Sword of Stars: Book 1: Eternity Is Not Forever

By Raven McKnight

Kestrel is an ancient prince from a forgotten fallen kingdom, thought of as only myth. Aria is a gifted girl who wakes him from the grip of a forbidden spell. Aria now helps Kes find his path, as she has a way of showing a person that there are things beyond the edge of our understanding.

Kestrel is thrust into a new world with a shattered memory of the time he left behind as he struggles to come to terms with the present. As they grow to know and protect each other, Kes and Aria develop feelings of great love. However, the world is not fair and, as they both come to realize, life is seldom easy.

Can these two incredible souls overcome stigmas and adversity, or will they fall to the turmoil that brews around them? Will promises be enough to save their love and keep them together?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jul 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665720076

Raven McKnight

Raven McKnight is an author who is enchanted by the mystical mythologies of the Celts, Greeks, and many other varied ancient cultures. The ancient stories, legends, fables, and folklore helped to inspire the world of Altaris. Raven loves getting lost in the pages of a good history book and delving into the past. The author invites you to turn the page and enter the world of Altaris in the second installment in the Sword of Stars series.

Book preview

SWORD

OF

STARS

BOOK 1: ETERNITY IS NOT FOREVER

RAVEN MCKNIGHT

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Copyright © 2022 Raven McKnight.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,

graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by

any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author

except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Archway Publishing

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.archwaypublishing.com

844-669-3957

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in

this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views

expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

ISBN: 978-1-6657-2006-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-2008-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-2007-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022904594

Archway Publishing rev. date: 06/30/2022

DEDICATION

This book has been a lifelong story. The first concepts

conceived during my youth, changing and evolving over time.

Over the years, the characters have grown as I have grown.

It would have never gotten to this point without those who

believed in me and helped me bring this story to life.

This book is dedicated to my wonderful husband. Thank you,

Benny, for helping me make this world in my imagination a

reality on paper, listening to hours on end of ideas, and reading

as it went from a few pages into the work it has become.

This book is dedicated to all those who have made their

own path and still believe in the wonders of fantasy, who

never lost that sense of marvel, and for all those who walked

through the darkness and found the stars in the night.

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

CHAPTER 1

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The room was mostly dark. The scent of incense thick in the atmosphere, mingling with the tendrils of cold air seeping in from the window. A fire crackled and snapped in the brazier as the warmth of the dying flames struggled to beat back the mournful cry of the cold winter winds that slowly infiltrated the warm cocoon of the bridal chamber. Drakos lay awake, staring at his new bride, her blonde hair catching the glow of fire. The tresses shining with deep amber hues in the dancing light. Her breathing slow and measured as she slept beneath the numerous fine wool and velvet blankets that covered the grand four-poster bed. He gazed at her, resigned to the truth, the scent of their obligatory passion still clinging to the bedding.

He couldn’t sleep. Rolling out the bed, he tucked his wife underneath the covers. He stared at the green jade and silver chain of the amulet for fertility to ensure this night resulted in a child visible around her neck. He grabbed a thick, soft woolen robe from the back of the chair. His room was small compared to the living quarters of his sibling. He was the youngest of the five of them. A huge bed took up the main portion of the room, a moderate hearth for a fire on the far wall. A small stone table and some sturdy ornate wooden chairs filling the remaining space. The wooden floorboards gleamed in the flickering light streaming in soft flashes from the fireplace as he crossed the room, the beckoning warmth of the fire drawing him closer. The scent of hickory and pine wafted up as he approached the flame and stared into it.

He sighed. His dream had plagued him again: a girl of beauty, a different beauty than that of the woman who laid in his bed. Whereas Catia was a nymph among women, with her burnish golden hair, olive skin as smooth as fine porcelain, and her voice as sweet as a sprite of the air that sang on the spring breeze. Her eyes, amber in color, were as vibrant as the shining sun. The woman in his dreams had hair the color of ebony or jet that gleamed with hues of the midnight sky. Her skin, a color that reminded him of the pure new snow that blanketed the mountainside around his native home, so pure in hue that to touch it and disturb the pristine beauty would be the greatest of mortal sins. Her eyes, though. Her eyes tormented his waking moments, seeping into his thoughts like a Lorelei’s song, threatening to drag him down into the depth of a never waking dream. Her eyes were like glowing amethyst gems that stole his very sanity. He sat before the fire, both trying to stave off the piercing cold of winter’s chill and distract himself from his bittersweet lot in life.

The events of the day trudging through his sleep-deprived brain. He was Drakos Serlinius Dragan, son of the great kings of Tartha of the line of Dragan, married unceremoniously to Catia, daughter, one of many, of Damon De Leonis. A Duke in Sakkara and now allied with his country of Tartha. Married to her with all haste and no reasoning behind the act. His father was convinced that he needed to make an ally of Sakkara, though he did not say why he felt he needed such an ally. Drakos had overheard whispered rumors of a rebellion shared between his brothers and their father, but an alliance surely his father now had with the union of himself and Catia. Still, he wished deep down that his bride was the woman who plagued his dreams. Wished it was her embrace, her had married with this night, and that it was her eyes he drowned in as their bodies joined in ecstasy. She was just a dream, though a lovely dream haunting his sleeping mind, and he was just a cursed son of the Dragan line.

