Haven: Book of Knowledge

By Saralyn Everhart

Imprisoned in the realm of Celestial beings, Haven's attempt at pleasing her father fails and his punishment changes the course of her life.

After five hundred years in a catatonic state, Haven is released and kidnapped by the God of War. Not planning to let her go, he is shocked that she finds solace in his church and plans to grant her t

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tome of Chaos
• Release date: Nov 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798869007575

Book preview

Prologue

REALM OF DREAMS

I burn with the stars that hide in the dark, abandoned skies. In the tapestry of the universe, I am but a single thread, a soul bound to the ebb and flow of time's river. My existence is a mere heartbeat in the grand symphony of creation, yet I yearn for more.

Beyond my world, galaxies whisper a melodic begging. Those keen to listen feel the call and the tune of longing pulse between a heartbeat and their veins.

I cannot search for them in the harsh light of day, where responsibilities and routines hold dominion. But in the peaceful embrace of the night, when the keepers of reality slumber, expectations are tucked away, and the fragments of broken dreams are left begging, a doorway opens.

In the Realm of dreams, I find solace, for only then can the stars emerge from their hiding places beneath closed eyelids and the embrace of unconsciousness.

In my dreams, I am free to wander among the living who slumber beneath the heavens. The sky becomes my canvas—painted with constellations and galaxies of my own making.

I walk in the company of the souls of our ancestors, their wisdom and stories intermingling with the whispering winds.

The world is unbound by the constraints of my home. I become liberated from the limitations of four walls and celestial concerns.

When I close my eyes, I explore the uncharted territories of imagination, dance with stars, and converse with ancient spirits.

It is where I am free to chase the ephemeral, embrace the intangible, and burn with the stars cast adrift from our world.

But when I awake, gold ribbons tie my future to a world of death, forcing me into the mold my father has made for me.

Chapter 1

Envy

HAVEN

Confined within the gilded cage of my chamber, I yearn for the adventures that call to me beyond my father's suffocating protectiveness. These dusty four walls see more of me than him. From cradle to immortality. And at one point, a version of me that held hope that a new day could be different.

I sulk beneath the toasting silk. A chain yanks at my restless mind, begging me to return to the castle-shaped prison.

Today won’t be anything more than a lesson learned not to expect such grand things from a god. Certainly not from a father.

A lesson to only expect the expected.

The expected pounding at my door comes every morning, same time, same face. Aziel will complain about my lack of time management skills and usher me to breakfast in the cafe.

Although despite my pessimism, today is different. Not in the aspect of my father or Aziel. But a tune nips at my bones, begging to stay inside the cacoon of comfort my mattress holds. With the weight crushing against my body, I am inclined to listen.

In a hundred thousand days, I have worked to be worth more than a paperweight. The best teachers in the plane have refined my studies and craft. Yet, I am days from my final tests and graduation—mourning the universe that my father looks at me with pride on his face.

And because there isn’t a chance to be any different from anyone than I am today. It will never happen.

So, I stay a little longer beneath my silk, and Aziel’s knock calls out a few more times before I dress and greet him at the door.

You’re running late.

The condescending words on the edge of my tongue should’ve trickled out from between my teeth, but the worried gleam of his eyes makes my jaw clench.

We are supposed to have lunch this afternoon in town, but the plans fall away between the silver-polished battle armor that embraces his physique.

His skin tone isn’t radiating a brighter red because of me; guilt lies in the bright pink hues so well seen beside his radiant white wings.

He is polished for war. The braided crimson strands of his hair pull the length from his guilty eyes—and audacity tangos between us.

Haven.

You’re leaving me again. My fist engulfs my nails, preventing the tears from subsiding my anger.

It isn’t a question but an observation he knew I’d point out. He holds his reply between clamped teeth. And even though I know what he is to say, I wait, arms crossed, emotion thickening beneath my skin.

Your father needs to speak with you before your lessons.

What a classic response from a man who scarcely has self-thoughts. He might as well be an extension of my father’s physical left hand.

In a quick stride, arms in a rapid sway at my side, I barge through the door to my father’s office down the hall. Aziel follows behind.

Where now, Limbus? The Cosmic Sea? Asgard? Where are you running off to now? I shout.

