Bonds of the Fallen: Fates of Valor, #1

By J.L Craven

In the shadow-draped city of Slaingard, where the line between the living and the supernatural blurs, Batilde's life is a tapestry of secrets and half-truths. Since her mother's mysterious disappearance, Batilde's world has been cloaked in unanswered questions and whispered tales of the Vampir.

 

Journey through the mystical and perilous realms of fate and destiny. Batilde, young and fiercely determined, must navigate a world teeming with otherworldly beings. As she delves into the enigma of her past, she uncovers truths that challenge her very notion of reality.

 

In the heart of this bewitched city, the Vampir Festival of Valor beckons. A convergence of the arcane and the powerful, it's a beacon of hope and dread. Here, Batilde's path crosses with enigmatic and handsome figures whose intentions are as cryptic as the origins of the Vampir themselves.

 

Steeped in intrigue and the unrelenting pursuit of truth is a tale of identity, the struggle against unseen forces, and the courage to confront a destiny that intertwines with the dark corners of history and myth.

 

As Batilde inches closer to unraveling the threads of her past, she must contend with the harsh lessons of trust and betrayal. In Slaingard, where shadows whisper and the night is never truly silent, the most dangerous revelations are those that challenge the very essence of one's soul.

 

Will Batilde find the answers she seeks, or will the weight of her legacy be her undoing? Step into the world of "Bonds of the Fallen" - where every secret has its price, and every destiny its own dance with darkness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Polite Menace Press LLC
• Release date: Feb 16, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224531707

J.L Craven

I am J.L. Craven, a seeker of the unknown. My writing is a dance of contrasts, where the light of whimsy shines through the darkness, and each twist of the tale invites you to journey further into dark realms. Step into the shadows of my imagination, where each story is a doorway to the extraordinary. Are you ready to cross the threshold? "Unraveling the fabric of reality, one word at a time." – J.L. Craven

Book preview

Chapter 1

M other, where are you going? The question hung heavy in the stifling air of the dimly lit corridor, the stone floor cold and unyielding beneath the girl’s bare feet. Rain lashed against the paneled windows with the fury of a thousand fists as if the heavens sought entry to their humble home.

Her mother, a silhouette shrouded in the shadows, halted in her retreat, her face obscured by the gaping hood of her cloak. The child’s heart stuttered as she noted the tremble in her mother’s fingers as they grazed her lips, a silent plea for silence.

The Norns of fate are angry, her mother's voice, barely a whisper, rose above the crescendo of the storm. I must leave for the market immediately. The child’s gaze was drawn to the billowing hem of her mother’s cloak; the pooling water at her feet tinged a deep crimson from the cuts marring her bare feet.

A force she couldn’t comprehend compelled the girl to fly down the grand staircase, her small limbs inelegant in their haste. She grasped at the fabric of her mother’s cloak, her tiny voice breaking as she pleaded, But it is dark. The market is closed at night.

Her mother's only response was a stubborn shake of her head, her gaze an impenetrable fortress that mirrored the storm outside. As the girl continued to pull at her mother’s cloak, her mother reached down to her little hands. I must go now, she said, prying the girl’s fingers from her cloak. Emotions she barely understood warred within the child, but before she could give voice to her fears, her mother had dissolved into the violent night, the door slamming shut in her wake.

A profound sense of loss engulfed the girl as she stood at the threshold of the dimly lit home, the emptiness of the foyer amplifying the storm’s rage. Her small hand hovered above the cool brass of the doorknob, indecision marring her innocent face. She folded her tiny frame upon the threshold, her gaze unflinchingly fixed upon the old wooden door and the world that lay just outside.

Time seemed to stretch into infinity, each moment an eternity of solitude. Enveloped in a cocoon of blankets, with only the gnaw of hunger an ever-present companion, the girl remained by the door, every rustle of wind, every groan of the timeworn house, a harbinger of her mother’s return. But as the hours melded into days, hope withered within her, much like a flower needing sunlight and water.

When the neighbor, Mrs. Higgins, discovered the girl, she was a ghost of her former self. The vitality that once sparkled in her eyes was now extinguished, leaving behind hollow pools of despair. She had become one with the threshold, her essence intertwining with the very foundations of the house, her sole tether in an ocean of desolation.

