by M. D. Grimm
He walked under an archway and slipped into the restricted section.
“Okay. Where is it? Where is it?” he murmured as he passed the light along the spines of thick, musty volumes. He knew Annalise had mentioned a book that spoke specifically of Asagoroth. She had been the one to tell him most of those stories about the beast when he was young and still living at home. She was four years older than him and loving and affectionate, always giving him time. Not so much now that they were older, but she would wave to him when she saw him in the corridors or in the mess hall.
She was a knowledge keeper at the school, despite her young age. She was somewhat of a prodigy. Their parents were so proud.
Swallowing a scowl, he kept looking. It wasn’t long before Trystan realized why he wasn’t having any luck finding the book or books he needed. They were all written in Ancient Enochian. Dammit.
Only the knowledge keepers, a few officials, and the high chancellor himself could read and write and speak Ancient Enochian. Not even Trystan’s parents could. He would probably be able to labor through Middle Enochian but only if he had hours and hours to devote to the task.
Well, maybe the books would have pictures.
Grabbing a book at random, Trystan carried the thick tome to the table and sat down. He flipped through it, careful when turning the thin pages. He held up the crystal and didn’t immediately find what he was looking for. But when he was halfway through the volume, he saw something that stopped him cold.
Whoever had written this book was a true artist. A large black dragon filled the top part of the page. Trystan could almost feel the heat and the menace the great beast exuded. The dragon’s wings were lit with lightning and blocked the sky. They were like storm clouds, but ones of death, raining terror upon those below. The face of the dragon was sharp, as were the horns, the claws; they were wickedly pointed and made for tearing angels into tiny little bite-size pieces.
Trystan bent closer to the page, squinting as he moved the crystal directly over the page. There were five tiny white figures, like dots, on the page below the dragon. The figures hovered over fires and rubble, destruction no doubt caused by the beast.
They were so tiny. Trystan’s eyes widened at the mere knowledge of how big that dragon must have been to make those angels look like tiny bugs. They weren’t even big enough to get caught in the dragon’s teeth. The dragon wouldn’t have even known he’d eaten them.
Good Light.
“Asagoroth.” He knew it deep in his gut. He’d found the right book! But he still couldn’t read the freaking text.
Gritting his teeth, Trystan stared a moment longer at the picture. He drifted his fingertips lightly over the dragon, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu. That made absolutely no sense whatsoever.
Those five angels must have been Mykial, Gabryl, Uryal, Rafyel, and Lucifr. Trystan remembered that part of the legend. The five most powerful angels, called the elders, had been needed to take down one monstrous dragon. Granted, from looking at the picture, Trystan was impressed it had only taken five. Just look at him.
It had cost them their lives to vanquish Asagoroth. The knowledge keepers said they would never be reborn. But their sacrifice ended the Lower Realm’s great campaign against the Upper Realm. Asagoroth had been the demons’ leader, and if he’d been allowed to succeed, all the realms would have been under his control.
So why the Light was there a carving of him under the garden?
Drumming his fingers on the table, dissatisfied, Trystan began flipping through the pages again. It wasn’t long before he came across a sketch of the carving he’d discovered. Trystan tried to read the words, but they all looked like squiggles. Grunting in frustration, Trystan stared at the sketch. It was clear and detailed, but it looked so… dead. Lifeless, almost dull. It was nothing to the real thing. The actual carving was alive. And why had the stone trembled when he’d said the dragon’s name?
“What is going on?” he whispered.
Was it a memorial? Some sort of reminder of what happened in ancient times and what should never happen again? He wouldn’t get any answers from this book.
Slamming it shut, he looked at the rest of the volumes. He couldn’t tell his sister, even if she had the answer. Either she wouldn’t believe him or she’d tell him to stay away from the carving. And you didn’t just casually mention a dragon like Asagoroth and ask if someone knew anything. That was painting a target on your head, especially for him. He wasn’t supposed to be interested in any of this. He was supposed to only be interested in how he could best serve the high chancellor, his parents, and Emphoria.
