His blood ran cold.
Artigal galloped into a clearing. He ground to a halt, stumbling at the sight that lay before him.
Nearly all of his guards lay brutally slain, their bodies butchered and mangled, some even unrecognizable. He stepped forward over a still form, unable to tear his eyes away from the carnage. His eyes wandered over the face of one of the warriors. His head spun. It was the Centaur who had been so happy to take Stephania, so happy to simply hold a child again. He must have been the first to die, and Artigal had been too late to stop it. He had failed the Centaur. If only he had been here sooner. He tore his eyes from the still Centaur’s face. His fist tightened. He would avenge him—him and every other Centaur who had died here.
The blood that soaked the ground splattered up onto Artigal’s white legs. He recoiled, tasting bile.
Stephania’s soft cry jerked him back to the present. He snapped his head around.
Thaddeus was cradling the child in his arms and softly speaking to her, his hands delicate and gentle on her as if she were his own child.
For a moment, Artigal was so struck by seeing this murderer and traitor handling a child so carefully, and almost lovingly, that he could only stare in awe.
Feeling Artigal’s presence, Thaddeus’ eyes snapped up from Stephania and met the gaze of the old Centaur, a slow grin spreading across his face.
“You are too late, Igentis. Stephania is mine.”
Artigal slowly stepped toward Thaddeus, his eyes never leaving those of the traitor’s. He did his best to ignore the moaning cries of the dying Centaurs around him, many of whom he had trained and mentored. They were his brethren; he even had the power to heal some of them, but he was forced to focus on Stephania. With a wave of his hand, he could use the bit of power he had to wash away their pains, but Thaddeus would still win. Why? Why do I always have to make this choice? He steeled himself and pushed his emotions aside. He had a duty to Ventronovia, his people, and Stephania’s deceased parents. He couldn’t let anything stand in his way.
Thaddeus drew a loving finger down Stephania’s cheek; she was now merely staring solemnly into his purple eyes. The Fubeźersufa, the strongest of the manipulation spells, was slowly working its way into her young mind, calming her, soothing her, comforting her.
“Amusing how the most powerful Dragon Riders always start out as innocent children, isn’t it, Artigal?”
Artigal narrowed his eyes and chose not to answer. He could feel the Pure Magic growing in him. However, he knew that if he released this much Ancient Magic, he, in his old age, might not be able to channel it well enough to keep himself or Stephania from being negatively affected. It was risky, but it was the only choice they had left.
“You know, I always wanted to have children, to be married, have a family.” Thaddeus’ face softened, and he allowed a small smile to spread across his face. For a moment, a fleeting glimpse of something else surfaced—someone not consumed by evil, hate, and revenge, but someone who had been horribly wronged and denied love. However, it quickly disappeared. “But, you see, the woman whom I loved was never given the chance to love me before she was brutally slaughtered.” A light mist covered his eyes. “I’m afraid I was never quite able to love after that. After she and my mother were murdered, I just never really had the heart.”
Artigal paused his stalking to listen. No one knew much about Thaddeus’ past.
“All I ever wanted was to be loved. To be understood, or at least to be accepted.” Thaddeus’ face drained of emotion, and he stared blandly down at Stephania, who was beginning to fall asleep. “To have a family and live among people who accepted me. I was robbed of that. It made me realize that I had to renew the corrupt Duvarharia and make it as it had been thousands of years ago, when every dragon and rider was free. Free from the corrupt authorities and toxic societies. Free from their worthless religion, which has done nothing but oppress them.” He gripped Stephania closer to him, his eyes staring off into the distance, past the mutilated Centaurs he had slaughtered. “And now, I have the power to do so. Do you even know what lies in this child, Artigal?” The softness of his face disappeared, an evil grin replacing it. “And after her, I only have the Kvaźajo to win over to my side before I shall really be able to finish what I started 800 years ago.”
Artigal had just been about to release the Ancient Magic, but now he hesitated. No one knew who the Kvaźajo was. Not even the stars mentioned the individual who was promised to help Stephania free the land from evil.