There was not a day he did not dwell on his misfortune of manifesting his family’s curse. To top it off, he was a Source Wielder, not a very good one yet. Hopefully, when he got to Zion and had more freedom, that would change. He had all the lessons those of faith from The Order of Enlightenment could provide and would allow him. Now that he was married, he would be heading to Zion. His father made that part of the marriage contract. Come morning, he would be shipped off as fast as a carriage could take him and his new wife. He was not thrilled about the arrangement, but had long since given up fighting against it. He would have much preferred a Tauri if he had the option to choose, but King Soranus Tauri of Sakkara didn’t have any daughters to marry off to him. As he lost himself in the dance of the flames, he recounted the tale he had been told so many times.

Nearly two millennia ago was the best guess among notable historian was when his first ancestors had risen out of strife and chaos to rule the people. Bringing the little more than feuding tribes under one banner. Dragan founded Tartha, and rose to the position of King. As a king, he ruled fairly. The kingdom of Tartha came into a golden age filled with peace, prosperity, and hope.

Then the noble King of the vast domain of Tartha became ill. Dragan, fearing the advent of his death and terrified at what should become of Tartha should he leave this world behind. Became besieged with worry. His resolve was tested. At first, he remained hopeful, but as his illness worsened, his desperation consumed him. He made a dark pact with a being forged from the bleakness. No one really knew the true nature of this demon. In the beginning, there was no known cost, merely a request was made of Dragan. When his master came calling for a favor, he would answer. Dragan agreed to this deal, readily, he grew healthy and strong again.

After a year of Dragan enjoying good health, the demon he had made an alliance with finally made a request. He demanded the life of his Queen in five years’ time. At first Dragan refused this request, but soon illness gripped him and when he pleaded with the demon, the creature offered him a choice. The demon understood Dragan needed heirs and so, rather than taking away his children; he had requested the life of his Queen instead. He allowed Dragan to choose which life he would give him, his wife or his son. The king lamented, but when the time came, he sacrificed his wife to the demon and drank of her essence. The King learned then that to save his life and continue living with the nation by his rule, he must sacrifice others and partake of their blood. Dragan realized that the blessing he thought he had received was, in fact, a curse, but he would not turn back. He was consumed by the belief that Tartha would not survive without his guidance. He repeated this dreadful process with each woman he wed. His first Queen bore him a son. After her, he had three other wives. His second wife gave him two sons, the third bore him twins, and the last bore three sons.

The king unofficially married many times, but those wives never begot children; he sacrificed them all the same to the demon. As the Demon’s appetite grew, so did the frequency of the sacrifices, and finally came the day when the Demon demanded a son from the King, and he could choose which one he would gift to his Benefactor.

No one in Tartha was safe. His eight sons, bitter about the deaths of their mothers and fearing for their own lives when their father asked for his most loyal child to submit to their fate, rose against Dragan. They slew their father for his sins, decapitating his body and throwing his corpse upon the altar. They burned the castle down to the ground, sending their father’s soul back to the abyss. His sons, inherited the curse of Dragan, the demon getting a hold in the world of Altaris through the bloodline of Dragan.

Only after Dragan’s death did, they realize the curse plagued their souls. In times of hardship on their bodies, they would crave blood. If they partook of blood, then they would be healed of their wounds, according to the old legends. Drakos had no idea if that was true, or just an exaggeration that had been recorded by the victor. He believed it to be a tall tale, but Tartha was plunged into chaos as the sons fought over the kingdom. Strife and war ravaged the land as the sons fought. Akkra, the youngest of the king’s sons and the strongest of the eight according to written history, rose up from the chaos and rallied all of Tartha behind him, ridding the country of his monstrous brothers who had inherited their father’s curse.

Akkra was the only son born, according to written history, that did not have the curse of Dragan upon his blood. He vowed to Tartha to wipe the curse of Dragan from the land forever if they would fight at his side. He built a great army of peasants and nobles alike, and he employed those skilled in the art of death. Akkra rose up against the forces of his blood-thirsty brothers, slaying them all, uniting Tartha once more under his reign. The kingdom of Tartha prospered and grew rich beneath Akkra’s rule. Akkra took a woman of great beauty to be his wife. She bore him twin sons; one of the sons was born with the cursed blood of Dragan in his veins. Akkra, fearing the destruction of that curse flowing in his son’s veins, killed the baby boy by burning him alive. Akkra then decreed that any son born from the line of Dragan bearing the curse of destruction was to be burned alive and returned to the abyss from which the curse arose.

A later king, Draven of the house of Dragan, only had one son begot to him. Refusing to let the royal bloodline die out, he made a new decree that the sons born of the house of Dragan bearing this curse could never rule. He married his son to a girl of noble blood, and she ruled as queen over Tartha. She bore Draven’s son, two girls and then a boy who was free of the curse. When that child came of age, he ruled Tartha.

Drakos sighed as he thought on his heritage, a long bloody legacy of chaos and destruction. A question had always whittled away at his mind. Why did the curse, for some unknown reason, not manifest itself in every generation of Dragans? Why did it skip around? Generations could be born before it showed up again, or it would manifest in a consecutive number of sons. Whatever the reason, it seemed there was no escape from the curse. The Kings of Tartha often prayed to the Source, and made grand offerings to the Goddess and the God, that their heirs would be spared from the curse. It seemed to Drakos sometimes the Gods listened, and sometimes they were deaf to the pleas of great men. His own curse was a closely guarded secret of his father, himself, and Teras, a high-ranking member of The Order of Enlightenment who had been present at his birth. He had no idea how they determined he was cursed. His father said there was a mark that the child bore, and it was how they knew one had the curse, but what that mark was had never been told to him.

