by Erin Rhew
THE PROPHECY
THE FULLFILLMENT SERIES
BOOK ONE
ERIN RHEW
Copyright © 2014 by Erin Albert writing as Erin Rhew. All rights reserved, including the right to distribute, reproduce, or transmit in any form or by any means. For more information about rights, please contact the publisher.
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The Prophecy is a work of fiction. All names, places, characters, and events are all fictitious creations imagined by the author. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons, living or dead is merely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Content Editor: Katie L. Carroll
Line Editor: Susan Davis
Cover Artist: Anita B. Carroll at http://race-point.com
Author: Erin Rhew at www.erinrhewbooks.com
For everyone who’s ever had a dream…keep believing.
Erin Rhew
Chapter One
Layla
Beware of gray skies; they can be an omen. Layla Givens had heard those words her whole life, part of an ancient maxim amongst her people—the Vanguards—and wholly unsanctioned by the religious Ecclesiastic group. Such silly superstitions, she decided as she looked at the gloomy clouds above, snickering to herself. Gray skies meant rain, nothing more. Any farmer worth a sack of potatoes knew that.
The crisp chill of the early autumn air nipped at Layla’s nose as she raced through the flower fields separating her farm from the center of Medlin, the closest town. Walking the distance took an hour, but today she ran. Her feet couldn’t seem to carry her fast enough to reach Samson Mantar several paces ahead. Layla could practically taste the baker’s cinnamon bread in her mouth. He made it twice a year, so if she didn’t get there soon, she knew he’d be sold out. She pressed forward.
At the top of the hill, Samson bent over panting. With laughter in his light brown eyes, he glanced back down the incline. Layla, pushing her way up, her face ablaze from the effort, envied the ease with which he traversed the distance. He offered his hand, but she slapped it away. He laughed—his amusement evident in his glinting eyes.
“Come on, slow poke,” Samson teased.
“I’m coming.” Layla flicked her black hair back out of her face. “You didn’t tell me we were racing.”
“We aren’t racing. You’re just that much slower than me.”
Layla gave him a playful push, surprised to see his legs buckle. When Samson grabbed onto her for support, they both laughed and fell to the ground side by side.
“You’re a real jerk sometimes, Samson. You know that, right?”
“I can’t help it.” He snorted. “The Day of Dawning is my favorite holiday. Besides, if the baker sells out of that cinnamon bread, we’ll have to wait until King’s Day before he’ll make it again. That’s six whole months away. I don’t know about you, but I intend to eat at least one piece today.”
“Well, let’s go,” Layla said, leaping up.
She sprinted away before he even had the chance to realize what was happening. Layla heard Samson grunt, and she glanced back to find him chugging along behind her. She would have chuckled at his red, puffy cheeks if her own lungs didn’t burn so much.
Samson. Thinking about him made her forehead ache. They’d lived together their whole lives, raised like brother and sister, yet she knew the townspeople expected them to marry one day. Layla honestly didn’t know quite how she felt about that. Of course she loved Samson…she always had. But did she love him?
As they approached the edge of town, Layla slowed down, enjoying the festive air that had overtaken her otherwise boring town. Ribbons, brilliant in their kaleidoscope of colors, decorated every storefront in a myriad of different ways—wreaths, flags, wind chimes. Her gaze swung back and forth, up and down, unable to settle on any one place in particular. She loved The Day of Dawning.
“Put up your hood,” Samson warned as he approached from behind. “Mother and Father didn’t want you to come at all today, and you promised you would stay out of sight.”
“Fine.” Layla yanked up the hood, which had fallen back during their run. “I still don’t understand what all the fuss is about. It’s not like I’m the only person in Vanguard with black hair.”
Samson grabbed her by the arm and stared into her eyes, his brow furrowed with concern. “But you are the only person with black hair and purple eyes…”
“Which no one will see because I put the drops in before we left the house.”
