns, his eyes sting. The smell clings to his nostrils; revulsion spreads through his body. He tries to suck in the thin air, the swirling particles and the furnace are also inhaled, filling his lungs. He fights back the urge to gag and he coughs and gasps for air. He holds his hand to his nose and mouth, panting and he uses the other to wipe the sweat from his brow.
He tries brushing the ashes from his armour but it’s one battle he will not win; the tanned leather now looks like it’s been dipped in charcoal. He looks around, squinting through the dense, impenetrable fog and the sight that greets his eyes is one of complete destruction and chaos. Not a murmur of birdsong and the sheer vertical rock walls make escape impossible. Everywhere, the valley is dotted with blazing infernos, spewing thick clouds of smoke that climb higher and higher into the sky. The flames seem to dance and leap, casting a mesmerising light. They paint the sky with a fiery red, illuminating his face in a grotesque, haunting way. But he doesn’t feel horror or shame, in fact a smile creeps on his face.
“Do whatever it takes,” he mutters to himself.
He remembers the day, Pa gives him this advice, Pa is standing before him. Pa presents him with his longsword. “This was mine when I served. Now it is yours.” Pa leans down and whispers in his ear. “Do whatever it takes.” Pa waves goodbye.
He surveys his soldiers behind him, their reactions dramatically transformed from but a bell ago when fear gripped them as they stood against the ten-thousand strong horde. The northerly winds howl past his face, cutting through the air with a haunting whistle. The winds sweep over the landscape which sprawls out before him in a desolate expanse, marked by the remains of felled trees, their stumps strewn across the bleak, flat terrain and channelling the fiery devastation through the narrow valley bottleneck as he had planned. In celebration, now they are yelling, “praise Lumiri, praise Thakos, praise Ereba. They have deemed us wor—”
Then his sergeant bellows, “No! Not the Eternals, it was the captain.”
The men become silent, only the wails of agonising pain penetrate the air. “The Ravenslayer saved us and he saved the Northern Kingdom. Lumiri, first of all Eternals, reward the captain. His bravery and strength have done the impossible.”
The edges of his lips start to curl at the absurdity of the nickname he was just awarded and the one hundred strong company starts to scream, “Ravenslayer, Ravenslayer!” repeatedly.
He turns back towards the bottleneck and watches as the flames continue to consume the orcs, their once-mighty bodies writhe and contort in agony, their faces twisted in grotesque expressions of pain. The intense heat causes their flesh to sizzle and bubble, blistering and peeling away from their bones like strips of burning parchment. The sound of their screams is lost in the roar, but the sight of their agony is enough to send shivers down his spine. And that’s when it hits him.
It is a horrifying spectacle, a reminder of the merciless nature of war. The orcs, who were once fierce and feared warriors, are now reduced to nothing but shadows in the flames. Their bodies are consumed with voracious hunger, leaving behind only ash and embers that float away on the winds of destruction. Limbs that once carried them into battle now fall away in pieces, scattered across the battlefield like a gruesome jigsaw puzzle.
Finally, the last of the orcs are annihilated by the flames. The silence is deafening, he strains his ears, but the barren landscape is utterly devoid of life and it makes his skin crawl. The one-hundred look on, their mouths agape, nothing is left but ash. Ten-thousand souls pulverised into dust. Then they start cheering again, chanting their victory and his new name. He can taste their bitter remains and inhales the acrid residue of their sole remnants. His jaw flexes; his mouth pools with saliva and he’s fighting a losing battle, taking deep gulps to swallow it down. He wipes his head and his fingers come back ashen, so he scrubs the powder off his hands. His stomach churns and the bile rises so he devours it.
He turns away from his men and back towards the charred underworld, bringing his hand up to cover his eyes, hiding the gemstone shaped globules that were beginning to form. His hands start to quiver and he finally understands that there is no salvation for him; there is no escape, for this day will be etched into his memory forever, like the orc corpses themselves.
***
Marcus jolted awake, his heart thrashed around like a wild animal trying to escape its cage. Beads of sweat dripped down his face, mixing with the salt of his tears and he gasped for air. The vivid imagery of his nightmare clung to him like a one copper whore.