My tears, holding at the edge of my eyelids, distort my vision. I curl my upper lip to prevent the quiver and attempt a breath to pull myself back to anger.

Romar stiffens behind his stacks of papers, seated at his overwhelmed desk. Royal white and gold metallic armor protects his body from head to toe, and his golden crown sits atop the disarray of blond hair.

Good morning, Havencia, please come in. A sigh escapes him, the only evidence of emotion behind planned words and authority.

I was hoping we could have this conversation later in a more normal tone, but since you are here, please have a seat.

I say nothing more and move not an inch.

He remains calm and casual, but rage begs to be released behind his golden eyes. Hereditary anger that we both let rise to the surface in our heated fights. But before the resentment turns to hate, we taper away.

The reasons behind it differ between us. But his kingdom's expectations for us drive a giant wedge whenever we reach this point again.

He will leave this mountain, a heroic servant of war, and I will remain just a paperweight.

My watery eyes are dry when he speaks enough so that I have rebuilt my festering rage.

The Cosmic Sea. Baalthor is moving devils through to Dracotara. It seems likely he is planning another invasion. We should be gone a few days.

Take me with you.

No.

Eyes averted, he returns to shuffling papers and ignoring me. I shift further to his desk and place my hands on the edge.

I want to go. I am ready to go. I will train with Aziel this morning, finish my studies, dress, and be ready with the updated battle plans when you are ready. I will speak with the general to understand my role, and I will—

You will not, He interrupts, standing from his desk to meet me eye to eye.

I am a soldier meant to serve. My blade is ready. I am ready.

The room shudders from the chill between us; the walls beg to peel from their places as his eyes darken. You are a child and will not be leaving this plane.

Recoiling from his desk, I beg Aziel with defeated eyes. But he stands unfazed at the door, knowing his well-designated place outside this conversation.

Another day where things stay in place, left where it was the last hundreds of years: my father in battle, Aziel at his side, and me abandoned. Prisoner, to this world, to a place I should call home, and to him.

Hate doesn’t begin to describe how I feel toward him, but I hate you.

You are dismissed. The words fly past him without a flinch, and he continues his work while leaving me be.

Aziel moves from the doorway to allow me out. Without a glance at him, I leave them in silence.

Bring your sword to class. He calls, leaving unsaid words to his thoughts.

The corridor I step into bridges the castle’s majesty and the mountainous surroundings’ rugged beauty. Rows of tall, arched windows line both sides of the passage, offering breathtaking views that stretch out over the precipice. These windows, more than mere openings, are like frames capturing the panoramic splendor of the world below.

The breeze that flutters the drapes carries with it the refreshing scent of mountain air, carrying whispers of untamed wilderness and distant horizons.

Golden sunlight pours through the open sills, creating a celestial tapestry illuminating the polished marble floor. The warmth of the light contrasts with its cool touch, a harmonious blend of nature and architecture.

When I was younger, the very atmosphere within our home seemed to be draped in a heavy shroud of grief, a haunting presence that clung to the walls and crept through the corridors. It was as if the air held the memories of loss, and the shadows of sorrow cast long fingers clawed at the edges of every room. The vibrant colors that once adorned our living spaces faded to muted tones, mirroring the somber feelings that had taken root within us.

The rooms were hushed as if the walls mourned my mother’s passing. Every corner seemed to hold fragments of memories, the remnants of a life once lived to the fullest.

My father, once a pillar of strength, became a solitary figure who bore the weight of his grief in silence. A quiet sadness replaced his normally sociable countenance. His laughter, too, seemed to have been stolen by the cruel hands of fate. He sought refuge in his office, where he could wrestle with his grief away from prying eyes.

Locked away from the world, he immersed himself in his work; his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet that covered the floor. The soft click of the doorknob signaled his retreat, leaving me without his guidance or warmth. He became a fleeting presence, glimpsed only when necessity demanded his appearance.

Over two hundred years later, the cold castle rooms and halls are filled with warm rays and greenery planted and tended to by myself. And although I used to enjoy it, I dread watering them every morning. But life continues to sprawl, and I continue to come to care for them—refusing to return to the cold grief behind this facade.

