Song of the Fallen: The God Slayer Chroncicles, #1

By R. A. Casias

War rages between the gods, throwing the world into chaos. Only one hero can restore balance — but she is just a simple farm girl named Eko.

When a mysterious crystal calls out to Eko on her 16th birthday, strange dreams and unsettling visions plague her sleep. An encounter with the enigmatic goddess Kismet reveals Eko's destiny: she is the God Slayer, prophesied to end the celestial war and save humanity.

But Eko has no idea how to fulfill this prophecy. Sent on a quest to find answers, she is accompanied by the stoic knight Thane Grimsson and mysterious strangers with powers beyond her understanding. Pursued by vengeful gods at every turn, Eko struggles to unlock her own latent abilities while piecing together the secrets of her destiny.

As Eko travels across the war-torn land of Etherea, she begins to understand the pivotal role she must play. But malevolent forces are closing in, and even those she trusts may be hiding sinister agendas. To restore balance to the realm, Eko must defeat the sinister Scion of Discord and uncover the mystery of the Aetherial Heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. A. Casias
• Release date: Sep 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798989517107

Book preview

1

A WEAVER'S AWAKENING

T here she goes with the singing, I groan into my pillow. The aggressively cheerful noise gets closer—an alarm bell of sorts. I hear her fussing at my door.

Five, four, three, two... I brace myself.

Happy protos aêres anniversary, my darling Eko!

Groan. I wish the ground would open up and swallow me up already. It’s the day I took my first breath in Etherea. Big deal.

Aww, if it isn’t the birthday girl! teases Mikros with an exaggerated roll of his eyes.

Ah! Cue the annoying sibling.

It’s like my morning death stare only goads him further. Mikros promptly hauls out that dreadful horn of his and blasts a few loud staccato notes right into my face, still stupid with sleep.

Lean and lanky, he seems to have grown another few inches overnight. His shaggy brown hair constantly falls into his mischievous eyes. He grins as he blasts his horn, taking joy in irritating me.

Then, as if they rehearsed it, Mother breaks out the bane of my birth anniversary—the head wreath. With my unruly brown hair and freckles, I must look ridiculous.

Ugh! Why does she still put me through this? There should be an age restriction on having to wear that wretched thing all day—especially if your birth flower is the hideous katharo fengari.

They look like huge orbs of fluff bouncing around my head all day, drawing more attention than I get all year. Attention, I hate it. And don’t get me started on the sneezing.

But Mitera, why do you go to such great lengths to import these big ugly flowers every year? You know I hate them!

I love you, my darling, Eko, she laughs dismissively. I want you to receive all the blessings of the gods today. May they bring you serenity in body, mind, heart, and spirit. May the serenity of Aether’s gods be yours and all Etherea be your oyster.

Why do they still say that? May the serenity of Aether’s gods… Everyone knows that things ain’t exactly serene topside of the Celestial Mountains…just saying. Plus, oysters? Eew! Hard pass. Not to mention the impact this Celestial Tapestry War is having on Etherea. What happens in the Aether, between the gods, should stay in the Aether.

Her face is lined with worry and fatigue, but her eyes still sparkle with warmth when she sees me. She croons, her voice husky but soothing. She kisses me on the forehead in the way of an apology before plonking that monstrosity on my head. Her work-worn hands are gentle. I smile despite myself as a wave of tenderness overcomes me momentarily.

We hug. She gets misty-eyed, as usual.

You want me to follow you around with a cart today, sis? For when it happens, I mean? Teases Mikros, breaking the mood. I throw him a grateful look as Mom, and I part.

That’s not gonna happen this year. I leap to my feet with determination.

I’m 16 now—which makes me a fully grown Weaver. I’ve got this. You’ll see. I sound more confident than I feel. In fact, I am cringing on the inside. A feeling of apprehension I can’t shake off taunts me.

I’ll believe it when I see it, sis. Mikros throws this comment casually over his broad, bony shoulders. He saunters out of my room, tossing his mop of brown curls—mimicking our annoying neighbor, Deixi. He ducks just in time to avoid my hurtling pillow.

