Final Blessing

By H.C. Harrington

THE DARKEST HOUR

Nearly a decade has passed since Enchantress Laurena and the forces of Havenglade defeated the sorceress queen, bringing peace to the kingdom. But a new evil has emerged, hellbent on unraveling the fabric of magic itself.

With the last of the unicorns teetering on the brink of annihilation and Laurena's own whereabouts unknown, a ragtag band of strangers answers the call.

A reckoning looms, putting their courage, loyalties, and understanding of magic's true nature to the ultimate test.

In a world where happily ever after seems like a distant dream, one truth emerges: the darkest hour demands the greatest sacrifice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: H.C. Harrington
• Release date: Mar 3, 2025
• ISBN: 9798224772346

H.C. Harrington

H.C. Harrington is an American novelist, teacher, and lifetime learner. From Orange County, Ca. he studied Anthropology and History receiving his degree from the University of Nevada. He is the author of the Amazon #1 Best-Selling Daughter of Havenglade Fantasy Series, as well as the Fantasy Murder-Mystery The Inquisitor.After setting aside archaeological digs in the Sierra Nevadas, H.C. moved to Chengdu, China to study Mandarin Chinese. During his writing journey, he has lived and traveled to more than a dozen countries.His hobbies include traveling, playing boardgames, creating constructed languages, backpacking, and reading.

Book preview

Prologue - Valgard

Valgard stood at the precipice of the pass, the night’s chill wind biting into his skin as he awaited the return of his scout. A curtain of stars draped the inky black sky, their icy light illuminating the jagged snow-capped peaks. The wind whispered through the skeletal branches of the ancient trees, carrying with it the scent of pine and the distant, ethereal notes of a unicorn song.

He gazed at the valley below, a place of wild beauty, an untamed land vibrant with the rhythm of life. Shadows played across the landscape, and in his mind’s eye, he saw the slender, white forms of the unicorns glowing amidst the darkness, their horns gleaming with a light that spoke of ancient magic.

The arrival of his scout jolted him back to the moment. Commander, the scout addressed him, his gruff voice breaking the silence.

Speak, Valgard commanded, pulling his gloves tighter onto his fingers before gripping the reins of his horse.

The pass is sparsely guarded, as you predicted, the scout informed with an undercurrent of eagerness.

Valgard’s voice was a raspy whisper as he responded, It’s time. Round them up. Follow me…but keep your distance. His fingers toyed with the amulet around his neck, the cold metal contrasting starkly against his warm skin. The blood magic within him stirred. A fiery and unrelenting force gnawing at his insides. He was the interloper here, a stranger in a land that was not his own. Yet, he couldn’t shake off an odd sense of familiarity that he couldn’t quite place.

They rode to an old wooden fort encircled by a rickety palisade. Beyond it lay the mountain pass, the gateway to his long-awaited treasure. An owl hooted unseen from the wooded foothills, and horseback riders poured out from the safety of the darkness like a silent flood.

Valgard felt a pulse of power coursing through him, a potent vibration that seemed to seep into his very bones. He had a fleeting thought to slow his horse and inquire if anyone else had felt it, but none could have, so he continued. This was the charm, a lingering echo of the elves’ ancient magic, an invisible barrier safeguarding the hidden unicorns. He could sense its resilience, its stubborn refusal to yield, but also its fragility, the thinning edges of its strength.

He halted a fair distance from the fort but could already perceive movement behind the palisade. No doubt, the sentinels of the pass were nocking their arrows, puzzled as to why anyone would dare challenge them in Valuk, the elven kingdom. Here, the fate of magic was deemed safe, but that belief was about to be shattered.

The anticipation of the forthcoming blood ritual was intoxicating, a heady sensation that held a tantalizing taste of raw, untamed magic. Yet, a glimmer of sadness touched his gaze, an unspoken acknowledgment of the heavy price many would pay tonight and in the days ahead. The world was indeed full of gray; tonight, he was to plunge it into an even darker shade.

An elven rider, clad in silver armor and a wide-rimmed steel helm, rode out from a gate in the palisade. His horse reared up just a stone’s throw from Valgard. The elf glared defiantly at the intruder. Even from this distance, Valgard could discern the fear and surprise flickering on the young elf’s face.

Beware, you encroach upon lands protected by elves, human. In the name of the Queen of Valuk, I order you to withdraw, the sentinel commanded in the common tongue.

Valgard responded by raising a gloved fist.

A rider from his vanguard advanced, holding a brown sack. He halted his horse beside Valgard’s and drew a deep breath, awaiting the command.

Valgard looked the man over—long braided hair, a thick blonde beard, and a scar marring one cheek. He wore tanned leather armor over a tattered jerkin. Valgard reminded himself that this man’s sacrifice would not be in vain.

He shifted his attention back to the elven sentinel.

You have your obligations, and I have mine. Tonight, you face a difficult decision—a new dawn approaches. A new era begins. The age of ancient magic wanes. I marshall a force that recognizes no race, king, or land. We will liberate this world from the shackles of the old magic. Join me—a foreigner, a stranger, an adversary…or perish, Valgard’s words echoed in the night.

