“The city of Nehmai,” he said.
She beamed. “Yes.”
Nehmai was a city nestled in the Warriors’ forest, where magic budded first, and the fey protected it from the darkness that eventually split their world in two. It was the birthplace of magic. And he walked into it, wordlessly. Passing underneath the arch, the splintering of wood sounded behind them as gravity disappeared.
His scream caught in his throat as the city vanished, and they fell through time and space. Constellations erupted around him, stars glistening, hanging in the velvety sky, purple hues swimming through the midnight black. He dropped faster, the stars blurring into shots of silver light as wind stung his face, cold and intoxicating.
Whispers erupted around him, enticing, alluring: “The prince has returned. He has returned.”
The night was washed away, and he was plunged into icy, silver water; his body dragged down by unseen currents as his lungs burned for air.
Returned. Returned. Returned.
A thousand lights ignited around him as clear orbs circled the water, quizzical golden eyes shining and assessing him. He screamed, water filling his lungs, choking him. The orbs spun faster, their edges making the water shimmer as he was sucked down. Black dots danced in the edges of his vision before he broke through, cool air rushing up to meet him. Landing on a smooth cave floor Brokk gasped, bewildered as the water dissipated.
Dropping to his knees, water spewed out from his lungs and nostrils. The orbs around him broke apart in a second, each one growing and encompassing until the room around him was filled with hundreds of shimmering mirrors. The silvery light from the water speckled the floor as he looked up in awe. Far above him, above the expanse of water, the city reflected down at him.
“Brokk Foster.” A mysterious voice rang out around them.
Snapping to attention, Brokk stood, the cumasach already beside him, the petite fey having composed her face in a neutral mask.
“Who’s there?” Brokk asked.
“It’s not me you should be wondering about.”
He snarled, “What then?”
The air shimmered, that warm wind circling around him, drying the droplets of water off his skin as the voice rumbled, “We have long awaited you, Brokk.”
The cumasach flinched as she leveled her eyes with his.
Wringing his hands, he asked, “What does this have to do with me? Why am I here?”
A wind sprung around him, and a whisper of a silhouette formed in front of him. The edges were dull, no features coming into focus as the voice reverberated around him. “Let me show you.”
The room disappeared as images assaulted his soul, piercing through him. His world completely crumbled and Brokk was submerged.
The night was clear, honeysuckle floating on the evening air, filling their room with its sweetness. The window was propped ajar, as Kavan rolled, the silhouette of his wife carved out by the moon. He sighed, listening to the steady rhythm of Meera’s soft inhales and exhales. Beside her, his son’s breath was a tiny flicker in his crib, and his heart filled with every second that passed.
For so long, he had been terrified of this path, of what it meant for Nehmai. Groaning, he propped his hand behind his head, looking out to the cloudless sky, trying to find the answers laid out in the constellations. Of course, gratitude filled his heart. Of course, he could see no other way that his life could have gone. Yet, when the night swept in, that small part of himself wondered if he had made the right decision. Not for him, but for his son: What life would he lead as the Prince of Nehmai? Lord over Warriors, over magic? He smiled in the night—he supposed it would look a lot like this.
Kavan Falkov sighed, begging for his mind to settle, to allow himself to catch a few hours of sleep. The city far below him was sprinkled in fireflies drifting lazily amongst the night. Beyond that, the sad, haunting songs of the mer-people resonated from the surrounding lakes, weaving and forming a spell over anyone who was lucky to hear them.
Rolling over, his eyelids slowly became heavy, and he yawned. Meera’s fingers found his, pulling him close in her sleep, and his lips pulled up. As his eyes closed, light flared, and Kavan shot up, focusing in on the flaming arrow crackling, imbedding in their wall. Bits of wood fell off, rippling embers on their floor. He turned to Meera, and her silver eyes were wide in horror.
Far below them, the city was wrenched from its slumber, screams building and toppling over one another. Stealing a look at Meera, her features obscured in the shadows-and then he was flying. Roaring, he unsheathed his long twin blades.
