by S D Simper
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication Page
Pronunciation Guide
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Coming Soon . . .
About the Author
S D SIMPER
© 2018 Endless Night Publications
The Sting of Victory
Copyright © 2018 Endless Night Publications
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permissions, send a query to [email protected].
Cover art by Jade Mere
Cover design and interior by Jerah Moss
ISBN (Ebook) 978-1-7324611-1-6
Visit the author at www.sdsimper.com
Facebook: sdsimper
Twitter: @sdsimper
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For Veronica
THE ROYAL COUNCIL OF STAELASH
Marielle Vors – Mair-ee-el Vohrs
Etolie – Eh-toh-lee-ey
Khastra – Kas-truh
Thalmus – Thah-muhs
Flowridia – Floh-rid-ee-uh
Sora Fireborn – Sohr-ruh Fire-bohrn
Meira deShamira – Mee-ruh Dey-sha-mee-ruh
FOREIGN DIGNITARIES
Xoran – Zoh-ran
Lunestra – Loon-es-truh
Ayla Darkleaf – Ai-luh Dahrk-leef
Zorlaeus – Zor-ley-uhs
Casvir – Kas-veer
Alauriel Solviraes – Ah-law-ree-ehl Sohl-veer-es
OTHER PLAYERS
Odessa – Oh-des-uh
Soliel – Suh-lil
Demitri – Dih-mee-tree
VARIOUS GODS, ANGELIC AND DEMONIC
Sol Kareena – Sohl Kuh-ree-nuh
Eionei – Eye-uhn-eye
Alystra – Ah-lees-truh
Staella – Stey-luh
Neoma – Ney-oh-muh
Izthuni – Iz-thoo-nee
Ku’Shya – Koo-shy-uh
Onias – Uhn-eye-uhs
Moonlight brushed the air in silver wisps, barely perceptible through the thick cover of trees. But enough shone through to cast a shadow upon the secluded cottage, that of a wolf coated in mud and grime.
From within, Flowridia ripped the door open. “Aura!” she cried, weeping as her arms tangled in the damp fur of her beloved companion – Aura the wolf, her lost friend and familiar, had come for her at last.
Noxious odors from the swamp mixed with the earthy, rotting scent of mushrooms and the horrors that fed them. Aura’s golden eyes shone bright, reflecting the filtered celestial light and the phosphorescent glow of fungi dotting the walls and moist garden plots. More garden than room, the fungal forest grew in patches, some of the mushrooms taller than Flowridia herself.
Aura had grown during their three years apart, standing nearly at Flowridia’s shoulder in height. Even matted in swamp filth, her silver fur matched the dim moonlight.
Despite the joy at their reunion, urgency tugged at Flowridia’s panicked heart. “Aura, we have to leave. If she hears us-”
Shattered glass broke the fragile peace. Flowridia, her arms tight around Aura’s neck, saw a dark silhouette in the doorframe of the bedroom and the remains of a ruined potion on the floor. “Flower Child, what is this?” The woman spoke gently, the eye of a storm Flowridia knew capable of tearing them both to oblivion. Odessa the Swamp Witch stepped into view, beautiful despite her sneer, a distorted, matured mirror of her cowering daughter. Eerie green shone from within her eyes, her mouth, even the pores of her skin. “All of my love, and this is how it’s returned? Slinking off in the middle of the night?”
Growling from Aura’s throat vibrated against Flowridia’s arms. Mother merely chuckled. “Your familiar is every bit the hero that you are the coward.” She turned her gaze onto Aura directly, stepping forward as that same green began to swirl at her feet, smoke before a raging fire. “Stay with us. She’ll be better with you and I both to guide her.”
A snarl tore from Aura’s throat. Flowridia’s grip on her neck tightened.
“No? A pity,” Mother said, and as she stepped, Flowridia watched her form shift and elongate. “So much wasted potential.”
Flowridia had seen hints of Mother’s shadow, one that never quite matched her sultry figure. Now the woman twisted and grew, her hands gnarling into vicious claws, her skin shriveling and turning grey. Those eyes, still illuminated by sickly green, grew large, bird-like. The woman, once beautiful, became hunched.
Flowridia tugged on Aura’s neck, pulling her to the door, but green fire – the same shade as the smoke swirling around Mother’s grotesque form – blocked their exit.
Aura tore herself from Flowridia’s grip, a beastly roar at her throat as she bolted forward. Leaping, the wolf tackled the monster and ripped at the woman’s face with her teeth. A swipe of Mother’s mutated hand threw Aura aside. Bleeding, cackling, Mother pulled herself to her feet in time for Aura to pounce.
This time, Mother braced herself. Her hands dug into the wolf’s fur and skin, blood seeping from her nails as Aura struggled in her grasp.
The light shining from Mother’s eyes changed from green to deep purple, and the smoke swirled to match. Aura released a pained howl, and Flowridia screamed as the wolf’s body began to shrivel, withering away as though starved.
On the table, a knife – encrusted with dried blood – caught her eye. Heart pounding, Flowridia didn’t think; she grabbed the knife and threw.
