Soul of the Prophet: The Elder of Edon Book I: The Elder of Edon

By David Angelo

"Action, fantasy, and adventure await in this epic anthropomorphic
journey" -Independent Book Review

Content Warning: This novel contains subject matter that may not be appropriate for younger readers, including violence, sexual content, and profanity.

Can Harmony Ever Reign Between the Oppressed and the Oppressor?

Embark on an Epic Journey in The Elder of Edon: Soul of the Prophet!

In the mesmerizing world of Edon, where ancient prophecies hold the key to destiny, an unsuspecting teenager, Fin, rises to meet an extraordinary challenge.

Once an orphan cast adrift in the midst of a brutal conflict between the majestic Faranchies and the tyrannical Cullidons, Fin's fate appeared eternally bleak. In the mystical land of dragons, Edon, the Cullidons' oppressive reign shrouded the land in darkness. But when an elder selects Fin to bridge the chasm between the warring dragon races, he faces a monumental decision – to embrace his destiny as the next prophet.

United with an eclectic band of freedom fighters, Fin and his courageous comrades plunge into a perilous odyssey. Together, they confront unimaginable threats and clash with malevolent forces determined to cling to power at any cost. In this relentless struggle against oppression, victory and survival hang precariously in the balance.

Discover the Epic Saga: Can One Teenager Unite Dragons and Defy Oppression?

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Angelo
• Release date: Sep 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9798218024420

David Angelo

Prepare to delve into the extraordinary world of fantasy, where tales are spun from the depths of imagination. David Angelo, the brilliant storyteller behind 'Soul of the Prophet: The Elder of Edon Book I,' invites you on a captivating journey that has been brewing within his creative mind for a lifetime. David Angelo, a passionate wordsmith, currently imparts his wisdom as a Middle School English teacher in the charming state of Maryland, his lifelong abode. Amidst the unpredictable weather, notorious traffic, and the ups and downs of local sports teams, he continues to craft enthralling narratives that transport readers to realms beyond their wildest dreams. Explore 'Soul of the Prophet,' a gripping debut that sets the stage for an epic series, and get ready to lose yourself in the magic of David Angelo's storytelling prowess. Immerse yourself in a world where dreams take flight, and fantasy knows no bounds!

Book preview

Soul of the Prophet

The Elder of Edon Book I

David Angelo

Copyright © 2021 David Angelo

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Ebook ISBN: 9798218024420

Paperback ISBN: 9798708247803

Hardcover ISBN: 9798478620790

Cover image generated on Neural.love. Designed on Canva by David Angelo

1

Agentle breeze blew through Blizzard’s scales as she glided over the surface of an endless ocean. The water rippled in the wake of her wings, frightening the many schools of fish that swam within its waves. They were not used to seeing dragons in this area of the world, or at all, for that matter. Dragons were increasingly rare in these days. Blizzard could see her reflection in the glassy surface; a large, white dragon with a pair of glowing blue eyes stared back.

This is the place, she said and arched up, parting the waves in her wake. She flew toward the sky and disappeared into the clouds. Down below the water’s surface, there came a low rumble. It grew louder and louder, and then the water parted, and the peak of a jagged rock broke the surface. It was followed by a mass of slippery black stone, still covered in coral and seaweed and other artifacts from the ocean floor. The waves receded and settled along the edges, creating a shoreline around the rocky mound. Still moist, it twinkled in the light of the sun. The mound, which was the size of a small country, was barren and deprived of life, but Blizzard knew that this would soon be rectified. The clouds above parted, and Blizzard drifted downward. She flew over the mound, and grass grew, trees sprouted, and rivers and lakes sprang from every corner. Animals both large and small materialized and made themselves at home. By the time she had reached the northernmost edge, life had taken hold of the mound.

I shall call it Edon, Blizzard said. She said it in a crisp voice that was calm but demanded authority and respect. She adjusted her trajectory and slowly came down. Blizzard opened her wings to their fullest extent and allowed herself to land softly in the center of a lush green valley. She folded her wings and looked up into the sky, letting the warm light of the sun kiss her face.