“Meera, take Brokk and GO!”
Another half a second passed, and Kavan saw the wall the volley of fiery arrows slicing through the air with cruel precision. Lunging, he was in front of his wife and son as the energy exploded from his chest. The arrows slammed to a halt and were turned to dust. Kavan locked on to a figure, hood pulled back, the stranger’s dark, gleaming eyes flaring as he nocked another arrow. Kavan was born from the shadows, and he materialized in front of the attacker, his voice harsh and cold, his hands clenching around his throat. “Who are you? Why are you here?”
The stranger smiled, saying nothing.
Lunging, his steel cut through bone and muscle, a fine mist of blood covering him. Kavan turned, freezing as he took in the horror around him. Flashes of silver and gold erupted like lights being snuffed out in a flash of teeth, in a ripple of fur, in a crescendo of screams. And beyond, a man ran in the shadows.
Narrowing his eyes, Kavan was sprinting, his magic devouring everything, protecting his people, webbing out, creating a shield. Kavan veered left, as the man scaled the courtyard wall with ease, steel knives protruding from his leather boots as they dug into the marble. He followed and flickering, slammed his fist into the man’s jaw as he materialized in front of him. Blood ran freely from his split lip as the man laughed, his dark eyes lighting up in excitement.
“Kavan. I was wondering when you would show your face.”
“Who are you?” Kavan asked.
The man oozed arrogance as he smirked, looking at his trembling hands, at the chaos roaring around them, of the harsh tang of magic in the air.
“You’re afraid,” the man said.
He circled him slowly, antagonizing him. Kavan’s magic licked around him, just waiting to lash out. But the closer he looked at the stranger, his curiosity won over his viciousness.
“You, King of Nehmai, aren’t stupid. You know exactly why we are here.”
Kavan’s hands shook, and the man smiled. Far above them, a scream sounded in the night, and everything seemed to move in slow motion.
Kavan turned.
Far above, the marble tower seemed to pierce the clouds as he drank in the scene. The woman had wild hair, her gaze locking onto him as she clutched Brokk. His heart dropped into his stomach as he took in the lifeless body at her feet on the balcony.
“MEERA!” He twisted, the shock wave of his energy blasting from him, flattening the man on his back. Stalking up to him, a flash of silver caught his eye. The orb was small and pristine before it smashed against the ground. Gas seeped out, floating like a fog, then the ground shifted, and he gasped, dropping his twin blades. It was a flicker of energy, like the pull of the undertow before the wave crashed down. His breath caught, and he dropped to one knee and then another, winded, as every drop of magic left him.
The stranger mused, “Now we are short on time, but this city, this world, I don’t want it to survive anymore. My wife and I have come to ensure that. There is another couple like you—The Faes. They think they can change everything, can make sure the magic is upheld. Yet, it is a wild thing. Shouldn’t we treat it as such?”
Tears ran down Kavan’s face, as he looked up; the man was illuminated by the flames roaring around him as he came face-to-face with him.
“Your son will never know this world. He will never know you or your wife. He will never know where he came from. But he will know your power. And he will define
Kiero with it.”
The blade appeared from nowhere, and Kavan watched it slide neatly between his ribs. He gasped as it was thrust up. His vision twisted as the fire blurred into streaks, the stranger’s face swimming against it. He had no sense of gravity, as he dropped, his last gurgling breaths his reminder that time was slipping away.
The man’s breath was hot against his face. “Your son will know nothing but what we tell him. He will be nothing more than a pawn—that much I can promise.”
A strangled moan escaped Kavan, as he welcomed the void.
The stranger stood, grinning against the carnage he had created and the dead king that lay at his feet.
Brokk was snapped out of the memory, tears streaming down his face. The cumasach shifted uncomfortably, her silver eyes never wavering as the voice uttered, “Brokk.”
He couldn’t breathe. His mind scrambled, the dots connecting faster than he could digest. His heart pounded wildly as bile burned his throat. He was frozen, the blatant truth pinning him in place.