Entering the room, the air is fragrant with the intoxicating scents of blooming flowers and earthy soil, and the birdsong symphony carries a distant forest’s melodies. The doorway overspills with vines running across the walls and escaping the confined space. Even outside the sills, they beg to find somewhere else to go. I know we have that in common. This room is the closest I will ever get to visiting the Mortal Realm.

Deep breath.

I withdraw my hands from my side, pulling them to my chest to grasp the crystal intertwined around my neck. The tendrils of magic extend outward, branching like delicate veins, as if the necklace has tapped into a wellspring of mystical energy. It radiates warmth. My intentions grow with its amplifying light, and I conjure a palm-sized cloud with a dance of my hands.

It rotates and thunders, sprinkling against my skin, and then I release it to the ceiling with cant in my breath. Grow, and grow, I beg it, and so it does. The cloud expands the length of the room and waters every morsel of life.

I step inside, letting the trickling sprinkle wash over me. The begging flower buds rise in the slightest motion further toward the light. Their vines cling to the puddles in the marble floor, growing in size. And I begin pruning the plethora of dried plants my neglect has cost.

What a mess,

I turn to the voice calling from the doorway. An angel stands, gawking at the room. Forcing an uncomfortable smile, I wave a dismissing hand to my magic cloud.

Sorry. I, uh, I didn’t expect visitors since the general was doing field training this morning. I promise to clean it. I just needed to water them, I mumble, fumbling with a dead leaf.

Without a word and sneering at the mess, she turns to leave. The sway of her wings behind her hurried steps drops my stomach, and I can’t help but watch her retreat until she is no longer in sight.

An abomination. That’s all they see. When my mother fell pregnant, excitement rallied the towns of this realm. Celebrations were held in honor of the first ‘born’ angel.

But I killed her, and they resent me for it.

I finish picking my fruits and pruning the leaves. Just as I am about to leave, I call upon my magic with an open hand splayed to the ground. Ripples bless the floor, and slowly, the water crawls back to me in an unnatural stream.

Bring your sword to class.

The hilt of my ‘real’ blade taps against my thigh, my pace quickening with excitement toward the sparing room. Every day since I was six years old, we have fought each other with wooden swords, but today, days before my graduation, I am to wield my sword.

This may be hope.

But luck could never be that kind. I open the small wooden door to my father, standing eager in the center of the matted room, Aziel listening to whatever he spouts, uneasiness in his spine.

Haven, Aziel announces.

My father replaces his turned back with a full-postured stance in my direction, his unsheathed gold-tinted sword between the palms of his hands in front of him, Haven. I don’t mean to interrupt your day, but today is as good as any to show me what you’ve learned from Aziel.

Az wrinkles his eyebrows apologetically on his stride to the wall.

His sword graces its position near his ear, body preparing against his weight. I follow suit, finding comfort behind the metal and easing my breath with a new mindset.

Romar is quick in his slashes, greeting my blade before I can think about the next move. Together, the metal sings, and I hold nothing back. Although not daring to touch my armor, he makes it apparent by proximity that he could destroy me—if needed.

You’re slow. Stop thinking, He snaps, blade clashing and pushing against my fumbling grip.

I-I’m trying,

The hilt between my hands falters, and I miss, catching his sword’s edge. I dodge a potential blow to my face, and a shriek escapes me. My gasping breaths fill the room, You could’ve—

His sword cries as I shakily bring mine to protect my face.

Weak. Do not argue with your opponent. Do not beg them to hold back.

He shoves me, blade to blade, and I stumble against the wall. He lifts his sword again, and I contemplate not moving. But I do—dodging the blow and sending it ringing against the stone behind me.

How do you expect to fight in an army your mother led when you fight like a child?

Dread fills my heart, but rage courses my veins. My mother’s honor metals decorating the walls laugh at my pathetic attempts with my father’s hateful words.

Then, I push back. My blade gains motivation behind a tightening grip, and I release a cry behind a stab and slash that my father easily avoids. Beads of sweat run against my face while he looks in perfect shape.

Aziel takes a breath, pulling his body closer. And Romar’s eyebrow twitches with rage.

If I can beat him, then that is proof enough that I am ready.

