The Twilight Thief: An Epic Fantasy Adventure (Thrones of Midgard Book 1)

by J. Levi

  – Fae: The Minders of Arcana, a recount of all things peculiar 58 B.M.

  We crash onto the wooden floor of my villa. My aim is terrible from the hurried wisp. Ricon shouts in agony, the prince incessantly barks questions, “Who are you? Where are we? What was that thing?”

  I grab him by the collar, growling deep in my throat from sheer frustration. The prince swallows audibly. He lowers himself slowly into an armchair, finally silent. I return my attention to Ricon, who’s bleeding out on my couch. I should have listened to Ricon when I bought the ivory-white furniture set. At the time, I thought it a good idea. Now it’s covered in red. So much red.

  “Everything will show, you know. Drop some pear wine, and it’ll never come out,” Ricon said while I browsed a craftsman fair in Ardar.

  “It’ll be fine. If I stain it, I’ll donate it and buy a new one,” I quipped.

  “Practical,” Ricon said with an eye roll.

  He always has an eye roll waiting for me. He can’t die.

  I pull a throw blanket from a chaise and wrap it around Ricon’s shoulder that looks like a bundle of red holiday ribbons. I’m panicking, unable to stop the bleeding.

  “I think he needs a healer,” the prince says.

  “No, shit,” I snap. “Stay here, don’t go outside. I’ll be back.”

  “Where are you—” he starts to ask, but I’m already summoning my magic from beneath my skin. I command it to envelop Ricon, and a heartbeat later, we’re in the middle of a sterile, white-tiled lobby.

  “Help!” I shout.

  There’s ruffling from the adjoining corridors, and moments later, nurses emerge still in sleepwear.

  Adna, the eldest of the four nurses, approaches first.

  “By gods, Nova, what happened?” she asks me, but I’m too distracted by the blood spilling from Ricon’s shoulder and soaking the throw blanket.

  “Help him,” I say, low and broken. I don’t recognize the voice that comes from my lips.

  Adna snaps her fingers, and the nurses go to work. One pulls a gurney from a nearby wall. Another removes the throw blanket from Ricon’s shoulder, ripping it from my clenched fists. A third nurse has a pair of shears in hand and starts cutting away Ricon’s leathers. Together, they hoist Ricon onto the gurney and barrel him through a narrow hallway and out of sight.

  Adna remains, watching me with a thoughtful gaze. I can tell she wants to ask me more questions, but she doesn’t. Instead, Adna follows the other nurses down the hallway. I sit alone. My only company is the steady drip of Ricon’s blood from my wet hands.

  If there’s anywhere in Edonia that can bring Ricon back from a wound like that, it’s here. The Guild of Healers in Rhenstadt. The crumbling halls used to be an academy. Healers from across the kingdom came to learn and study the different healing methods, both magic and non-magical. When the Purge of Arcana began, the academy went underground. Only devout rebels are aware of its existence or location.

  Given my extracurricular activities, I occasionally need the attention of a competent nurse. Adna is the only healer I consign because I know she won’t sell me out. Not without risking the skin of her acolytes. The only people I truly trust is Ricon and Leluna. Everyone else I merely tolerate. Adna is somewhere in between.

  I’m not sure how long I sit alone, but Adna eventually returns, her gown covered in bloodstains. I refuse to look her in the eyes, too afraid to know the truth, that Ricon is probably dead. A wound as severe as his is undoubtedly a death sentence. All the blood, there’s so much blood. My hands are dried and cracked in ruby red.

  “Just say it,” I bark. Adna sighs and tosses a damp cloth on my head. It’s warm. She must have used magic to heat the water.

  “Wipe yourself off. You look like death,” she sneers and turns back toward the hallway they took Ricon through, “Follow me.”

  I obey her command while I scrub at the red stains that have seeped into my skin.

  So much blood.

  We reach the corridor’s end and enter a brightly lit room—magic orbs of light hovering above in the rafters. I admire the peculiar magic.

  Ricon lies on a table, his body covered in a white sheet from his waist down. His arm wrapped in gauze, and I wince at the sight or the lack-there-of. From his shoulder where his arm should be is nothing but bundles of gauze tightly packed against his flesh.