Storm, Gale, I’m ready for you, Blizzard said.

Almost immediately, a pair of dragons shot forth from the clouds and raced toward the valley. The oldest one was named Storm, a red serpentine dragon who cut through the air like an eel through water. A pair of whiskers dangled from beneath his nose, and his eyes glowed emerald green. His younger brother, Gale, flew next to him, a blue dragon with eyes of bright yellow. Gale’s face was similar to that of a bird’s; his nose and mouth were fashioned into the shape of a large, sharp beak. This helped the air part in front of him, and he rocketed past Storm. Gale landed with a thud in front of Blizzard, sending chunks of wet soil flying in his wake.

Ha! Beat you! Gale said when his brother landed.

I was not aware that this was a race, Storm replied.

Neither was I, Blizzard added, wiping a piece of mud from her nose. Even in times of hardship, Gale, you never cease to amaze me with your positive attitude.

Gale curled the corners of his mouth into a deceptively innocent smile. I like to see the cup half-full, he said.

Yet there is a difference between positivity and recklessness, Storm countered.

Eh, maybe I was a little brash, Gale replied. But you have to admit, Storm, there’s no way you can’t be excited at a time like this. A new world has just been created, and we’ve been asked to build the two races who will inhabit it! This is a once-in-a-lifetime gig, brother of mine.

Lest you forget why this land was built, Storm said, if only you were able to grasp such complexities, you wouldn’t be this excited.

Gale is right, Blizzard said. Even though we have been through a great many trials of late, we must not be blind to the fact that this is a momentous occasion for all of us.

I guess what you say is fact, Storm said, lowering his head. It’s just…

What, my child?

Storm sighed. I have yet to finish my grieving. So much was lost during the war, and I don’t think I will ever recover.

You will, my child, Blizzard said. Rest assured, we’re all still a little shaken from the toils we’ve been forced to contend with. But if the trials don’t break us, we will become stronger because of them. Blizzard paused and eyed her two children with anticipation. Now, I’m sure you’ve had enough time to think about your designs for the two races, and I hope you’ve followed my requirements.

About that, Gale said. Actually, it’s an issue both Storm and I have regarding the rules you put in place. You said that no matter what, the new dragons should not be able to fly, nor should they breathe fire or be taller than ten feet at the most.

Blizzard nodded. Your point?

If those are the parameters that we’re given, Gale said, how can they still be called dragons?

Have you forgotten why there are only two of you now? Blizzard asked. "Typhoon had the ability to fly and breathe fire, and look what happened. Therefore, as long as I am creator of dragons, the two of you and I will be the only ones of our species who can breathe fire and possess the gift of organic flight. This is for our own safety and the safety of our creations. Do I make myself clear?"

Gale and Storm did not respond but humbly bowed their heads.

Good, Blizzard replied. Now, Gale, because you were first to arrive, would you show us what you have come up with?

With pleasure, Gale said. He stepped back, reared up, and inhaled deeply, then let loose a stream of yellow fire onto a spot near his feet. When his breathing had ceased, he let the fire burn until the last bits of flame had dispersed into the air. What was left was a strange-looking creature, one that prompted Blizzard to tilt her head in curiosity.

Standing upright, in a pile of ash left over from the jet of fire, was a lean, scaly creature that stood about six feet tall in height. It had a long, bony tail lined with small spikes that ran up its spine and all the way to the base of its neck. The creature stood atop a pair of thick, muscular legs, with talon-like toes that reminded Blizzard of the feet of a falcon. Its arms were similar to its feet in that each of the five fingers sported a black claw. It had an oblong head and a pointed snout, and the top of its skull was crowned with an ornate pair of bony spikes. The skin of Gale’s unusual creation was green, with yellow markings all up and down its body. Because the only thing it lacked was a soul or any sort of life force to allow it to sustain itself, the creature could do nothing except stare blankly ahead through a pair of large, yellow eyes.