“Oh, yes,” Thaddeus chuckled. “I forgot. You fools don’t know who the Kvaźajo is, but I do.” His voice faded into a whisper, and his eyes glazed, as if he were thinking of something very old or distant. “I think I always knew. I think I was always sure what my fate and his would be.”
Artigal hoped pride would get the better of the traitor and that he would reveal the identity of the helper, so he waited, holding the magic within him.
Thaddeus roared with laughter.
As if he could read Artigal’s mind—something Artigal begrudgingly realized might be possible with the Corrupt Magic—Thaddeus smirked. “You silly, old beast. You don’t really think that I would tell you who it is, do you? Fool. I am not nearly as stupid as some would think. And while it will be hard to convince him to join me, I am confident in it. You see, I know more about the Kvaźajo and the prophecy than anyone else does, and now, thanks to the Kijaqumok, I know even more.”
Artigal’s face paled, his suspicions confirmed.
The Dark Lord was giving Thaddeus power and information now.
The End really was near.
“So you can sense it too. I am guessing that is why you haven’t attacked me yet. Perhaps, you have come to the realization that your Lord is not as powerful as mine.”
Silence filled the air as they tried to stare each other down.
Artigal was doing his best to channel the Pure Magic through him, but it didn’t take him long to realize that Thaddeus had been doing the exact same; now they were simply waiting to see who made the first move.
Artigal knew it would be a disadvantage to release his Magic first. Thaddeus, who apparently had more of the Ancient Magic at his disposal, would be able to perfectly counteract Artigal’s attack and defeat him. However, the longer Artigal waited, the deeper Stephania would be lost in Thaddeus’ magic. He had to release the spell now or never.
He took a deep breath to clear his mind and gain as much control over the chaotic power as he could before letting go.
The white Magic exploded around them but was instantly dissolved by darkness. Artigal cried out as he struggled to channel the powerful Magic.
Stephania started screaming, and Thaddeus cursed in his rage.
It all seemed to happen in a matter of seconds.
The darkness crashed down upon Artigal like a thousand knives, and he felt the Magic run through his body like a spear, driving the evil deep into him, creating a wound that could never be healed.
Thaddeus laughed in triumph as Artigal slumped to the ground, the energy drained out of him.
Artigal grimaced against the pain and defeat. The Dark Magic lashed through his body and mind, causing excruciating pain. He tried to stand, to reach out and save Stephania, but he only fell to the ground, writhing in pain.
Perhaps Thaddeus had won.
The traitor suddenly cursed and screamed before another blinding flash of light tore through his vision. The mark of the Great Lord flashed through the darkness in front of Artigal. The Magic seemed to be coming from—seemed to be coming from—Stephania.
Thaddeus’ and Stephania’s screams mingled before the shrieks of the Magic itself and of the battling demons and angels that surrounded them drowned all else out.
A massive explosion of light knocked Artigal into unconsciousness, and the world around him was plunged into darkness…
With a violent gasp, Artigal lurched back into the present. Blood tickled his throat, and he coughed, the red liquid splatte
ring on his white chest.
His head throbbed and every muscle in his body ached as if he had jumped off a cliff. A curse left his lips followed by a prayer of hope. He had missed something in the memory of when he had fought Thaddeus. It was at the end—that second blast of light. It hadn’t come from him, which meant it could have only come from one other source—Stephania, and if that were true, then there was a possibility Thaddeus hadn’t escaped unscathed. But he had to be sure.
With a shaking hand, he wiped the blood from his mouth and quickly muttered the spell for the memory, recalling magic, hoping it hadn’t been spent. Again, he was thrown into the raging storm of his memories, but this time, he called that thread of dark magic to him and let it drag him back to when the darkness had pierced him. Again, the memory from the battle replayed, but this time, he saw something else. A dark silhouette stood against the explosion of light. A spear made from the light was sticking out of the dark silhouette’s chest. A scream mingled with the roar of a dragon filled the air.
Artigal stumbled to the floor, unable to hold himself up. Pain clawed at his body and mind, but a triumphant smile spread slyly across his face. Taking a small towel from the table, he dabbed the blood off his chin and chest, and pulled himself to his feet, gripping the table for support. Slowly, he dragged himself out of the room, down a flight of stairs and into the library. It only took him a few seconds to find the book he was looking for: A Study on the Ancient Magic.