His hands shook, he fumbled around in the dark. The cold metal was a lifeline in his grasp, offering him a sense of security and familiarity. He took a desperate gulp, the fiery liquid burning its way down his throat, warming him from the inside out. The strong aroma of the alcohol filled his nostrils, a blend of honey, flowers and the hint of fruitiness that had become his most trusted companion. His hand took on a life of its own; a relentless and uncontrollable quiver that wouldn’t cease. The flask slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the ground as he leaned back against the rough bark of a tree, closing his eyes to collect himself. He clenched and unclenched his fist, each time hoping for a different outcome. But the shaking persisted. Growing increasingly desperate, Marcus struck his chest in frustration, hoping to shake off the weakness that had taken hold of him. But the shaking only intensified, it mocked him with its strength.
“Stop being so weak!”
Shadows danced across his face. He looked up; the moon was full, the only light source in the darkness. Strange noises echoed through the night, his hair stood on end, goosebumps erupting from his skin.
But it was no good, no matter what he told himself, the sense of unease has settled deep in his bones. He rubbed his chest, trying to still the wild beating of his heart and he focused on his breathing; in and out, in and out. Slowly, the ingrained images of his nightmare began to fade, replaced by the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze and the distant trickle of a nearby stream. Finally, his body eased up, his muscles relaxed and he went limp. He listened to the gentle water, closed his eyes and took deep breaths.
***
Marcus rode his stallion, Shadow, across the vast grasslands; the wind in his hair and the sun warming his skin. Finally free after fifteen summers of service, he took a moment to genuinely smile for the first time in what had seemed an eternity of moons. Then his smile dropped as memories of the Orc War flooded his mind, the sound of metal on metal screamed out, piercing his skull. He knew the noise was in his mind, but still he cupped his ears, trying to silence it, looping the reins over his arms to support himself. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake off the weight of his past.
“Lumiri, give me strength,” he begged, patting Shadow’s sleek black coat that shone in the sunlight. He urged Shadow to gallop faster, feeling the rush of adrenaline as they raced past the furlongs of farmland. The wind whipped past him, he took a deep, calming breath and for a brief moment, Marcus felt free from his worries and fears.
***
The verdant trees of Willow Creek swayed in the gentle breeze, their leaves rustling like a symphony and his memories of his childhood flooded his mind: Ma and Pa, Sam playing tricks, little Lil and how she said brother and the day he come of age. His hand moved, clasping the cold metal around his neck. He rubbed the chain, warmth filled his stomach and his eyes brightened. Marcus’s heart raced the closer he got. His mouth dried up so he twisted his body to reach the skin behind the saddle, grabbed it and took a swig of water. He placed the skin back and looked up.
Willow Creek was like a vibrant gem nestled in the heart of the Kingdom of Aboreia. The village thrived, the fertile embrace of the Luna River fed the canals that snaked through the lands, nourishing the soil and giving life to the vast and lush fields which stretched as far as the eye could see, painting the landscape in shades of green. The village was renowned for its apples, a fruit that held a unique richness, a symphony of flavours that danced on the taste buds. Here, crops and livestock flourished.
In the heart of the village lay a bustling cobbled square, the very heartbeat of community life with a deep well in the very centre. At the northern tip, standing tall and proud, was The Black Horse tavern, a distinctive brick building with a tiled roof. This venerable establishment was the hub of social life, offering respite to both travellers and traders. With three stories, it provided comfortable lodgings on its second floor, while the innkeep, his daughter and some of the tavern wenches called the third-floor home.
He slowed Shadow to a trot past the Black Horse and caught the gaze of an old man who was sitting outside, drinking mead and smoking a pipe of planda, the scent of which mixed in the air with meat from the spit roast and dung from the hogs, goats and chooks roaming the square. The old man raised a hand in greeting and Marcus nodded back, grateful for the warm welcome.
On the far, left-hand corner of the square was the Temple of Lumiri, a place of devotion and sacrifice where villagers gathered to make offerings to The Eternals. It was there, villagers would also stand before Analia and take a first or second with some of the wealthier villagers even taking a third as per their custom.
Rows of quaint houses encircled the square, each telling its own story of the families that resided within. These abodes, simple yet filled with warmth, were less extravagant than the Black Horse and Temple. Their façades consisted of wooden beams, clay walls, and thatched roofs. The homes were simple, mostly amounting to one room and featuring a solitary vellum window that allowed a gentle stream of natural light to grace the interiors. One of these such structures was the blacksmith and the clanging of the blacksmith’s hammer rang out across the square.
Everywhere Marcus cast his gaze, the surroundings triggered a tidal wave of memories, both joyful and heart-wrenching. His breath quickened, his chest tightened, his skin lost its colour and his palms throbbed. Determination surged within him, he battled to regain control, inhaling deeply in an effort to quell his racing heart.
A voice called out from the crowd, “Ravenslayer!”