He gazed deeper into the hungry flames, the heat of blaze the growing as it devoured the wood. A blast of hot air buffeting his face as the icy cold wind blew down the chimney. The gale outside whistled in from the myriad of cracks in the window panes clawing at his back guarded by the woolen robe. Still, the cold of winter managed to creep into his bones and cause a chill to settle deep in his soul. As the wind howled like an angry fiend of the night, he gathered the robe around him tighter, contemplating the flames. He saw a flash of something in the fire. He blinked, uncertain of his senses. Had it been an illusion, or did he just see an image in the fire? He drew closer to the fire and stared harder. He saw a dragon of fire rise among the flames; it writhed and twisted about, giving off a mighty roar. Then the men formed in the flames, stabbing the great beast with spears and swords. The fire popped, the wood cracked and split, sending a shower of embers in all directions.

He beat at the ones that landed on him, snuffing them out before they caught him ablaze. He sat back from the warmth of the fire that now seemed to offer no comfort at all. A snake of dread settled in his belly. He wished he could consult Sophia on the matter of this vision and warning he had seen, but he wasn’t allowed out of his martial quarters tonight. Drakos felt uneasy and on edge as he had never seen a vision before, though his sister got them all the time. He tried to brush it off as a trick of the flames, but he could not. He went to the edge of the bed, longing for the comfort and security of his sword gripped in his hand.

He knelt, taking the scabbard in one hand. He drew the blade with the other as if the very sight of the metal gleaming pure in the flickering orange glow of firelight would drive off the chill from his soul. It was a beautiful sword, a present from his father for his wedding. Its blade was wide at the bottom and narrowed toward the tip. In the deep fuller, ancient runes were inscribed in Draconis, calling on the protection of the Source and the glory and courage of the dragon to the bearer. The Dragon’s wings made up the hand guard, and a stylized face of a dragon with precious emeralds for eyes graced the sword before it tapered down into the handhold. This was wrapped in the finest and sturdiest black leather. The pommel became a dragon claw, gripping an egg of the finest fire opal he had ever seen.

It was a gift worthy of a king, something he would never be, but his father was lucky he already had two sons free of the curse of Dragan. Drakos was the youngest of five children at his fifteen years. This summer he would be sixteen years of age, but already a man in all rights. He had no desire to rule Tartha. He was supposed to remain a Prince providing advice to his brother Xavier who one day would be king. He had no desire to do that either. In truth, he hated being a Prince. He had two brothers, the oldest of them all being Xavier, followed by Jovan, the second oldest, his twin sisters Nadia and Nika were next. Their mother had died in childbirth, bringing him into this world, though his father did not blame Drakos for her death. He always found that an amazing quality in his father, even if they were always at odds. His father made sure his siblings knew it was not through fault of his own that their mother died and never to blame him. Drakos smiled as he inspected the sword. He was lucky his siblings loved and adored him, and he likewise to them. Currently, he and his father weren’t on speaking terms. Drakos had sworn with this forced union, he would spurn his father for the rest of his life.

A brief scream drew his attention. Catia did not stir, and he waited on edge. It was a short scream followed by another, only this one ranted and railed until the voice died out and silence filled the night. He rushed to his bride, shaking her gently awake, her amber eyes pools of honey against her angelic face. He motioned for her to stay silent as another scream rang through the air, coupled with cursing, then the noise of steel on steel followed the deadly play of blades sounding off. Catia rose quickly from the cocoon of bedding, terror burning in her eyes. Drakos hastily blocked the door with a thick wooden beam. It was only a matter of time before they came to his room.

Quick, get dressed, Princess.

What is happening? she whispered low, fear quivering in her voice.

I don’t know, but dress warm and be ready to leave. Nothing fancy.

She nodded and hastily dressed in a simple gown of gray wool and pulled on ermine-lined leather boots. With haste, she tied back her hair and threw a thick winter travel cape about her shoulders with a fat gold pin holding it in place.

Do you think it is what your father spoke of, the rebellion he feared?

He motioned for her to be quiet. He heard the death cries, a voice now recognized to be his brother, the sound of ringing steel halting. He rushed to the wall, pulled back one of the weighty tapestries that lined it, and opened a heavy metal door. He grabbed Catia. Come, we have to go now. He shoved Catia inside and then himself closing the door as he heard the banging commotion. He had to get Catia out of here and save her. He guided her expertly through twisting corridors that snaked through the castle, mentally keeping note of the rooms they passed. They hurried through the secret tunnels, finally coming out into the stables. He hastily prepared a horse, helping Catia onto the great beast. He began to saddle his own mount when he heard the angry voices of men and the sound of swords and clacking of armor. He guided Catia’s mount to the back of the stable, intent on making sure she escaped.

No, Drakos, you must come with me. We will flee together, she gripped onto his arm, fear trembling in her perfect amber eyes like the sun in summer.

No, you must be safe. I don’t have the time to flee. Run Catia, go to your family. Ride all the way to Sakkara if you have to, but you should be able to catch their carriage. They can’t be too far ahead.

Go now!

He gave the beast a sound swat on the hindquarters, and they took off galloping into the night. Catia screamed out to him, begging him; he took one last look at her as she faded into the darkness and snow that squalled up out of nowhere. The door to the stable burst open, and a horde of men swarmed in like angry bees. Their armor glinting coldly in the soft light of oil lamps that lined the walls here and there. He recognized some of the men, but not the strange and new crest on their breastplates of a fanged skull with wings. Men rushed at him as a great gale of wind and snow roared into the tiny space, sending hay in every direction and snuffing out all but one of the fragile flames, casting the interior in a dim foreboding light. The scent of fresh snow, crisp wind, animals, hay, and the coppery taint of blood mingled in his senses like an orchestra that accompanied the thrill of battle. They rushed at him, swords sailing through the air, their eyes catching the meager bits of light to glow and flash demonically. He threw a few bolts of Source power and was shocked to see their weapons blocked it. Realizing they were using Mithril swords, he remembered his uncle, Merlinus Dragan, the royal smith, had been forging the celestial metal. He never expected it to be used against him.