Time did little to erode the scars etched upon the little girl’s soul. Even as an adult, Batilde would find herself shrouded in darkness, the abyss of loneliness threatening to consume her. A fragment of her soul, forever imprisoned in that shadowed corridor, eternally awaited the return of her mother.

Chapter 2

The decaying splendor of Slaingard unfolded before Batilde, a once vibrant city now drowned in shadows and ruins, remnants of its former glory. Its streets bore witness to the weight of time and neglect, and yet, amidst the crumbling buildings, there was an undercurrent of power, of a sleeping giant waiting to be awakened. The Vampir Festival of Valor was the catalyst that could breathe life back into this dying city.

The city square was a flurry of activity, with workers scurrying about, preparing for the influx of visitors and the opulence the Vampir festival promised. The Festival of Valor was not just a city-wide celebration; it was a competition, a fight for survival, with each city vying for the honor of hosting the prestigious event, claiming the power and prosperity it brought.

As Batilde moved through the square, her senses were heightened. She could feel the pulse of the city, its heartbeat syncing with her own. She felt a connection to this place, a tether that bound her to its history and future.

Slaingard's plight was dire, its decline having spanned far too many years. The Festival of Valor was a beacon of hope, a chance to reverse its fortunes. Workers, alongside the Vampir envoy, had toiled relentlessly, revitalizing the city and bolstering its infrastructure to accommodate the event's grandeur. The old buildings had been meticulously razed, and their materials repurposed to salvage and reconstruct the new.

The jewel in the festival's crown was the Ceremony of the Valkyrie, a sacred rite where hopeful participants offered themselves to join the ranks of the Vampir – eternal beings in service to the ancient gods and their armies. The allure of immortality and the esteemed lineage of the Vampir was a siren call to many.

Batilde's surroundings blurred as she navigated through the square, lost in her thoughts. In the festival, she saw a chance for a new dawn for the city, a phoenix rising from the ashes of the past. A sliver of hope flickered within her that perhaps, in this chaos, she would finally find a place to lay down her roots.

The flame of hope was doused in an instant.

Well, if it isn’t little Batilde bat house, just as batty as her mother was, sneered Rorick, his voice dripping with disdain as she passed the square. His demeanor was as repulsive as his family’s wealth and position would allow.

How original. I had hoped that you would have obtained a modicum of wit with age, but it appears I was mistaken. Batilde shot back, her tone laced with sarcasm.

His retort was a venomous hiss, You would do well to remember to bow to your superiors when I ascend to the ranks of the Harii after the festival. His face was an abyss of shadows.

A scornful laugh escaped Batilde's lips as she continued toward the embassy of the Vampir. Maybe when the underworld freezes over, she muttered.

The Harii were the elite of the Vampir, warriors of excellence. Her search for her mother had revealed that the humans’ knowledge of the Vampir and the Harii was woefully inadequate. The Harii were the shadowy legion of the undead, lords of the night and rulers of battle. Legend had it that the ancient gods utilized the Harii as their pawns in a never-ending war game. The Harii, weary of their servitude, brokered a pact with the old gods, leaving the Vampir and their Harii as stewards in this realm.

Her gaze fell upon a young girl, her dark tresses mirroring Batilde's own, her hand securely cradled in her mother’s. A pang of longing gripped her as she wondered if she had once experienced that comforting touch. She strained to conjure the sensation of her mother’s hand in hers but was met with the hollow ache of emptiness.

The Vampir embassy loomed over the square, a bastion of modernity juxtaposed against the old decaying buildings. In less than a fortnight, an envoy of Vampir had razed the dilapidated industrial site, replacing it with a glorious glass cube surrounded by lush gardens. The incongruity of the new springing from the old fascinated Batilde, reminiscent of mushrooms emerging from a decaying log.

The embassy was a testament to cutting-edge, eco-friendly architecture. This was the privilege of hosting the festival – an infusion of unparalleled upgrades at no cost to the city. The Vampir embassy was the festival hub where guests were welcomed, provisions and aid were dispensed, and the hopeful signed up for the Ceremony of the Valkyrie.

Batilde had secured a position as an auxiliary employee when the embassy opened its doors, a vantage point that afforded her close interactions with the Vampir envoy. Her initial trepidation gave way to intrigue as she discovered the Vampir, devoid of any knowledge of her past, were generous with information about their world, barring one crucial aspect – their realm. This secrecy sat uneasily with Batilde. It seemed unfair that while humans opened their homes and cities to them, the Vampir remained reserved about reciprocating the hospitality in their realm.