Interesting, Blizzard said, looking the strange creature over. You’ve always been the most creative of my children. What do you call it?

I call it a Faranchie, Gale said.

Storm peered down and scrutinized the Faranchie. Will they all look like that? he asked.

Absolutely not, Gale said proudly. Each one will look different from another, and no two will look exactly alike.

I’ll allow it, Blizzard said. Now, what do you have for us, Storm?

Storm reared up and breathed a jet of green fire onto the ground, right next to the Faranchie mold. When the fire had subsided and the last wisps of flame had been extinguished, it left behind a creature who was strikingly different from its predecessor. Like the Faranchie, it, too, stood upright and sported a line of spines running down its back. But this creature lacked a tail and long talons on its hands or feet. In fact, the creature was much simpler in design, with a reptilian, almost snakelike head and a pair of small, pointed ears. Its skin was solid teal, with no markings whatsoever. It had a long, white mane growing out of the back of its neck. Like its cousin, it, too, stood as still as a statue, its beady little eyes resembling those of the dead.

Unlike my brother’s creation, Storm explained, my design, which I will call a Cullidon, will not change among individuals. Aside from a few small differences between each creature, they will look almost identical to others of their kind.

Oh, please, Gale said. At least try to be a little more creative.

Brother of mine, Storm said, there is a time and a place to take risks. But today is neither the time nor the place for risky maneuvers when it comes to the creation of a species. I don’t know what you were thinking when you thought up that Faranchie design, with its radical complexities and its bizarre look.

And your Cullidon looks like you spent less than a minute crafting it, Gale retorted. Like I said and will continue to say, those who take risks reap the rewards, and it does not appear that you, Storm, are going to be reaping much of anything with that last-minute mash-up.

Enough, Blizzard snapped. I will allow it, but in the future, I expect both of you to get along with each other if you expect these two races to forge a society. Remember that, starting at the very moment I breathe life into their bodies, they will be on their own. No longer will we have physical contact with them, except during the most extreme of circumstances and when we have exhausted every other alternative. Understand?

Yes, Gale and Storm said in subdued unison.

Very well, Blizzard said, satisfied. Gale, take your Faranchie to the far south, and Storm, take your Cullidon to the most northerly parts. Turn them back into the preforms that I specified, put them in the sea, and create more so that they can reproduce and spread their kind throughout Edon. When you are done, give me a sign, and I will grant them the ability to live. When everything is finished, the two races will emerge from the ocean and evolve to explore beyond their original boundaries. Then they will meet here, in Edon’s center, and unity between the races will be achieved.

Will do, Gale said as he and his brother departed with their molds to their respective locations.

By herself, Blizzard took in the scenery of this new world and imagined how it would look once the Faranchies and the Cullidons staked their claim. Blizzard knelt down and rested her head on her arm, knowing that all the hard work she and her children had done was about to pay off.

Dearest sister, said a deep, cold voice, which Blizzard recognized instantly. Don’t you know you’re making a terrible mistake?

Blizzard looked up and narrowed her eyes. Typhoon, she growled. I should have known you were going to channel me sooner or later. Anyway, how can you pretend to know my future when you yourself have yet to heal from the thrashing I gave you?

Enjoy your victory while it’s fresh in your mind, Typhoon replied. But don’t assume that just because these new creatures are inferior to us they will always know peace. As long as the Faranchies and the Cullidons have brains in their heads and the desire to use them, they will find ways to kill each other.

True, Blizzard said. But nothing they could do would be able to match the level of brutality that you achieved.

Typhoon laughed. You sound so sure of yourself. I hate to break it to you, Sister, but you’ve just sowed the seeds of Edon’s destruction.