“Please, not that name. Not here.” Marcus looked around trying to place the voice, but it was market day and the square was crowded with dozens of stalls selling different wares as well as women looking for a bargain. He hunched his shoulders as he tried making his large frame smaller somehow. However, the excited whispers of his arrival floated on the wind towards him and the crowd turned almost in unison, like waves rippling through the square. “I should have come at night,” he said under his breath. He straightened up, and put on a fake smile.
People jostled forward towards him and he had to slow Shadow to a walk. He looked left and right at the stalls on both sides of the square, his stomach started to grumble. The familiar bouquet of strawberry and vanilla drifted on the wind and his nostrils flared. His mouth watered, working in harmony with his complaining gut.
Ma. . .
Merchants selling their dyed fabrics were a kaleidoscope to his eyes; vermillion, saffron, azurite, orchil, turmeric and mulberry. All wanted to get a glimpse of the legendary figure. Women and traders stopped bartering. They turned away from the merchants, folding and placing the fabrics onto the weathered carts. looking up, smiles beaming from their faces, waving at him. He recognised some of them, but he couldn’t place their names. Out of politeness, he waved back. “By Lumiri, let’s give them what they want,” he whispered to himself.
Maybe, Ma and Lil, have made their dresses.
“What did Gabs say? Find yourself. Home will heal you. Maybe she was right.” he muttered to himself.
Marcus’s gaze locked onto one particular woman who stood out from the crowd. She donned a modest yet alluring green linen dress with neatly tied ribbon that emphasised the slender elegance of her waist, guiding his eyes to the gentle curves of her hips and the enticing swell of her breasts. Marcus estimated her to be around twenty-five summers, her lustrous brown hair flowing gracefully in the soft breeze, framing her firm bust with a tantalising allure. Her eyes, a mesmerising shade of grey, shimmered with an unmistakable longing, and a subtle, seductive flick of her tongue over her ruby lips sent an electric thrill coursing through Marcus’s veins. He found himself utterly captivated. An impish grin crept across his face, but a rush of anxiety washed over him, leaving his complexion as pale as freshly fallen snow during the dark cycles, while his once steady hands grew clammy.
“I feel like a rabbit,” he whispered and he looked away.
Children ran around yelling. They played some kind of tag game, chasing each other. Their happiness radiated throughout the village. Marcus gently tugged on Shadow’s reins, bringing the horse to a halt to allow the children to continue their game uninterrupted. A warm smile graced his lips as he watched their carefree antics.
“It’s the Ravenslayer,” the children shouted, as they chased each other and Marcus laughed.
By Lumiri, it’s the first time I’ve laughed since. . .
“Me pa say he’s a hero.” One of the children said when he passed. Looking up and saluting Marcus who saluted back with a grin.
A group of young women gracefully glided in front of him. Their youthful beauty and vibrant energy were impossible to ignore. His gaze widened as he watched them, and his hands fidgeted nervously as his skin flushed with a sudden warmth. These blossoming young women, who were barely of age, had an undeniable charm. Their brightly coloured skirts swayed with each step, creating a mesmerising dance of hues.
Marcus could feel their curious eyes on him, their hushed whispers following him like a fragrant trail. He sensed their admiration, their eagerness for his fame. He tried to rationalise that their interest couldn’t be directed at him, after all, they sought a first. Something he couldn’t provide. However, the thrill of their attention still sent a pleasant shiver down his spine, so with a subtle adjustment of his posture, he straightened his shoulders and expanded his chest, like a proud peacock displaying its feathers to attract a mate.
Their delighted laughter filled the air like tinkling bells, causing Marcus to crack a smile and he nodded acknowledgement. The women gathered closer, their voices lowered to conspiratorial tones. They formed a tight circle, heads nearly touching, their intense gazes fixed squarely on him. The curiosity in their eyes was the last thing he registered before he guided Shadow off the bustling square and onto a quaint, winding side street. The echoes of their giggles slowly faded away into the background, yielding to the soft serenade of leaves rustling in the apple orchards that lined the narrow path. He dismounted Shadow and tied him to a sturdy post before taking a brief moment to collect himself.
“By Lumeri, the women. I think Gabs was right. There’s a lot of fun to be had here.”
His gaze lifted to the imposing edifice in front of him. The family home’s stature was rivalled only by the Black Horse and the only brick and tiled house in the village. Josip, Marcus’s father, wielded considerable influence in Willow Creek as the most affluent landowner in the village. His wealth had cast a long shadow over the village’s decision-making, his importance second only to the head cleric of Lumiri.