I am ready.

I am ready.

I take the lead, feathering on my feet with a bounce that overcomes the fight. His sword follows behind my leading attacks, and although I do not dare hit his body, his sword begs me to stop.

Baalthor won’t play fair.

His words are to distract me, to pull me away from my concentration on my moves and anticipations. But they don’t. Instead, he changes the direction of his sword and works to confuse me with underhanded swipes, twists, and fake moves I’ve seen before.

I have seen this before.

Sparing sessions with Aziel’s wooden blades, he had been preparing me for this all along. Aziel curls his lip into a smile, watching me do what he has taught me best. And for the first time in a while, I surprised my father.

His hand shakes, but not with fear or worry—with rage, He is ruthless and cruel. If you face him, he won’t play fair.

The golden flakes in his eyes glow, the metallic shine of his blade amplifying a light that surprises my eyes and sends me stumbling back with his next attack. In a couple of blinks, he puts me on the ground beneath the point of his threatening sword.

If you cannot hold me in a fight, you will never survive one against Baalthor and his army. You are not ready.

Bullshit, I shout, pulling to my feet after he relaxes, Angels in your army lose rather often and wouldn’t dare survive a fight against him.

You are the daughter of a god. I hold you to higher standards.

Aziel relaxes back to his place on the wall, knowing not to intervene. I throw my blade against the mat and clench my jaw.

You dare come to my office and offer to be in any part of my legion again. Then, you better come prepared to hold off my blade. You will never fight in this war if you cannot.

I watch his confident stride as he leaves, and Aziel comes to my side, You were incredible.

Something about the softness in his voice pulls me to his eyes. But tears are already there to take the beautiful sight from me, You set me up.

I didn’t know, He grips my elbow with my attempt to leave, I promise.

I rip from his grasp and leave him to the quiet dread that has begun to plague the room.

The mountain’s last trial lies around four thousand steps from Mount Etheria’s peak. A cliff that sits behind an enormous golden arch known as the Bifrost Gate.

Bare feet dangle from the edge as I peer into the abyss of clouds covering the view below. I would never dare jump, but I wonder what would happen if I did. Would an angel stop my pathetic, cowardly attempt before I reached the bottom, or would they let me die only to tell my father of the loss?

My father knew that crushing my spirit would prevent me from attempting to leave with them this afternoon. And it did. They left without a goodbye, and I skipped classes to sit on this cliff.

A half-angel that can’t fight. A half-god without divinity.

I am neither my mother nor my father. Yet they let me sleep on this peak, with a sliver of hope they intended to stunt. They pity my suffering while further causing it.

The dirt rallies in my palm, my fist clenching.

I am more than your failed expectations, more than a damaged and useless daughter. I rise every morning to spite the hatred in your heart. And one day, I will rule the hell you’ve trapped me in. I will be released like a phoenix, my wings will grow, and I will be free.

Chucking the chunk of dirt from my hand over the cliff, I release a bellowing shout that echoes through the empty, birdless skies. It disappears below. Once more, I imagine taking the leap and gaining my radiant set of wings.

I stand from the edge, leaning to peer across the cliff, my toes on their tips. My eyes flutter closed, and with a deep breath, I stumble back and begin the ascent back up the ancient staircase.

One day.

Chapter 2

Mount Etheria

HAVEN

The pail of water empties into the roots of my potted plants. When the doors open, Aziel’s beaten armor hangs bloody from his chest while my father remains untouched. An aura of death hangs against their shoulders.

Romar does not dare glance in my direction, instead passing without a second thought through the corridor.

Az, however, greets me at my side, ruining my attempt to ignore them both and return to my plants, Galish is hosting a ball within the fortnight. He expects your attendance.

Yggdrasil? I turn on my heels with a gasp, nearly dropping the empty pail.

Yes, but that means you cannot anger him anytime between now and then. If you truly want to go, I would walk on eggshells for a while.

Eggshells. I have been walking on eggshells my whole life.

But for this

I will do anything to be outside this horrid realm for even a moment.

He becomes distant for a moment, in deep thought, without a doubt, with my father. A moment passes, and he turns to leave without further saying anything.

What next, I call to his back. After I graduate?