Drakos’s sword collided with another blade, his enemies coming at him from all directions. He would not go down so easily; he would fight and take at least some of these men with him. He felt the strength of his opponents’ blows vibrating through his arms as sparks sailed from the clangs. He could only defend right now, deflecting blow after deadly blow. A man faltered as he side-stepped a swing, the blade narrowly missing him, and thrust his own blade quickly into the attacker. He threw the body toward another soldier and took advantage of his hesitation, delivering another forceful jab. He felt his blade pierce the throat of his enemy, the flesh yielding like hot butter, blood spraying out of the wound as he collapsed to his knees, gripping at his neck in a vain attempt to stop the flow of his life. More men came at him in another wave. He beat back the men, but he could feel fatigue beginning to claw at him and knew he could not hold this up for much longer. As if sensing his weakness, a soldier rushed, and he jumped back, but not before the sword’s deadly kiss landed on his arm. Drakos knew they intended to kill him.

No!! a voice cried out in the chaos of battle, Don’t kill him! Capture him, not kill him!

The men descended upon him, wrenching the sword from his hand and forcing him down to his knees. The foul stench horse mixing with the smell of blood and sweat made his stomach nauseous and riot within. He held back the bile that threatened to rise. His wound was bound with haste, a tight knot biting into him, causing the pain to burn. They forced the stop of his blood flow, wiping clean the wound, and made sure not an errant drop hit the ground. Drakos couldn’t comprehend why this was happening.

The soldiers glared at him, debating whether or not to acknowledge the words of the mysterious voice.

Let me have a look at him. We must be certain the wound is not life threatening; the King would be most upset if he perishes.

The soldiers parted, and a dark cloaked figure came forth, their face hidden from view. Their hands reached out to his wound and called upon the power of the Source. The vicious stinging ceased, and he unwrapped the bandage to view his work. His wound was healed. Drakos felt rage rise up inside him and head-butted the stranger, causing him to sprawl backward to the earthen floor. His hood fell back to reveal a Priest of The Order of Enlightenment. He barked out an order, and a hard punch was delivered to Drakos’s middle. Hands with an iron grip held him back, restricting him from doubling over. His vision became splatters of color as he gagged and gasped for air. The strong hands hauled him to his feet.

Bring him inside.

The men dragged him as he tried to resist, but he was only given another crushing blow directed at his temple; this time, the colors spun, and darkness came.

He awoke to a cold, icy blast of water thrown in his face. He sputtered and turned his head, his senses slowly coming back to him. He recognized the room as the throne room, the place where his father took audiences with lesser class and nobles alike. The smell of blood assaulted his nostrils, and he looked to see a heap of his family’s bodies being built like a macabre cairn in the corner. His sisters run through. The headless corpse of a body he recognized as Jovan. His brother Xavier being thrown on top. Drakos never before had seen the horror of battle or war. He had been forbidden from such acts; and now the sight of such carnage, let alone it being his own family, made his stomach somersault. He looked away only to see thrown before him the slaughtered corpse of his father. He could not contain the sickness and retched. The men let him turn to the side, releasing him enough not to be sick on their boots. He realized now he was in irons. They hung heavy on his feet, and his hands were bound tightly behind him.

As his wave of sickness passed, he steeled his resolve to glare at the robed figures in front of him. Men who were garbed in fine soft wools dyed deep red, trimmed in threads of warm gold that made patterns of the sun. Women in robes of pitch-black lined in silver crowned with silver moons upon their foreheads. Teras sat behind them in the throne, his father’s throne, wearing the pristine robes of a High Sage. He looked disdainfully down on Drakos from his new seat, the crown of Tartha upon his snowy brow. The staff of a Priest in one hand and the sword of kingship in the other, rage welled inside Drakos, Teras with a fluid grace, that only one who had mastered the Source such as he could possess, rose from the ornate high-backed chair. A heel ground into Drakos’s back, forcing him to bow to Teras.

How fitting, Prince, that you bow to me.

It is not by choice, his voice filled with loathing.

I doubt it would be, but none the less you did bow.

What is the meaning of this? What did you gain from this slaughter?

There was a long silence in the room as Teras looked around him, taking in the whole event as if trying to commit each little facsimile detail to memory as he savored the essence of the Grand Throne room. A sea of massive blue marble tiles in the great room made up the floor. Two perfect rows of towering ivory columns created a long, straight path toward the throne itself. A domed ceiling of black mirror finished Obsius towered overhead. The deep blackness of the Obsius yielded to surrounding walls of pure, unblemished green marble.

Nestled in niches of the warm polished oak walls stood stone statues of the great rulers of Tartha, beginning with Akkra. Effigies of men who had been kings, the glory of their names and deeds living on long after their mortal death. Their staunch visages wrapped around the room to guard the king. The two greatest kings of Tartha held the most esteemed posts of standing by the Great Goddess herself, who kept watch over the grand throne. Akkra and his own grandfather Draco stood sentry on either side of the Goddess. The Goddess’s image was a magnificent sight to behold, a monolithic depiction carved out of a massive mountainside in which the castle lay. Her long hair fell about her in a silken cloud that framed the soft curves of her features. Her hands extended outward and between her outstretched arms had been placed the throne where Teras now roosted. Her angelic face looked down at them with a gentle expression, but her gaze was that of cold, unseeing stone. Her visage forever guarding the King of Tartha.