  “The wound severed too many nerves and arteries. Ricon’s arm was already in the beginning stages of necrosis. We had to amputate to save his life,” Adna says gruffly.

  I appreciate her lack of bedside manner. I’ve never been a fan of skirting around bad news.

  “He will survive, though?” I ask to be sure.

  “It’ll be touch and go, but you brought him to the right place. Mind telling me what in the gods above happened?” Adna asks, “What did that to him?”

  “I’d like to know that too,” I reply. Just the thought of the wicked beast invokes cold shivers down my spine. “Charge whatever you need. If I don’t have the full payment, I’ll get it.”

  “I do not doubt that,” Adna replies, a knowing smile, “He’ll need rest. Come back and visit tomorrow.”

  I nod, and without a goodbye, I’m swallowed by my twilight magic and return to my townhouse villa.

  My eyes fall on the sofa immediately, deeply soaked in ruby—pools of Ricon’s blood puddle on the floor near the sofa legs. I stare like a woodland doe that hears the snapping twig of a stalking predator.

  It’s quiet in the villa, deathly and overpoweringly quiet.

  Wait, why is it so quiet? I peer around, searching for the blonde-haired man. I rush through my apartment, room by room, until I circle back to the main open space and find the front door wide open.

  Damn the fucking gods.

  I pull on my magic and wisp to the roof of my villa, a vantage point. I peer down streets and alleys, wisping to neighboring rooftops until I finally hear him. The prince is shouting for help near the fisherman’s wharf. I wisp into a gallery nearby and rush after him. He sees me, his eyes widen, and he backs into a wall.

  The wharf is full of curious and startled merchants setting up their booths for the morning market.

  When I reach the prince, he flinches like he expects an assault. The prince’s clothes are covered in Ricon’s blood. His arms wrap around his chest, a slight shiver in his limbs. He’s cold. I grab the back of his head and pull him into me. It looks like a lover’s embrace, but it’s far from it.

  I bring my lips to his ear and whisper, “If you say one more fucking word, I will castrate your dick and force-feed it to you without the decency of cooking it first. Do I make myself clear?”

  The prince doesn’t move, only shivers underneath my touch.

  “Nod, if you comprehend,” I growl.

  He nods. Peachy.

  “Follow me,” I say, grabbing his hand and pulling him down the alley. Once we’re out of sight, I summon my magic. It swallows us in violet and blue, taking us back to my apartment.

  The moment we’re in my villa common space, the prince rips his hand from my grasp, dry heaving. When nausea subsides, he shouts, “Stop doing that!”

  “Doing what?” I snark.

  “Magic. Stop using magic on me.”

  “On you? Have you been paying attention? I’ve been using magic to save your life. Thela’s left tit, you’re daft.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and count down from ten. The man launches into a cascade of questions. I snap my fingers and extend one at him while I count down from ten, a tactic I often use. I reach one, though I’m still not calm or collected. I don’t know why I bother. It never works.

  “Do you even know who I am?” he asks, furious.

  I know very well he’s the prince, but I rather feign indifference. “By all means, enlighten me.”

  “Casaell.”

  “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

  “Casaell of Gedaley, crowned Pri
nce of Edonia.”

  I snort, “I’m surprised you don’t choke on your tongue with a name like that.”

  Casaell stares at me, mouth agape, shaking his head.

  I recall the figure that emerged from the floor mirror. Obviously fae and skilled. The fae’s reflexes were primed to…

  “Assassination,” I finish my thought.

  “Excuse me?” The prince asks.

  “You’re excused,” I say and leave the room for my bedroom, “Remember. If you try to leave again, I’ll hunt you down and chop off your willy.”

  I stroll into my ensuite bathroom, peeling my bloody clothing, tossing them into a basket. I’ll discard the soiled clothes in the morning. I turn the nobs on the claw-foot tub until the water runs. I plug the drain and ramble through my closet, pulling new leathers from the wardrobe. I grab an extra shirt and leather trousers for the prince as well. I tell myself it’s because the blood-soaked in his clothes will reek before long. I’m the Twilight Thief, after all. I’m not chivalrous.