The two-story mansion loomed over him; its grandeur bore down, and a shiver coursed through his frame. His memories cascading back as he stared at the window on the second floor, the very room where his first thirteen summers were spent. The jubilation that had filled him moments ago evaporated and the sadness he had felt during his coming of age returned with a vengeance, leaving only a cavernous void filled with the echoes of poignant recollections he wished to forget.
Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he inhaled the comforting aroma of the village air, then, resolute, he grasped the wrought-iron handle and swung the door to his childhood home wide open.
***
The city of Sylvandale, a mesmerising tapestry of architecture intertwined with nature, unfurled amidst the colossal embrace of the giant redwoods. Mighty branches cradled the city, where platforms stretched between, each housing magnificent structures masterfully crafted from natural materials. Wooden carvings adorned these dwellings, their intricate patterns weaving the woodland foliage and creatures into the very fabric of the city. Gigantic staircases spiralled around the colossal tree trunks, reaching from the forest floor to the emerald canopies high above, seemingly outstretching their boughs to caress the passing clouds.
The heart of Sylvandale was a sun-dappled clearing, the only place where buildings graced the forest floor. Here, the barracks of the rangers resided, surrounding a central training square. In the centre of which, Elara took her place before Nyanna. Behind Elara, a sea of swaying green and a magnificent tower which jutted proudly through the canopy, standing majestically over the city, ever watchful. Amber and orange hues reflected off the gilded stone, bathing Elara and the training square in a golden light. The gentle breeze rustled through her long, silver hair, which shimmered like the moon on the water. Her brown boots were planted on the soil in a wide stance and Elara’s emerald eyes were fixed on her opponent.
Nyanna looked at Elara with a satisfied smile and a gleam in her eyes.
“I am ready, Mother,” Elara said, holding her gaze, her mother’s green eyes staring straight back.
“Then we will start,” Nyanna said, brushing her long black hair back over her shoulders. “Elara, you have been honoured with the title of moonwhisper. This title bestows great power upon you, but you must also use it wisely, my daughter. I see that you have almost finished your education, and you have become a great and powerful mage.”
Elara nodded, her eyes shining with pride. “Yes, Mother. I have almost finished, but. . .”
“Go on, my daughter. You should have no fears here.”
“I cannot master the portal spell. I feel stupid, Mother. I have no control over the. . . the Sight. My mind loses focus and. . .” She let out a heavy sigh.
Nyanna chuckled. Her eyes filled with love.
Elara crossed her arms, glaring at her mother. “Please do not laugh, Mother. It is not funny.”
“I am sorry, my daughter.” Nyanna moved towards Elara, she put her arms around her, drawing her daughter into a lasting embrace. “Your flame burns so bright. Nearly as bright as my. . .” Nyanna’s eyes started to well up.
Elara placed her hands against her mother’s temples, her fingers bent. Elara closed her eyes and a golden glow radiated from her fingertips. The tingling from the heat soothed Nyanna and the well dried. “I do not like to see you upset, Mother.” Elara beamed at her mother, her cheeks glowing. She stroked her mother’s arm and kissed her on the cheek. “Arcturus was the best of us and I hope that I can fulfil his prophecy. This is why I am so frustrated. I do not know why I cannot—”
“Your mind wanders, making it impossible to see what you do not know.” Nyanna brushed Elara’s cheek, dirt had settled just under her left eye and Nyanna smiled, she wet her finger, cleaning the dirt away. “You are strong, my daughter. Close your eyes and soar like a majestic eagle over—”
“I cannot help it though.” Elara’s tone softened. “Mother, I cannot walk around with my eyes closed. There is something going on here. Especially with the Mage Council.”
“Who is your master for the Sight?”
“Sefraiel.”
“Hmm.” Nyanna straightened out her robe. “Do not worry my daughter, I will train you my—”
“It is not just that. Apart from Elder Arren, they do not think I am fit to be the moonwhisper. I can see it in their eyes.”
Nyanna scoffed, “do not worry about the—”
“No Mother, do not take this lightly. Your confidence in the Binding leaves you at a disadvantage. You need to be careful.”
Nyanna’s eyes narrowed, contemplating Elara’s words. “It seems like I will need to speak to them, my daughter, but for today, let us not worry about their politics. Now, I want to see what you can do.”
The training square erupted with colour as Elara cast her spells. Bright flashes of light illuminated the air as she unleashed a barrage of arcane energy, each spell more dazzling than the last. Nyanna was a blur of motion as she dodged and parried, her own spells weaving a complex tapestry of energy around her.