It is beautiful, isn’t it? This room? Too bad it is tainted with the likeness of your cursed house. I think that perhaps I shall have it redone, and the statues of great Kings shall be in supplication to me. While the Goddess, in her infinite wisdom, protects the new king of Tartha.

He turned his gaze on Drakos, his eyes glittering viciously as he stalked over to him, then slapped his face. Drakos could feel the heat prickle in his cheek, the sting like a brand upon his skin.

No more shall the house of Dragan reign with its cursed and wretched blood.

You plan to kill me then, like my family.

Alas, as much as I would love to cleanse this fair world of the sons of Dragan forever, I cannot spill your blood.

Developing a conscious Teras?

He laughed, a rich, boisterous sound that echoed off the hallowed walls.

Hardly Drakos. You leave me with a perplexing problem. The rest of your kin I could just kill. It seems you I can’t.

And why is that?

Do you remember the circumstances of your birth?

All too well. I remember I am the cause of my mother’s return to the Source. Why?

Teras arched a white brow at him. Didn’t your father tell you of the event?

My father told me of how my mother, with more courage and valor than all the kings of Tartha combined, gave her last breath and the last of her strength to bring me into this world.

Then he has not told you of the skies of your birth, has he?

What about the skies?

Do you remember anything of importance from your studies, or did you not pay attention during that lesson?

What do legends, past events, and the works of cloistered holy men have to do with me? There is no prophecy about any future end times or my involvement in such an apocalypse.

All the relevance in the world. You never once questioned why you are forbidden to take arms or fight in warfare by my Order?

It is because I bear the curse of Dragan.

No, there have been many before you with the curse that still proved themselves in battle.

You are special. When you were born, Drakos, the sun, and the moon sat in the sky on opposite sides. The moon setting in the west and the sun rising in the east and in the wee hours of the morning shone a beacon of fire, a comet. It is because you were born under these celestial markers you have so many restrictions and rules.

Drakos stared at him, unbelieving, not wanting to believe. He could not be the that, there was no way possible way that was the real truth. He was just one of the poor souls born with the curse of Dragan. As if sensing his disbelief, Teras retrieved a scroll from within in his robes, unfurling the great length of vellum; its leathery surface shone softly in the glow of the torches.

This, Drakos, is your official birth chart made the very day of your birth. My dear Prince, this is your condemnation.

He stared at the calligraphy with delicate flowing lines of script; the bottom translated into the Tarthan word. A huge wheel of the constellations mapped out on the yellowing page, each planet and important star drawn with the finest detail. He stared at the truth held in front of him; he refused to believe it.

This scrap of nonsense gives you permission to murder my family? Drakos snarled.

There was a period of eerie silence. The flicker of torches captured Teras’s ancient face, a meshwork of harsh lines and deep fissures. His long snow-white hair drawn back by a strip of gray leather made menacing points at his temples. His face was clean-shaven, his eyes narrowed into pricks of blue that had a strange green tinge to the centers, his gaze venomous as he regarded Drakos. The robes Teras wore smelled of amber incense and myrrh mingled with the lingering aroma of old paper and mulled apple wine. His Priestly attire seemed too voluminous for the frail frame hidden within. Still, now, in this moment, those ancient joints possessed a strength of will and deep hate. The time-worn body embraced inside the holy colors; a deep crimson red frock trimmed with gold adorned with small expensive carbuncles that reminded one of a swath of molten fire rested over this long black undertunic. Boney and harsh hands held the scroll in his iron grip, pressing into Drakos’s face as if he could imprint the chart on his very skin. His skin was pale white, stretching taut over protruding bones and marred with age spots and ancient scars.

This was the man Drakos’s father had trusted, this man of cloth and wisdom who was supposed to guide the king in his leadership. Drakos had warned him that Teras was a viper, but his father never listened. His gaze fixed on Teras, trying to imprint his visage into his memory. When he reached the cosmic well in spirit, he would beg the Goddess herself to take her vengeance upon this wretched holy man. The silence seemed to stretch on as if an eternity had passed before he spoke again.

Teras threw the chart at Drakos’s feet, and an ugly sneer pulled his lips back from his teeth, giving him the appearance of a predator snarling at its helpless prey. Teras retreated to the throne, which to Drakos, had once contained a temple’s sanctity within the finely carved wooden chair. The seat upholstered in emerald and stuffed with the finest down. Now somehow, this great symbol of power and holiness, this unmovable mountain that braved the storm of the ages, seemed small. Twisted and maligned in his perception by evil and treachery until it was nothing but a nightmarish specter of its former glory.

Drakos, this is your trial, Destroyer. You are to be judged. Teras sat from the throne, leaning out as far as he could. He stretched his arm out like a long-gnarled limb, his finger a bony talon draped with the long sleeves of black tunic, giving him the appearance of the reaper itself.

Drakos, you stand guilty. The voice echoed through the ancient hall as if his ancestors themselves rose from their sacred watch to condemn him with their stern faces.

You who bear the curse of Dragan and should have been slaughtered like a new lamb upon your birth. Destroyer, the bane of all Altaris. How do you plead?

Drakos heard his own laughter cascade from his lips as if it was a noise not of his possession, his head throbbing with the action. The wry and twisted sound rose from deep in his chest as he threw back his head, tears burning the corners of his eyes. He knew not why he laughed, and he couldn’t seem to stop himself. At last, the uncontrollable urge silenced, and his eyes blue, practically glowing with a white-hot fire settled on Teras. He could almost feel the orbs of sight burning in his skull.