Blood sprayed. The knife embedded into Mother’s throat, soaking Flowridia and the limp wolf in the monster’s vital fluids.
Mother shrieked, that same purple glow bursting from the wound, the hilt protruding from beneath her chin. The smoke, once peaceful, spun into a violent torrent. Aura fell motionless to the ground as Mother’s cry grew higher, louder. Her clawed hands shook as she reached toward the knife.
All at once, the light ceased. Smoke dissipated. Mother fell to the ground, her monstrous form dissolving into the air. A woman’s corpse, a knife jutting from her throat, lay in a pool of her own seeping blood.
Silence.
Flowridia’s sob cut the taut string of peace. She fell to her knees, giving no mind to how her skirts absorbed Mother’s blood. Silver fur, stained red, met Flowridia’s fingers as she desperately pulled Aura’s emaciated form to her lap. The wolf’s coat, once soft, had become coarse, aged by Mother’s dark magic.
No light in those golden, clouded eyes. Already, Aura had gone cold. With that came an awareness of the hollow in Flowridia’s soul. Her familiar, the animal companion granting her mysterious power, lay dead, and with it her connection to the world of magic. Muted, all she had worked for; the power she had gained gone away.
Three years trapped in hell, but never had she felt so lost. She held Aura’s body to her chest and wept.
* * *
“Here lies Aura – a friend.”
The words shone pristine, carved in stone, the last gift she could give her dearest companion. Content to lie down and starve to death, Flowridia might have lain on the grave forever had red e
yes not shone from the woods.
The demon began to hunt her then.
For weeks, it followed. Flowridia left the swamp but saw it on distant hills and in the shadow of trees. A blight upon her vision, it had come to haunt her sleep – nightmares, more often than not – and at times she heard metallic steps emerge from her dreams and infiltrate whatever dark woods she slept in. It followed; she fled.
Was it punishment for her sins? A demon come to personally escort her to her seat in hell?
It cornered her on a moonless night. Alone and half-starved, she collapsed.
The demon emerged as a silhouette, his horns a crown atop his head. Metal met earth with each step upon the forest floor. Mist swirled about, and no stars could penetrate the cover of trees – only the shadow of a monster leering before her as she sobbed.
Tears and dirt had mixed to become a sticky mess upon Flowridia’s face and body. She shrunk before the armored figure, falling to the ground, cowering as he stood before her. To meet her end now would be best. To forget the horror of these past few years and meet a swift demise was far more than she deserved.
Flowridia dared to speak. “Please kill me quickly.”
The demon offered an enormous, clawed hand. Trembling, she reached out with her own, surprised at the cold touch, but also the gentle way he helped her to rise. Once her feet were stable, she wrenched her hand back.
Closer now, she saw the rich detail of his armor, blackened and dented, worn and well-used. He stood several heads taller than she, more so with the horns jutting from his head. Darkness obscured the rest, but she could faintly see the bold red of his eyes.
In the crook of his arm, she realized he cradled a small, bundled creature. He offered it forward – a sleeping wolf pup. Flowridia carefully took it into her arms.
They touched, she and the wolf, and a network of energy suddenly spiked her senses. The very essence of the universe, the threads that wove the tapestry of the world were hers to touch, to pluck and weave.
Her head grew light at the sudden influx of awareness. Magic coursed through her veins. Surprised, she kept a protective hold on the baby creature, daring to tear her eyes away from the demon and instead look at the soft form.
It breathed peacefully, innocently. She held the wolf and felt a piece of her soul – the one brutally ripped away only weeks prior – begin to mend and heal.
“You have one more chance.” The demon’s words resonated deep and soft, a terrible threat to the power lying behind them; an underground rumble, a volcano brewing beneath the earth. “Do not disappoint me.”
He stepped away, disappearing into the swirling mist.
Flowridia held the bundled, sleeping form close to her chest, stroking the fine puppy fur. Tears continued streaming, but of relief; no more fear.
At her feet, a dying patch of clovers raised a curious thought, and without hesitation she fell to her knees and touched the leaves. Like veins, she felt what energy the plant used, the life it stubbornly clung to, and felt what it craved.
A healing spell slid from her fingers. The clovers grew, and were the night not so dark, she knew she would have seen vibrant shades of green. Whatever horrors she had witnessed and committed, the joy of the moment blinded the shadows.
The small wolf stirred, roused perhaps by the slight draining of energy she knew they had both felt. Golden eyes met her own. A voice, young and childish, wove through her mind.
Hello.
Flowridia’s own blood would feed the roses today. With a wince, she took her hand back, giving no regard to the dirt as she stuck her finger into her mouth. But the damage was done; blood had dripped onto the stem, the petals, and her white sleeve.
Grimacing, Flowridia released her finger and frowned at the deep puncture. Such carelessness should have been beyond her. Instead, she breathed out a sigh, letting her senses expand and touch upon the torn flesh, the welling blood. She released a silent spell, one that welled from her core. A bit of heat and discomfort, but only slight, and before she could blink the wound had knit together, leaving only a shined scar.
A slight weight on Flowridia’s thigh caused her to turn. Her hair covered her face as a child’s voice, as small as the wolf padding at her leg, wove words into her mind. I smell Marielle. She has someone with her.