Boring.
Asagoroth was much more exciting.
Trystan found the picture again, the one with Asagoroth and the elders. He’d never seen this picture before, but that dragon seemed… familiar. Trystan felt the same twinge when he saw the carving for the first time, but with this picture, it was more. It was scary and exciting at the same time. As far as he knew, he was the only one to currently know about the well and the carving. It was going to stay like that for the time being.
Slipping the book back onto the shelf, Trystan snuck out of the library and returned to his bedchamber.
Trystan fluttered down into the well, no longer needing any light to see the carving. It was before class, and he ate a fast breakfast before returning. But as his eyes fully adjusted to the semidarkness, he noticed his blood could no longer be seen. Kneeling down, he pushed his face within inches from the grooves. No blood. It hadn’t dried or leaked out. It was simply… gone. Had it been absorbed? Why? How?
“What in the name of the Light Bringer?” he whispered. “Seriously, what in the Light?” Sitting back on his heels, he shook his head. “There really is something to this carving. But I’ll be damned if I know what it is.” He eyed the dragon. “You want to tell me, beast?”
Silence.
“Yeah, I thought so. I like mysteries, don’t get me wrong. I just hate secrets. I hate deception.” He thought of some of the angels who would shake their heads when they looked at him and the other unchosens. “I hate pity.”
Sitting back against the wall, Trystan stared up at the sky for a long moment, the faint glow of red indicating the position of the sun. Yet the stars could still be seen, twinkling in the distance. Then he returned his gaze to the dragon.
“Something happened during the Great Battle. Something big. Everyone knows about the five elders and how they vanquished you. That’s it. But would they write an entire volume about it? Would they carve your likeness in stone if they’d defeated you? Sure, I can understand why they would if they wanted to proclaim victory and how mighty they were. But why hide a symbol of their triumph? No one does that. You hide what you don’t want seen, what you don’t what others to notice.” He’d know, wouldn’t he? “You also hide what you want to protect. Or guard.”
Trystan tilted his head. “Is that it? Is this a way to guard you? Did they actually vanquish you?”
Trystan narrowed his eyes, thinking hard on that question. What if they didn’t actually defeat Asagoroth? What if…?
He shook his head. “That’s moronic. I’m just biased. I don’t like angels much. Oh, I don’t hate them, like I think you once did. But I don’t much like them either. When you’re seen as nothing by your peers, you start to believe it. I don’t like those who think I’m nothing. Who are they to judge?”
Trystan once again lay on his stomach, his chin resting on his folded arms.
“I don’t like it here. Though I doubt it would’ve been better if you’d won. You’d have destroyed everything. I don’t want that either.”
It felt nice to talk, even if he was essentially speaking to himself. He rode on impulse and talked. And talked. Half the time it didn’t matter what he said, as long as he said something. It was as if he had a friend, not that he really knew what that felt like. But all the same, it was nice to imagine someone was listening, even if he received no response.
Bells chimed
in the distance, and Trystan sighed.
“That would be my sign to get my butt to class.” He rose to his knees and stared at the carving, then reached forward and touched the dragon’s snout again. Heat caressed his skin and he smiled.
“What I wouldn’t give for the power you once possessed. Yeah, I should be scared of you. I should be scared of even your carving, or the mere thought of you, or just your name. But I’m not. I’m not afraid. Or not only,” he admitted. “I’m curious. Fascinated. What must you have been like? What power must you have controlled? You could have leveled mountains, burned all the realms to ash. And you know what the strangest part of all of this is?”
He stroked the stone snout as if petting the real beast. “I feel, for the first time in my life, chosen. It was like I was meant to find you. How crazy is that?”
Laughing slightly, he stood. But his laughter soon faded, and he swallowed hard, bracing himself.