The air hummed with magic as the two elves continued their deadly dance. The colours of their spells intertwined, creating a kaleidoscope of brilliant hues that painted the air with beauty.
“My daughter, do not hold back. Hit me with everything you have got.”
Finally, with a mighty surge of power, Elara unleashed her most powerful spell yet. A beam of pure white energy shot from her fingertips, arcing through the air towards her mother. She met it head-on, the clash of their magic creating a thunderous explosion. When the dust had cleared, Elara and her mother stood facing each other, both drained but smiling with satisfaction. The training square was a riot of colour and energy, as if the very essence of magic itself had been unleashed within its boundaries.
Elara’s legs quivered beneath her, their strength failing, and she crumpled to the floor. Nyanna’s heart leaped, and she dashed forward. “Elara!” her voice rang out across the square as she sprinted to her fallen daughter’s side. Upon reaching Elara, she knelt beside her.
“Are you hurt, my dear daughter?” Nyanna’s voice trembled.
Elara shook her head and smiled. “I am fine, Mother.”
“Here my daughter, let me help you,” Nyanna said, holding out her arm.
“Thank you, Mother.” Elara stretched out her arm, taking Nyanna’s hand and stood up. Her legs shook and Elara fought hard, clasping her mother’s shoulder tightly and steadied herself.
Nyanna beamed at Elara. “That was something else. That last spell; only the Binding stopped it.”
“Yes, but it drained me.” Elara looked at her mother, a grin on her face. “I need to eat.”
***
Elara stood on the edge of a craggy cliff, peering down at the desolate wasteland far below. The winds whipping around her, pulling at the hem of her white mage’s robe and her hair. She turned to face Nerea, the Eternal of Magic, who stood before her like a towering giant. Nerea’s long purple robe glimmered in the light of the setting sun, her eyes shining like diamonds. Nerea spoke, her voice like the rustle of leaves on a breeze, barely audible yet carrying with it a sense of immense power.
“Powerstones,” she said. Her eyes boring into Elara’s.
Elara felt a jolt of excitement shoot through her, a surge of energy that made her heart race. Around them, the landscape was a patchwork of colours and textures. Towering rocks and jagged cliffs jutted up from the earth like monstrous fingers, casting deep shadows over the land. In the distance, a group of dragons flew low over the land, their fiery breath lighting up the barren landscape in a crimson glow. For a moment, Elara was lost in the beauty of the world around her. The mysteries of the arcane seemed to pulse through the very air, waiting to be discovered.
She turned back to Nerea. “What are the powerstones?”
But Nerea was gone, a white alabaster statue in her stead.
***
Elara blinked as she opened her eyes, momentarily disoriented as the dream faded away. She was no longer on the craggy cliff, but in her own bedchamber. The morning light filtered in through the window, casting a warm glow over the room. But the memory of the dream lingered on. Elara could still feel the winds whipping around her and the surge of excitement at Nerea’s words. With a sigh, she climbed out of her soft feather bed and called her handmaiden to dress for the day ahead. Her robe was neatly folded on a nearby chair, Eva picked it up and wrapped it around Elara, cinching it with the silver cord around her waist. Her robe was crafted from the finest silk and embroidered with delicate silver threads. It was décolleté, revealing a hint of her fair skin and accentuating her graceful neckline, creating an elegant and flattering silhouette. Eva helped Elara into her brown boots with a small cork heel, adding a touch of practicality to Elara’s otherwise ethereal appearance.
Eva then motioned for Elara to go to the vanity. “Please, M’lady.”
Elara sat down and Eva proceeded to brush her hair, the soft boar bristles of the ivory hairbrush gliding smoothly through Elara’s locks. Elara gazed into the ornate silver looking glass, tapping her index finger against her lip.
“Do you ever remember your dreams, Eva?”
“No M’lady.”
“Powerstones! They must be important.”
“I beg your pardon, M’lady?”
“Nothing, Eva. I am just thinking aloud.” Elara then looked up at Eva. “Can you please send for the messenger boy.” Eva nodded her head, placed the brush on the side of the vanity, then curtseyed before scurrying out of the chamber.
This is too important to keep to myself but . . . I do not trust them.
A quarter bell later, there was a knock at the door. Elara’s mind came back into focus. She straightened up in her seat, checking her robe and pulling it tight to make sure she was decent. She called out, her voice strong and clear. “Enter.”
The door creaked open, and in walked a young messenger, his eyes wide with awe at the sight of the elven mage before him. “M’lady,” he said, bowing respectfully.