“You’ve been told about the dangers your whole life, yet you blow them off like they mean nothing,” he growled.
Sighing, she pulled Samson along by the arm. “Come on. You know everyone will head for the cinnamon bread first.”
Just as Layla feared, a long line snaked along the front of the baker’s shop. Samson groaned as they took their place in the back, but Layla appreciated the extra time to stand and watch the preparations. When she inhaled the intoxicating scent of cinnamon, nutmeg, and yeast, her mouth watered in anticipation.
A little girl squealed as she raced by with a young boy giving chase. Layla smiled at their obvious joy, remembering how she and Samson had done the same not so long ago. She took in his dark brown hair and light brown eyes, missing the carefree days of their shared childhood.
In the open field past the butcher’s shop, Layla spotted the circle. Ribbons—red, blue, orange, purple, and green—lay unmoving in the green grass, awaiting the dance that would give them flight. Of all the activities on the Day of Dawning, she looked forward to this one the most. Visions of leaping in the air, waving the ribbon circle high above her head with Samson laughing at her side, floated through Layla’s mind. Excitement, tinged with sadness, shot through her. With their eighteenth birthdays approaching, this year would be the last she and Samson could participate.
Layla turned to see the donkey races, apple bobbing, and hair braiding all being set up along the town square. Next year, instead of fidgeting while a patient woman twisted her hair, weaving the Day of Dawning ribbons in and out of her strands, Layla would be the one doing the braiding. Would the celebration lose some of its appeal when she finally viewed it through the eyes of an adult?
“Look,” Samson cried, drawing her attention. “The Ecclesiastics are arriving.”
Layla, placing her hand over her eyes to block the sun, scanned the horizon to find a long procession approaching the town. Hundreds of men in long black and purple robes, the signature garb of their religious sect, labored toward Medlin on horseback. She could hardly believe it. The men who’d been nothing more than mythical figures before now marched toward her. Layla’s stomach churned with a mixture of fear and eagerness. She knew what the Ecclesiastics could do if they found out about her, but at the same time, she couldn’t resist seeing them firsthand.
“I knew I’d find you here,” a deep voice came from behind them. Layla recognized it in an instant.
“Grant.” She squealed, turning to jump into his open arms.
Grant Mantar chuckled as he drew her into a hug. She squeezed him hard. To her annoyance, Samson adjusted her hood, which had fallen as soon as she pulled back from the embrace. In an effort to distract and calm herself, Layla studied Grant’s face, noting the slight flush in his cheeks and the green tint in his otherwise brown eyes. She recognized the subtle signs. Grant was happy, and she had a sneaking suspicion as to why.
“You were supposed to be here last night,” Samson said. Layla detected a slight hitch. He had already told her how much he’d looked forward to Grant’s arrival and how disappointed he’d be
en when his brother wasted a portion of the three-day leave. She started to reach for his arm, to comfort him, but halted in midair.
“I had to make a stop before coming home,” Grant said. His lips twitched, hinting at a grin that died before it started.
“I knew it. You went to see your lady love.” Layla gave Grant a triumphant smile while Samson rolled his eyes.
“I admit nothing,” Grant said, but the green sparkle in his eye and blush on his face continued to give away the truth. He lowered his volume, speaking so quietly Layla had to strain to hear him. “So, Father still won’t attend the festival, huh?” He clearly wanted to steer the conversation away from his personal life, though he’d swung it in a direction Layla would rather avoid. “Even today, when the Ecclesiastics are here and Layla could be in danger. Which brings up a better question, why is she even attending the Festival?”
Samson leaned in, murmuring like Grant. “Mother and Father didn’t want her to come, but you know how stubborn Layla can be. If they had forbidden her, she would have just snuck out and come on her own. After all, this is our last year to participate in the events.”
Layla looked back and forth between them, incensed. “Stop talking about me like I’m not here, and quit being so protective. I’m a Vanguard, same as you.”