  “Here,” I shout and toss the wadded bundle clothes at the prince’s face. Before he can see me nude in the doorway, I stroll back into my ensuite and crawl into the tub.

  I fiddle with the braided cord and a black gemstone fastened to a silver clasp, draped against my collarbone. I mindlessly caress the stone in my fingers while the cold water covers my flesh and shifts into a pink haze as blood washes from my skin.

  The stone is small, insignificant, though it’s saccharine. I can’t even recall my mothers face or the sound of her voice anymore. The only thing I remember is her scarlet red hair, full of waves and curls like a blazing fire. The memory of her standing before me, her back turned to me and long fire-red hair cascading against her back. I call for her, “Momma.” She turns to look at me, but the memory fades to black before I see her face. The vision transitions to the last time I saw her, lying on the cold ground, facedown. Her hair drapes over her face. I reach with bloodied fingers to brush away the strands and look at her face, but just as my fingers brush against her hair, the memory fades.

  I slosh in the tub, sitting upright abruptly and gasping for air. I must have dozed off. The water is red. Enough blood washed from my skin to stain it into a dainty maroon. The prince rushes into the ensuite in panic.

  “What happened? Is that monster back?” he shouts before freezing as he realizes I’m sitting in a tub of blood-red water, naked underneath the surface. His ghostly face turns redder than the blood-stained bathwater. The prince runs out of the room without a word.

  “What? No, ‘goodbye’?” I call out teasingly.

  I drain the tub and dry my skin with a towel. I pull my new leathers on, fastening my belt full of dagger notches and pockets. I pull my satchel over me and clasp the strap over my shoulder and under the other arm, securing it tight against my back.

  I find the prince sitting on the armchair in the villa loft, staring at the red on the sofa. I pass and enter the kitchen. I pull a kettle from a cupboard, tea from a drawer, and run fresh water through the faucet.

  “Tea?” I ask nonchalantly.

  “Who are you?” The prince asks. I sigh and turn to him.

  “Nova. Now, would you like some tea?”

  “Nova?” He scoffs, “What kind of name is that?”

  “The kind I gave myself when my mother died,” I snap.

  I didn’t mean to say it, but the words were out of my mouth before I realized it.

  “Oh. I’m sorry,” the prince says solemnly. “My mother died, too.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m sure it was very tragic, and the grief inspired you into some soul-searching where you discovered new meanings in life and have come out on top because of it,” I scold. The prince cringes before scowling.

  “Look, I’m not going to bond over dead mothers with you. Do you want tea or not?”

  “No,” he replies, his voice quipped.

  “Suit yourself.”

  I light the wood-burning stove and set the kettle on the open burner. While the kettle heats, we stand in silence, staring at each other. The prince is nervous, so he darts his gaze sporadically like an injured bird stuck on the ground far from the safety of his nest.

  “Know of anyone who’d want you dead?” I ask.

  The prince acts as though I slapped him in the face.

  “Dead? Why would anyone want me dead?” He shouts.

  I hold my hands up in surrender to appease him and say, “You’re a royal. There are plenty of people who’d want you dead just by default. What I’m asking is why someone would hire an assassin to kill you. A fae assassin, to be specific.”

  “Fae?” He asks in shock.

  “I mean, didn’t you notice the pointy ears?” I ask.

  I’ve seen all sorts of fae over the years, mostly hanging from the gallows. The majority of them hide or use means to conceal their true form to hide in plain sight—elmmen’s, elkken, sirenian, and felonians and more than I care to remember. Dwarves and halflings remain somewhat unscathed. They’re scrutinized until proof of no magic can insure their lives. They’re still left to jobs like rucking shit from the city alleys. What a shitty job, pun intended.

  “You have a tutor, right? Wait, why am I asking, of course you do. Do you recognize what kind of fae he is?”

  “No, I... I’ve only met a few fae in my life, mostly elmmen. I’ve only read about the others in texts.”

  “Purge?” I ask. The prince drops his head with a single nod.

  “Daddy dearest did a number on the fae population, didn’t he?” I know I’m baiting him, but I can’t help it. The rich and royal always rub me the wrong way.