Before Blizzard had time to retort, the beautiful landscape around her disappeared and was replaced by a scene that made Blizzard’s stomach turn. The bodies of hundreds of Faranchies and Cullidons were strewn across red, bloodstained grass, and battle cries echoed from every angle. The clang of swords mixed with the whooshes of arrows and was followed by rabid howls of agony and pain. Near the edge of the valley, where the landscape slowly rose into a small hill, a massive skirmish between Faranchies and Cullidons was commencing. But it appeared that the Faranchies were coming up short, and they were outflanked and outmaneuvered by an army of hardened Cullidon soldiers, their bloodstained silver armor shining in the sunlight. Just as the battle was reaching its breaking point, there was a brief commotion, and a Cullidon general triumphantly stood atop the highest part of the hill. The crowd parted, and Blizzard could see that the general was standing on the body of a dead Faranchie. Blood trickled from its nose and mouth, and its eyes stared blankly into space. Proud of his achievement, the Cullidon general tossed his head back and held his saber high.

Victory is ours, the general gloated. Edon is ours!

The vision ended, and Blizzard snapped back to normal. Horrified, she sprang to her feet and clasped her hands over her mouth. What did I just see? she asked.

Conflict, chaos, war, Typhoon replied. All the things that you swore your new creations would never know.

This can’t be possible, Blizzard gasped. You’re lying, you’re…

Have I ever lied to you, Sister? Typhoon said. True, I did many appalling things, but I’ve always been a dragon of my word. Rest assured, Blizzard, no matter what you do to prevent it, the dragons of Edon will always find inventive ways to kill one another.

Blizzard buried her head in her claws. Why? she gasped. How can something like this happen?

Because you’re not perfect, Blizzard, Typhoon said. You, me, and your children may be creatures of the divine, but that doesn’t mean we’re spotless individuals. Therefore, how can you expect your creations to follow a flawless path, when they are less perfect than either of us?

Blizzard looked up and narrowed her eyes. Then I must stop it.

Blizzard leaped into the sky. She flew so fast that a cone of air surrounded her midsection, and the sound barrier broke around her with a crack. Wind rushed past Blizzard’s face as she inched closer and closer to the edge of space. When she reached her destination, she spun in midflight, opened her wings, and brought herself to a halt. She hovered, the blackness of the cosmos licking the back of her white scales. Blue fire filled her mouth. She took one final look at her mistake…

But the longer Blizzard gazed at Edon, a green mass of land in the vast expanse of ocean, the more her anger began to subside. The fire disappeared into the back of her throat, and she bowed her head in shame.

Well? Typhoon asked.

What am I thinking? Blizzard said. Destruction is what caused me to build Edon in the first place, and destroying it isn’t going to solve anything. It will be just another setback, and dragonkind will not move forward, all because I’m afraid of my own imperfections. I must not destroy something I worked so hard to create, just because things might not work out as well as I would prefer.

Then what do you plan on doing? Typhoon asked. You said yourself that you cannot intervene in the lives of the Faranchies and Cullidons. Are you just going to sit here and let them rip each other to shreds?

I might not have any other choice, Blizzard said. In the end, they must work things out on their own. Unless…

What?

Blizzard looked upon Edon with intent, and the curvatures of her mouth slowly formed into a defiant smile. I might not be able to help them face-to-face, she said, but there is a way for me to show my hand.

Blizzard opened her hand and blew a small jet of fire into her palm. It circled around in midair and took the shape of a small dragon with wings, a head, and a tail. It turned and looked up at its creator, opened its mouth, and let out a shrill, high-pitched squeal.

It’s going to be risky, Blizzard said. But if Gale’s ever taught me anything, it’s that those who take risks win.

But what if you lose?

2

Years went by. How many years? A thousand? A million or two? No one really knew for sure. By the time the dragons of Edon created a written language, they had all but lost count of how long it had been since their creation. All anyone knew was that it was the proper length required to build a civilization equipped with a government, a system of law, and its own religion. That religion was centered around the being that gave them life, Blizzard, who for most of Edon’s existence was referred to as the Elder. For a while, things worked well for the Edonions (that was the name they came to call themselves as a collective whole). The two races coexisted peacefully, and while occasional strife was not unusual, outright war and violence rarely occurred. Then, as though someone had flipped a switch, everything changed. War and mayhem became as common as death and taxes, and the fires of hate burned within the hearts of all. When the conflict finally drew to a close, deep wounds were left behind. Some wounds were allowed to heal and turn into ugly, everlasting scars. Others were kept open to fester and bleed. Generations learned to cope with the wounds. They covered them up and tried to live their lives as best they could. But just as with an irritating cut, every time they moved about this world of theirs, they would feel a sting and be reminded of the ugliness that pulled the strings of their society. In most cases, those on the bottom were expected to deal with the pain and keep their heads held high.