Grant lifted Layla’s chin, gripping it when she tried to pull away. “Hopefully, she will be safe with those drops in her eyes.”
“The drops have worked just fine for the past seventeen years,” she reminded them. “Why would today be any different?”
“You know why,” Grant whispered.
“I wish Father would tell us why he never comes,” Samson said, breaking the tension and shooting Layla a weary look. “He is at home, as usual. Mother left the house with us, but we ran on ahead to get the cinnamon bread. I don’t know where she is now, but I’m certain she’ll be here soon, for Layla’s sake.”
Grant nodded. “I’ll try to find Mother soon. You know how Father is, Samson. He has his secrets.”
“And it appears you do too.” Layla hoped to redirect their discussion away from her and back to Grant’s mystery woman.
“Nice try,” Grant teased.
“Next!” The baker’s call shook them out of their reunion. He smiled as Samson, Layla, and Grant approached. “Well, if it isn’t the Mantar brothers and their little tagalong.” The man waggled his eyes suggestively.
Layla flushed. Tagalong. She turned away to avoid the baker’s leer, his implication that there was more between her and Samson than friendship. Layla stole a quick glance at Samson, surprised to find him regarding her as well. Her face grew warmer, a mortifying shade of pink based on the burning sensation in her cheeks, so she turned away to hide her bizarre reaction. Of late, a new kind of strangeness, like discomfort, had crept into her relationship with Samson, altering their behavior toward one another. Layla didn’t like it. She blew a stray strand of hair out of her face in frustration.
Samson finished purchasing the slices of bread, two for the three of them and a few for his parents. They moved away from the baker, to Layla’s great relief. Samson handed her the long awaited treat. Unable to wait a moment longer, she slid the warm bread into her mouth, savoring the rare combination. Layla moaned with pleasure. As she held the delicacy, hoping to make each moment with it last, snippets of conversation swirled around her. A tense atmosphere replaced the festive one.
“…Elder Werrick said our version of celebration is too overt. What does that even mean?”
“…wants us to take everything down.”
“…no donkey races, no ribbon dance, no nothing.”
Layla’s gaze settled on the black and purple robes now infiltrating every part of town. Who did these solemn men think they were, coming into Medlin and changing their most sacred holiday? This town celebrated the Day of Dawning in the same way every year. A sudden desire to protect their traditions overtook her. With the Ecclesiastics here, forcing a new and different celebration, the holiday no longer held its traditional appeal. She considering going home—all of the Mantars would approve of that choice—yet she remained planted in place, staring.
“Everything must be taken down.” A rotund man, with beady black eyes, surveyed the town, disdain in his expression. While he did not appear distinguishable from the other black and purple clad men, he spoke with authority. “The First Ones and their great Prophecy must be honored properly.” He sniffed, his actions indicating the very existence of Medlin and its occupants offended him.
Layla wondered what this man considered a “proper honoring” of the First Ones. The First Ones…they’d been dead for centuries, and, as far as Layla could tell, hadn’t done much in life except start a never-ending war. She knew nothing more about them except that she was to thank them for good things, curse them for bad, and celebrate them on this day.
“That’s Elder Werrick, head of the Ecclesiastics,” whispered Samson, glancing back at Grant. Layla noticed the look that passed between them.
Grant nodded his assent. “Get her out of here, brother.”
Samson tried to steer Layla away, but she held her position to get a closer look at the man whom her family so feared. She knew they had good reason to worry—her black hair and purple eyes marked her as a Fulfillment candidate, one with the potential to bring about the long awaited peace. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe Elder Werrick would notice her on the crowded streets, especially with her eye drops and hood. Could he really be responsible for dragging candidates from their homes, forcing them to undergo strenuous, sometimes gruesome, testing for the sake of the Prophecy? To Layla, he looked like nothing more than a short, fat, unhappy man. The very notion that he could strike such fear into the hearts of her people seemed almost laughable…almost. As his gaze swept over the crowd, she glimpsed a sinister undertone that made her shiver.