Ah, Bat, just the person I was looking for! exclaimed Ilka, thrusting a stack of forms into her hands. Would you be so kind as to deliver these to registration?

As a child, Batilde’s ebony locks would billow around her like a dark cloud as she flitted around the house, starkly contrasting with her mother’s golden waves that cascaded past her shoulders in a wild, untamed mass. The dichotomy between their appearances and the rumors surrounding her mother’s mental state earned her the nickname Bat.

Glimpsing the large stack of registrations, Bat noted the all-too-familiar Valkyrie insignias emblazoned upon each sheet. She was intimately acquainted with the ceremony's storied history and the allure it held for mortals desiring a taste of immortality.

I’ll just fly these right upstairs, she playfully retorted, a mischievous glint in her eyes that mirrored the dark waves of her hair.

Ilka’s laughter was a rich, resonant sound that filled the air. When you’ve lived as many centuries as I have, every human is but a fluttering child, she quipped, her emerald eyes gleaming with wisdom that spoke of untold experiences and long-forgotten eras. With the festival nearing, these registration forms will flood in, many arriving at the eleventh hour. Humans, with their indecisiveness and propensity for procrastination. It’s maddening! She winked.

Bat hesitated before posing the question that lingered in her mind. Why is it called the Ceremony of the Valkyrie?

Ilka’s eyes softened, the light within them seeming to traverse time and space as she embarked upon her tale. Finally, a question worthy of an answer, she began, her voice assuming the timbre of an ancient ballad. When our kind was embroiled in wars of old, the Valkyries were our noble counterparts upon the battlefield. The term ‘Valkyrie’ loosely translates to ‘chooser of the slain’ or the fallen, depending on who you ask. The first of our kind were created alongside the first Valkyrie. It is a sacred and revered role within our society. Those chosen to serve as Valkyries for the ceremony are harbingers of immortality, ushering recruits into our ranks. It’s our way of honoring those who served beside us.

Bat shuddered inwardly, the brutal reality of the ceremony—its pageantry masking the intrinsic violence of the transformation—striking a chord within her. She considered the fate that had befallen her mother all those years ago, her disappearance a mystery that left an indelible mark upon her soul.

Have you ever been chosen to serve as a Valkyrie in the ceremony? she inquired, her gaze lifting to meet Ilka’s.

A shadow appeared to flit across Ilka’s face, her ageless beauty concealing the centuries that had shaped her existence. No, that is not a path I chose to walk. My family has other means of perpetuating its lineage through mentorship and teaching, she stated before sweeping away, her graceful presence melding seamlessly with the administrative commotion that engulfed the embassy.

Ascending the stairs to the bustling registration office, Bat was greeted by the sight of a harried auxiliary worker, their form hunched beneath the weight of a mountainous pile of paperwork.

Good morning! Ilka sent me to deliver these forms, she chimed, her voice piercing the dreary atmosphere of the office.

The worker sighed, their shoulders drooping further as they reluctantly accepted the stack of papers, adding to the growing pile that threatened to overtake the workspace. Just what I needed. More paperwork, they muttered, their tone one of resignation.

Bat’s laughter rippled through the office as she exited, the auxiliary worker’s mutterings fading into the background, One piece at a time... yet it never seems to end.

She crossed the threshold into the archives hidden within the embassy's corridors. The corner she carved out was an oasis of calm, the storm of activity that raged in the world beyond its walls, nothing but a distant murmur.

A desk of darkened wood stood proud amidst the trove of Vampir knowledge. Its surface, marred by the countless scratches and dents of pens and quills, spoke of the profound intellectual endeavors unfurled within its intimate confines. The light, filtered through an intricate stained-glass window, painted the room in a kaleidoscope of hues, imbuing the space with an aura of magic.

Beside the desk, a sturdy bookshelf stood guard, its shelves cradling a collection of volumes long forgotten by the world outside. The faded spines of the books whispered tales of ancient civilizations and untold adventures, their secrets waiting to be unveiled by a willing explorer. The air was thick with the musky scent of aged parchment and the polish of well-worn wood, a combination that never failed to stir the depths of Bat's soul.

