Shadowed Reckoning

By Olivia Huntington

Once a rising star in the mage ranks, John Gray lost everything when a disastrous mission allowed a powerful dark artifact to fall into the wrong hands. Wracked by shame and failure, the former hero now slinks through life as a broken alcoholic.
But when John’s ex-partner turns up dead after warning of a plot to unleash the artifact’s apocalyptic magic, he reluctantly agrees to take on one last mission for redemption. To succeed, John must brave a corrupting underworld and confront the demons of addiction, regret and self-doubt that have chained him for so long.
Accompanied by a feisty young spellsmith who sees more in John than he sees in himself, he follows a tangled trail of clues across a magical landscape both familiar and strange. Every step forces John to relive the traumatic mistakes that shattered his life. But with the world’s fate at stake, he pushes onward, realizing the key to stopping this evil may also be the key to healing himself.
In a final confrontation against overwhelming odds, John must rediscover his courage, ingenuity and power before the forces of darkness unleash total destruction. To triumph, he must let go of the past and embrace his true destiny. For some, scars run deeper than the skin.

• Language: English
• Publisher: World Castle Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Sep 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9798891260511

Olivia Huntington

Olivia Huntington has always been fascinated by magic, myth and adventure. As a child, she spent countless hours dreaming up stories of heroes overcoming monsters and finding hidden treasures. This sense of wonder followed Olivia into adulthood, compelling her to obtain degrees in ancient history and occult lore. After working for years as a magical artifacts historian, she decided to try bringing some of the incredible tales from her research to life in fiction.When not crafting her next thrilling fantasy saga, you can find Olivia camping under the stars, exploring ancient ruins, or searching dusty libraries for magical secrets lost to time. She loves immersing herself in nature and absorbing legends from cultures across the globe to fuel her imaginative stories.Olivia currently resides in a rambling old house in the countryside that provides daily inspiration. She shares the creaky halls and mysterious locked rooms with three adorable cats and one very patient husband. The only magic she can reliably perform is turning endless cups of tea into completed book chapters.

Book preview

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Shadowed Reckoning

by

Olivia Huntington

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

WCP Logo 7

World Castle Publishing, LLC

Pensacola, Florida

Copyright © 2023 Olivia Huntington

Smashwords Edition

Paperback ISBN: 9798891260504

eBook ISBN: 9798891260511

First Edition World Castle Publishing, LLC, September 25, 2023

http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com

Smashwords Licensing Notes

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.

Cover: Cover Designs by Karen

https://www.cover-designs-by-karen.com

Editor: Karen Fuller

Chapter 1

John woke with a start, his cries piercing the pre-dawn silence. The echoes of screams still rang in his ears — the ghosts of his failure, relentless in their torment. Fumbling in darkness, his trembling hands found the bottle of whiskey on the nightstand. He brought it to his lips with desperation, not even wincing as the amber liquid seared his throat.

Sleep had granted no reprieve, only visions of the night that had shattered him. They came in fragments, visceral as memories day-fresh. The Dark Mark was leering down like some hellish moon. The heat of flames against his skin. The screams and sobbing, people running blindly to escape the carnage. But there was no escaping, not for John. He was rooted in place, utterly helpless as lives were extinguished around him.

He could still smell the smoke, choking and thick. Still feel the surge of dark magic crackling in the air. The details haunted him — a child’s small shoe lying broken in the street, streaks of blood smeared across the bricks. And the bodies. Broken bodies strewn like discarded dolls. Blank eyes stared up at him in perpetual accusation.

You failed us, those empty eyes seemed to say. We died because you failed.

The visions tortured his soul. John pressed the heels of his palms against his sockets until starbursts exploded. But nothing could block out the memories. They were seared into his mind, raw and bleeding as though the destruction unfurled again and again on some endless loop of torment.

The digital clock read 3:17 a.m., but sleep would elude him now. John rose on unsteady feet, staggering through the dark apartment more by muscle memory than sight. He did not bother turning on a light — what was there to illuminate? Peeling wallpaper and threadbare furniture cast in shades of gloom. This dreary place was as hollow and ruined as his soul.