The pages slipped from between his shaking fingers; the weight of the book felt colossal in his exhausted hand, but he patiently searched for what he was looking for.
A sigh of exhilaration parted his lips.
Ancient Magic could only be healed by the opposite pole of magic; a wound made from Pure Magic would only be healed by Cursed Magic, and vice versa.
He closed the book with a satisfying thud and slid it back onto the shelf. Somehow Stephania, even as a babe, had channeled the Pure Magic that had wounded Thaddeus. Artigal judged it would be a near identical wound to his own, which meant that even though he was incapacitated, so was Thaddeus. They would have no trouble from the Duvarharian traitor for a long while. Now it was only a race to see who could heal himself fast enough, or even if he could.
A dark cloud dimmed Artigal’s hope. The Pure Magic had been failing him lately. It was unlikely that he would be able to summon enough of it to heal himself. Thaddeus, however, seemed to be at only the beginning of his power in the Cursed Magic. While Artigal would have to rely on magic stored in physical objects, mythical berries, and the protection of Trans-Falls’ magic, Thaddeus might be able to gather the Cursed Magic to heal himself, and, even if it took years to do so, they were years that Artigal and Stephania might not have.
Gritting his teeth against a string of curses, Artigal dragged himself from the library and back up to his room.
The laughter of children caught his ear from the open window. The darkness hanging over him lifted with the sound, and he moved closer, peering down to the city in the trees. A curly, red-haired head bobbed next to a black haired-head—Stephania and Trojan.
A slip of a smile sneaked across his pale white lips as he watched them play at the base of the Gauyuyáwa. He knew they were waiting for Aeron and Frawnden to leave the meeting they were attending four stories below.
Family.
The word again caught him by surprise but continued to ring in his head. He frowned. He had not called anyone family since he had lost his own many, many years ago. And yet…
He looked back down at the two children playing with each other. Stephania looked up, and her eyes met his. Artigal was startled, but didn’t look away. He felt the connection between them again and instead of red eyes, he found himself staring into green ones. Shaking his head, he blinked and broke the contact. He was looking down at her face again, but her eyes were her own—red and suspicious—and the connection was gone.
Aeron, Frawnden, Trojan—descendants of my mate. Stephania—a child like my child. They are … family.
A frown tugged down his lips. He had let them all into his life, taken them under his wing, cared for them like he hadn’t for anyone else for a long time, but he hadn’t thought of them as family. Not until now.
His hand strayed to his chest, and his mortality struck him again. He couldn’t think of them as family, not now—not when his death loomed near enough that it could cause them suffering.
His gaze shifted down to his hooves, wishing he could drown out the happy sounds of Stephania and Trojan playing below.
A splash of color caught his eye. A spark of dread clipped at his heart. It is just the floor, nothing else. But something in him whispered doubtfully. He looked closer. There! On his hoof—a brown spot.
Artigal recoiled in horror, stamping his hoof. The spot was not dirt. He scrubbed at it. It was not a stain.
“Emperor, help me.”
It was coloration. His colors were returning to him. He held out his hands, unable to stop the trembling. A bit of pink was hinted in his palms. His heart slammed against his ribs, and he stood perfectly still. Color had left his skin thousands of years ago when he had left his first life behind.
Hastily, he spoke ancient words, and the brown spot and color in his hands were covered by the snow white sheen he’d had for so long.
Staggering, he slammed the window shut and leaned against the wall. Perhaps his old life was surfacing again. Regardless of how hard he had tried to cover it, it was clawing its way back out.
Was it a gift? Or was it a curse? Whatever it was, Artigal was sure that his past was chasing him down like death now was, and he certainly didn’t like being hunted.
Chapter 4
Jargon’s House
Trans-Falls, Centaur Territory
Year: Rumi 6,098 Q.RJ.M.
