by Paul Centeno
“I did it, Lana,” he whispered to himself. “I actually did it.”
This was Dargain’s greatest moment. From this day forward, he became King Beregeth’s advisor and second-in-command. Though he had the power to supersede the king’s authority as the Master of Vlydyn, he never dared surpass him again. And no matter how many years passed, he always kept Kaylana in his heart, believing she’d been granted a soul and joined the immortal Spirits of the Nine.
ACT I
CALAMITY
PROLOGUE
THE SPELL FROM HELL
The sky above the fertile kingdom of Vlydyn darkened, stars vanishing. South of the humyn cities, thunder crackled. Icy rain pummeled down, drenching the fields and forests. Clouds rippled, folded, tore apart, and reformed. Lightning struck across the midnight sky, and the ruptured heavens flashed red.
The humyns of Vlydyn were horrified and took refuge in their homes. Fortunately for them, the storm wasn’t as dreadful in the northern kingdom where they resided. The southern regions were more rural, covered with thick forests and abandoned ruins. Far past the dense wildernesses and derelict ruins, at the southern tip of Vlydyn, stood Fal’shar, a citadel along a coastal cliff. It was here where the source of the storm grew.
A deep mist engulfed the stronghold. Menacing waves below splashed against the jutting cliff. Thunder boomed. Unicorns and centaurs living near the citadel’s outskirts scrambled away, trying to find caverns to hide in. Others foolish enough to linger were struck down by blood-red sparks of lightning. The weather became progressively more violent, yet the stronghold and its towers remained intact.
Despite the citadel being a thousand years old, its charcoal stonework shone as though it had just been built. Inside the main tower stood a spiral staircase; the stony steps led from the bottom dungeon to the spire where a candle-lit chamber lay decorated with talismans, rotten flesh, and blood-spattered runes. On a throne made of humyn bones sat Saldovin Keldoran, leader of the Mor’vyi’dou—dark elves—and master of the dark art of necromancy. His fingers drummed over the arms of his throne, the ornately carved bones feeling like smooth porcelain to his touch.
He eventually rose and walked to the middle of the dimmed chamber, his black robe rustling. In the center lay a magical symbol of a nine-pointed star that he’d delicately drawn using his own blood. Though his face remained concealed by the shadows, the onyx cauldron before him gave out a glimmer of light from its contents, revealing his youthful dark-blue skin, long pointy ears, and dank white hair that drooped to his chest. Staring at the swirling contents, he embraced the wicked ethos of his people—raising his gaunt hands—and began to speak in a diabolical tongue:
“Xia mok vu elis fe’de ock me’iela,” he uttered with composure. His archaic words spun around the spire like a curse, the land around it rumbling and shaking the very foundations of the citadel. “Zye det kel a’dos ve gala kar qon,” he continued, focused without any sign of hatred or indifference.
As lightning flashed through the spire’s balcony, momentarily lighting up the chamber, the cauldron’s glossy pool of death sizzled and bubbled wildly. The crimson rune that Saldovin stood on gleamed. Without hesitation, he slit his forearm using his sharp fingernails, letting his blood trickle into the pot.
Once the blood fused with the cauldron’s contents, an orange-red wisp puffed up into the air. The apparition had blazing eyes, sidelong horns, a chin with thong-like tentacles squirming about, and a rattling tongue. Silence descended upon the chamber, broken only by a chilling hiss and heavy breathing. The apparition’s burning eyes stared hard at Saldovin; they were the eyes of a demon from the nether—the realm of demonic hell.
“You have one chance to explain why I have been conjured here, Mor’vyi’dou,” said the demon, his voice booming and causing the tower to tremble.
“A most worthy sacrifice awaits you, Izabaldo,” said Saldovin, bowing.
When he gestured at the balcony, a slim figure emerged from the shadows. Her opaque blue skin appeared black in the dim chamber. Though several centuries old, she looked young and beautiful, her slender frame swathed in a silky robe that matched the color of her wide amethyst eyes. With dignity, she approached the ethereal demon who glared at her.
“I am no fool!” bellowed Izabaldo, fire blowing from his wispy mouth and releasing an acrid stench into the musty air. “The Mor’vyi’dou have never sacrificed their own kind. Humyns are the only devious beings who would attempt to do such a thing.”
