“Mother, have you ever dreamed you were a hero? Have you ever had dreams about saving the world?”
“I believe I’ve had my share,” she said and kissed his forehead. “Get dressed, dear. There’s plenty of work to be done. We expect an encounter tonight.”
When his mother left, an overwhelming feeling consumed Maladrid as he arose from his bed and crossed the room. He sat down at his desk, drew a sliver of Colti from the inkwell, and opened his journal. As he began to write, he found that he effortlessly remembered every detail of his dream. While he wrote, he thought that he’d never before had a dream that was so descriptive or so real. He’d had dreams all of his life that amazed him, but that one had been different, and even as night fell, he continued to write. Even when he heard the violent approach and attack his mother had mentioned, he couldn’t tear his eyes from the paper. He wrote into the deep of night as the battle raged outside his window, and when the last sentence was finished, he replaced the pen and heaved a sigh of relief. He heard the crashing against his door and the scream of the people of Donent, but he could only stare at the numerous pages lying before him. He felt the heat of his burning home, but he did not flee, and even as the smoke quickly filled his room, he continued to breathe with normal depth. His eyes burned and teared, and soon, all that he could see was gray death. He finally fell to his knees, choking on the smoke, and crashed face down onto the floor. A sudden gust of wind momentarily parted the haze as the bedroom door broke down, and when Maladrid weakly raised his head, he saw his mother’s sweet face through the smoky curtain. He smiled at the sight, but when she drew closer, he realized that her expression was fearful and unnaturally frozen. He coughed dryly as the smoke flooded his lungs, but he continued to reach for his mother’s face. When her head lowered and twisted sharply, Maladrid shuddered in the realization that her head was all that was left of her; it was impaled on the black sword of a ferocious Shadara. The beast snarled and flecks of its hot saliva sprayed across Maladrid’s face, and when it vehemently swung its blade to the side, Maladrid quaked vocally as his mother’s head slid off of the sword and smashed into the wall with a wet thud. The Shadara’s shrill growl shook the foundation of the tiny house, but Maladrid did not cower. The smoke surged through his body like a river of flame, but even though the Shadara’s dark blade was lifted high above its head, ready to bisect him, he didn’t even conceive of moving to avoid the strike. He was filled with a mixture of terror and peace, but when he heard Yaliwe’s voice sing out above the cacophony of battle, the fear fled and what was left in him was blissful serenity. She called “Maladrid Irlywe” into the night and he felt Her presence beside him. The hand of Yaliwe with fingers of fire seized his heart and held it steadfast, but he felt it as the hand of someone who’d loved him in a dream that struck reality. His eyes closed, his breath ceased, and the deadly smoke became a stream of new life, and when the blade came down upon him, Maladrid was already asleep.
He is dreaming forever.
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Table of Contents
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
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Maladrid - [Tales Of Dominhydor: Book One] Page 21
