The Clash of Yesterday
Chronicles of the Stone Veil
SAWYER BENNETT
The Clash of Yesterday is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Sawyer Bennett
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Excerpt from The Revelation of Light and Dark
About the Author
PROLOGUE
The AltVeritas of Brevala
Southern Border of the Meadowlands and Bluffs
Cernian Falls
1027 AD
Arnus, Overlord of the Meadowlands, locked his jaw tight, his hands clenched in fists. He stood still, breath calm even though he was enraged beyond belief as he stared down at the large pool of water that was fed by the Cernian Falls. Those waters came down from the Rivelle Mountains, through the bluffs, and straight into the crystal-blue lake that straddled the border between the Meadowlands and the Bluffs, aptly named Cernian Lake.
The water was off-limits to all inhabitants of Brevala as the clans of both the Meadowlands and the Bluffs claimed it as their own, and if the other were caught in it, blood would be shed. Countless wars had been fought throughout the centuries to carve out an exact border between the two lands, but the lake straddled it dead center.
Over the last few hundred years, they had come to a silent agreement to stay out of the waters and avoid a battle that would probably lead to death, yet Arnus watched with disgust as the man and woman below frolicked naked in the cool lake.
Twisting to look to his right, he made eye contact with the top-ranking colonel in his militia, who was there to bear witness to the justice Arnus had to dole out. He merely nodded his ascent that punishment had to be born.
When he looked the other way, Arnus’ gaze locked with his youngest daughter’s blue eyes. Her golden hair was done in a crown of intricate braids to keep it out of the way since she came along with Arnus in anticipation of a fight. She held her iron sword in one hand—the hilt wrapped in leather so as not to burn her skin—and a dagger in the other. While not asking his daughter’s permission to do what must be done, he was relieved when she also nodded her head. He knew this was difficult on her, given that the woman swimming down below was her cousin, and they were close. Arnus couldn’t afford to be a father right now, but rather a warrior who must teach his daughter how to put her feelings aside. This was a learning experience more than anything.
Examples had to be made; otherwise, the fragile peace that Brevala had enjoyed the last few hundred years would be destroyed. That meant more raids and battles, which meant more bloodshed and death.
The rocky cliff they stood on was high enough up that it would have taken them a good half hour to traverse their way down on foot. As Light Fae, though, they didn’t need to attempt anything as mundane as using their feet for travel.
Not all Light Fae could bend distance, but those from Brevala could as they were gifted that power when their realm was created over three thousand years ago.
“Let’s go,” Arnus grunted. With their magic, they left the craggy outcropping and appeared at the edge of the lake in as much time as it takes to blink.
The couple swimming in the lake didn’t notice the three Meadowland clan members dressed in battle armor with weapons drawn. They were too busy locked in a passionate kiss to notice anything at all. Arnus glanced at his daughter, and he could see her expression was filled with disgust, not at what they were doing, but rather that they were doing it with each other.
A moment came when the couple pulled their mouths apart, and the male caught sight of the Meadlowlanders. In what some might think was a sound display of bravery, the male pushed the female behind him to protect her. But Arnus thought him incredibly stupid even to think he could so much as touch the female in the lake with him.
He was a Bluff dweller and his niece, who had the same golden hair as his daughter, was a Meadowlander.
The two clans did not mix.
They didn’t talk.
They didn’t even look at each other.
If they were in proximity to one another, they were likely to battle to the death.
That’s just the way it was unless it was during the truce called for the Festival of Creation. Thankfully, that came only once every hundred years.
There was no need to wait for the male to exit the water. The Bluff Dwellers weren’t cowards, and the male exploded out of the lake as black wings erupted from his back. He was naked only for a moment because, with his magic, he called forth battle armor to cover his body. An iron sword in hand, he hovered forty feet above the three Meadowlanders, his great wings slowly flapping to hold him there as he tried to calculate who was the biggest threat to take on.
Sadly, for the Bluff dweller, his biggest threat wasn’t on the ground.
It was crouched behind a boulder on the stone outcropping where they had been moments earlier, watching the scene play out down below.
And it was Arnus’ oldest daughter, with blonde hair braided the same as her sister so it wouldn’t get in the way.
No one saw her, certainly not the Bluff Dweller.
He had no clue as he hovered there that she was nocking an arrow in her bow.
Pulling the string back to her ear.
Aiming down the shaft.
She let it fly.
The iron tip penetrated the Bluff Dweller’s left eye, entering easily and slowing dramatically as it came out through the back of his skull. The Meadowlander female in the lake released a piercing shriek as she watched her lover topple from the sky, instantly dead once the iron penetrated his brain. He felt nothing as his body hit the ground with a loud thud.
Arnus tilted his head, shielded his eyes from the bright sky, and spotted his daughter on the rocks above them. She grinned down, proud of her shot.
He was proud too.
Giving his attention back to the woman in the water, he uttered a short command. “Get out.”