I don’t think even the weaves of fate know, Haven.

And then he leaves, silence beckoning me to beg him, but nothing left to be said.

The sun finds a cloud, the air thickens, and even the plants droop a little.

Alone. When will I stop feeling so alone?

The ancient trail of steep and narrow steps wraps around the mountain hundreds of times before meeting my home at the top. Only five thousand of them separate me from the nearest village.

Carved by the first gods, the last steps are the most strenuous and daunting, purposed to turn away souls not brave enough to finish the trials. Those who succeed in the climb and The Leap ascend to become angels. Souls that fail are forced outside of the realm.

It isn’t uncommon for people to fail and never return. Or even descend the steps never to leap. Those who stayed and chose not to finish populated the nearby village and created their eternal lives.

On my descent, a few souls pass me on their way up. Their eyes are encircled with dark bags and worry, remaining on the path and ignoring my presence. Weak, trembling bones carry them further, and even with the unlikeliness of success, the fear that hangs from their shoulders doesn’t stop their determination.

I wish them the best in silent prayer, looking back to watch as they ascend the stairs, etching their faces in my memory. Then, I return to my path with my last step onto the city stone.

Nestled precariously on the side of our mountain, the bustling market unfolds like a vibrant tapestry against the backdrop of a rocky terrain. The air is infused with lively energy, a blend of laughter, and the intoxicating aroma of exotic spices and herbs that dance in the breeze.

Narrow paths wind through stalls and vendors, dodging between the souls and angels walking around the buildings and tents. Everything seems to cling to the mountainside like determined vines.

Canopies of richly dyed fabric stretch overhead, providing a patchwork of shade that contrasts the beautiful blue sky peeking between the peaks.

Colorful awnings frame each stall, their vibrant hues reflecting the goods they offer. From woven reds and gold to sparkling gemstones that catch the sunlight, the market is explosive in color. Then, further inside, the arrays of fruits and veggies foreign to our world entrance passing customers in the smell and taste of the most excellent foods the cosmic sphere has to offer.

Once a week, the ladies of The Church of Life bring produce from Yggdrasil. Berries, apples, corn, and vegetation that we can never grow. People on this part of the mountain rejoice in the opportunity to participate in something so mundane, and although the dead have no need for eating and nourishing their after-bodies, they buy and eat. If only for the pleasure of feeling like they are home again.

Taking a few apples, I give a couple of copper to the elven lady behind the stall and turn to the other vendors. The Guardians of the Mountain assist the small market when they can afford to. Their jobs become less futile during the war since they do not leave, and the mountain is sealed from the outside planes.

I smile and casually wave to a few that glance in my direction. But otherwise, I keep to myself. A few more berries and picks and my basket is full.

Ms. Celeste

Swallowing the heaviness in my chest, I turn to the voice.

Ezaedril, you enjoy the market as well?

Powers do not have the time to play mundane in the market. I know he has ulterior motives, but that doesn’t stop the curious glance from shining through my features as I begin my walk.

My legion is on leave. We suffered casualties in the recent battle. What of you? Where are your studies taking you…the direct descendant of Arcney, you should prepare to join us—lead us.

I should be… my father has offered no plans for my future in the legions. And although I can wield a sword, I have no formal training in battle. It seems I am not my mother’s daughter.

His hand clenched, Bullshit. Do you enjoy parading around uselessly?

I swallowed my reply and returned to focus on the cobblestone path as it changed to dirt at the edge of town.

Havencia, do you enjoy the shame you bring your mother? His anger bubbles inside his words.

I do. Now, will you please leave me alone? Don’t you have a job to do? I snap, hoping he will rest.

The truth remains hidden. No amount of evidence of my father hiding me behind books and courses will make these angels any happier that I exist. And as their friend? I counted that out a long time ago.

His fury subsides, and before contemplating a reply, he leaves, quiet as he comes.

I hold a vague memory deep in the stone of my thoughts. A smaller version of me got to see the beauty of Yggdrasil one time before deciding she wanted to be a druid. My obsession with magic and plants grew into a hobby, and by the time I could say complete sentences, I was begging my father for a tutor.

Since the inhabitants of my home were dead, that was a challenge.