I swear that kid could pass for a Weaver. At fourteen, his emotional quotient is much too high for an NRP—non-resonating person. But they can usually tell at birth or at least by age two if you’re a Weaver or not, not to mention the obvious appearance of the diapasons—little nubs that grow out of Weaver’s ear cartilage and follow its arc around the outer rim of the ears. I finger my rather long ones absently. They are clipped to the ear cartilage with the sacred talismans of our particular resonance. But my danglers are going to be unleashed soon, forever. Finally! I can’t wait for the Initiation Ceremony tomorrow at first light. But first, I will have to get through the day’s hype.

Mercifully, Mom and Mikros leave, allowing me a moment to brace for the day ahead. Though we bicker, Mikros loves reminding the world it’s my birthday. And Mom always goes overboard with celebrations.

I get ready without fussing over my looks – I’ve got more important things to worry about than appearances. I braid my unruly hair into a simple plait to keep it controlled under the wretched wreath Mother insists I wear. I throw on my simple work outfit, saving dresses for silly girls like Deixi. I opt for my durable farm clothes; a simple dark green work shirt and black work slacks - they're better suited for a long day in the fields anyway. I’ll grab my muddy field boots to complete the look on my way out. Correction, my head wreath will complete my look today. I can’t keep my eyes from rolling.

You won’t let it happen this year. This year will be different. Do you hear me? I bully my reflection like I do every year.

My green eyes glint with faint golden flecks. I will my freckles out of sight—and fail miserably. They always seem more prominent on the days I am likely to get more attention than usual.

Goddess Zephyria, help me get through this day. Let your light govern my spirit, and may your bounty sustain me for all the rest of my days, I offer the quick prayer and daub the sacred water to my temples. Today, I will need all the gods on my side if I am to not let it happen again this year. Thank the gods we live in this backwater, not-on-any-map, village of Lumen’s Reach, where the total number of people I will see today will be under ten.

I glance around the room, ready to begin my weaving practice. I stand in the center of my room and close my eyes, centering my mind and body. Slowing my breath, I extend my arms outward. I focus my intention, allowing the energy to build within me.

Warmth begins to bloom in my core, flowing through my limbs like a golden sap. I keep my motions slow and precise as I trace intricate symbols in the air. Strands of shimmering light trail from my fingertips, following the patterns I weave.

The glowing filaments dance and swirl gracefully, as if brought to life by an invisible wind. I guide them with small flicks of my wrists and fingers, feeling the strands respond to my movements. They brighten steadily, saturated with radiance.

My hands leave glorious swirling trails, painting glyphs that glow vibrantly and then fade, only to be replaced by new ones. I deftly shape the supple beams of light, crafting symbols of power and focus.

The warmth in my body grows more intense, resonating with the energy swirling around me. I welcome the heat, letting it gather and pulse just beneath my skin. My woven strands shine brighter, reflecting the energy’s glow within me.

The glimmering symbols spin faster as I loop and swoop my hands, saturating the room with their brilliance. The light infuses me with a deep sense of tranquility and purpose.

With a final flourish, I complete the last glyph and push outward with my palms. The woven symbols explode in a dazzling cascade of luminosity, momentarily turning the room into a space of otherworldly beauty.

As the brightness fades, it leaves behind a lingering aura of serenity and clarity. I open my eyes, grounded and focused.

Shaking off the chill, I put that eye-sore wreath back on my head to please her.

I could only guess what the delivery fee from Everbloom, our capital, must have been like. We live on the outer limits of the sprawling land of Freywind and the furthest from the capital. A twinge of guilt hits me at the thought of Mitera forking out so much coin in these war times—coin we don’t have—on something I will throw away as soon as I leave the house. But it makes her happy to do this for me, so I let it be.

Rubbing my cheeks to prepare for how much they are going to hurt from fake-smiling more than usual, I take one last look around my room.

Somehow it looks smaller to me today, like a place I have outgrown without realizing it—except for one thing. I can take a moment just to feel his presence again.

All my sketches and paintings from my dreams completely cover the room, haphazardly strewn in nondescript piles. The nightmarish ones are hidden in a case under my bed. As always, my gaze is drawn to the ones depicting the graceful white bird that frequents my dreams. I gently sift through the pile until I find a detailed sketch I made, attempting to capture its elegant form.

Trailing my fingers over the charcoal lines, I study the arch of its slender neck, the curve of its wings stretched in flight. It radiates a pure, ivory light in my dreams and watches over me with benevolent eyes. When it takes flight, every movement embodies flowing, ethereal grace.