His eyes narrowed as he hissed to the empty space. “You’re lying.”
The voice chuckled. “The time for accusations rests not with us but with them.”
Shivering sweat collected at the base of his neck. He looked to the fey in front of him, addressing her. “You’re telling me what exactly?”
She walked to him, her silver gaze flaring but her voice steady. “That you, Brokk Falkov, have defied all odds. When the city crumbled, your parents’ magic died, most of the fey along with them. That’s when the myths became reality. The Warriors no longer protected and harnessed the magic. The balance was thrown. You were stolen, meant to be used for evil. Your power to be used to ensure darkness—” she exhaled, jutting her chin out “—yet here you are. The Prince of Nehmai, a prince I would happily serve until the end of immortal existence.”
He choked on his laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
But looking at her, the clarity of the situation slammed into Brokk. Heat flared up along the back of his neck, into his cheeks. Pacing, he struggled to keep his reality in check as the walls closed in.
The Oilean had lied, making Brokk believe Roque was his father, to keep his rightful title hidden away with Nehmai. To keep the knowledge of his family hidden away.
In a mere second, Brokk Foster seemed like a crumbling façade, peeling back what he was always supposed to know. His parents had loved him in a kingdom carved from magic.
That his life of being Brokk Falkov had been stripped away from him—just as Adair had stripped away his shot at a peaceful existence.
She moved in a flash, and he felt the cold steel of a blade settle against his throat.
“None of this is a matter to joke about. Our people were slaughtered. I can see it. You know the truth makes sense. But I will spell it out for you anyways. Damien Foster and Morgan Foster stole you. Why, you might ask? Well, they were power hungry, to start. They were thieves and fearmongers, and amongst the fey, children are rare. An heir even rarer. They harnessed your power with the help of that witch, Peyton. Using dark magic, they stole the essence of your abilities, leaving you for dead.”
“And Nei and Roque found me?”
She grinned, tapping the blade against his skin. “You’re catching on. Damien died when the Oliean infiltrated Kiero, but I tracked Morgan down. She has been ruling over a town of refugees—Pentharrow. But she is not our focus, young prince.”
“Of course it isn’t. And what about the Oilean? Everything they showed me, the memories were all lies?”
“Yes. There is one thing you need to know about the Oilean: They are manipulators. They hit you where they knew it would hurt. What’s worse than a father who you knew your whole life, never telling you the truth? The Oilean made you believe that you were a weapon, Brokk. They ripped out your humanity by making you feel isolated, by telling you that you and Emory were nothing more than pawns in a prophecy.
“There is nothing more dangerous than believing in your heart that you have no other option than destruction. But your true family was lost to you, until now. Your truth was lost until now.”
His voice was raw. “This means Emory and I aren’t siblings? That was a lie as well?” His eyes locked with hers and her grin widened, her eyes sparkling mischievously as she nodded.
“Exactly. You are of two royal, but very separate, families.”
Swallowing hard, he was at a loss for words, his pulse roaring in his ears.
Pulling the blade away from his throat, Brokk swallowed, wary of the cumasach and her social skills.
“What more do you need to believe? Haven’t you ever wondered why you are different? It’s not because you were given a potion that changed your DNA. Your parents loved you fiercely, and we are all that’s left. In the battle of the Academy, I was the one who helped you. You have never been alone—will never be alone,” she whispered; her voice cracking.
His gaze flicked down to his shaking hands and the liquid silver marking on them. Naithe warrior. Chosen. Marked. The air around them churned as the cumasach twirled her blade between her fingers.
“Now, are you ready to go to war?”
Shaking his head, Brokk spat, “My friends need me. Even if what you say is true, I need to know that they are safe.”
She stalled. “Your friends are on their own path. They do need you—to stop the Oilean. You are playing into exactly what they wanted, to be reactionary, to shy away from the truth. What happens if you go to them now?