Waving his pudgy arms at the awaiting townspeople, Werrick commanded, “Take it down.”
Suddenly, his body stilled and his tiny eyes grew wide. They briefly connected with Layla’s, narrowing with calculation. The Elder turned to his nearest black clad companion.
“Do you feel that?” Layla heard Werrick ask.
The other man looked skeptical. “Feel what, Elder?”
Werrick leaned in as the two whispered, stealing furtive glances in her direction. When the Elder’s companion pointed at Layla, Samson grabbed her arm. She heard his breathing change from rhythmic to jagged as he pulled her away from the men.
“We have to go now.” His urgency spurred her into action.
Grant moved to block them from the Elder’s view. “Get her away from here, Samson.”
The Elder looked up to see everyone staring at him as if frozen. He repeated his demand, “I said take everything down.”
The townspeople, joined by the Elder’s minion, scampered to remove their decorations, anxious to “properly” celebrate the First Ones. Their flurry of activity concealed Layla as Samson and Grant escorted her away. Layla scanned the streets, horrified, as the people of Medlin stripped the town’s center barren. In no time, everything appeared as it always had, devoid of any celebratory adornments. She looked up at the sky with its gray clouds lingering overhead. A bad omen…
On the hill, a safe distance away, Layla watched a group of Ecclesiastics erect a monstrous stage where the donkey races should have occurred. She heard the braying of the angry animals, harnessed and corralled on the orders of the Elder to avoid interfering with the “true” Day of Dawning celebration. Her ire rose. Who did they think they were coming in and changing everything?
An icy, phantom finger traced a frigid line down her spine. After hearing warning after warning from the Mantars her whole life, Layla knew exactly what the Ecclesiastics could do, what they had done to others in the past. Maybe Samson and Grant had been right. Maybe she should never have come, especially today. Layla turned her back on the town, resolved to go home, to safety.
“Layla!” Samson�
��s alarmed tone sliced into her, and she swung around toward him.
To her horror, two Vanguard soldiers forced Samson to the ground. She knew just how much strength he possessed, yet he couldn’t free himself. Her hands balled up into fists, shaking with their desire to unleash the full force of their fury.
“Run!” Samson screamed before a soldier’s fist smashed into his face.
His body stilled. Panic, coupled with indecision, crippled her. She should run like Samson commanded, but she couldn’t leave him lying there. To her relief, Grant ambled toward them, his eyes full of rage.
“Run!” Grant echoed Samson’s warning.
With a final glance at the two boys who’d been as close to her as brothers, Layla fled. She flew down the hill, swinging her head from side to side in alarm. Ecclesiastics swarmed throughout the city, making a clear escape route difficult to discern.
Terror rose within Layla. Why hadn’t she listened to her family? She’d been foolish to believe she could sneak around under the ever-watchful eyes of the Ecclesiastics, and that hubris put Samson and Grant in danger as well. She choked back a sob.
“Run,” she whispered.
Willing her feet to move forward, Layla darted toward the back of the baker’s shop, hoping to take a shortcut through the back alleyway. She swerved to miss a wooden box and stumbled, arms flailing to right herself. Unfamiliar hands reached out to break her fall. Once stable, Layla looked up to find Elder Werrick staring down at her. She screamed but no sound came out of her open mouth.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, a wicked smile on his face.
A strange vibration passed between them. Layla jerked her hands away, stepping back. Given his weight, she calculated she could easily outrun him. Layla took another step backward.
“If you are thinking of running again, I wouldn’t,” Werrick warned.
Two Vanguard soldiers stepped out of the shadows. What had the Elder told these soldiers to convince them to turn on one of their own? Layla tried to slow her racing mind and regain control of her breathing. Based on what she’d seen with Samson, she couldn’t use brute force to extract herself from this situation. She would need her wits.