Romar denied my request for a tutor and told me I should focus on the craft of a sword instead. And I did, no doubt. But I wanted to cast magic and connect with the world around me. Be a part of our world in a metaphysical meaning.

As a teenager, I snuck into the village bars, looking for a drink. Sometimes to make a friend. And one lucky day, a little old lady named Yolanda recognized me as the daughter of her former friend.

She and my mother climbed the trials together. Ten thousand years ago. They arrived on the sands of the cosmos, died from their mortal world, and connected in the afterlife as friends.

Yolanda told me stories of my mother’s bravery and how she feared nothing. She succeeded in every trial, and when she came to The Leap, she didn’t think twice. She jumped.

After a few meetings, Yolanda confessed to sitting on the cliff, waiting for peace instead of fear. And when it didn’t come to her, she turned and found solace in the village.

Arcney found her a few hundred years later when she was serving as a Celestial Guardian. Assisting the Ladies of Life with the market, she handed a basket of fruits to Yolanda and welcomed her as an old friend.

Yolanda’s stories of my mother became a consistent part of my week. I traveled down and spoke to her for hours before learning she was a druid in her mortal life.

The day beats down on the stone between my fingertips as I lift it and concentrate on the command. That buzzing pulse crawls through my torso, heading for my druidic focus. Energy weaves in my veins, the celestial tongue rolls from my lips, and the cast of light radiates in a concentrated beam. It burns past the stone cavern wall, cracking and collapsing the small structure.

With a breath, I lower the stone and dispel the beam. Another mastered spell. Is it time?

Yolanda sways. Her weight focused on her wooden staff. Dear, it isn’t that simple. The mind, body, and soul have to be ready. Until then, you practice.

I can cast spells that most druids only dream of casting. How has it not happened yet? I pull my hands into my body, turning them over as if something grand lays beneath the skin.

She chuckles in an airy sigh, her ropy white hair falling over her shoulders in her slouch. The graduation of your magic is a gift from the weave when you’ve mastered what you can. However, it isn’t instant. You do not cast a final spell and become a grand master of Druidic casting. It’s an earned gift, and the universe has not deemed you worthy yet. So, keep practicing.

How long did it take for you to receive yours? I turn to face her, hopeless in my thoughts.

When I was alive, I began practicing as a young child. It took forty years before I was casting the magic you cast now and ten more before the weave gifted me. Her eyes become distant, a reflection of memory. But before she can dive into it too long, she shakes her head and takes the stone and my hands.

With lines of experience etched in her skin, her soft, smooth palm grips my young one. Her eyes are daggers of kindness and age, and as she speaks, a rush of calmness caresses my worries. You are gifted, my child. Just as your mother was. The universe knows your place and is preparing you for it. Trust that the weaves of fate know when it’s time.

I am nothing of my mother… A harshness is reflected in those words, but it’s a revelation I already know.

You’re wrong. You may not be a skilled fighter with a sword, shield, and full body armor, but you are nonetheless powerful. She taps at my temple and draws a smile on my face. In here, then my heart, and here. Just like your mother.

She was strong-willed and demanding, commanded a room with just a look. She angered your father plenty of times. Above all, she knew what she was doing in her craft. That was her power.

With a heavy sigh, my shoulders slump. Should I have focused on my swordsmanship?

We are all on our journey to belonging, and none is the same. She lets go of my hands and takes a step back. Now, show me that one you favor so much.

I open my mouth before processing her words, The—oh.

With folded hands over my chest, I grip my focus and close my eyes. The world shifts, noise disappearing from my thoughts, concentrating on the threads inside me.

I visualize a small radiant ball of light. Flashes of memories and emotions are tied like a ball of yarn. The end trails off, growing from nothing, and as I grasp it, an eye opens. Not physically. But a spiritual sight that connects my soul to the weave of time.

Behind my closed lids, a movie of Yolanda plays out. She congratulates me on my success and then tucks four fingers behind her back.

As if I hit pause, I open my eyes, a radiant blue glowing from my chest. Yolanda opens her mouth, but I interrupt her before she speaks, Four.

Her smile grows, and just as before, she congratulates me and then tucks four fingers behind her back.

I dispel the magic. Taking a