As was the case with a Faranchie named Fin.

✽✽✽

Fin was the first member of the home to wake on that chilly winter morning, as a bright bar of sunlight came through his open window and hit him square in the face. It was a habit of Fin’s to keep his curtains open so that the morning sun could fill his east-facing room with light. This would wake him before anyone else, which was exactly how he liked it. Despite working behind the bar downstairs into the wee hours of the morning, and having drunk his fair share of booze, Fin typically got up at dawn to clean the dining room from the night before. As in every downtrodden Faranchie ghetto like Notnedo, patrons would stop by as early as ten for some poison, so it was important to be ready to serve as soon as possible.

While Fin’s eyes adjusted to the light, he recalled the pigsty of a mess that was waiting for him. He dreaded what he would find and was tempted to pull the covers over his head and go back to sleep.

The bar’s not going to clean itself, Fin grumbled. He kicked his blanket off, letting the gleam from the window illuminate his lava-red skin. Streaks of blue ran up and down his body, culminating in a pattern of triangles that lay parallel to either side of his dorsal spines. As it is with every Faranchie, the colors on Fin’s scales were inherited from his parents. Had Fin been born a girl, the arrangement of his colors would have been blue with red markings. Gender is the defining factor of which color becomes primary and which becomes secondary. So, even though Fin had never met his parents, he could conclude that his father was mostly red and his mother was mostly blue.

Fin pulled himself out of bed and looked at himself in a nearby mirror. His long, narrow face and large yellow eyes stared back at him in the glass. He straightened out the pair of thin, wiry frills that ran over his eyes on either side of a nearly two-foot-long black spike that protruded from the back of his skull. While he was only eighteen, Fin looked years older, allowing him to pass for someone in their early-to-midtwenties with ease. It was a physical trait that had come from many a late night, which had resulted in dark circles that always settled beneath his eyes, never to fade away. This often came in handy on difficult nights. Argumentative drunks are less likely to give their bartender a hard time when they appear older than they actually are.

Opening the door of his room, Fin shivered as the frosty air swept over his unclothed body. But his skin rapidly adjusted to the temperature, and before long, the shivering stopped, and he continued out into the hallway. Unlike Cullidons, who are rarely seen without some article of clothing, Faranchies wear nothing at all most of the time, because they are able to retain their body heat more efficiently than their cousins. The only time Faranchies wear any clothing is when the outside temperature overpowers their ability to warm themselves, or during the most formal of occasions. The only two articles of clothing that belonged to Fin were a winter parka and a moth-eaten old vest, neither of which he had any desire to wear right now. Besides, like most Faranchies, Fin preferred to keep his ornate markings as visible as possible.

Fin pinched his forehead to massage away a slight headache, caused by both lack of sleep and possibly a hangover, and entered the dining room. Dolefully, he took in a scene of chaos; barstools, chairs, and tables were knocked over and strewn across the floor, and glasses sat on every surface, some of them still partially filled with liquid. The remains of last night’s roasted quail lay atop pewter dinner plates left behind by the waitstaff, slowly attracting a swarm of flies. Mud from the dirt road outside was caked into the cracks in the wood floor. A large pile of charred ashes lay at the bottom of the stone fireplace to Fin’s right. At least the booths near the front windows were still bolted to the floor, which was usually not the case after a hard evening.