Pain ripped through Saldovin’s skull, forcing him to lurch over in agony. He rubbed his burning nostrils and tried desperately to conjure the right words to appease the hissing atrocity before him. “It is true, oh great Izabaldo,” he finally said. “But our glorious heritage is at stake. My sister, Telaria, has agreed to sacrificing her life for this cause. And though I shall retain my life, I am willing to relinquish my immortality.”
Without a moment’s notice, Telaria was lifted into the air and pulled over to the sadistic demon. Fiery smoke puffed from his mouth, studying his would-be gift. Although Telaria was a dark elf—fearless by nature—she looked stunned by Izabaldo’s actions. She nevertheless made no attempt to flee, offering herself to the demon.
“Intriguing,” grumbled Izabaldo, examining her. “You are no defect. As a matter of fact, your connection to the arcane is stronger than most Mor’vyi’dou.” His eyebrows furrowed as he asked, “Why sacrifice such power?”
“The humyns shame us,” said Telaria, her eyes glistening with hatred.
“That is an understatement,” said Saldovin without so much as a glance. Turning his attention back to Izabaldo, he continued, “Parla’vasa, the high elf princess of Lar’a’dos, has agreed to marry the humyn prince of Vlydyn. I dare not speak his despicable name.”
Izabaldo released the dark elf, laughing. “Prince Aarian and Princess Parla’vasa?” he said with amusement.
“Hear me, oh great Izabaldo: I surrender my life to you!” she cried out, raising her hands in submission. “This union of the eternal race cannot occur. We must prevent this atrocity at all cost.”
“Your eternal life is quite the bargain,” said Izabaldo. “The consequences of my actions shall be on your head, Mor’vyi’dou.”
“I will bear the burden,” said Saldovin without regret. “Do whatever you must to rid the world of this pathetic arrangement.”
Izabaldo snorted and said, “Very well.”
When the demon agreed, he vanished into the cauldron. At that precise moment, Telaria choked and shuddered in midair. She looked at her brother and attempted to speak, only to let out a shrilling screech that echoed in Saldovin’s ears, stabbing at his black heart like a frosted blade. He stared at her for the first time with remorse—not for unleashing a demon upon humynity but because he was sacrificing his own sister.
“Forgive me,” he muttered.
Telaria hovered over the bubbling cauldron, continuing to scream horrifically while her skin slit apart. Then the scalding fire below the cauldron blazed into an emerald fury, devouring her. When she vanished, so too did the wrathful storm fade away into oblivion.
CHAPTER ONE
FATAL ENGAGEMENT
On the following day after the demonic storm, Prince Aarian awoke in his royal bedchamber. He stretched his arms while yawning and opened his eyes, staring at his balcony. Aarian gazed at the blue sky in awe, surprised that the outrageous storm had passed. When glimpsing at the sunlight and hearing harmonious birds chirp, however, he frowned.
Not even great news of the unnatural tempest passing could make him forget about what was going to happen on this sunlit, miserable day. Today his life would change forever; it would be a day filled with good and bad. He kept telling himself that world peace outweighed personal happiness, yet a part of him struggled with such a belief since he felt forced to abandon his childhood love to marry the elven princess of Lar’a’dos. Nobility rarely get to marry for love, he told himself with sadness in his eyes.
&nbs
p; “Am I capable of putting peace ahead of my own desires?” he said with confliction.
Aarian sighed and closed his eyes. He was beyond tempted to just sink back into his bed and hide from the world regardless of the consequences. Yet just as Aarian was about to release himself of his duties as the prince of Vlydyn, several wild swooshes of wind came from his wide balcony with the accompaniment of a squawk. Not one second later, a white- and brown-furred gryphon glided toward the terrace. It wasn’t just any gryphon; it was a narll, a magical creature enchanted with the ability to speak. Upon arriving, it flapped its feathery wings and perched itself on the balcony’s balustrade.
“Rise and shine, Prince Moody,” said the gryphon.
“Uh, not today, Scar,” said Aarian in a groggy tone.