  “You don’t know my father!” He shouts, “He wouldn’t do what he did without a good reason.”

  “What is it then,” I ask calmly. My soft tone berates the prince, and he scowls, “No, seriously. What’s the reason? If he has a good reason, implore because I’d love to understand the motivations of genocide at the hands of a tyrannical monarch.”

  “He—I...It’s not...” he sighs, defeated. “I don’t know why, but the man who commanded the Purge of Arcana is not the father who raised me.”

  “queen Morda.”

  The prince nods. “She’s...not what she seems to the public. I’ve lived with her for over a decade. She’s cold, cruel even. She’s ordered the royal guard to torture servants who disobey or displease her. My father hasn’t been the same since my mother died. When he remarried, it’s like he just became this empty shell. He walks and talks, but it’s like he isn’t there anymore.”

  Interesting, the king’s behavior sounds familiar, but I keep my suspicions to myself.

  “Family drama aside, you have an assassin after you. I’ve never seen someone travel through a mirror or summon dark daggers. It’s magic.” I explain but don’t admit how the magic feels akin to my own.

  “Don’t you travel?” The prince asks.

  I nod because I do. “Yes, but it’s different. I never met anyone with my—talents or anything similar. It’s the first time I’ve come across another traveler. Who knows what the extent of his traveling is.” A chill skitters down my spine.

  Can he travel anywhere? I’m limited to places I’ve seen before, like places I can remember. What if the assassin doesn’t have the same limitation?

  “Shit,” I scold aloud.

  “What?”

  The kettle whistles loudly, startling both of us. I rush over, pull the kettle from the stove, snuff the burning wood, and pull two mugs from a cupboard. I toss in loose tea and pour the scolding water. I slide a cup to the prince and wave at him to sit on a stool near the counter. He obliges.

  I sit beside him and say, “we need to figure out what to do next.”

  “I need to go back to Laenberg,” the prince says.

  “No can do, princy-poo. Did you forget about the part where the assassin crawled out of your mirror like a nightmare? It isn’t safe.”

  “I
can protect myself,” he snaps.

  I laugh. The sound is foreign.

  A loud crash from my master bedroom ensuite startles me from my mirth. The clack of nails to wood floors, accompanied by a low, visceral growl. Around the corner, the cloaked assassin appears with the beastly hound beside him. He whistles a jolly tune like a psychopath.

  The mirror, I realize. I should have shattered it the moment I returned. I stand, grabbing the prince by the arm, ready to wisp away when the prince shrugs out of my grasp and steps toward the figure.

  “What do you want from me?” The prince shouts angrily.

  “I want nothing from you. However, I’ve received orders to ensure your death,” he grins sinisterly—sharp canines peak beneath thin lips.

  “By who?” The prince asks incredulously.

  “The queen.”

  I reach for the prince’s shoulder again. The fae is baiting him. I don’t like how close the beast is stalking towards us, but the prince yanks his shoulder from my grasp again.

  “Why does Morda want me dead?” He shouts, spittle flings from his lips.

  “Because you decided to play with things you have no business with,” the fae snaps.

  Questions swim through my mind until one resonates soundly. “Tell me something. If the queen wants the prince dead, why wait until he’s hosted by the lord and duchess of Laenberg? It would be far easier to fake the circumstances of his death in the privacy of the capitol palace.”

  “The queen requires no privacy,” the fae hisses.

  “What does that even mean?” The prince asks.

  “It means the lord and duchess are scapegoats. If the prince is assassinated under their protection, the queen has the incentive to retaliate. By eliminating you, she can eliminate them as well. Two birds, one stone,” I deduce.

  “Yes, however, I did not foresee your abilities,” the fae sneers. The snarling beast beside him prowls forward, its head lowers and hind legs hitch, ready to pounce.

  I need to get the prince out of here, now.

  I wrap my arms around the prince, this time, tight enough he can’t shrug me off. The hound snarls and leaps at us—my magic surges in pearlescent violet and black. I pull the prince into my swirls of twilight and wisp him to the only place I can envision without a mirror. My cutter docked in the Richtenfel harbor.