I spent years searching the skies over Lumen’s Reach for any sign of the mystic bird. Scouring the meadows and woodlands until the sunlight faded, longing for a glimpse of its glowing plumage. But it exists only in my slumbering mind, a puzzle I have yet to unravel.

Drawing it has brought me comfort ever since losing Father. I think about how many years I spent looking up at the skies searching for this exact bird—but finding nothing. Eventually, it hit me that the bird was merely a figment of my imagination. I feel a heaviness in my chest. It is my turn to get misty-eyed. Gods, I miss him.

Memories come flooding into my mind. My heart aches to hear his voice just one more time. His resonant, deep voice. Or his laughter, as he would spin me around until I got dizzy…

Stop blabbering. You killed him.

My thoughts always turn morbid this time of year, and I never mention my dark dreams to anyone. How can I when I don’t even understand them myself? All I know is that the dreams worsen closer to my birthday. The vivid memories of that fateful night threaten to consume me. But I can’t let them - not today; I cannot dwell on the past.

To distract myself, I paw through the last sketches I made before the nightmares resumed. It is such a curiosity. A multifaceted crystal glowing mysteriously with all sorts of swirling colors—like it is alive. I still hear its vibration, a low-key thrum. The crystal haunts my thoughts, its facets swirling with otherworldly light. Akin to the strange landscapes that form the backdrop of my dreams. I hear again its low, persistent thrum that both unsettled and compelled me.

Is there a connection between the crystal’s call and the bird’s reassuring flight? A message encoded in their linked mystery that awaits deciphering? I wish I could speak with Father about these omens and hear his thoughts on their significance. But only more questions linger in his stead. Before heading out, I sneak one of my sketchings of the mysterious bird into my pocket, a little comfort on this melancholy day.

Hand on the doorknob, I pause, taking a deep, steadying breath. My stomach is a knot of nerves. I’ve been dreading this day, my birthday, for weeks.

It dredges up painful memories and puts all eyes on me, something I despise. But worse is the fear of what might happen with my unrestrained powers. I cannot afford another incident, not after what happened with Father. The thought of failing my family again fills me with dread.

You can do this, I tell myself. You've practiced weaving every day, learning control. Whatever happens, you cannot let it defeat you. Mitera is depending on you to be strong, to fill the void left by Father.

I picture my little brother Mikros and feel my resolve harden. He needs me. I will not fail him. If these gifts want to overwhelm me, I will overwhelm them right back. This year will be different.

Squaring my shoulders, I smooth my features into a mask of confidence. It does not matter what trials today brings. I am a Weaver now, no longer a frightened child. And I will master whatever chaotic power simmers inside me.

With one last deep breath, I open the door. This birthday will not break me. I will face it with courage and leave the past where it belongs. Eyes forward, Eko.

I shuffle downstairs and plop down across from Mikros, halfway through a towering pancake stack.

Morning, sleepyhead, he mumbles, mouth full. That wreath really highlights your freckles.

I flick a sticky bit of pancake at him. He laughs. Jealous, you don’t get to enjoy these lovely flowers? I retort.

Maybe next year I’ll get my own matching wreath so we can really look like twins.

Don’t even joke! Can you imagine both of us lumbering around with these wretched flowers bouncing on our heads? We’d look completely ridiculous.

Aw, come on, it’s tradition! Ma goes through so much trouble to get those imported for your big day. You could at least pretend to appreciate it, Mikros says, attempting sincerity but unable to hide his smirk.

I appreciate the thought, but I draw the line at appreciating gigantic fuzzy orb-flowers that make me sneeze all day. I’m pretty sure this wreath constitutes cruel and unusual punishment.

Mikros snorts into his pancakes, nearly choking from laughter. I can’t help but join in chuckling. Underneath our teasing banter, I’m grateful for Mikros’ playful spirit, always knowing how to make me smile, even on a difficult day like today. Maybe the wreath is worth it just to give him some comic material. Almost.

After breakfast, Mikros and I head out to the fields to start our morning chores. The sun’s first light filters through the mist, glinting off the dewdrops clinging to each blade of grass.