How do I plead? he scoffed. How do I plead? You already have rendered judgment.

I would scream I am innocent of your charges until the Source itself becomes unwrought if it would do me any good, but I know it will not. You, his voice filled with disdain, who claim to be holy men and women who believe you have not bloodied your hands this cursed night! You who believe yourself the will of the Source!

What do know you of the Source? You are blind! By the Source, by she who shall receive me soon enough into the cosmic mix and cradle my battered cursed soul in her embrace, I cry out this night to you for vengeance! Hear me, Nyxia! I am innocent of the charges, and though the bane of Dragan may taint me, I am innocent in that tragedy as well! Heed me, Goddess, and bring down your wrath and destruction on those who stand unworthy before you!

Drakos waited, his own words still bouncing off the walls in a crescendoing echo, but no Goddess heeded his words.

How foolish you are, Teras laughed. To think someone so holy would heed words from a demon such as yourself!

I am no demon, old man.

You are a demon, Drakos. The whole royal line was the spawn of a demon!! Wrought into existence by a weak and cowardly man who traded his soul. You, however, are worse than any demon Drakos, and you must be dealt with swiftly.

How do you noble men and women of the Council of The Order judge this abomination who stands before you?

Guilty.

The condemning words echoed in his mind as each of those present rang forth a verdict, their words seeming unreal to him, Guilty. The single phrase burned deeply into his brain, Guilty, another sword that tore at his soul, Guilty. Had the Goddess no pity, no heart? Did she believe him a demon? Guilty. His head began to spin, the room turning into a kaleidoscope of blues, whites, blacks, and reds, the swirl of flames twirling within in this topsy-turvy vision. Guilty. Harsh words screamed like a voice of a nightmare through his soul. Guilty. The final voice, the march to his tomb, the funeral dirge he could almost hear the stirring from ancient ghosts long gone and the mourning of kings in this once sacred hall. The blackness threatened to envelop him, clawing at the edges of his sanity to drag him down into the abyss.

He listened. It all seemed surreal, and his senses heightened as if to drink in every last drop of this horrid scene. The bitter cold of the stone beneath his knees, the sting of acrid smoke from blazing torches, and the warm tones of angry statues. The smell of crisp winter mixed with thick oil from the braziers. The lingering haunting scent of incense and the coppery taint of blood that mingled within his nostrils to thicken the nauseating air. The faint rustle of fabrics, the prickly heat of hemp biting into his wrist, the weight of irons that scrapped against his ankles. The vision of bodies of loved ones whose souls cried out for vengeance from beyond the grave and faces of The Order stern and infallible as they glared at him like celestial judges. One of the Council turned to Teras, and it seemed Drakos’s gaze followed her without his control. What be your verdict, wise Sage King, she addressed, his eyes flaring in delight at the title, What punishment befits this demon you bring before us?

Teras rose like a sweeping vengeful God from the chair, his robes billowing around him like a halo of blood and fire. His bony finger, extending crooked and gnarled by arthritis, pointing at him with condemnation as if the very gesture could call down a bolt of divine wrath from the heavens itself.

Eternal Sleep! He roared, his voice echoing through the hall.

The words sank into his mind, and from far off, he heard himself scream and plead. It was as if he stepped out of his own skin and stood witness to the events. He fought futilely at the arms that held him writhed in their grip, screaming in agonized chords of objection. Teras’s face lit up in ecstasy as his soldiers dragged him to the dungeon to await his fate. It was like a dream as he watched the whole world unravel from the seams beneath him to fall out and open a black void of nothing beneath him. He had no idea how long he screamed from the cell they locked him in, no idea the time that passed as he cried out to the darkness in a mixture of penance and desperate prayers. Finally, the darkness encompassed all, and he began to dream.

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He stared up into the amethyst eyes he knew so well, deep pools that shone with compassion and love. His head pillowed in her lap as her hair fell softly about her shoulders and down her back. She stroked his hair with soft, nimble fingers. Her comfort a haven in the storm he felt raging around him.

Am I dead, my phantom queen? he asked her dreamily.

She shook her head no in response.

I feel dead. Why has the world forsaken me?

It is not the world; it is only a few men and women. her words dripped like honey from her rose-colored lips that blushed with each sweet word.

What of you, my nymph, can you not come to me but in my dreams?

A tear formed like a single glittering diamond in her eye to fall upon his cheek like a warm spring rain. No. I cannot come to you, my love, my Drakos. Not yet.

Will you ever come for me, or will you just be a ghost haunting my dreams for all eternity?

She leaned down and placed a soft kiss upon his lips. Such a simple, tender act filled him with peace and tranquility, the like of which he had never known. He felt a languid warmth seep in gentle waves through his limbs, sleep buzzing at the corners of his mind like the drone of a lazy bumblebee.

I will come for you, Drakos, this I promise you. I cannot come today or tomorrow, but someday I will come for you, love. Will you wait for me?

He smiled, losing himself in the velvet pools of her eyes. I fear the sleep. He sighed in perfect contentment. I fear to close my eyes, my lady, that I might never wake again.

Her soft lips rained butterfly kisses on his face, drifting from his cheek to forehead to his lips briefly hovering above his mouth, a caress softer than any he had ever had the pleasure to feel. You are safe here, my love. Fear no sleep in my arms this night.

Sleep, Drakos.

Her voice lilting on each word sung him to sleep like the fairest of lullabies, and he drifted off into nothing with the knowledge that she would not leave him this night. He was safe in the arms of this phantom of a dream; she would protect him.