Elara nodded, turning to face the Aurelian. He couldn’t have been more than ten summers and was yet to come of age, however, he carried himself with a sense of purpose and confidence that belied his youth.
“I need to see the Mage Council right away.”
***
Elara took a deep breath as she stepped into the grand circular room at the top of the Golden Tower where the Mage Council sat and debated. The room was unlike any other, pulsing with an otherworldly energy that made her skin tingle. The air hummed with power, she walked across the marble floor, the intricate markings beneath her feet gleaming with a celestial light. The star constellations etched into the walls seemed to glitter like real stars, casting a soft, ethereal glow on everything in the room. In the centre of the room stood a stone lectern, and a massive tome lay open upon it.
Eight discs of swirling blue materialised from across the continent and eight male mages emerged. Their purple robes swayed as they walked. Every one had their eyes fixed on Elara as they took their seats; Rendel - the high mage of Lumeria. Elara’s mentor - Arren of Slyvandale. The dwarf, Gitreed - from Ironroot. The High Elf, Sefraiel - high mage of Elvendom - his superiority complex was obvious as his amber eyes stared right into her and he swept his long blond hair over his shoulders.
Zenak, the Krestanian high mage followed, a portly man with a thick snow-white beard. Then the Northwatchian, Jensan, from the independent isle kingdom. The dragonborn representative from Drakonia emerged next, Yalar’s green scales glittered as he walked. Finally came the Aridanian high mage - Beffar, with his snout, a leathery tan complexion and protruding hump. They took their seats on both sides of the grand mage’s chair.
Elara came to a stop in front of them and she could feel their gaze weighing and assessing her every move.
You are not fit to judge me. Elara smiled, bowing low with respect.
Just then, a brilliant flash of blue light filled the room as a portal opened to Elara’s right. She watched in awe as her mother stepped out of the glowing vortex and into the chamber, her eyes scanning the council’s stern faces. Efraiel and Zenak huddled together, exchanging hushed words.
Nyanna’s expression momentarily shifted, a faint crease forming on her brow as she observed Efraiel and Zenak’s conduct. Swiftly, she regained her composure and, with an air of regal authority, moved to the vacant chair in the centre. Seated now, her green grand mage’s robe shimmered with enchanting splendour in the soft illumination of the room.
Elara cleared her throat, drawing the attention of the council. “I have come here today because I had a vision in my dreams, Nerea came to me last night. She spoke one word to me, ‘powerstones.’ I think it means something.”
The room fell silent, the mages’ hushed whispers radiated unease. Elara’s blood ran cold and she tapped her foot while she waited for their response. Finally, the grand mage addressed her, her voice projected authority. “Powerstones! This is a word we have not heard in a long time,” she said. “We must do some research on this matter. Thank you, Moonwhisper, for bringing this to us.”
Elara turned and left the room. “They know something.”
***
Isabella, with her sharp hazel eyes, scanned the street from her hiding place. The flickering zayoot lamps provided a dim glow that highlighted the edges of the buildings and the street ahead. She could smell smoke drifting through the tavern windows riding on the coattails of bellowing laughter. From across the street, Isabella saw her target, a man stumbling out of the tavern. His staggering gait and slurred speech gave him away.
The thrill of the hunt surged through her veins and she smirked. This is going to be easy. Praise Morod for bringing me this lamb.
The alleyway where Isabella waited was pitch black, the only sound the scratching of rats. Isabella was used to this world of shadows and darkness. She had grown up on the streets, fending for herself since she was twelve summers. Crouching behind a grimy barrel, Isabella watched as the man’s form lurched down the street, the light from the lamps casting a soft glow upon him. This was her moment, the time when she could make an easy score so she slipped from her hiding place, her nimble movements and silent footsteps like a ghost in the night. She kept a safe distance from the man, staying out of sight as she trailed him through the twisting streets of Greenhaven. The shadows embraced her as she crept behind him. She brushed a strand of raven-black hair out of her face, her eyes fixated on her prey. She crept closer, smelling the stale scent of alcohol on his breath.
With a deft hand, she reached into his pocket and withdrew his purse, her movements so swift that he didn’t even notice. Satisfied with her haul, Isabella turned and slipped back into the shadows, blending in with the darkness. She knew she had to be quick and precise, for this was a dangerous game she played, and any misstep could be fatal. She glanced back at the man, still swaying in the street, none the wiser. Isabella’s lips curled into a sly grin and she vanished into the night.