As we work, Mikros chatters on about inconsequential things - his new slingshot that can hit a coin from twenty paces, the baby goats that were just born and already scampering around on wobbly legs. His rambling comforts me. It’s a glimpse of normalcy amidst the painful memories this day brings.

My thoughts drift to Father, and the many seasons we spent working these fields side by side. I can almost see his broad shoulders as he worked, sleeves rolled up and brow glistening. He taught me when to let the soil rest and when to nourish it. His patient guidance shaped me as both a farmer and a person.

I glance at Mikros, his boyish brow furrowed in concentration as he milks our old cow, Betsy. Father’s lessons live on through both of us. His steady, nurturing presence is woven into the land itself.

Around midday, we break for a simple meal under the shady oak, our refuge from the blazing sun. I think of lazy afternoons spent beside its trunk with Father, watching clouds drift by. He would spin tales of adventure until I shook with laughter. This wise old tree bore witness to that joy.

When the lengthening shadows herald evening’s approach, we make our way home tired but content. Inside, Mother hums as she stirs a steaming pot. The savory smell wafts up, enveloping me in its warm embrace. Hints of garlic and rosemary mingle with the juicy sweetness of braised meat, the combination making my stomach growl in anticipation. It is the smell of comfort, of home - a sensory siren song I am powerless to resist.

I glance around the worn wooden table, so empty now without Father’s commanding presence. The vacant chair glares back, a stark reminder of his absence.

An aggressive knock snaps me back to reality. Mikros bounds to the door eagerly and returns with our neighbor Deixi in tow.

My eyes are assaulted by the blaze of colors that is Deixi's outfit. She’s sporting a bright pink and yellow striped dress, the fabric’s sheen nearly blinding. Her mane of blonde ringlets has been teased into an elaborate updo, tiny rhinestone clips sprinkled throughout for maximum glitz. Dramatic hot pink rouge stains her cherub cheeks.

Clutching an oversized wicker basket full of sweet chocolate, Deixi thrusts it at me. Happy protos aêres anniversary! she trills, the perfume she's practically bathed in threatening to choke me.

You shouldn't have, I manage weakly, acutely aware of my faded work shirt and tousled braid. Deixi is forever perfectly coiffed, while I can barely find matching socks.

Nonsense! This is the big one-six! How do you feel? Deixi waves her hands excitedly and chats about being 16, but I tune her out.

She launches into her latest town gossip, not pausing for breath. I nod along, eyes glazing over, as she chatters on about so-and-so's new beau. Her words blur together into meaningless chatter.

Meanwhile, doe-eyed Mikros gazes at Deixi, enraptured, blushing furiously whenever she glances his way. I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes. Of course, he’s smitten - she's probably the most exotic thing he's ever seen. He bounds upstairs, no doubt attempting to make himself presentable.

Deixi looks around the worn wooden table, her gaze lingering on the empty chair. It must be so hard without your father here, she says gently.

I nod, blinking back sudden tears. There’s this hole where his love and wisdom used to be. I miss him every day.

Deixi reaches over and squeezes my hand. Of course you do. I can’t imagine how painful it must have been to lose him.

It was the worst night of my life, I confess. I woke up to the smell of smoke on my 13th birthday. Heard his screams from the barn. My voice catches.

You don’t have to say any more, Deixi says softly.

But the words pour out. By the time we got there, everything was engulfed in flames. We could only watch it burn, listen to him... A sob escapes.

Deixi moves to my side and puts a comforting arm around me.

They said a lightning strike started the fire, I continue after a moment. But I’ve always blamed myself. My emotions were out of control that night.

Oh Eko, you can’t think it was your fault, Deixi says.

I just shake my head, unable to speak.

It was a tragic accident, that’s all, Deixi says firmly. Your father wouldn’t want you to carry this guilt.

I know she’s right, but the pain is still raw. We sit in silence for a moment before I compose myself again.

Thank you for listening, and for being here tonight, I say.

Deixi gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. That’s what friends are for.

Just then, Mikros comes bounding downstairs. Eyes brightening, seeing that Deixi is still here. They fall into an easy banter, and I catch a glimpse of the charming girl behind Deixi’s flashy facade.

When Mikros heads back upstairs, Deixi turns back to me. You’re so lucky to have each other. I always wished I was closer to my siblings.

Her candor surprises me.

I sigh, preparing for her to switch back to her usual barrage of grating small talk. But she comes over and gazes at my sketchpad curiously.

