by K.N. Lee
No matter how much he loved Amalia, he would do what needed to be done.
It was all for her, after all.
“What’s your name?” Eostre asked, breaking him from his thoughts.
He lifted a brow, setting his mug down.
“Aros.”
She nodded, silently repeating his name.
He watched her lips, and how she licked them before smiling at him.
“I like it. Simple. Strong. Which clan are you from?”
“Berufell,” he said.
“Ah,” she said, taking another drink. “I know your people. I’m not from too far away. Tritus.”
“Really? What brings you to the city?”
She shrugged. “Besides Tritus being a dreary fishing village? Gold,” she said, then leaned closer to him, sliding her hands up his thigh. “And, fun.”
He gulped, drinking more of his mead.
She tilted the bottom of the mug, making him drink it down faster. A snicker came from her lips behind the cup as he lowered it.
“That’s much better,” she said, and lifted her hand to the barmaid dressed in a corset and lace petticoats. “Another one, dear. For my friend.”
She glanced at him, her big eyes fluttering under heavy golden lashes coated with thick brown paste that made them stand out more. “By the looks of it, you’re training to be a royal guard.”
He gave a nod, trying to ignore her hand clamped on his upper thigh.
Despite his attempts to remain calm and unaffected by her subtle seduction, heat stirred in his legs and filled his belly. He swallowed again, uncomfortable under her knowing gaze as she lifted it from his crotch to his face.
The barmaid set another full, frothy mug of mead in front of him, and Eostre lifted it to his lips. His throat tightened as she sat on his lap and straddled his waist. “Drink up, my new friend. Let’s ease those naughty worries of tests and trials out of your head.”
He drank it down, unable to resist her advances.
Then, when the second mug was empty, she hopped from his lap and took him by the hand. “Let’s go somewhere a little quieter,” she purred, smiling at him as she led the way to the stairs. “I know just the place.”
Aros gave Helgi and Magnus a worried look as he was brought up the stairs. His brothers simply raised their mugs toward him in a toast, their delighted grins burned into his mind as he wobbled on his feet.
“The mead here is strong, is it not?”
She chuckled. “It is, dear. Men like nice strong mead. We give men what they want.”
“What is it you want?”
She paused for a moment, turning a perplexed look his way.
“Hmm,” she said. “No one has ever asked me that before.”
She took him down the narrow hall where couples lingered before doorways, kissing, and petting. Every woman in the building had the most seductive eyes.
Temptresses.
He needed to get back to the compound. He should not be here.
He began to turn away when Eostre pushed a door open, and pulled him inside.
“I want a man to take me away from this place,” she said, closing the door behind them.
She pressed her chest to his and edged him back to the bed covered in blankets. The dim light came from red candles and a single oil lantern on the table by the window. Cool air wafted in from outside and Aros noticed that the moon was bright and high.
It was getting late. Too late.
But, with her bosom against his sternum, he was captivated by the blue of her eyes. She ran her fingers through his hair and kissed him on the lips.
The heat from his loins rose to his throat, making him hot and sweaty.
Pushing him back onto the bed, she began undoing her corset, her eyes locked with his, her smile widening. She licked her lips and let the corset fall to the floor until she wore nothing but her skirts.
Aros’ breaths quickened as his eyes rested on her breasts. Small, with pink nipples and a tiny waist, his manhood had no choice but to harden.
“Will you be that man?” Eostre asked, climbing onto the bed with him, straddling his legs. She tilted her head, undoing her ponytail and letting her hair fall free. “Will you take me away from this place?”
While she began to kiss his chest, he fell backward onto the bed, and before he could answer her question or stop himself from slipping further into the mead-induced void, he drifted into a deep sleep.
Aros sharpened the blade of his sword, mumbling a silent prayer. With his back to Magnus and Helgi, he lifted his gaze to the solemn, gray sky.
The gods had chosen him for a great task, and though one part of that task was complete to their satisfaction, he still had much to do.
“Alright, boys,” Ragnar, the raid leader called from the valley. “Ready to bloody those swords of yours?”
Sucking in a deep breath of the cool air, he closed his eyes and gave a nod.
At his back was a creature from the darkest nightmares he could imagine, and he—along with his brothers and the pack—were meant to kill it.
The wind blew into Aro's face. He readied his bow, standing just outside of the area of effect. It was the red outline that his mother had drawn to show where the monster's attacks would reach.
Zuka, a massive white dragon with sharp talons and a spiked head stood there, ready, his minions hissing at the Wolves who had come to kill their master and claim his spirit rune. No one had ever defeated the monster before. The Berufell Wolves would be the first.
This was a raid, and Aros was ready for glory. Ready to quelch the pain and guilt he felt for betraying the only girl he'd ever loved.
His jaw clenched and he waited for the signal.
Crucix stood at the front. As the biggest and strongest of them all, he would lead the attack. He glanced over his shoulder and gave a nod. Then, summoning two of his spirit runes, he encased himself in an orb of glowing, yellow light.
Moira whispered and leaped into the air, sending a wave of blue mist over the pack, blessing them with greater shields.