***
Isabella swaggered through the narrow alleyways, the moon casting long shadows across the cobblestones. Her hair swayed with each step, and she hummed a tune to herself, pleased with the night’s haul. Her grin was wide and her eyes sparkled, she revelled in the feeling of success. She was getting close to home, a tiny bare-bones room above a healer’s shop that had been her home on and off for the past five summers.
Five long summers since. . . Isabella winced at the memory. No, focus on my good fortune, forget about that. What am I going to do wi—
She suddenly felt a hand clamp down on her shoulder, pulling her back into the darkness. Isabella gasped in shock, her heart pounding in her chest, she tried to break free. But the man was strong, cold hard metal pressed against her neck, she froze, her eyes darted around, trying to assess the situation, but the shadows obscured his face, leaving only the glint of steel. Her overconfidence had led to her downfall, and now she found herself the prey. The alleyways that once felt familiar and safe now were menacing and dangerous, and Isabella cursed herself for not being more aware of her surroundings.
“Please sir. I beg you.”
The man’s breath was hot against her ear. “I jus love me some fresh cunt.” His blade pressed harder, drawing blood. “Don’t scream or I’ll cut yer. Nod if yer understand.”
Isabella’s heart leapt into her throat. She nodded, her face turned ashen, her chest tightened and her legs turned to jelly, leaving her at the mercy of her attacker.
“Please sir, please no.”
The man spun her around, her back slamming into the rough brick wall of the alleyway. Her back throbbed and Isabella gasped in pain, she wanted to scream but the metal dug in, silencing her. Only a small yelp echoed from her lips.
“I told yer, cunt.”
He slammed her back again, the impact knocked the wind out of her, leaving her gasping for breath. The man’s hand closed around her throat like a vice. Isabella’s eyes widened, she felt the pressure on her windpipe, gripping hard, constricting, she struggled to breathe, her heart raced. Isabella grabbed his wrist, she pushed him, but the man was too strong. His grip tightened, cutting off her air supply. Her vision blurred.
“I fukin told yer. Stop moving cunt, yer only make it worse. I can fuck yer warm or I can fuck yer cold. Both work fer me.”
Suddenly, the man’s knife was no longer at her neck but was now moving down her shirt and Isabella’s skin crawled as she realised what was happening. With a swift motion, the man sliced through the buttons of her linen shirt, sending them clattering to the ground.
Isabella’s shirt came apart, exposing her breasts to the cold night air. She shivered as the man’s hand roamed over her body, his touch rough and invasive. The dull end of the blade pressed against her chest, circling her nipples, creating indentations on her vulnerable flesh, he looked at her and gave her a toothless grin. He could easily turn the blade and it would leave more than indentations. Isabella gulped as the silent threat hung in the air. He lowered the blade further and sliced through the tatty cord that held her woollen pants up,
Isabella’s heart raced. Her pants fell down her legs, ending up in a heap around her ankles. Her skin prickled with goosebumps and the hair on her arms stood on end. Tears ran down her cheeks.
The man’s grip on her throat remained tight, he held her against the wall, his fingers dug into her skin leaving marks from the pressure.
Isabella tried to speak, to beg for mercy, but no sound came. Her throat was too constricted and she panted.
The very noise excited the man further. “I’m gonna fuck yer hard, cunt.”
Isabella tried to find a way out, to escape. Her mind raced but her mind was too clouded, empty. Her chest heaved with each gasp of air that managed to pass through her constricted throat.
“Mor. . . hel. . .” she whispered. Darkness closed in. Her eyelids dropped.
But then she felt the man’s hand between her thighs, touching her, his calloused fingers penetrating her flesh. Bile rose in her stomach. She fought it back down, this was her chance. With a sudden burst of strength, Isabella brought her knee up into the man’s groin. There was the sound of flesh meeting flesh and the man let out a high-pitched cry, a sound that would make anyone shiver. He doubled over, clutching at himself in agony. And that was when Isabella kicked him full in the head, her foot smashing into his nose. The man went down, his body crumpling like a puppet with its strings cut. Isabella wasted no time. She searched his pockets, finding the knife and a pouch of coin. As the man lay unconscious on the ground, she cut away at the side of his pants, exposing his cock. With a steady hand and a cold heart, she inched the blade closer and closer, until it finally made contact. The pain was intense, and it ripped through the man’s body. It was enough to jolt him out of his unconsciousness, and he let out a blood-curdling scream that reverberated through the alleyway. Blood gushed out like the rapids of a river, splashing across Isabella’s face and chest as the knife sliced through his flesh with ease. She worked quickly and methodically, her movements precise and deliberate. When she finished, Isabella stood there, staring down at the limp meat she held between her index finger and thumb. She examined it with a sense of detached curiosity, almost as if she was looking at a scientific specimen rather than a piece of human flesh. The man was still screaming in agony, his cries enough to wake the dead. Isabella knew she had to get out of there fast, before anyone heard the commotion and came to investigate. With one last movement, she took his cock and stuffed it in his mouth, clamping his jaw tight so he swallowed it whole. The man’s screams turned to gags as he choked on his meat. And then, like a ghost, Isabella was gone, leaving the man to his fate.