“Yes, today,” replied Scar, squawking. “The elves and humyns are at each other’s throats. If you don’t marry Princess Parla’vasa, I fear there will never be tranquility. This is the only way Vlydyn may have peace.”
“Then to hell with peace,” said Aarian, pulling the blankets over him.
Scar glowered at him. “Since the High War started three decades ago, your father forced the high elves to flee from Vlydyn. Hundreds of lives were lost, and for what? Petty bigotry? Only the dark elves remain by the southern coast—mind you, they despise humyns even more than the high elves. You can make things right again.”
Aarian ignored the gryphon. Not more than five seconds passing, Scar raised his head and squawked louder and louder while flapping his wings. Gusts of wind made all the blankets flutter from the bed. Aarian reached out to grab them, but they flew away. His blonde hair blew back due to the playful gales Scar created.
Feeling haggard, Aarian finally said, “All right, all right. I’ll get out of bed.” As he spoke, Scar stopped flapping his wings, eyeing him suspiciously. “But don’t expect me to give up my happiness and freedom,” he continued, putting on a burgundy robe with a weaved design of a wyvern. “It’s not my fault the elves hate my people for turning their dreary forests into majestic cities.”
Scar began, “It’s not—”
“And it’s not my fault that my people hate the elves for fanatically worshipping nature,” interjected Aarian.
“Ah, but it is your responsibility as the prince of Vlydyn to represent your people and be a mediator,” said Scar in his usual squawky voice. “And incidentally, not all elves are fanatical; otherwise Princess Parla’vasa would have never considered the idea of marrying a mortal, let alone a humyn—especially you.”
Aarian laughed. “What is that supposed to mean? Let me remind you that I’m quite open minded compared to everyone else. And we mortals have more ambition than any other race. We’ve turned what the divine immortal Spirits gave us into a paradise. Nature and civilization can prosper in harmony.”
“Precisely,” said Scar, “which is why you’ll be the perfect husband for Parla’vasa.”
“Ugh,” groaned Aarian, approaching a bowl full of water. He splashed some water on his face, brushed his hair back with his fingers, and said, “Generations of mindless killing instead of seeing reason, yet me sacrificing everything will make it all go away?”
“No,” said Scar. “But it’s a start. And by the way, you’re not the only one making a noble sacrifice.”
“So you remind me every day,” said Aarian.
He stared at himself in a mirror surrounded by royal red curtains. His blue eyes appeared lifeless when he looked at his reflection. He noticed that his hair reached all the way down to his forehead, beginning to cover his eyebrows, so he teased it with his hands until it was lifted a bit higher.
Aside from the elegant robe he wore, he felt his appearance was as much a mess as his life. Nothing had ever gone his way before, he thought. So he was wealthy; so he was a prince; so he had a life almost every other humyn wished they had; what did it matter to him? Feeling like a pitiful slave, nothing mattered to him. He had no genuine freedom. His life was simply an incarnation of his parents’ lives. He could never make any decisions on his own, such as whom to marry, because he could never be a free man and leave Jerelaith—the capital city—as long as he was the prince of Vlydyn.
“Are you done looking at yourself?” asked Scar.
“Almost,” he said, trying not to grin.
“At last, your kingly sense of humor has returned,” said Scar. “I wonder if you’ll be able to maintain it at the wedding ceremony.”
“Don’t count on it.”
“Everybody else is counting on it,” said Scar.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Aarian.
He turned away from the mirror and approached the mahogany door of his bedchamber, at which point Scar flew off the balustrade and perched onto the prince’s shoulder. Aarian then opened the door and entered the hall where a guard clad in chainmail armor stood.
“Good morning, Your Highness,” said the guard.
Aarian began, “Not much good in the morning if—” Scar pecked Aarian’s neck with his beak. “I mean, uh, good morning to you too, Zarlando.”
The guard bowed and said, “Your Highness, I almost forgot. Master Dargain was looking for you earlier. He wanted me to inform you that he’s expecting to see you before the wedding in the training room whenever you are ready.”
“Thank you,” said Aarian. “I’ll see him now.” He walked away while murmuring, “Great, another lecture.”