And, with a battle cry that vibrated throughout the open meadow, Crucix took the first strike at Zuka, stabbing it in the belly. The ground cracked open, splitting the pack into two sides, and smoke wafted from the creature's large, leathery nostrils. Lava shot forth from the cracks in the earth and oozed onto the dirt in thick, hot red streaks. The
Wolves fought the minions, slicing off heads and piercing their flesh while the squeals of pain filled the air. Aros took out two, sending arrows into their skulls while his brothers and sisters stabbed at the monster who was the primary target. The minions were just a distraction.
Once Zuka was dead they would be victorious and the little, nuisances around their master would dissipate into the air, never to be seen again.
But, something went wrong. Zuka looked right to him, and lifted a long, skinny red finger in his direction.
“Sleep well, Aros. I’m coming for you.”
Those words vibrated and repeated within his brain as he woke up in a cold sweat.
10
Amalia, Kylan, and the monks trekked the desert, walking at a slow pace as the sun beamed down on their heads and the back of their necks. She studied the symbol on the back of Kylan’s neck whenever she could get a glimpse of it. It was much like the mark on the back of her hand.
Father Marduk remained behind in the village, and it was nice to not have him around watching her with those serious—judging eyes of his.
Amalia’s skin was burnt and raw. Her feet ached from the constant pounding on the hard-packed dirt and sand. She wanted to kick off her boots and let her toes wiggle in the air, but knew that would only intensify her agony. The ground had to be scorching hot and would probably burn the skin off the soles of her feet. Perhaps she was blessed to still wear her heavy clothes from the Wolf village.
With a parched throat and weary body, she pressed on, ready for whatever awaited them.
While the monks walked ahead,
or flew above on their firedrakes, she and Kylan were forced to walk for miles upon miles. They traveled for a day before setting up a small camp near a scattered patch of trees.
Night began to fall, and the air cooled as she and Kylan sat off a ways from the monks and their fire. They spoke in hushed tones, occasionally glancing back at their prisoners.
“Where are they taking us?” Amalia asked in a whisper.
Kylan sighed. “The Temple of the Sky Brotherhood. It’s where they have their ceremonies, train the monks, and call their home.”
She frowned. “I don’t understand why anyone would want to train to be one of them.”
“Well,” he said. “I believe they steal young men from their homes, and force them to enter into the Brotherhood. They strip them of their identity and allegiance to any other clan or tribe other than their new brothers.”
“Ghastly,” she said, shocked. As she looked at the men huddled around the fire before her, she almost felt sorry for them. If they’d been stolen from their families, it was a tragedy that they’d been brought up to be monsters.
“It’s a strange world where magic is frowned upon when it is one of the most natural of things. It runs through my veins, yours,” he said, and nodded to the monks. “Even theirs.”
“Yet they want to kill me for it.”
His jaw clenched. “I don’t believe that’s why they want you, Amalia.”
A shiver ran up her spine. “What do you mean?”
He leaned closer, his eyes narrowing. “I think they need you to let them back into Kjos. It has been locked for centuries, with monsters and magic keeping anyone who dares to return out. It is a cursed place, until we return and restore the balance.”
“Then, why all of this? Why can’t we return in peace? We all want the same thing.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “We want to bring Kjos back to its former glory. The Brotherhood wants to destroy it. For good.”
The sound of a blade being sharpened against the stones awoke Amalia. She sat up and searched for Kylan. There he was, sleeping with his back propped against the base of a palm tree. She watched him snore softly, his hair disheveled and falling over his closed eyes. She wished she had her hands free so that she could reach over and fix his hair.
Father Marduk’s voice broke her from her thoughts.
She grimaced.
It seemed he had caught up with them, and sat with the other monks around the fire, cooking fish. The smell was more divine than anything she’d ever smelled, and she imagined biting into crunchy skin and flaky meat.
She licked her lips. Her stomach grumbled and demanded to be filled, but she wouldn't beg. Pursing her lips, she looked away, fixing her gaze on the rustling of the warm breeze through the pine trees.
Something cool touched her shoulder and she turned to one of the monks holding a cup out to her.
“Drink,” he said.
She lifted her chin. Her brows lifted when she realized that it was the older monk with the kind cornflower blue eyes.
“What is it?”
“What does it matter?” He gave her a kind smile, and sat beside her. “You're thirsty, aren't you?”
She nodded, accepting the cup. “I am,” she admitted. Her throat was drier than it had ever been, and she opened her mouth to the cool water, spiced with something foreign to her.
It soothed her throat and quieted the aching in her belly, if only temporarily.
“I am Brother Dagan,” he said, folding his legs before him.
“Amalia,” she said, a bit hesitant.
He gave her a sidelong gaze. “I know who you are. We’ve waited a long time to find you.”
She scoffed. “It seems everyone has been waiting for me.”
Chuckling, he nodded. “This is true. But, that’s how it is when someone as special as you has been named in prophecies for the last three hundred years.”
Shrugging, she scrunched up her nose. “That long? And, all of this time, I’ve just been washing clothes and plucking the feathers off chickens. I wish someone would have told me I was so special sooner.”