***
Isabella’s room was bare, cramped, and sparsely furnished with just a straw mattress on the floor and a small wooden box nearby. She retrieved a jug of water and poured it into the washbasin, watching the candlelight flicker as she undressed. She examined her body for any marks from the attack. She was only seventeen summers, but she had lived more than most elders. She subconsciously ran her fingers over the scars on her thigh, ones that had lived with her for the last five summers and she sighed with relief that another had not been added tonight. Kneeling down, she washed her face and body, the water mixing with the blood and turning it pink as it trickled down her skin. Once satisfied that she was clean, she used a rag to dry herself.
Knowing she would have to discard them soon, she folded her white shirt neatly and placed it on top of her pants. She then folded the pants from the legs and wrapped the shirt up in them like a small parcel. She wiped the blade of the knife she had taken from the man on her pants, then put it in the wooden box beside her mattress. She finished and her eyes fell upon an old linen dress in the wooden box. It was tatty and ripped at the neckline, but it was the only other piece of clothing she owned. She sighed as the dress brought back unwanted memories. She slipped it over her head, feeling the rough material scratch against her skin.
She looked inside the two pouches of coin she had taken and she couldn’t believe her luck. The first pouch held only a few copper, but the second pouch contained at least ten gold. Isabella was ecstatic and she danced and sang with joy, the same song she was humming earlier after she had taken the pouch. She moved around the room, twirling her invisible partner. This was a significant sum and it meant she would have enough to pay her rent at least until the solstice and buy some decent clothes tomorrow.
“Yes,” she cried out. “I don’t need to worry about eating until—” she quickly did a mental calculation in her head. “Now, it’s Erebami,” A wide beam crept on her face. “I don’t need to worry about food until. . . Yes. . . Ayrimi!—That’s six cycles away. And I can earn more in between. . .”
Isabella placed the pouches into the wooden box and lay down on her straw mattress feeling the roughness of the hay beneath her. Exhausted from the night’s events, Isabella blew out the flickering candle. She closed her eyes, feeling the weariness wash over her. Despite the discomfort of her bed, she soon drifted off into a deep sleep, a smile embedded on her lips.
***
Isabella found herself suddenly immersed in a dream world, a place of eerie foreboding and chilling sensations. She stood on the edge of a great abyss, shrouded in the chilling mountain air that sent shivers down her spine. As she looked around, the sound of tiny footsteps echoed across the cold, stone floors and the shadows danced across the walls. In the distance, she could see a towering fortress, its walls fortified against intruders, perched ominously in the mountains. The imposing structure loomed over her, its presence both awe-inspiring and terrifying. Suddenly, a haunting whisper repeated in her mind, the voice of Morod, the Eternal of Darkness speaking a single word:
“Powerstones.”
The word reverberated through her very being, filling her with an inexplicable sense of urgency and importance. She felt a pull towards the fortress, as if it held the key to her destiny. Isabella’s heart raced as she approached, the wind howling around her as she braced herself for what lay ahead. The journey was treacherous, and she stumbled and fell multiple times, but the thought of the powerstones drove her forward. Finally, she stood before the fortress gates, feeling the weight of their imposing presence. With a deep breath, she pushed them open and stepped inside, her senses alive with the unknown. She walked through the dark corridors and felt an otherworldly presence, as if she were not alone. The fortress was alive with hidden secrets, and she knew that she had to find the powerstones before it was too late. Isabella’s eyes widened as she saw a glimmer of light in the distance, and she raced towards it. A black powerstone lay before her, glinting in the light, Its beauty and power beyond measure. She knew that it was hers for the taking, and with a trembling hand, she reached out to claim it.
Suddenly, she was awoken from her dream by the sound of a cockerel crowing in the distance. Isabella sat up, her heart still racing from the vivid dream that had felt so real. She knew that she had to find the powerstones - whatever they were - and that her destiny lay ahead.