Origin Of Shadow

By D.M. Cain

The voice broke into his thoughts, everywhere and nowhere at once, deafening, yet somehow a whisper. "Are you ready to learn the truth?"

Heir to a notorious crime syndicate, sixteen-year-old Vincent Wilder is determined to live up to his father's intimidating legacy, and expand his violent empire. The Wilders have terrorised the city of Pabell for decades and Vincent knows the business inside and out - and has dirtied his own hands more times than he dares to count.

But no matter how ready he thinks he is, nothing could have prepared him for life at the helm. His father was a man of many things, but secrets wasn't one of them. Or so Vincent had thought. The deeper Vincent gets into his leadership role, the more terrifying and inexplicable skeletons he uncovers.

With the threat of a revolution, a mysterious and intrusive voice in his head, and a long-lost history he knew nothing about, is he really up to the challenge?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Jan 29, 2022
• ISBN: 4867500615

D.M. Cain

D.M. Cain is a dystopian and fantasy author working for Next Chapter Publishing. The Light and Shadow Chronicles series features a range of books which can be read in any order. The series instalments to date include A Chronicle of Chaos, The Shield of Soren, Genesis of Light and Origin of Shadow.Cain has released one stand-alone novel: The Phoenix Project, a psychological thriller set in a dystopian future. The Phoenix Project was the winner of the 2016 Kindle Book Review Sci-Fi novel Award.Cain lives in Leicestershire, UK with her partner and two young children.

Book preview

Acknowledgements

Thank you to my good friends Sam, Catherine, and Lee. You have always believed in me and supported my dreams. Thank you.

Author's Note

The Light and Shadow Chronicles span thousands of years, and each book tells the story of one character in the tale. The books can be read in any order, and characters dip in and out of each novel. One book may tell the story of a man in his adulthood. The next may be set after that character's death or before his birth.

Putting the story together is up to you—the order of events is not important.

But each and every story leads the different strands of the legend to the same conclusion…

The final battle…

The apocalypse.

For those who have read A Chronicle of Chaos:

This story takes place one hundred and thirty-five years before the events of A Chronicle of Chaos. Chaos and his father, Raven Lennox, will not be born for many years.

For those who have read The Shield of Soren:

This story takes place one hundred and one years before Soren Nitaya is born.

For those who have read Genesis of Light:

This story takes place alongside the story of young Callista Nienna and her journey into Alexiria.

Chapter One

The ticking of the timepiece was far louder than it should have been. Every innocuous click of the hands reverberated around the room. Sixteen-year-old Vincent Wilder stood perfectly still, making sure his chin was raised the right amount, tilted up at just the right angle. Too much and he would look stubborn and superior, too little and he might as well be staring at the ground. The rest of the expression was easier to master – stony always worked. He needed to look nonchalant, as if this kind of thing was an everyday occurrence. Which it was, or at least it would be, when he took the helm from his father. When it was his turn to rule, he would be so used to deals like this that it wouldn't matter how loud the bloody clock ticked. Nothing would faze him. He tried to hide the fact that his fingers twitched nervously behind his back, flexing back and forth, fingering the neck of an imaginary violin. He didn't know why, but just the repetition of the movements comforted him. As he recreated Clinchino's magnificent 12th symphony, he chanted the Wilder mantra in his head. His family's mantra. Duty, honour, obligation, reputation. It did nothing to bolster his confidence. He still felt like a fraud. Narrow your eyes and puff out your chest. He sincerely hoped they were taking him seriously enough, or at least as seriously as his young frame would allow.

A single drop of sweat trickled down his forehead, running a salty trail on his skin. He wanted to reach up and wipe it away, but didn't dare draw attention to the fact that he was perspiring. If they saw it, would they take it as a sign of weakness? Worse than that, would his father see it as weakness? So he did nothing and let the sweaty drop work its way down his forehead, running into his right eye. He blinked to clear the drop, but his vision blurred and his eye itched. He could hold off no longer and was forced to wipe at it with a hurried hand.