Drakos had lost track of the time. He was a prisoner of his own castle, locked deep within its bowels. He hadn’t even tried to escape. His head was thick and fuzzy, a languid, summery feeling; though he knew the situation was dire, he could not bring himself to care. He didn’t receive any food, but Teras made sure to provide him with plenty of bittersweet water. Each drink made him more unaware and less concerned about his confinement. He had no idea how much time had truly passed anymore.

His waking hours were a blur to him due to the blessed drink that made his mind wander into sleep. He only wanted to sleep now, for his dreams were paradise because that is where he wanted to stay forever. His sylph with ebony hair and amethyst eyes sang to him so sweetly lived.

His head pillowed in the crook of her lap. She wore deep royal blue today. Something about the color seemed important to him, but he can’t remember what. The gown trimmed in silver and purple threads; small pearls nestled like stars amongst the night in the swirling pattern of spirals. Her soft hands and nimble fingers stroked his hair. A sad smile upon her face as she smoothed the fiery strands beneath her soft touch, her other hand resting gently upon his chest. They were in a field of wheat surrounded by the golden stalks bending and swaying in the lazy breeze. Above them, the pure blue sky clear from any clouds that would mar its perfect visage, the smell of harvest in the air. She looked so sad today, so infinitely sad as if she knew some great truth that tore at her soul, and he had no desire to see such despair upon her face. He would kiss it from her lips and eyes until her smile, like the sun breaking through clouds, shined on him with such radiance that his cares would be chased away into oblivion.

He rose up as his hand reached out to cup her face; she leaned her head into the simple gesture. He leaned in to place a kiss on her ripe mouth, enjoying the feel of the soft flesh melding beneath his own mouth as he drank deeply of her charms, battering her lips with his gentle assault. He pulled away, admiring the deep coral shade her lips took on from his careful ministrations, but one glance at her eyes, and he could see his tender advances had not driven the look away. Something was off about his phantom queen. Those soft languid pools of amethyst only quivered more with emotion, and he could see tears welling in her eyes, glittering at the edges like starlight, but shimmered to his gaze like a mirage.

What bothers you? You should not look so sad.

Eternity is coming, Drakos.

Eternity, are we not in eternal paradise here?

No, we are not, her voice a soft melancholy whisper, but it was not her voice. The cadence was off.

My nymph, my Goddess, they shall be the death of me, and I will be eternally with you.

No, Drakos, death shall not come for you.

His mouth hovered above her lips. This mysterious woman who made heaven of his dreams possessed a scent for the first time. She smelled of rosemary and lavender, a spicy-sweet earthiness with floral undertones. Her skin felt warm to the touch and glowed from within. However, she felt hollow this time, as if she wasn’t real.

Death has come for me time and again. For when I am in your arms, I feel I have died a thousand times to be rewarded by the sweet paradise that is your embrace.

She looked away from him, and he drew her towards him, cradling her head against his chest so that she could hear the sure and steady heartbeat trying to assure himself this was real. When she looked at back him her eyes weren’t purple, they were black and hollow looking.

Death will not come for you, Drakos. Eternity comes for you now.

A world of darkness and despair, a hopeless Void where these poignant dreams shall lose their golden luster and seem like ashes within your hands; to mock you as the darkness swallows you. Embraced by neither life nor death, but an eternity between the two, a cursed soul lost in an abyss of no time.

Her words scared him, causing an icy cold to settle in his heart.

Is this your will, my Lady?

It is the will of men, great Lord.

And how long shall eternity bind me? His voice was uneven, as if his very soul knew what she spoke to be true.

Long enough that the world will have forgotten you and your house will have fallen into nothing but legend. Long enough that sun and moon will have risen and set a hundred thousand times, long enough that the light of hope shall leave your soul and the darkness of night shall embrace you until all is ripped from you, but a name.

And when shall you keep your promise to me?

She stared into his eyes, her image starting to fade. When the sun and moon are one in the sky and during the darkest day shall the stars shine, her face shall be crowned in the light of fire. The moon will be born into flesh and bone. Then shall she be able to come for you, but you will not remember her by then.

Her lips crushed his in a passionate fury. He wanted to lose himself in her divine kiss, he felt all sadness, fear, and worry driven from the deepest hollows of his mind. All he knew was the rapture of her heavenly kiss. She pulled back from him, and he stared into her lovely face. The vision before him shimmered, then her body became an explosion of starlight to blow from his fingertips on an errant breeze into the sky forever out of his reach. He felt more alone than he ever had before, lying in the sea of golden wheat. He turned on to his side, and sleep overtook him once more. Even if she had left him, he was safe from harm in this realm.

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He awoke to pain, a deep gnawing pain that carved at his insides as an icy liquid smacked him in the face, jarring his senses. Another wave of the frigid assault, and he was sputtering and blinking. Confusion clawing at his brain, he looked around, his mind slow to take in the information of his state of affairs. It was like being inside of a bubble, fashioned from crystal quartz. In its clear perfection, he could pick out carved with strange linework. A grand altar of quartz and marble with the same intricacies took up the center. Beauty surrounded him, and there was a chest tucked against the altar. Strong hands held him.

Stern-looking women tended to Drakos. Incense smoldered in small braziers on either side of him. He must surely have died. He at first thought maybe he was in Oblivion being tended to by women. Their garb caught his eye, but his mind was too fuzzy to register much. He dawned on him they were gowned in fathomless black robes of priestesses, the trim of silver intricate knotwork them of high station, but the silver skulls that adorned them denoted they were dressed in funeral attire. They anointed him with oils, then fingers with a grip like iron bit into his arms, and he was hauled to his feet. He realized he was weak and couldn’t stand on his own as two strong, sturdy men were holding him up. He noticed he was already dressed in very fine clothing. They put a medallion around his neck and combed out his hair. They gathered up their things and sent two lesser priestesses scurrying from their sight and began uttering chants and incantations over him. The words slowly sank into the hazy muddiness of his mind.