Wide-eyed, Flowridia lifted the wolf into her arms, hiding her bloodied sleeve as another spell drained her of energy. “Stay quiet, Demitri,” she whispered, and before she had finished her sentence, both their forms had faded from view. Not quite invisibility, but living with Mother had taught Flowridia that if she gave herself no regard, people often looked directly through her. It hadn’t failed her yet.
She stepped beyond the garden path and stood beside a tree, just as a familiar voice danced along the faint breeze.
“. . . garden is new, and it’s the safest place in the manor. We won’t be overheard here. Flowridia has protection spells everywhere.”
Not quite spells, Flowridia corrected internally. Spells were spoken, silently or not; wards were written, and writing ancient words with the roots of plants and trees wove them into the earth itself. But she remained silent as Princess Marielle Vors appeared at the center of the shaded path, accompanied by a woman Flowridia had never seen. Diminutive and regally dressed, the woman’s soft eyes were as silver as the tiara atop her head. Curious, Flowridia watched as the unknown woman’s unique gaze traced over every part of the greenery and floral bushes.
“This is impressive,” she said. “Wards are a difficult thing to place.” Flowridia found herself quietly surprised by the woman’s ability to differentiate the two. “Who did you say did this?”
“Flowridia, Etolié’s apprentice,” Marielle replied. “She’s a witch; isn’t that something? I think Etolié’s finally snapped and picked someone to train as Magister for when she’s out scouting. She found Flowridia in the woods not six months ago.”
“Etolié found a witch in the woods and brought her home as an apprentice?”
“Odd, I know, but I trust Etolié’s judgement of people.” The young monarch frowned suddenly. “I was hoping Flowridia would be here, that shy little thing. She spends all her free time gardening.”
The woman glanced down, pursing her lips. When she looked back up, she stared directly at Flowridia. Their eyes made contact. Flowridia shrunk back, but a slow smile spread across the other woman’s face. “Oh, I’m sure she’s hiding around here somewhere. Do you trust her?”
“Very much so.”
Her gaze lingered, then she turned back to Marielle as the two continued walking. The woman’s disposition changed, pleasantries fading into something ascetic.
“My father always said that your own father’s idealism was why this kingdom ever had a hope to survive,” the woman said, and she stopped as she stared at a bush of vibrant hyacinths. “Be careful, Marielle. We aren’t our fathers, even if it’s their shoes we have to step into, prematurely or not.”
Marielle’s frown threatened to wilt the flowers in her gaze. “What do you mean?”
The woman steeled her jaw, and behind her back, away from Marielle’s view, her hands began to fidget. “The news will be announced to the citizens of my empire upon my return, but my father is dead.”
Marielle’s face paled. The young monarch-to-be brought a hand to cover her mouth. “No, no, he can’t be. I received a letter not two weeks ago congratulating me on-”
“It was three days ago,” the woman interrupted, breathing in deep. Her voice caught, but she gave no other sign of emotional compromise. Flowridia knew of only one empire, and for this woman’s father to have ruled it meant she was a famous name – Alauriel Solviraes, heir to the long-lived dynasty of legendary sorcerers and cousin to Princess Marielle.
“I’m here for your coronation,” the empress continued, amidst Marielle’s visible disbelief, “but also to keep the peace at your party afterward. Whatever concoction of political kindling we stand on, it will not combust so long as we tre
ad lightly, even with your tempestuous guest list – not while my father’s shadow lords over it all. But with his death comes an uncertain future. Be careful, Marielle.”
“But how?” Marielle finally managed to sputter. “If he was sick-”
“He wasn’t sick. The investigation is ongoing, so there’s nothing more to say. Not yet.” Empress Alauriel placed a hand on Marielle’s back. She summoned a smile, though Flowridia saw it flicker and threaten to fade. “Today is your day. You’ll want to focus on your own political cesspool.” A slight push, and she began to lead Marielle down the path, out of the garden. “The coronation is soon. Perhaps we’ll find Etolié’s gardener somewhere else.”
This time, the empress didn’t acknowledge her. When they left the garden, Flowridia reappeared, her heart beating rapidly.
* * *
The coronation was for royals and for Marielle’s guests. Flowridia had come up with several excuses to not attend: “Oh, Demitri would be lonely without me-” “I wouldn’t know what to say-” “I would only embarrass you-”
Etolié had accepted none of them but agreed to compromise: Flowridia would be excused from the coronation if she would attend the ball instead. Content to join in the small celebration, Flowridia had agreed.
Marielle had then vastly expanded her guest list. The ball would be the more social of events.
Now, standing before the mirror of her bedroom, Flowridia wove flowers into her long, thick hair. The residue of wards permeated the floral life, granting protection, though at a much smaller scale.
A knock at the door startled her, and with it came a voice. “Rise and shine, Flowers. Nox’Kartha’s late, and so are you.”
With some reticence, Flowridia peeked out the bedroom door, unsurprised to see Etolié at the other side. “I’m awake, Etolié,” she said, letting the door swing open. “Why do we care if Nox’Kartha is late?”