“I’ll be back. Asagoroth.”
The stone didn’t tremble this time. He was almost disappointed. Trystan leapt out of the hole and covered it before launching into the air and speeding back to school.
That voice. He’d missed that voice. It wasn’t the same as it once was, no. It was lighter, smoother. Younger. Yet he knew it, would always recognize it. The beast trembled with need and desire and impatience. One more day. One more and he would be free.
Freedom. The word itself was the most beautiful he had ever heard.
Soon he would claim that which was his. He would possess and keep. This time he would keep and protect and never let go.
The angel’s touch. Oh, his touch! Even through the stone, he felt that caress: light and hesitant but once again the same. And his blood. Dear darkness, the blood! It was sweet and heady, blood to be drunk on. He needed it if he was to break free from his prison, and the angel gave it to him.
The angel was unchosen. Wasn’t that poetic? It was only right he held no place within angelic society. Because the angel was chosen: by him. Always and forever.
The angel belonged to him.
He closed his large, fierce eyes in memory. One more day, my beloved. Then you shall be mine again.
Chapter Four
Trystan didn’t find time to visit the well again that day. After his classes he was sent to temporarily apprentice to a sculptor—which consisted of him cleaning up after the temperamental angel and enduring verbal abuse from him—and then he was accosted by Makhail and the bully squad.
But even as they were about to shove him down a short flight of stairs, a clear, melodic voice rang out, causing the squad to freeze.
“I will only tell you this one time. Take your hands from my brother.”
Annalise.
Trystan breathed a sigh of relief as Makhail instantly put him down and stepped back. The squad backed up to the walls, giving adequate room for the petite young woman walking toward them. Her wings were large and golden, dragging the ground and rising far above her head. They were majestic and glossy, a fine pair for one of stature. Annalise’s hair was deepest black and it shimmered with blue highlights, and her eyes were a piercing green that could stare down an angel three times her height. Her robe was the purple of a knowledge keeper, and she glared at the squad, quelling each of them with a look.
“I believe you all have something to occupy your time before supper. I suggest you do that, or I shall become annoyed.”
They scrambled, not even looking back.
Trystan resituated his robe and gave his sister a smile. “Nice timing.”
Her eyes softened and she smiled with affection when she turned to him. She held out her arms for a hug, and he sighed and rolled his eyes, but they both knew it was for show. Trystan hugged her gratefully, happily breathing in her scent. He hadn’t spoken to her in weeks and realized at that moment how much he’d missed her.
“I’m sorry, Tryst.” She rubbed his back, kissed his cheek. “It pains me to know you suffer such indignities every day. You are so wonderful. I wish others could see that.”
Trystan closed his eyes for a moment, his chest constricting with her words. They pulled back, but she continued to hold his hands.
“It isn’t every day, Anna. I’m able to avoid them most times.” He shrugged carelessly. “They get bored if I don’t fight back. And they never get too rough. I mostly have to deal with taunts.”
“Those can be as brutal as punches.”
Trystan’s smile was slightly bitter. “You don’t say?”
She sighed and then saw the bandage on her hand. Her expression turned fierce. “Who did that to you? Did Makhail? I swear, I will—”
“No,” Trystan said quickly. While part of him would love to blame Makhail and see how Annalise punished him, Trystan knew nothing would come of it. And it might even get Annalise in trouble since Makhail’s father was the deputy chancellor.
“I just hurt myself. I swear.”
She glared at him.
He raised his bandaged hand. “My word. It was an accident.”
With lips still pursed, she slipped her arm through his as they walked side-by-side down the stairs. She shimmered her wings intangible.
“I hear you’ve been doing well in your classes,” Annalise said after a moment and a deep breath.
“What else have you heard?” Trystan asked, suddenly worried about gossipers.
She shook her head. “Nothing else. Not many concern themselves with… those like you.”
“You can say the word, Anna. Unchosen.”