“No. Everything happens for a reason,” he said, patting her leg just like her father used to when they’d sit around the fire during hunting expeditions.
“Is that so?” Amalia asked. “Is there a reason I am to be imprisoned?”
He tilted his head. “One thing I’ve learned in my life, is that a prison is a state of mind. And, so are a great many other things. You can leave whenever you choose,” he said and gave her a wink.
When he stood, she was left perplexed, her lips parted and brows furrowed as she watched him walk away. It was strange that she wanted him to come back, and keep her company.
As she looked to Kylan, she shook her head, expressing her confusion.
He started to speak when a wave of nausea washed over her.
She gasped and fell back onto the ground.
Darkness washed over her as she was spirited back to sleep.
Poison?
It didn't matter. The sleep that followed was resolute and filled with magic.
11
Amalia’s heart slowed until it almost stopped. The sensation terrified her, but, she was incredibly tired. Despite her fatigue, something urged her to awaken.
What was it?
Soft cries. Howls of pain.
Bone-chilling screams.
She opened her eyes, still groggy.
What had Brother Dagan given her? She could still taste it on her tongue, and it left her arms and legs feeling heavy.
Bright light beamed down on her. She shielded her eyes, staring at the orange and red glow in the sky. As she looked down from the high cliff, her eyes widened as she looked upon a city of splendor. Buildings that stretched into the sky, with panels that reflected the giant moon above that was so big that she was certain she could reach out and touch it.
Her breath caught in her chest. This wasn’t the Tir Desert.
That wasn’t the sun shining its rays.
The sky was a midnight blue, and flying within it were hundreds of firedrakes. The light she’d seen, were flames being rained down onto a vast city of such beauty and advanced architecture, that she forgot to run as the raging fire neared her.
She scrambled to her feet, panicked as it became so close that her face began to warm. A loud roar rippled through the sky and her face paled as she gazed above at something she had never imagined or dreamed. Her blood curdled at the sight of a devilish monster scouring the skies.
A white dragon, the size of a mountain, with ripped wings that stretched so far and wide. They could have covered the entire silver city that stood at the bottom of the cliff where she watched.
His talons were black as ink and the spikes that jutted from his head were long, and sharp, and the color of ash.
He breathed fire, and black smoke that clung to the air and made it hard for her to breathe. She covered her mouth, choking.
Someone grabbed her by the arm. “Run, girl,” the woman said, her silver-gray eyes locking with her own.
Amalia gulped, but nodded. Before she could take another step to follow her new friend, the cliff began to crumble beneath her feet.
She screamed and flailed as she fell backward. Whatever nightmare this was had to end, for she began to fall to her death. The woman clasped her hand around Amalia’s wrist and pulled her up.
She grunted, pulling Amalia to safety. Then, she didn’t let go, she pulled her along and ran.
“What are you doing here, you fool of a girl?”
Amalia shook her head, her cheeks hot, sweat beaded on her forehead and chest. “I don’t even know the answer to that question,” she shouted over the chaos that ensued behind them.
They ran as fast as they could until they were in the safety of the nearby woods.
The darkness of the trees had never been so welcoming, and the further they ran inside, the quieter the battle of dragons and destruction became.
In
side the woods was a young man, about the age of her new heroin. He waited for them, face pale, black hair wild around his head. For the first time, she realized they were both dressed in fine clothes—finer than any she’d ever seen.
There were times with noblemen would ride their horses through town, or visit certain tradesmen. They always had such fine boots and clothing made with fabric Amalia and her family could never afford. These two had on cloaks and garments that would have made the noblemen of Skal look like peasants.
“Rikar,” the woman said. “Everything is destroyed.”
His eyes closed and he shook his head, letting out a sigh. “There is nothing we could have done, Saskia.”
Amalia tensed, a spider chill creeping up her spine. She knew that name. She’d heard her mother and father say it on several occasions, usually when they thought she was asleep, huddled over the dining table, and speaking in hushed tones.
She turned to the woman whose red cloak had a crown of jewels attached to it, and her blood turned cold.
“You’re Erani,” she breathed.
Saskia and Rikar shared a look, then, stared at Amalia with perplexed expressions on their faces.
“We are,” she said. Then, she looked down at Amalia’s arm, her brows lifting as she traced the mark on her hand. “So are you.”
Rikar snatched her hand, getting a look fro himself. “Who are you? Who sent you?”
Amalia shook her head. By the grace of Enit and Eris, she wished she knew.
She gasped and fell back as the white dragon stomped into the woods, crushing trees beneath its massive feet.
Rikar and Saskia clutched each other.
“What is that?” Amalia asked in a scream.
They spoke in unison as the flames came racing toward them.
“Zuka.”
Amalia woke with a scream, awakening all of the monks and Kylan who scooted close to her.
“What is it?” Kylan asked.
She pushed herself up from the dirt and looked to him, panting.
Brother Dagan came to her, while the other monks began preparing to leave their camp. The sun began to rise and warm the desert of Tir.