A plush armchair, worn from years of use, sat in the corner beside the desk. Though slightly sagging, its cushions embraced the weary seeker of knowledge with a comforting familiarity. Within this armchair, Bat often found herself lost in thought, the weight of the world dissipating as she delved into the pages of the forgotten volumes that surrounded her.

Time stood still within the confines of Bat’s nook. The whisper of turning pages and the scratch of pen on paper were the sole intruders upon the sacred silence that hung in the air. This was Bat's realm, a domain where she reigned supreme— a custodian of the past, safeguarding the echoes of bygone eras for future generations.

Ilka had initially scolded Bat for dragging in the old, discarded furniture. She had offered to procure new furnishings suitable for the dignity of the archives, but Bat had declined. She felt a peculiar connection with these relics of the past, each of which she had lovingly restored to serve a new purpose, much as she had been given a new lease on life. Eventually, Ilka relented, allowing Bat the freedom to cultivate her little corner of solitude amidst the grandeur of the embassy archives.

But now, as Bat stood amidst the tranquility of her sanctuary, her brow creased with worry, the nook mocking her. The desk where she had meticulously organized her world was now a chaotic whirlwind of papers and manuscripts as she desperately searched for her missing notebook. That small, seemingly insignificant object was the key that unlocked the door to her past, harboring strange memories and invaluable insights into her mother's disappearance.

Her fingers grazed the aged wood of the desk, tracing the lines etched into its surface by countless predecessors. She sifted through the piles of papers and manuscripts scattered across the desk. The notebook remained elusive, its absence a taunting reminder of the void left by her mother's disappearance.

Her hands delved into the armchair's hidden recesses, its cushions revealing nothing but the dust of ages past. With a sigh, Bat's gaze lifted to the bookshelf, her eyes scanning the spines of the volumes in silent repose. Her fingers danced across the shelves, brushing the dust from the covers of the forgotten books.

Every drawer was pulled open, every crevice explored, but the notebook remained elusive. Frustration gnawed at Bat as she rifled through the desk's contents again, the formerly organized piles of documents now cluttered.

Just as she was about to abandon her search, a flicker of movement caught her eye. The corner of what could be her notebook was near the back of the bottom shelf of the bookcase, partially obscured by a stack of papers. Heart pounding, she reached for it, only to find it was another notebook entirely. Disheartened, she slumped into the armchair, her disappointment threatening to crush her.

The worn fabric of the chair embraced her, offering comfort. She leaned back, closed her eyes, and tried calming the storm of emotions within her. In her mind's eye, she could see the notebook so clearly—how the pages felt under her fingertips, the inked symbols and words that filled it.

As the minutes ticked away, each corner explored, and each drawer rifled through, the absence of the notebook worried at the edges of her consciousness. With a resigned plea, she whispered, Please, as if summoning the spirits of the past to guide her hand to the hidden recesses where her notebook lay concealed.

But the universe, in its infinite wisdom, chose to remain silent, withholding the answers she so desperately sought. As the shadows of despair threatened to consume her, she sank deeper into the embrace of the armchair, her body sagging with the weight of unshed tears.

With every recollection of the cryptic symbols and penned annotations that had once graced the yellowed pages of her notebook, Bat’s heartbeat quickened. Each entry, meticulously etched with a precision that bordered on the obsessive, served as a beacon that guided her toward a hidden realm where the phantoms of her past lay in wait. It was a painstakingly crafted mosaic of fragmented thoughts and insights created by a mind trapped in an unyielding search for the truth of her mother’s disappearance.

These seemingly disjointed ramblings were similar to the whispered rumors that had once swirled around her mother during Bat’s formative years. The potential judgment and ridicule that might befall her if her most cherished possession ever fell into the wrong hands weighed heavily upon her. She envisioned the arched eyebrows, the incredulous smirks, and the dismissive shakes of the head that would inevitably follow such a revelation. The looming threat of being labeled eccentric or unhinged was poised to shatter the fragile veneer of her existence. She would not allow the narrow-minded perceptions of the world to derail her search.