Tears pouring down her face, she swam to the shallow end and then stood naked to walk the rest of the way out. She didn’t call forth magic to clothe herself and hide her nudity because she knew her back would need to be bared for what was coming.
Without needing to be told, the woman approached Arnus and fell to her knees in the soft grass. She didn’t try to beg for leniency; instead, she merely bowed her head and sobbed quietly as she awaited her fate.
Arnus studied her a moment before turning to his youngest daughter beside him. He was proud her sister took the kill shot on the Bluff Dweller, which made him realize he couldn’t coddle his other daughter any longer.
Her gaze met his, and she didn’t flinch when he said, “Do it.”
A curt nod was given, and his daughter moved behind the fae female kneeling on the grass. She rotated her wrist a few times, which caused her sword to arc in a circle as she prepared to do her duty.
“Let them out,” his daughter commanded of the kneeling woman.
With no hesitati
on, the woman did as she was told, her blood-colored wings springing from her back. Her head remained bowed, her sobbing muffled.
Arnus watched as his daughter reached out to hold the wing closest to her at the bone joint where the appendage made its arch. She raised the sword above her head, gritted her teeth, and brought it down hard to sever it from the woman’s body.
She shrieked, not so much in pain, but in loss. Black blood poured from the wound down her back, seeping into the ground. With keen eyes, Arnus watched not the woman on the ground but his daughter.
He carefully gauged her for any signs of weakness or distress over what she had just done. Unfortunately, he could see a slight hint of sorrow in her blue eyes, which did not sit well.
“The other one,” Arnus ordered his daughter, nodding at the other wing.
His daughter’s gaze rose, locked with his, and turned cold. She gave another curt nod of acceptance, all signs of empathy gone, and grabbed hold of the other wing.
CHAPTER 1
Eliana
Seattle
Present Day
I can feel it down to my bones as I stride across the glossy tiled floor of the main first-floor lobby of Byrne Enterprises.
The contract is all but mine.
My four-inch Tom Ford’s with gold ankle straps click a cadence like I’m walking the runway in Milan. My leather briefcase is Ferragamo, and my black skirt and jacket are Alexander McQueen. The lowlights in my hair cost four hundred dollars, and my BMW 8 Series convertible I handed over to the valet moments ago is a six-figure car I paid cash for.
Yes, I have more money than I know what to do with, yet this little seven-thousand-dollar ad campaign is as important to me as my entire closet full of designer clothes.
As one of the most successful ad executives at Carson Dell, I still like to take on the smaller campaigns now and then, so I never forget the ranks through which I had climbed to reach the top. I’ve been with Carson Dell for almost six years now, and I didn’t have to sleep with a single boss to get to my pinnacle. But then again, my father had always told me that I’d been born with unparalleled perseverance, and he taught me never to succumb to defeat.
At the elevator bank, I confidently push the button to the executive offices on the top floor. My appointment with its founder and CEO, Carrick Byrne, is in ten minutes, but I always arrive early just for professionalism’s sake.
The outer lobby for Byrne Enterprises is starkly bare, but once I open the heavy wooden door to the inner sanctum, I immediately fall in love with the soothing decor. The walls are done in soft ivory with a shimmery glaze, the furniture in a blue-gray suede with plush cream pillows, and the lighting is provided by glass lamps and wall sconces with Edison bulbs.
The receptionist smiles. “Can I help you?”
“Eliana Thompson,” I say crisply. “I have an appointment with Mr. Byrne.”
“If you’ll just have a seat,” she replies in a smooth, cultured voice. “Mr. Byrne is finishing up with another appointment.”
“Another ad pitch?” I guess cheekily with a lopsided grin.
The receptionist glances at the door to her right, which must be where Mr. Byrne’s office is, and back to me before nodding with a conspiratorial grin. “He only chose two companies to meet with. Carson Dell and—”
“Prima Design,” I state confidently. It’s the only other ad agency in Seattle that rivals ours.
The receptionist winks, but then she whispers, “I’m sure your pitch will be far superior, though.”
“Thanks,” I say with a big smile. I love women holding up other women, and she’s right… mine will be far superior.
While Prima is good, their execs are getting lackluster in their ideas. The last several times I’ve gone up against them, I’ve walked away with every single deal.
I move over to the couch, perch my butt on the edge, and cross my legs. I don’t even bother pulling out my iPad to go over my pitch; instead, I scroll my text messages. One of my girlfriends is asking to meet for drinks after work, which is a possibility. Dana is a hoot to hang out with.
A text from Josh, inviting me to dinner at his place.
Which really just translates into, “I’ll order some Chinese, and we’ll fuck all night”.
That has equal appeal as Josh is a stud in between the sheets, and he’s happy with this being a friends-with-benefits relationship, same as me.
Except… I can’t even say we’re friends. More like just fuck buddies, I guess.