He stumbled into the bathroom, gripped the basin’s counter, and glanced up at the mirror. The face staring back from the bathroom mirror was haunted, all sunken eyes and gaunt hollows. Days-old scruff patched his sagging cheeks, flecked with silver that had not been there before. His ashen complexion resembled a corpse pulled from the dark water. Deep lines of grief and horror were etched beneath his eyes.

With a guttural cry, John slammed his fist into the glass. Fissures spiderwebbed across his reflection but left the surface strangely intact. Drops of crimson slid down his knuckles, pooling in the sink below. The physical pain centered him, driving back the smothering darkness with brilliant clarity. Slowly, he breathed, focusing on the staccato drip into the basin until the red haze lifted from his mind. He splashed some water on his face before roughly bandaging his hand.

The bleeding had stopped, but the gashes still oozed as he shuffled to the kitchen. He tore open a new bottle of Jameson, indifferent to the hour. The whiskey had become as vital as oxygen or blood, the sole barrier between John and utter dissolution. He downed one burning gulp, then another before dropping heavily into a chair.

There on the table sat the damned letter he had been ignoring for days. His name and address were written in a neat feminine hand that conjured Claire’s lilting voice. Another plea for help, no doubt. As if he had anything left to give anyone. As if he was anything but a hollow ruin. John let out a bitter laugh. Let the mages keep chasing their fool’s hope. He would drink until he faded away entirely.

The streets were still hushed and empty as John stepped outside, the moon a waning crescent low on the horizon. He walked in solitude, collar turned up and shoulders hunched. Just another shadow drifting through the urban abyss. The anonymity suited him. He kept his eyes trained down, carefully avoiding the newsstand on the corner. But the headlines seemed to glare at him from the periphery of his vision.

Massacre In Diagon Alley. Mages Fail To Stop Rampage. Deadly Attack Exposes Flaws In Ministry Protections.

Ten years on, but still, the reports dredged up the gruesome details — homes collapsed to rubble, bloody maws where windows once housed cozy kitchens. Stores turned to char and ash. They tallied the numbers like ghastly statistics — eighty-seven injured, forty-six dead. Yet behind each number was a face, a life extinguished because he had been careless. Because he had failed when people needed him most.

John quickened his pace until the newsstand was far behind him. But there was no outrunning this particular demon. Not when its fangs were sunk so deep into his soul.

The smell of stale beer washed over John as he stepped inside O’Leary’s pub. Only a few die-hard regulars occupied the grim space. Old men with nowhere to go, nursing pints in the relentless pursuit of oblivion. They glanced up with darting eyes as John sat at the bar but looked away just as quickly when they recognized his face. He had become another fixture here at the end of the world — the disgraced mage who drowned his dishonor in whiskey.

You’re here early. The bartender’s gravelly voice roused John from his stupor. He was a brawny man with a brawler’s squashed nose and gnarled knuckles. John gave a noncommittal grunt, not wanting conversation. But the keepsake game banners and framed photos of laughing patrons marked the bartender as the gregarious type.

Another all-nighter? he asked, eyeing the dark hollows below John’s bloodshot eyes.

John’s mouth twitched with something too bitter to be called a smile. Sleep and I aren’t on speaking terms these days.

The bartender nodded sympathetically as he poured two fingers of Jameson into a glass. Aye, I know a few gents like that around here. Plenty of demons to keep a man restless at night.

John tossed back the whiskey in one burning swallow. His hand trembled when he lifted the empty glass, silently requesting a refill.

Thank you, John muttered hoarsely. He did not elaborate on the nature of his demons. There was no need. In this place so far from daylight, every man’s torment wore plain across his face.

When the lunchtime rush filtered in, their raucous voices grated against John’s frayed nerves. He glanced around the pub through narrowed eyes. Laughter and easy smiles felt foreign to him now, artifacts of a life abandoned long ago. What right did these people have to their mirth when so many had perished choking on screams? When ghosts stalked John’s every waking moment?

Their normalcy seemed obscene somehow. An offense against the immense toll evil had extracted from the world. From him