I didn’t know you could draw. These are quite good! She flips through the pages, praising the talents I normally keep private.

Despite myself, I feel a glimmer of pride at her interest. I show her a portrait of Mikros and explain how capturing his impish spirit makes me smile.

As Deixi turns to leave, she squeezes my shoulder warmly. You have real talent, Eko. Don’t ever doubt that.

After Deixi’s jasmine-scented whirlwind of an arrival, I try to shake off the unease her visit left in its wake. As grating as she is at times, I can’t help feeling envious of her self-assurance.

I go through the motions of clearing away dinner, lost in thought. The melted chocolates leave a sticky residue on my hands, stubborn even after scrubbing. It feels like a metaphor for Deixi herself - her ostentatious presence imprints itself, whether I welcome it or not.

As the evening wears on, I seek solace from the chaotic day in my sketches by the fireplace. The soothing strokes of charcoal on paper clear my mind and transport me away from painful memories.

I become lost in smudging light and shadows to capture the flickering flames. Their hypnotic dance blots out unwanted thoughts.

As I start to drift off, my last thought is joy that my birthday is over. I made it through in one piece. With my initiation ceremony tomorrow, I become a full Weaver.

2

A JEWEL IN THE DIRT

As I lay there restlessly, the howling wind outside mirrors the storm of thoughts swirling through my mind. Sleep continues to elude me as the gale rages louder, rattling the shutters.

Over the shrieking wind, I think I hear a new sound - a low, rhythmic pulsing. I strain my ears, wondering if I’m imagining it. But no, it’s there - a steady, ominous beat beneath the wind’s shrill cry.

My heart begins to pound in time with the hypnotic pulses. They seem to vibrate through me, kindling an instinctual dread I don't understand. I toss and turn, pressed down by a nameless fear.

The pulsing grows louder, more insistent. I feel compelled to seek out its source, though my gut screams at me to stay put. I try to resist the primordial urge, but it consumes rational thought.

I find myself creeping downstairs in a trance. The pulses strengthen, throbbing inside my skull, as I follow their siren call into the stormy darkness.

Lightning flares, illuminating a figure standing just beyond the boundary of our farm. Rain pelts their hooded form, blurring their features. But I know with chilling certainty they are the source of the hypnotic pulse.

As I step forward, the figure raises a gloved hand. The pulses stop abruptly. In the deafening silence, they draw a crimson symbol in the air - a twisted geometric shape that makes my eyes burn.

Its meaning eludes me, but every fiber of my being recoils from it. By the time I blink the searing afterimage away, the figure has vanished into the night.

Only the symbol remains, pulsing in my mind’s eye as I stand frozen in fear. A crack of thunder jolts me awake with a gasp. I sit up in bed, heart racing - it was just a vivid dream.

Or was it? The symbol still seems to flicker when I close my eyes. A sense of creeping dread lingers.

Moonlight streams through my narrow window, casting the familiar angles of my bedroom into an unfamiliar shadow.

I cling to my threadbare blanket, seeking some childish comfort against the creeping dread wrapped around me like a chill fog. But the frayed fabric brings no relief from the sinister foreboding oozing through my veins.

The wind outside has finally calmed after a night spent battering the shutters. But the stillness only amplifies my unease, leaving a void for my imagination to flood with potential horrors. I strain my ears against the silence, some primal part of me fearing that insidious pulse will begin again if I let my guard down for a moment.

With a frustrated sigh, I kick free of the tangled sheets and sit up, resigning myself to the fact that sleep will not find me again this night. The familiar shapes of my room seem alien in the wan moonlight streaming through the glass. What lurks beyond the fragile barrier of that window?

The chill of the night air raises goosebumps on my skin as I creep downstairs. My toes recoil from the icy kiss of the wooden floorboards. I pull my thin shawl tighter, seeking its meager warmth. My muscles are tense, as I half expect a shadowy figure to be waiting around each corner as I descend. But only empty rooms greet me, bathed in a cold lunar glow.

The bitter scent of burnt-out ashes hits my nose as I kneel to stoke the slumbering embers. Their cracks and pops pierce the heavy silence as I coax a wavering flame to life. It casts flickering shapes across the room that seem to slither and contort in the shadows. No matter how I huddle toward the fire’s glow, I cannot escape the lingering gloom that has soaked into every fiber of my being.