“Ah, come on,” said Scar. “Master Dargain has always been your friend. He has trained you well with the sword and has never stopped being a good mentor. He looks out for you—not simply for the well-being of others, but for your own happiness too.”
“That’s true,” said Aarian with a depressing sigh. “I guess I’m just a bit overwhelmed right now.”
“I understand,” said Scar.
Aarian leisurely walked through the royal corridor. The castle of Jerelaith was filled with rich, colorful decorations—drapes embroidered with emeralds, hand woven wall tapestries of grandiose dragons, and crimson carpets stretching from hall to hall. Best of all, the entire castle had been constructed with marble. No matter where Aarian went, it shined in magical splendor. He eventually reached a spiral staircase, making his way to the top. A few knights were standing guard, all of whom bowed at his presence.
“I have much to do,” said Aarian to Scar, nodding at the respectful guards. “Hopefully whatever Master Dargain has in store for me won’t take too long.”
“If you can trust anyone, it’s Master Dargain,” said Scar.
“I know,” said Aarian, approaching the central chamber.
The doors were already open. Prince Aarian entered the spacious room filled with racks of weapons and wooden mannequins fitted with iron armor. At the heart of the chamber stood a knight clad in steel armor with the tabard of an indigo-furred hippogriff. His complexion was as light as the prince’s, yet his eyes and shoulder-length hair were brown. He also wore a weathered headband. Sweat formed on his brow as he remained still in a meditative backbend.
“Master Dargain,” called out Aarian.
Dargain opened his eyes, straightening his legs. Gleaming, he turned toward the prince and bowed.
“The eternal Spirits honor me with your presence, Prince Aarian,” said Master Dargain.
“No, the Spirits honor me with yours,” said Aarian, bowing.
“Hey! What about me?” asked Scar, flying off the prince’s shoulder and gliding across the chamber.
Dargain laughed softly. “Scar, it is a blessing to see you too,” he said.
Scar smiled, perching on one of the many armored mannequins. Upon landing, Dargain petted him and smoothened his feathers.
“Zarlando told me that you wanted to see me,” said Aarian.
“Ah, yes,” replied Dargain. “Please, come closer.” When the prince approached him, he playfully continued, “Don’t be so timid. I’m not going to torture you. No meditation or sword practice today.”
“Truly?” said Aarian
in disbelief.
“Truly,” repeated Dargain. “I prayed to the Spirits of the Nine throughout the night. They guided me with the wisdom to comfort you today. Besides, the king and queen are torturing you enough with this ‘arranged marriage’ of theirs.”
“Reminding me of it isn’t the same as comforting me,” said Aarian.
Dargain teasingly frowned and said, “Come now, you may not like such drastic decisions, but moping about the inevitable won’t bring you any peace of mind.” He approached the prince, held his lean arms firmly, and continued, “Listen to me. It is not my intention to magnify your troubles; however, we both know that even if Princess Parla’vasa hadn’t agreed to this sacred marriage you’d still need to marry a princess. Belisa may be a wonderful woman, but the fact is she is only a knight’s daughter.”
“It doesn’t matter to me!” snapped Aarian, kicking one of the mannequins. Scar twitched and squawked from the sudden noise while Aarian added, “I am the prince of this kingdom, not a slave. Shouldn’t it be my decision?”
“We’ve had this discussion many times before,” said Dargain. “And we can keep having it. Yet what would change? We both know that your parents won’t back down, not after the high elves agreed to this.”
“But surely something can be done,” said Aarian.
Dargain stared at the prince sympathetically. “You could run away,” he said. “It’s quite simple: disguise yourself, find Belisa, and leave Vlydyn—never to return.”
“That’s perfect,” said Aarian sardonically. “Except that I would be remembered as the selfish prince who could never be responsible.”
He sighed with tears in his eyes, on the verge of screaming. Aarian wanted to curse at the Spirits of the Nine for making him a prince in this life. A voice within him kept telling him to be selfish and run away with Belisa, his secret love whom not even his family knew of. But another voice within him felt curious about why an elf princess would marry a humyn. Did she feel the same as he? The seemingly endless war between the humyns and elves was pointless to him. Perhaps she wanted it to end as much as he did, or maybe they were equally as miserable about the arrangement.