This place is protected by elven magic. Retreat now. There’s no victory in a battle here. Neither you nor I may enter. Our archers will rain death upon your forces! the sentinel retorted.

Join…or die, Valgard reiterated with finality.

Curse you! the sentinel called back, but his voice wavered uncertainly. He must have sensed something was amiss.

Valgard dismounted, his gray cape billowing in the wind. He looked to his own rider—still silently awaiting his fate. Valgard nodded; the man held out the brown sack. The scent hit Valgard like a wave. He opened the sack, reached in with his gloved hand, and pulled out a decaying head by the hair.

He cast a fleeting glance at it before hurling it at the elven sentinel. It landed with a thud and rolled before settling near the horse’s front hooves. The sentinel’s horse reared up and whinnied loudly.

That’s the head of the great wizard Xochishtar. He was the last of the Dragon Speakers and, more pertinently, the one who cast the charm upon this place so long ago. It wasn’t easy to get to him; that should illustrate my resolve. Don’t squander your lives. I respect the discipline and skill of elven warriors. Join us, Valgard called out.

The sentinel seemed not to hear him as he dismounted his horse. He covered his nose with a hand as he examined the severed head of his race’s last great wizard.

Valgard pondered if the shock and horror would be enough to move the elvish sentinels to join him. It would be a shame to kill them, but it seemed increasingly likely.

Instead of answering, the sentinel remounted his horse and retreated behind the palisade. The gate closed behind him.

And so it begins.

Valgard unsheathed his short sword and faced his rider.

Without a word, the man dismounted his horse, turned it around, and slapped its hindquarters, sending it back to the rest of Valgard’s men waiting in the wings.

Valgard approached the man. He could smell his fear, but the man held himself honorably. Valgard leaned in close. Your blood will spark the fire that breaks the wheel. Do you offer yourself freely and willingly?

The man looked at Valgard and smiled.

I offer myself freely and willingly. Lord, remember my na⁠—

Valgard plunged the blade into the man’s heart.

Benni—we will remember your name, Valgard whispered as the man collapsed in a lifeless heap.

Peace to those who serve.

A chant rose from his warriors.

Blood of my blood, rest in power. Blood of my blood, rest in power.

Valgard knelt beside the still form of Benni, pressing his hand against the fresh wound. He wiped his blood-covered glove across his face and uttered the ancient incantations of his kin—the people from across the Great Sea, the practitioners of blood magic. The power surged within him, a pulsating force that steeled him against whatever the elves might unleash.

Secure the fort. Eliminate the sentinels. Grant a swift end to those who surrender—they serve their lord, as you do me. They may obstruct our path, but there’s no honor in cruelty, he commanded.

His warriors responded with fervent battle cries that echoed in the night. They were ready to play their part.

Seize the fort! Valgard cried out.

With the command, their horses sprang forward in a thundering charge, Valgard leading the way. He brandished his sword high as he rode, its blade gleaming under the stars, while his followers wielded their axes, clubs, and spears with equal fervor.

Valgard wiped his sword clean with the garments of a fallen elf. His warriors had taken the fort with little trouble and now carried the enemy’s lifeless bodies beyond the palisade. There, the deceased would be offered to the flames in their victory ceremony.

He sheathed his sword and turned to the last remaining sentinel—an elf who had surrendered at the Gate of the Charm, dropping his spear and all semblance of hope.

Your compatriots fought bravely. There’s a certain honor in meeting death on the battlefield against your enemy, Valgard spoke, his gaze fixed on the gate that pulsed with an eerie yellow glow.

But I surrendered, the elf replied. I didn’t embrace a warrior’s death.

True, but you made my task easier. For that, you’ll receive a measure of mercy, Valgard responded, his eyes never leaving the gate.

Still—you can’t traverse the gate. Xochishtar’s charm serves as a protective barrier⁠—

And where is Xochishtar now? Valgard interrupted, a smirk playing on his lips.

Peeling off his blood-soaked glove, Valgard extended his hand toward the gate. His body convulsed as he fought against the charm’s powerful force. Blood seeped from his eyes, cascading down his cheeks like crimson tears, while his pupils turned a ghostly white. He was blind. Suddenly, the gate’s yellow aura flickered and disappeared.

Valgard doubled over, hands on his knees, as a wave of dizziness threatened to topple him. Slowly, his vision cleared, and the world around him steadied.

How…how? the sentinel stammered, his eyes wide with disbelief.

You don’t have the privilege to know the ‘how,’ Valgard replied, his voice steady despite the ordeal. Now, would you be so kind as to guide us in the direction of the unicorns?

Chapter One - Sarine

The sun had barely crept over the rooftops of the city of Havenglade when Sarine stirred from her slumber. Despite her penchant for late nights studying under candlelight, she had come to understand the value of the golden hours and rarely did the sun rise before she did.