They were giving him the rites of final passage, the rites of death. He was going to die. He realized his mind should be screaming and protesting at this realization, but he only welcomed death. All he knew and loved had been stripped from him, and in death, he would finally be with the woman who plagued his dreams. Their lilting rhythmic words ceased, and two men led him to an altar. This beautiful room of crystal was to be his tomb forevermore. In an instant, his muddled sense became clear as day, and he roared out against his fate, trying in vain to struggle. More soldiers gathered around him, forcing him on his back onto the altar. They tried crossing his hands across his chest, several men pinning him down. As he writhed in their grip, screaming and protesting, they held him fast as others tied him down securely to the stone slab with thick ropes. He begged them not to kill him, but they would not listen. He watched in horror as the Priest and Priestess of The Order of Tartha gathered around him in a perfect circle and linked hands. These people were dressed in drab gray robes.

He struggled against his bonds as the sound of drums came crashing through the silence setting a pace slow and steady. Their incantations followed the pace of the drums. Drakos cried out, hoping to break their concentration, but the response was an oily rag shoved in his mouth. He prayed to the Source, his mind frantic with fear, as the pace and volume of the spell quickened and crested. In his chest, his heart raced and pounded. In his ears a deafening crescendo that battered his mind, then the beat and rhythm of voices began to slow and with it his heartbeat. Their voices dropped, and his own heartbeat sounded slower and softer until he heard and felt nothing but a soft patter in his chest. Darkness formed at the edges of his vision. It felt like a million clawed hands gripped at his soul and were ripping him from his flesh. Then he was suspended above his own body, and in the sea of voices singing his demise, he heard weeping, soft weeping.

He turned toward the sound, and his amethyst-eyed beauty stood there in all her glory, tears of shadow streaming down her face as she was powerless to stop them from bringing about this fate. She had latched on to him, and was holding on her with all her might. Straining against the force of the pull, he clutched on to her in desperation. He felt her nails dig into his soul as she tried to fight the spell, but he was ripped from her grasp. She lurched forward, trying to capture his hand anything that she could grab, but she failed.

Wait for me!! she cried out, her voice wrenching from her echoing with pain and sorrow. I will come for you, I swear. Please wait for me!!

He was dragged downward into the dark abyss that opened beneath him, those horrible talon hands dragging his soul down in the Void. He looked up, and the last thing he saw before the darkness swallowed the light completely was her face, twisted in sorrow, but as she cast her gaze to those holy men and women. He saw rage darkened her features.

As Drakos slept, his soul torn between the world of the living and the realm of death, seasons changed, and years passed. The sun and moon of this distant world where he had been housed passed through phases, and the celestial bodies of Altaris spun in the silence of space. He waited for her, for a promise not yet fulfilled until he even forgot that single hope.

1005 YEARS LATER

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CHAPTER 2

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Aria wrapped her arms tightly around her shiver-wracked body. She wove the canvas tarp serving as a blanket tighter around her, trying to drive out the cold of the morning air. It was not yet spring, and the air was still laced with the frosty chill of winter that swept down from the high mountains south of the small village. The lingering scent of pine and crisp snow perfumed the air as her breath plumed. Her back stung from the angry welts that crisscrossed her skin, burning like red hot coals as her clothing rubbed against them.

She had enough of this life of torture that her mother thrust upon her. She was born a bastard. Her mother, having laid with a nobleman who promised her the world only to have all her dreams shatter around her once he learned she was pregnant. He banished her from his land. Her mother, Ella, hated Aria for the shame having a bastard brought upon her. Despising her daughter because the man she loved turned his back on her. Ella used every opportunity Aria supposedly misbehaved to take her anger and hatred out on her flesh. Enjoying making her daughter suffer under her undying wrath, justifying it with the reminder that Aria was the embodiment of her mistake. Today only made that humiliation and rage worse. Today was her birthday. Her mother lamented and mourned for everything she had lost at the misfortune of conceiving and bearing a child out of wedlock. Today she was thirteen years of age, not old enough to marry, but old enough to be considered an adult and make a decision that would affect the rest of her life.

The tools of her village’s tiny barn clanked and chimed in the wind that whistled through the gaps and cracks in the boards. A gentle cold breeze disturbed the doves huddled against each other in the rafters. She heard soft cooing and ruffling of feathers as they huddled closer together to stave off the cold. She could sense it would be warm later today. She could feel the change in the weather ever so slightly; for now, it was cold, and the icy wind raged outside. She hid from her mother, nestled among the hay that provided some amount of warmth and a burlap tarp she had found down below.

Today was the day she would leave this place forever and never return. Today was the day she would be free. Ironically, it was also the day she would be breaking every taboo The Order had ever put in place. Today, she would use the Gate Stones and travel to a new world. She would start over, make a new life and never come back to Altaris! Today she would go to the world of symbol that marked the Gate Stone, the place that particular Stone was linked to, and she’d make a new life for herself. No one would have to know she was a bastard, or that she had the Source running through her veins. In a new place, she could truly be free.

She didn’t know much about The Order that governed Source except for what their local Priest told them. The Order was made up of men and women who acted as Priest and Priestess representing of the two aspects of the Source. The Goddess of Void, she who governed the realm of darkness and death. Her body was made of the blackest night and she possessed soulless eyes of the Void. The God of Light was the more benevolent deity, according to The