Fin shook his head at the mess that lay before him. He then grabbed a large bucket and collected all the food scraps and broken dishes. After heading to the kitchen and depositing the bucket’s contents into a pit in the floor, he cleared all the surfaces of mugs and plates, piling these into the bucket and setting it aside. He stacked the stools on the bar and proceeded to sweep the floor, pushing the dust and debris out the front door and into the street. While he was outside, Fin straightened the wooden plaque that hung over the entrance. It displayed the pub’s name, The Deacon of the Meadow, in gold letters over a painting of an open stein brimming with frothy brew. Fin went back inside and grabbed the bucket of dirty dishes, taking them into the backyard to be washed at the pump.

The backyard of the pub was covered in a soggy layer of snow, which in the morning sun had begun to thaw and wither into slush. The old pump squeaked when Fin jerked the handle up and down to get the water flowing, and for a moment Fin feared that the pipes had frozen. But eventually cold water gushed from the tap, and Fin began rinsing each glass and plate. It was still early in the season, and they had yet to experience their first major freeze. About midway through the chore, Fin’s frills perked up when he heard a horn bellow in the distance. He stopped what he was doing and turned the water off. When Fin heard the horn a second time, he could make out the unsteady melody, which could only come from a conch shell. Fin squeezed the handle of the pump until his knuckles turned white. Every Faranchie, young and old, knew what the sound of a conch horn signified. It meant that representatives from the Cullidon parliament were visiting, and this was their way of alerting everyone in the village of their arrival. Parliament representatives only visited a ghetto when something bad had happened, and it was not an event that the average Faranchie looked forward to or enjoyed. While Fin had been told that there were decent Cullidons in the world, those who respected the plight of the Faranchies, he had yet to meet one in the flesh.

Shit, Fin growled. Even if he managed to avoid a confrontation with a Cullidon, Faranchies always seemed to want to drink more when their archenemies were present. This meant that the bar would be mobbed by midday, it would need to stay open past closing time, and none of the staff would get any sleep that night. There was also the grim possibility that a Cullidon would march through the door and demand a drink, and there was nothing worse than a plastered Cullidon to make an already hard evening even harder. Fin dropped what he was doing and ran back inside just as another wail from the conch horn bellowed across the horizon. He opened the front door and stood at the threshold, leaning out and looking down the road to his right. The pub and its neighbors were located on the main road that cut through the heart of Notnedo, and if the Cullidons wanted to get everyone’s attention, they would surely take this route. Other Faranchies were already poking their heads out of the windows and doors of their homes and businesses, anxiously waiting, while the lips behind the conch horn let loose a very long, drawn-out note, signifying to all that the procession had passed through Notnedo’s main gate.

What’s going on, Babe? someone asked through a yawn. Fin turned around and saw Scarlet, his sweetheart, standing in the threshold of the dining room. The yellow of her skin appeared to glow in the dim, hazy light, an illusion offset by a handful of brick-red stripes on her back. The light from the door illuminated her face, making the bony, brick-red crests that sat atop her head resemble a pair of sunburnt mountains.

Parliament’s paying us a visit, Fin replied.

Scarlet groaned as she made her way into the dining room and sat down in a booth by the front door.

I hope we have enough mead in the back, Fin said.

Alto bought a stack of barrels the other day, Scarlet said, massaging her temples. We won’t run out. At least I hope we don’t.

Yeah, really, Fin replied with a nod. You have any idea why they’re here, anyway?

It’s because of poor Dorval, said an old yet warm voice from behind them. It belonged to Alto, the owner of the pub and the head of the group home where Fin, Scarlet, and a few other Faranchie youths lived and worked. Alto walked to the door and stood next to Fin, the sunlight enhancing his leaf-green skin and emerald markings.

He’s a friend of mine, Alto said as he looked out. He got into a confrontation with a Cullidon big shot in a village not far from here. The bastard tried to rape his daughter, prompting Dorval to intervene. As a result Dorval was arrested by authorities and tried in front of the high judge, with an all-Cullidon jury, for assault and sentenced to death. They’re going to hang him in the town square today.

When did this all go down? Fin asked.

About a week ago, Alto replied, in the village of Westingmore. They’re executing Dorval here because this was his birthplace, and this is where most of his family lives.