“Emory is with Adair, and if the Oilean get their hands on the Book of Old, our world as we know it will end. You think Adair has caused pain and ruin over these last six years? Imagine what Kiero will look like with the Book of Old in the hands of it masters who know how to wield all its dark magic. If you leave to find the rest of your friends, then the Oilean will have won. Because you and Emory are the only people who can stop them.”
His laugh was harsh. “Right. The demons who tortured and almost killed me need to fear me? Besides, they are dead.”
The blade flew from her grip, soaring past his ear as he snapped his focus back to her.
“If you ever give yourself a chance, then yes. Your magic and my magic are like an army of ten thousand against them. And they are very much alive,” the cumasach stated.
Brokk’s chest heaved as he started to pace. “If this is true, then I have already failed.”
She was back before him, her voice soft. “If that’s true, then how are you here? Talking to me, and seeing that your world needs you? You are in a lost city, born and cleaved from magic, and you think you have already failed?” She grasped his arm fiercely. “You have just begun.”
Warmth spread through his limbs, and he cleared his throat.
“This is insane.” He shook his head.
She flickered behind him, retrieving her blade from the wall. “All the best things are.”
A dull ringing thrummed in his ears, as he weighed his options. He sighed, running a hand absentmindedly over his scars. “If I agree, do you at least have a plan?”
The voice chuckled around them. “She has had a lifetime to plan.”
Brokk scoffed. “Okay, seriously, who is the voice?”
She rolled her shoulders. “It’s an imprint of magic. Let’s just say it’s been my advisor. And my company.” Sheathing the blade, she locked eyes with him. “Now, should we go pay Adair a visit? We have a lot to cover on the road.”
He looked at the shimmering water above him, and he sucked in another deep breath. Bringing his gaze back down, he did what he had always done, would always do: He trusted his gut and followed his heart.
Sending up a silent plea to any force that might be listening, Brokk nodded. “Let’s pay Adair a visit.”
Her lips pulled up over her pointed canines as he clenched and unclenched his hands, one thought running through his mind, uncaged and uncontained. He was going to Emory. A bitter taste filled his mouth as he digested this, the weight of what sta
te he may find her in settling over him. His anger roiled as Brokk steeled his heart and prepared for the worst. His hands shook. He was going not as her brother, but just as...him. No matter what state he would find her in, Brokk would save her from Adair.
Or die trying.
Chapter Eleven
Nyx
The day had passed too quickly. Once their plan was formed, Azarius went to find Morgan and went about his normal duties while Lana went into town to warn as many people as she could.
Nyx had rested more, and now, staring in the mirror of Lana’s small bathroom with residual steam from her bath curling around her, she gritted her teeth. The clean bandages bit into her bruised, swollen skin, and dots flickered around the edges of her eyesight, threatening to take over. Get a grip. Her shaking hands finished the job binding her wound. Lana had done a great job taking care of the initial cleaning and stitches, but it hurt.
Pulling on a clean black shirt, she groaned in pain as the stiches pulled. She would get through this. She was dying for a good fight, a distraction. From her thoughts, her choices. Her demons. Which, thanks to the pain medicine, she had too much time with them as of late. Staring at her pale reflection, her vibrant, purple hair framed her hollow eyes. Was it worth it? Frowning, she turned. Nyx would not let herself go there now. She was a soldier, and she would think like one.
Bringing her hair up into a bun, tying it tight, she put on her midnight-black pants and boots. Walking out of the washroom, she glanced at the kitchen bathed in gold, the fading daylight marking how close it was for them to begin. To fight for a new future. On the round table in front of her were two sheathed blades of beautiful make. Stepping closer, she unsheathed the steel and sighed as the pale silver curved into half-moons. Nothing took her breath away like a deadly, beautiful creation. She lit up inside at the sight of their wickedness.
Stepping from the shadows, Lana appraised her. “They are blades from my home, Langther. I thought you would need them just as much as I do mine. They are feather light, perfectly balanced, and will slice through any armor, enchanted or not.”
Queen to Ashes (Black Dawn Series Book 2) Page 8