A peal of laughter bubbled from Bat’s lips, the sound reverberating off the halls of the archives. She wished she had opted for the convenience of a digital tablet when she first set foot in the embassy halls. Her thoughts wandered to the dichotomy that characterized the Vampir—a curious combination of steadfast traditionalists, staunch in their allegiance to ancient ways, juxtaposed with the progressive avant-gardists, who embraced the marvels of the contemporary world with open arms. She wondered if some Vampir clung desperately to their memories of the past with desperation. Perhaps, when one lifted away the facade of their differences, they were not so dissimilar after all.

Chapter 3

V al, there's a group of mortals protesting our festival outside the embassy, Einar said, his face set in a severe expression.

Val listened as Einar relayed the news of the growing unrest outside their embassy's walls. A deep sigh escaped him, a sound carrying the weight of centuries and untold burdens.

Why must I, once again, preside over this festival? Val mused, motioning for them to make their way towards the unrest. Let's see if we can understand their grievances before they descend into chaos.

As the Sire of the Fallen, it is your sacred duty to oversee these ancient rites, Einar intoned, his voice a steady backdrop to the distant, passionate cries from the crowd outside. An age-old pact binds our kind and these mortals. Their prosperity, and ours, is interwoven in the fabric of this agreement. We offer them a chance to ascend beyond the limitations of their mortality, protecting them from the shadows that threaten to snatch away their innocence.

Val chuckled, a rich, warm sound, as he listened to Einar's practiced speech.

His role as the ceremonial overseer of the Festival of Valor was entrusted to him ages ago. As time passed, the position slowly eroded the fierce vitality that once defined Val, leaving in its wake a lingering fatigue that seeped into his very soul. Einar, always the steady pillar of support, advocated for Val's cause with an occasionally irritating brand of charm.

Your wisdom isn’t lost on me, Val agreed, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips as the weight of his duties bore down on him. But time has left me weary. We aim to appease the gods and shield the mortal realm from their volatile games. Among the gods are those who delight in oppressing mortals, seeing them as amusements to be discarded once their novelty wears off.

While you may have distanced yourself from the gods, seeking solace in the realms, our actions have invariably tipped the scales toward balance, Einar noted, halting in his steps as they descended to the embassy's lower floors.

I haven't ignored their suffering, Einar. In my way, I've offered them my protection and kindness.

A thoughtful silence fell between them before Einar spoke again. But choosing not to participate in the rite of the fallen speaks of your reluctance to immerse yourself in their world fully. Your distance keeps them from truly understanding the depths of your soul.

The bonds that connect me to the fallen are stronger than any ceremonial act. They are my family, whether I participate in the rite or not. They know me. They understand my soul, as you call it.

You've managed to navigate this complex situation with grace, Val. But as your friend, I must point out the inconsistencies in your argument. It's as if you're standing on the edge of a cliff, looking out at a distant horizon hidden from you by the perpetual twilight. Einar examined Val before continuing, It's like a treasure chest filled with priceless jewels, the lid sealed tight, and the key lost to the mists of time, Einar said.

Val laughed. You're comparing me to an old, rusty chest now. Is that it?

Einar shook his head. Not at all. I mean, there are secrets in this realm that are hidden even from us. A brave soul may unlock that chest, revealing the stunning treasures hidden inside. A playful smile curled on Einar's lips.

As they walked towards the embassy's front doors, the crowd's noise became louder and more intense. Val was no stranger to protests, but this one felt different. He could sense the anger and fear radiating from the protesters as they shouted. The moment Val and Einar stepped through the doors, the clamor from the outside world flooded their senses.

Val's gaze met that of a woman who pushed herself to the forefront of the crowd. How can I assist you? Val questioned, his tone unwavering.

The woman stepped forward, her gaze locked with his. We want you gone. We don't need your festivals, your ceremonies, or your interference. We want to live our lives without you in it.

Val's chest tightened slightly. He had always believed that their festival brought nothing but growth and prosperity, but opposition was a frequent companion to change.

I understand your concerns, but our only goal is to assist you, Val's voice rose above the crowd's shouts.

But the woman shook her head vehemently. You don't understand what it's like. Our homes are destroyed, your ceremony tears apart our families, and you promise prosperity? At what cost? Our dignity? Our freedom? Our lives?

We were invited here.

With a step back, the woman held Val's gaze. You've done enough damage. It's time for you to leave. Turning to the crowd, she raised her voice. The New God won't tolerate your kind. He'll wipe your existence from our world!

At that moment, the rhythmic sound of heavy boots hitting the pavement echoed through the air. The Harii,