Scarlet glanced up. Whatever happened to his daughter? she asked.

I have no idea, Alto said with a shrug. I pray she’s okay, though.

The horn sounded again, this time accompanied by the sound of hooves on the muddy dirt road. As the sound came closer, Fin saw two large, black horses appear, towing a massive carriage behind them. A Cullidon conductor sat atop his perch, a black cloak covering him from head to toe, the leather reins grasped tightly in his hands. A second Cullidon, clad in matching attire, sat to his right, brandishing the conch shell, which he blew from time to time to produce that obnoxious, earsplitting squeal that every Faranchie loathed. The carriage approached the front of the pub, giving Fin a chance to see the ornate wood carvings on the sides and the top, which were painted as black as the steeds that pulled it. Massive, spiked wheels ripped the muddy roads to shreds, leaving a pair of deep ditches in their wake. As the rude cavalcade passed by, Fin looked through the barred windows and saw the face of a blue Faranchie staring at the floor.

A few old pals of mine are going to pay Dorval his respects today at his execution, Alto said. Because you two are the oldest youths here, I’ll let you come if you want to. But I must warn you, hangings are graphic. Trust me. Alto paused while he gazed in the direction of the carriage. I’ve seen enough of my friends hanged to know.

Alto, Fin replied, thanks for the offer, but I’d rather stay here.

Same with me, Scarlet said with a nod.

I don’t blame you two, Alto replied. He disappeared into the back for a second and returned wearing a tattered old vest. I’ll be back in a few. Wake the rest of the house, and tell them to get this place ready to serve by noon.

We’ll make sure of that, Fin replied.

Alto crossed the threshold and headed into the street but stopped halfway, turned around, and said, I didn’t think you two were ready to see it. Pausing, Alto looked down at the tracks left behind by the carriage and pondered his next words. I don’t think I’m ready to see it, Alto continued, but I need to go. Dorval was my friend, and I pray you never have to go through something like this in either of your lifetimes.

For a moment Fin thought he saw Alto shed a tear as he turned away from the pub and proceeded down the road.

3

The plentiful sunshine of the morning gave way to overcast skies by the afternoon, and by nightfall a wintry mix of rain and snow was coming down on the pub’s thatched roof. Just as expected, the day had been a busy one, with depressed Faranchies packing the cramped dining room to drink their sorrows away. When the sun went down, more customers came in, and much to the dismay of the employees, the pub was forced to stay open past its closing time. Fin had not left his post behind the bar since noon, handing out glasses of ale and mead until his fingers nearly bled from flipping keg taps. From where he stood, Fin surveyed the sea of patrons seated at every table, bathing in the warm glow of candles and oil lamps. The sound of a hundred conversations filled the air, mixed with the steady patter of rain on the roof. Outside the reflection of the street lamps shone through the wet blown-glass windows, forming their yellow glow into distorted and abstract shapes. Fin’s reflection looked back up at him in the large cherry-oak bar table, while the sparkle of wineglasses and beakers twinkled on the underside of the cabinet above him.

Looking behind his shoulder, Fin saw his reflection caught by the dozens of different bottles containing a vast variety of liquors. They were arranged in order, with the tallest bottles standing in the back and the smaller ones in the front. Under this shelf sat three large wooden kegs of ale and mead, with metal spouts protruding from their bottoms and a gutter under their taps. This collected the excess liquid that fell with every pull of the tap. Throughout the day, whatever landed in the gutter would be cleaned out and distributed among the members of the house. It tasted like garbage, naturally, and Fin was the only one in the home who would drink it. He was, as a matter of fact, the only one in the home who had any sense of tolerance, and over the years, he had come to enjoy the sickening concoction. This had a lot to do with the fact that it gave him a nice buzz, and on nights like tonight, maintaining a buzz was the only thing that kept him sane.