I perch on the threadbare sofa. The floral pattern faded with years of use. The rough weave provides scant comfort. I run my fingers over the coarse material, trying to rub away the lingering unease that has worked its way under my skin. I keep glancing out the front window into the darkness beyond. Our little farm, always a place of solace before, now seems foreign and forbidding. What menace might lurk behind the weathered barn or ancient oak tree? This helpless dread is an alien interloper invading the refuge of home.

Exhaustion wars with edginess as the remaining hours of night crawl by at a torturous pace.

Then I feel it all around me.

The force compelling me is getting stronger, willing my senses to heed its plea. It’s an archaic resonance signature—familiar yet obscure.

My diapasons buck painfully against their clips, responding to the vibration. Warmth blossoms across my skin as my resonance awakens. Golden light, bright as sunshine, outlines my body in a shimmering aura.

My heart begins pounding wildly, keeping time with the unrelenting rhythm. Blood rushes in my ears, drowned out only by the increasingly deafening vibration. It thrums through my bones, setting every nerve-ending aflame.

Adrenaline surges through my veins, electric and scorching. My breaths come faster, matching the frantic tempo within me. An unfamiliar exhilaration takes hold as the sensation crests, threatening to overwhelm my senses completely.

I’m vaguely aware of footsteps behind me.

What is it, Eko? I hear someone call after me, but they seem far away now.

Just me and the vibration now. With my boots forgotten at the door, my bare feet seem to have a mind of their own as I race toward it. Hypnotized by its low thrum, I followed the sound, feeling my way to where it lies, beckoning me to find it.

Some primeval resonance signature surge reaches out, pulsing deep beneath the soil. I feel it resonating through the soles of my feet, calling me toward the unknown. I’ve never felt anything quite like it. A feral urgency builds up within me, and I sprint toward what I think is the source of the vibration. It is like a beacon of sound meant only for me, and I hone in on it almost involuntarily. A hound heeding the dog whistle that nobody else can hear.

The rows of corn stalks and green bean plants, usually a source of joy in their orderly bounty, blur past in a frenzy of leaves and earthy colors as I sprint toward the ancient oak and my destiny…well, that’s what it feels like in my pounding chest, anyway.

Reaching the tree at the far edge of our farm, I stop, panting. I brace myself against the tree, gathering my strength before the impending energy surge.

It’s the same old routine. I enter a haze, usually while I’m in the field, at the local Weaver Academy chapter, or wherever the surge happens. I pass out cold and enter a kind of coma for a short space of time. All I remember is hearing celestial music and being shrouded in swirling mists of colored light.

When I awaken, I feel…older somehow, and even my diapasons seem to grow longer and more attuned to resonance. None of the others who attend Weaver Academy experience this, so I feel like a defective toy. I was self-conscious about the unusual length of my diapasons for a while, but I got over it.

This is one of the reasons I feel the gods got it wrong. I should not be a Weaver; it should be Mikros. I bet he wouldn’t pass out like a weak, too-genteel lass—which I absolutely am not!

Today feels different from the usual born day routine, though. It feels like the goddess of stars and destiny herself, Astralis, is urging me on. I experience an unfamiliar emotion—hope.

Stepping toward the ancient bristlecone pine, I'm reminded of the hours I spent as a child trying to capture the gnarled bark’s texture in my sketches like a girl’s hair twisted after wash day. Father eventually forbade me from venturing to this remote corner of the farm. Even now, an invisible tether pulls me back from lingering too long beneath its crooked boughs. If only I had been as obedient to him in all ways.

As a farmer, it is such a mystery to me that this type of conifer would thrive in these lush conditions. Bristlecone usually grows in cold mountains. Is this tree calling to me? Is it enchanted somehow? I don’t detect any Resonance signature from the tree. It must be coming from the ground.

What ancient power pulses so insistently from beneath the earth? Curiosity wars with apprehension within me. I have always felt an inexplicable draw to this remote corner of the farm, a siren song luring me from the safety of home.

As I approach cautiously, the rich loam beneath my feet seems to tremble with the subterranean pulse. It shivers up through my bare soles, setting my nerves tingling. I halt a few yards from the broad trunk, unsure whether to turn