His eyesight cleared, and nobody seemed any the wiser. Maybe he'd gotten away with it. He heaved an invisible sigh of relief and took the opportunity to glance down at the table and the people sat around it. On one side of the table, sat a couple in their early forties, close together, huddling as if for comfort. Their eyes, however, were strong and defiant, the woman's in particular. Her hands were flat on the tabletop, and she leaned forwards, speaking with determination.

The ashen-faced man beside her was silent. Despite the stony expression on his face, Vincent could see the man's hands trembling.

Across from them sat Franco Wilder, Vincent's father. Once, he had had a thick shock of dark hair, long and wild, draping across his shoulders. That was how Vincent always pictured his father, but the figure that sat before him had changed drastically in the past few years. As soon as Franco's hair had started thinning, he had shaved the lot, and the bald head made the most terrifying man Vincent had ever met, even more intimidating.

Franco's posture was rigid and unmoving, a coiled snake waiting to strike. The dark eyes, eyes that had chastised Vincent since childhood, were now zeroed in on the couple before him. He was not surprised the other man's hands were shaking. His father's fingers were locked together tightly, but Vincent knew that it would only take a split second for Franco to wrench the knife from his concealed thigh pouch and spring into action. Nobody could wield a knife with the same sheer brutality as his father. Vincent's muscles too were primed, ready to propel him into a fight. If something did happen, which was definitely a possibility, it would be frightening. But he would be lying if he didn't admit it would be exhilarating too. Never relax around Franco Wilder. He'd learnt that very young.

A slight click drew his attention. Dimitri stared forwards with exactly the same angled chin that Vincent had been practising. How does he get it just right every time? It would have annoyed Vincent, but Dimitri had been his best friend since childhood and he was an outstanding person to have around in a conflict, so he let it go. That innocuous click, most likely unheard by anybody else in the room, was Dimitri's quiet reassurance that he had Vincent's back. Just in case. It was greatly appreciated.

Tomorrow evening? No. Franco's voice was unwavering. Many a customer would have wilted under his fierce glare, but this woman held her head high, her stare unflinching.

Then you don't really want my business. It has been a pleasure dealing with you, Mr Wilder. She stood, brushing down her fitted grey suit.

Wait. Mrs. Nienna, Mr. Nienna. I'm sure we can arrive at some sort of agreement. Vincent balked a little. He could not believe what he was seeing and hearing. Franco cowered before nobody. What game was his dad was playing?

Franco's outwardly calm demeanour would have convinced many that he was submissive, sincere in his plea, but it didn't fool Vincent. He saw the way his dad's fingers drummed the surface of the table. He saw the unnaturally tense shoulders of a man who was in control of every situation. The Nienna woman hadn't retaken her seat yet and stood tall over Franco, as if trying to dominate him.

Shivers ran up and down Vincent's spine. He bristled with the desire to teach her a lesson in respect, in Wilder honour. Duty, honour, obligation, reputation. How dare she condescend to the greatest man this country had ever known?

That same haughty entitlement in her stature tinged her voice as well. "I want two crates of Sarro, and I'll pay eight thousand coins, but it has to be tomorrow. I need to make sure I catch the boats if I want maximum distribution. And how will anybody in Pabell get a taste for Wilder Sarro if the taverns and docks are allowed to run dry?"

With a polite smile on his face and his head tilted to the side, Franco looked as if he was considering her offer, but Vincent saw the darkness in his dad's eyes. Franco had no intention of accepting the drug deal, and Vincent would have staked his family's entire savings on the fact.

Of course, I would normally gut somebody for even suggesting such an insult to our family name. Eight thousand is a pittance for even one crate of the strongest, purest intoxicant on the market. Franco sat forwards, his fingers intertwined, chin resting upon his tented hands.

The tattoo at the back of Franco's neck twitched as he tilted his head from side to side, the black phoenix stretching