The luxurious villa she called home contrasted with her preference for simplicity. Her mother ensured her quarters were decorated like a typical noblewoman’s, with richly embroidered deep green and gold drapes framing her expansive upstairs window and the delicate scent of imported floral oils filling the air. The room was certainly a testament to her noble status, yet it bore little resemblance to the young woman it housed.

A knock on the door interrupted her morning reverie. Come in, Sarine called, her voice soft but clear.

The door creaked open to reveal one of her family’s servants, a young girl with wide eyes and a nervous tremble in her hands as she carried a silver tray. The tray held a steaming pot of tea and a selection of fresh fruit—a morning routine Sarine had come to enjoy.

Thank you, Maris, Sarine greeted the girl with a warm smile. She took the tray from the servant, her hands brushing against the girl’s in the exchange. The touch was a reassurance, a silent reminder that despite the difference in their stations, they were equals in her eyes.

You’re welcome, Lady Sarine, Maris replied, her voice just above a whisper. There was an undercurrent of respect in her tone, not solely due to the stature of the young woman she served, but, if Sarine was correct in her thinking, more so for the grace and kindness she was shown.

Sarine sipped her tea, the warm liquid a gentle awakening for her senses, as she watched the sun rise over the city from her window. The day had just begun, and with it, the promise of discoveries and challenges. The villa, her servants, and the luxury were trappings of her status, but they weren’t hers. They were legacies of her parents. The wealthy foreign merchant from the Spice Isles and her mother, who had never known a day without servants at her beck and call.

That wasn’t her. At least she refused to think of herself in those terms. She was a scholar, a seeker of truth, someone who belonged in the castle archives with her nose in a book. And as soon as she finished her breakfast, she would be on her way to a day of ink and parchment, just as she liked it.

Sarine entered the castle as merchants set out their vegetables, fruits, and wares for the morning markets along the streets of Havenglade. She passed yawning castle guards who still managed to give her the same mistrusting looks they always did. They were commoners, and she was a noblewoman, yet her darker skin meant she was always the outsider.

How had Father dealt with it? She’d never worked up the nerve to ask him, as the topic was taboo even in their home. She was to ignore that sort of thing as far as her parents were concerned, and that was that.

She entered the castle archives and paused in the doorway, stretching her arms toward the ceiling. It was time to get to work. The grand old room was a bibliophile’s dream, filled with towering shelves of manuscripts, ancient scrolls, and stacks of parchment that held the knowledge of centuries. A soft murmur of scholars filled the air, broken only by the occasional rustle of paper or the scratch of a quill. The scent of old parchment and ink was a welcome comfort to Sarine, as familiar to her as her own heartbeat.

Her mentor, Master Elias, was hunched over a table, his bald head pointed toward her as she approached. He hadn’t noticed her yet. He was a rotund man, known as much for his lecherous comments as his scholarly work. As Sarine approached, Elias looked up and gave her a grin, intended to be charming but only succeeded in being unsettling.

Ah, Sarine, he said, his eyes lingering over her in a manner that was all too familiar. Just the sight I needed to brighten my day.

Sarine fought the urge to roll her eyes, instead offering a polite smile. Good morning, Master Elias. I trust you are well today?

Better for seeing you, my dear, he replied.

Ignoring the comment, Sarine moved to her workplace, a small desk in the corner of the expansive chamber. She had long since learned to gracefully navigate the uncomfortable waters of Elias’s behavior, refusing to let him disrupt her passion for her work. As she settled into her duties, Sarine couldn’t help but lose herself in the flow of things. She meticulously translated ancient texts, chronicled recent official events, and assisted in crafting diplomatic correspondence. That task was meant for Master Elias, but he worked less and less these days, and Sarine didn’t mind the challenge.

However, her favorite task was examining and preserving historical documents. After the sun reached its zenith, she found herself engrossed in a tome about the early rulers of Havenglade. As she read, her keen eyes picked up an inconsistency—a minor detail about a queen’s lineage that contradicted previous records. A thrill of discovery ran through her. Before her work was done in the archives, Sarine had corrected the error and made note for future scholars. The satisfaction that bloomed within her was a reminder of her love for the work. Despite the challenges she faced from her mentor and her unofficial status as a foreigner, she found solace in her role. She was, at her core, a dedicated scholar of Havenglade.

As Sarine was engrossed in her work, a shadow fell over her desk. Looking up, she found Liana, a fellow scholar and a constant thorn in her side. Liana was a noblewoman, like Sarine, but unlike Sarine, she had a cruel streak within her and seemed to take pleasure in making Sarine’s life difficult.

Oops, Liana said, her face a picture of faux innocence as she knocked over an inkpot with her elbow. Ink spilled over Sarine’s meticulously transcribed parchment, ruining hours of work.

Sarine grunted, but she forced herself to keep her composure. Again, Liana? she asked, trying to blot the ink from the parchment without making it worse.

Liana shrugged, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. It was an accident, Sarine. You really ought to be more careful with where you place your ink. You could have ruined my blouse, and then what would I have done?

Sarine’s eyes narrowed. This was the third accident since the new