Things had begun to die down before the antique grandfather clock in the corner of the room struck twelve. A few customers had already left, but most of them remained where they were, drinking the night away with no concern for the morning. After Fin finished wiping down the tops of the bottles, he rested against the old shelf and yawned. He took a sip from the pewter mug that contained the last of the gutter drippings, taking it down in one gulp. The brew was warm, but like the trooper that he was, Fin swallowed it nonetheless. He figured it was probably the last time he would need to drink that stuff for the day. When he was done, he put the mug down and surveyed the dining room. Nobody had seen Alto in nearly eight hours, since he’d left with a few of his closest friends to the home of Dorval’s mate, with no clue as to when he would be back. Because Fin and Scarlet were the oldest members of the foster family, Alto had placed them in charge while he was away, just as he always did whenever he vacated the tavern for an extended period of time.

Just as Fin was beginning to believe that the customers had stopped coming, the door opened, and in walked a Faranchie who was new to the ghetto. This stranger, who appeared to be in his thirties, was tall, standing above everyone else in the pub. He sported a physique that most Faranchies would trade for with the tips of their tails. His skin was a jumbled pattern of black and white stripes, which were so evenly distributed throughout his body, Fin could not tell which color was his base and which was his secondary. The crests atop his head resembled the halves of two dinner plates, sitting next to each other in a V shape and covered with the same pattern of black-and-white markings. While he looked like he could easily take everyone in the bar in a single fight, the stranger appeared uneasy, and he quickly made his way to the bar without bothering to make eye contact with anyone else.

How can I help you? Fin asked when the stranger reached the bar.

What is the lightest beverage you have? the stranger asked.

Fin cocked an eye. He had never heard a customer ask for something like that in his entire life. Well, we have a very mild wine that’s not very strong—

I’ll take a glass, the stranger interrupted.

Okay… Fin replied, perplexed. He turned around and reached for a small bottle at the far end of the shelf, took a glass from the rack, and poured the beverage.

That’ll be a half rallod, Fin said, sliding the glass forward. Heck, for a half rallod more, I’ll throw in the entire bottle. You’re the first customer to order that wine in…Damn, now that I think of it, I can’t remember the last time someone ordered a glass of this stuff. The stranger grinned while he dug through a leather knapsack strapped to his waist for the right amount of money.

Thanks for the offer, he said, taking a gold coin from the bag, but no thanks. I can’t say I drink that much. Alcohol ruins my concentration.

And that’s a bad thing how? Fin thought and smiled, pretending to understand. The stranger reached over the counter to hand Fin the coin, but when Fin opened his right palm to take the money, the stranger froze; it was like he was in some kind of trance. His eyes widened and locked onto something near Fin’s hand.

Is there a problem, sir? Fin asked. The stranger snapped out of his trance.

Oh…um…no, the stranger said. "It’s just, how did you get that?" He motioned to a small, round burn mark on Fin’s palm.

That? Fin asked, motioning to the burn. I was being an idiot last week and grabbed a pot before it was finished cooling off. But it’s healed enough for me not to wear a bandage. Why?

Nothing, the stranger said abruptly. He gave the coin to Fin, turned around, and took a seat by the fireplace. He sat with his back against the wall, taking small, awkward sips from his glass.

What was that about? Fin thought as he placed the coin in a collection box under the counter. Something was clearly off about this customer, from the predatory way he looked at Fin’s burn. Fin took a look at his right palm, at the crescent-shaped mass of scar tissue, and wondered what the stranger had seen.

To take his mind off the situation, Fin reached under the counter and took out a small pipe made from carved cow’s bone. The rounded cup was already filled with a dried, ground-up herb that, when burned, created a smoke that produced a pleasant high when inhaled. Fin took a candle from the end of the bar and dipped its flame into the cup, igniting the herb. He then put the hollow spout in his mouth and inhaled deeply. He leaned against the shelf and exhaled, causing white vapors to pour from his nose. Fin took the pipe out of his mouth, letting a cloud of blue-white smoke spill from his lips. He coughed a little when the smoke bit the back of his throat, but not much. It made Fin recall the first time he had taken a hit of the herb, when he was only