I shoot Dana a text to tell her I have to work late, and another at Josh telling him I’ll be at his place by seven and I want extra steamed dumplings.
The door to Mr. Byrne’s office opens, and I stuff my phone in the side pocket of my briefcase, uncross my legs, and angle myself that way to see who from Prima will be coming out that door.
I hope it’s Steve Polsby. He’s the most arrogant of that lot, and he’s a complete misogynist. He cannot stand women in his industry.
“Thank you again for your time,” a deep male voice says from just inside the doorway and out of my line of sight.
Another replies, “Your presentation was incredibly good. I’ll be in touch.”
I scoff. Yeah, to tell you the contract is going to Carson Dell.
I have to suppress a snicker and school my features into a pleasant smile as the Prima exec walks out the door and it closes behind him.
For a moment, time seems to stand still as I take in the tall man with wide shoulders, dark brown hair that’s wavy and worn a little too long for modern standards, and piercing green eyes.
When time moves, I find myself slightly dizzy as I stare with astonishment at the Prima ad exec.
Ronan Myers.
I ignore how hot he looks in his suit, and I most definitely give no acknowledgment to the superior smile that comes to his face—lighting up those green eyes—as he sees me.
I stand confidently from the couch, bringing my briefcase with me. Ronan takes a few steps my way, letting his gaze roam slowly down my body and back up again before he gives me a distasteful smile. “Eliana. Fancy running into you here.”
“My exact thoughts,” I reply stiffly. “Last I heard, you were working in New York at McNaught.”
Ronan shrugs carelessly. “Thought I’d try the West Coast for a while.”
Just fucking great. The man I probably hate most in the universe is here in Seattle. Being in his presence makes me nauseous. By the distaste in his expression, he feels the same, but that’s the way it’s been for an exceptionally long time.
Ronan throws his thumb over his shoulder at the office of Carrick Byrne. “I wouldn’t bother putting too much effort into your pitch. I’ve got this one wrapped up.”
“In your dreams,” I reply, lifting my chin up, eyes sparkling with challenge. “Prima hasn’t beaten my firm out of a bid in forever. I hope you don’t mind the bitter taste of loss.”
Stepping in closer to me and lowering his voice so the receptionist doesn’t hear the derision in it, he murmurs, “You’re kind of cute when your ego comes out to play. But we both know you’re a has-been. A wannabe. In fact, everyone in our circle knows you’ll never amount to much either here or back home. But yeah… cute that you still think you can be good at something.”
A low growl rolls in my chest, but I suppress it. He’s trying to goad me into a reaction, and I won’t give it. I’ve learned how to let those things roll off my back because people like Ronan mean nothing to me.
I don’t even want to inform him of all my achievements since starting at Carson Dell. It would be nothing more than braggadocio, and over the years we’ve gone head-to-head, we’ve both won our fair share of battles.
But he’s not going to win this one.
“Miss Thompson,” the receptionist says, and I glance over my shoulder. She nods toward Mr. Byrne’s door. “He’s ready for you now.”
Nodding my head curtly, I merely say, “Ronan.”
It’s a simultaneous acknowled
gment of our run-in and a farewell as I sidestep him to enter Mr. Byrne’s office. I don’t look back, but I can feel his eyes on me, which I know are heavy with disdain.
Which is fine.
I feel the same about him.
Giving a slight tap on the door, I open it and peek my head in. Carrick Byrne’s office is massive. Large enough to hold an executive desk with guest chairs, a grouping of furniture to sit casually on including a couch, love seat, and two wingback chairs, and a conference room table that can seat eight. The walls are lined with built-in cabinets tastefully filled with books and what I guess are expensive pieces of art. He has a SmartBoard mounted on one wall, which I knew he would have because I had inquired. Most big companies have them in abundance, and I’ll be able to broadcast my entire pitch up on the wall so he can see it clearly and hopefully be impressed with the effort I went to on this campaign.
The man himself is sitting on the edge of his desk—more like leaning with his butt cheek on it, one leg bent and the other planted firmly on the floor—while reading over a document. I have never met Carrick Byrne before, but I’d recognize his face anywhere since he’s Seattle’s richest man as well as its most eligible bachelor.
Admittedly, for a moment, I’m a bit star-struck to be in his presence. His photos and media clips don’t do him justice. If he ever loses all his money, he could make serious bank as a professional model. His face is all chiseled angles that are perfectly aligned, yet don’t come off as soft or too perfect. His dark hair is long on top, short on the sides, and swept back into perfect waves from his face. I’d say he’s got more of a rugged look, especially set off by his thick eyebrows and a golden tan, both of which draw attention to eyes of a very unusual gold color. I’m sure they categorize it as brown on his driver’s license, but they are so light, they could pass for gold.
“Miss Thompson,” he says, lifting his head from the document he’d been reading. He stands from the desk, flashing a genial smile. “I’ve heard a lot of great things about you from Tim Carson.”
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