Several Months later
A cold sweat broke out on her skin. She whimpered, pulling the covers tighter over her head. The room was quiet, dark. A glint of moonlight shone in, striking a stone on her bedside table. Streaks of dim, purple light reflected around the room. The purple flashed through her mind. She felt herself being pulled down, down, down, staring into two purple eyes. The screams of battle reverberated through her ears.
“Fatta!” she wailed, tears pouring down her face. The eyes grew bigger, closer. She felt something warm and wet splash onto her. She screamed hysterically, recoiling.
The door slammed open, and the room flooded with light. Two strong arms pulled her out from under the covers.
She screamed, thrashing against the man until she heard his voice.
“Stephania, my child! It’s okay! It’s me!”
She stopped struggling, taking a moment to look into his fatherly gaze before burying her face into his shoulder, her sobs echoing around the room.
“It’s okay, child. It’s okay. I’m here. I’m here.” Aeron smoothed her hair, whispering into her ear.
He heard Frawnden’s hoofbeats at the door and turned around, nodding to show everything was okay.
She nodded back, her eyes dark with concern. She stayed a moment longer before moving to Trojan’s room to assure him all was well.
He listened to her sobs slow down and then stop, her breathing evening out. He didn’t need to ask her what had frightened her. It was the trauma of losing her parents. Almost on a weekly basis, he or Frawnden would hear her screams and come rushing to comfort her. The child was too young to process her feelings through words, so they were forced to let her cry herself to sleep.
His eyes slipped around the room as he tucked her back into bed, looking for something that might have triggered the flashback. His eyes landed on a purple gem she had found earlier that day and placed on her bedside table. The purple seemed so familiar. He closed his eyes, concentrating. A memory surfaced and he remembered seeing the flash of a purple dragon soaring overhead—Kryell. Gritting his teeth, he slid the covers over the girl, moving away as Frawnden slipped in next to him, kneeling beside the bed. She whisper
ed something to their daughter that made her smile. Frawnden wiped the girl’s tears away and sang a quiet song in Sházuk.
Aeron walked around the bed and picked up the stone, a burst of rage coursing through him. Stephania should be safe in their home, not haunted by the blood and gore of her past. She should be safe from that traitor, not haunted by his memory. His fingers wrapped around the gem, and it shattered. He felt the shards pierce his skin, felt the warm, sticky blood on his palm, but he only narrowed his eyes.
He looked down at his mate and adopted child, and felt pride, love, grief, and anger surging through him. The broken purple gem felt like a promise. At even the cost of his own life, he wouldn’t let Thaddeus ruin his family. Not again.
§
“Now pull back. Slowly! Easy!” Trojan stood behind Stephania and instructed her on how to pull back the string on a bow. It was her third summer and her new family had deemed her old enough to learn archery.
The little girl had shown herself to be a quick learner of all the things that her now six-year-old brother was teaching her.
“Like this?” Stephania’s voice wavered as she struggled to hold back the powerful string on the small bow that Aeron had made for her.
“Yes! Yes!” Trojan stamped his hoof, a smile tugging the edges of his lips before he slowly let go of her hand, allowing her to hold the string back with her own meager strength.
Grunting at the exertion, Stephania pointed the arrow, as best she could without wobbling too much, at the painted, red, wooden target that loomed before her, nearly fifteen feet away.
She suddenly let go; her arrow arched up and into the sky before soaring over the target and flying into the woods behind the target.
Pouting at her poor shot and disappointed that she hadn’t hit the target after nearly an hour of practice, Stephania sighed and sat down, picking at bits of grass in frustration.
Trojan huffed and sighed. “Come on, Steph. Just a few more tries, and then you’ll get it!”
The pretty little girl’s face twisted. “I don’t know, Tro. Maybe I’m just not cut out for this.” She shrugged her little shoulders with regret. A few tears leaked out of her shimmering red eyes. She had been looking forward to archery the most, and it pained her to see that she failed miserably at it. She had been so excited to start learning when Frawnden had handcrafted a beautiful bow and surprised her with it. Stephania sniffed back tears. She didn’t want her mother to be disappointed that she couldn’t shoot, not after all the effort the archer Centaur had put into making the little bow just perfect for her.
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