She frowned and looked away. They were silent for a moment, walking down a semicrowded corridor. Some inclined their heads to Anna, and she acknowledged them with a nod. Being a knowledge keeper made her of the upper echelons of society. She was respected and shown every courtesy, hence her ability to run off Makhail.
“How are your own classes?”
She smiled slightly. “Not everyone is as eager as you to learn. But some show promise.”
If that wasn’t an opening, he didn’t know what was.
“Anna, can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Do you remember those stories you used to tell me when I was little? The ones about Asa—I mean, the ones about that great dragon a millennium ago? The Great Battle?”
She nodded, frowned. “What about them?”
He tried to shrug, to keep it casual. “It’s just been bugging me. All the time I have alone, you know? I get to thinking of things, remembering things. It bugs me I don’t remember much about those stories. Could you tell them to me again?”
Her frown deepened. “Trystan, you’re not a child anymore. Besides, such things aren’t talked about unless you’re a soldier. What is past is left in the past. I wasn’t supposed to tell you such things in the first place. But I was young and they were interesting, and it was nice that you thought they were as well. But now—”
“Come on, Anna”—he gave her a gentle poke in the ribs—“live a little. What’s the harm? It’ll stay just between us. Who else do I have to talk to?”
She smiled slightly, her eyes twinkling with rebellion. She leaned toward his ear and whispered, “Meet me at the library tonight.”
Trystan could barely contain his glee.
When the last of his roommates finally fell asleep, Trystan snuck out of the bedchamber and made his way back to the library. This time Annalise left the ornate window unlocked, and he snuck in, shutting it behind him. He found her by the history section, holding a pale-blue crystal. They snuck to an isolated corner, trying hard not to giggle like naughty children.
“I haven’t broken a rule in too long,” Annalise said breathlessly.
Trystan swallowed a laugh. He was always able to convince his sister to be bad. She had a soft spot for him.
Trystan shimmered his wings intangible, aware they could easily be caught if he knocked something over. His sister had done the same with her own. They finally huddled in a corner and sat side by side, the crystal held in
Annalise’s cupped hands.
As she began to speak, Trystan became enraptured once again by a war long before his time. It was a story he now remembered, could almost guess what she would say before she said it. Memories surged back from when he was ill at age four and she was caring for him, either singing or recounting tales of old.
Of all the Lower Realm’s commanders, Asagoroth was the most formidable and determined. His strategies, his ability to command the demonic forces that were so inclined to chaos and disorder, dismayed and bewildered the angelic forces. Demons were brawlers, thugs, lacking logic and control. They were bloodthirsty, lustful, and easily distracted. But they weren’t stupid. No, it would be a mistake to think that. But they weren’t intelligent when it came to war. Asagoroth changed all that. He organized them. Some said he was created for war.
When the final battle arrived, known as the Great Battle, Asagoroth leveled the Upper Realm. He set fire to everything, smashed spires to pieces. He created storms with his massive wings and angels scattered, blown away by those strong winds. All but five.
“They used their collective life forces to defeat him,” Annalise said, her voice hushed. Trystan stared at her in the glow of the crystal, riveted, his mind’s eye seeing everything she spoke of.
She paused suddenly. Trystan frowned, heart in his throat. “And? How did they kill him?”
Annalise stared at him for a moment. She swallowed. “Tryst, most of the history books tell us that they did kill him. They say that the elders vanquished him by sacrificing their lives to create a spell. But there was one book I read that… that records a different ending.”
“What was that ending?” He could barely hear his own voice.
Annalise looked away for a moment. She took a deep breath. “The book agrees that the elders cast a spell on him using their collective life essences. But… but it says they couldn’t kill him. He was too powerful, nearly a force of nature. One cannot fight such a force—you only run and hope to survive.” She shook her head. “The spell they cast was one of imprisonment. They imprisoned the beast in the foundation of the Upper Realm. Right under our feet in Emphoria.”
