Dedication
To you, the reader.
You can do anything.
An Heir Comes to Rise
Copyright © 2020 by C.C. Peñaranda
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Published by Lumarias Press
www.lumariaspress.com
First Edition published February 2021
Map Design © 2020 by Chloe C. Peñaranda
Cover illustration © 2020 by Alice Maria Power
www.alicemariapower.com
Cover Design © 2020 by Whimsy Book Cover Graphics
www.whimsybookcovergraphics.com
Edited by Bryony Leah
www.bryonyleah.com
Identifiers
ISBN: 978-1-8382480-2-4 (eBook)
ISBN: 978-1-8382480-1-7 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-8382480-0-0 (hardback)
www.ccpenaranda.com
Contents
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
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Epilogue
Pronounciation Guide
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
In Ungardia, not even dreams were safe.
In fact, it was the one place humans and fae found themselves equal in their vulnerability. To fall asleep was to risk their minds falling to the mercy of the invading Nightwalkers; to be unaware of their chilling presence.
Such creatures, or anyone blessed with magick abilities, were born of the immortally supreme fae. A dark, invisible force among their ranks, the Nightwalkers possessed the telepathic ability to enter a person’s unconscious mind and access their thoughts and memories, allowing them the deadly capacity to kill from within. To Nightwalkers, the mind was a playground of secrets and lies, and it was their eternal delight to release such thoughts from harmless containment and condemn their unwitting host.
Everyone has skeletons in the closet, and those who claimed otherwise were usually the ones with the most to hide.
Though rare, there were enough uniquely gifted fae in Faythe’s home kingdom of High Farrow that the humans in the impoverished outer town did not revolt against the king or those living a life of luxury within the high inner-city walls. The imperious fae cast the humans out as though they were no more than dogs with the dreary town dwellings as their kennels, where they lived in fear of their immortal superiors. Uprising for equality would be futile. And fatal.
It was unusual to see the fae outside the wall for any reason other than work. There were no sights to behold in the old chipped brown buildings and uneven paths of the outer town, and nothing of interest in the very few amenities. The only regular sightings Faythe was used to were the fae guard patrols, though she could never be sure if they stalked the streets to protect the humans or as a further measure to control them.
The fae saw Faythe’s kind as only useful for work; to be exerted until they died undertaking the tasks that kept the city and towns running, cycling on through generations. To an immortal, human lifespans were no more than a slight shift in time.
The inner city wasn’t completely cut off to Faythe’s kind, however. Some of them sought out work behind the fortification for better pay than anything they could get in the outer town, but humans needed unique or sought-after skills to be employed by the fae.
Faythe had no such skills. Her role was simply that of an assistant to a bustling bakery stall in the main town of Farrowhold’s market square. She spent her days making runs from the home where Marie’s daughters baked delicious goods to the prime spot on the square, occasionally making personal deliveries too. The pay was miserable, but it was made up for by a couple of breads and pastries she would get to take home each evening.
She had never desired to work within the inner city, nor did she envy those who were deemed worthy enough to. She would rather suffer her long, grueling days and petty coin than be constantly looked down upon and forced to work for a pompous, arrogant immortal.
Faythe shuddered at the thought of immortality. Why anyone would want to live more than one lifetime in this sad, war-stricken world was beyond her comprehension. She supposed their opulent lifestyle offered more to be desired. Yet the fae were an unforgiving, power-hungry people, and despite her fair share of sleeping rough on an empty belly, Faythe was glad she wasn’t one of them.
This workday was particularly busy. The merciless summer sun beat down, testing Faythe’s strength by mid-afternoon. She was slick with sweat and panting, returning with her fourth run of pastries already.
“Grace says she’s out of apples to make any more tarts today.” Faythe set down the tray assortment, wiping her brow with the back of her sleeve.
Marie huffed her disappointment. Apple tarts were her best seller and Faythe’s favorite.
“Well, we’ll have to make do, I suppose.”
Marie was a natural with the customers, always cheerful and smiling, which was probably why Faythe was hardly ever asked to work the front. It wasn’t that she was unapproachable or hopeless, but Faythe was an open book with her emotions, and that never fared well with clients who were less deserving of Marie’s warmth. Marie was also a generous woman and often felt guilty about the small sum she could afford to pay, but Faythe understood. Money was tight for most people in the outer town.
A lot of the small trades were stuck in a circular chain reaction. Workers were not able to be paid enough, and as a result, goods had to be sold at a far lower price than they deserved since no one had much left to spend by the end of each week.
“I have a couple of boxes ready for delivery!” Marie shouted to the back over the clamor of the midday crowd.
Pushing herself up off the crate she’d sat on for a few seconds, Faythe forced down a groan to collect them, her legs and feet starting to ache. Despite being in Marie’s employment for two years, she never thought it got physically easier.
“And be quick! Mrs. Green likes her pies still warm,” Marie grumbled, trying t
o balance multiple tasks of packing and serving at once.
With arms full, four deliveries to make, Faythe set off down the bustling streets. She knew the winding stone paths of Farrowhold better than anyone. To prove her point, one evening, her closest friend Jakon had even challenged her to a game of hide-and-seek, blindfolded. Faythe had maneuvered every corner, turn, and discarded crate like a graceful alley cat, and with her other senses forced to be on high alert, it didn’t take long to track him down.
She considered herself too old for such games now, instead spending her free evenings sparring with Jakon in the square when trading ceased for the day, leaving it a quiet, ambient space to let loose from their stresses. They could never afford real swords. Jakon worked on the town farm and would steal broom handles to split in two every time they whittled the ones they had into twigs. Faythe had been trying to put aside what she could to buy a real blade one day, tired of hearing the thump of wood in place of the singing steel she longed for, but by her calculations, it would take most of a year to save for even a basic model.
After weaving her way through crowded streets and making her pleasant but swift stops, she still had one delivery left: the Greens’ mill. Faythe added a slight skip to her step as she made her way there. It was always a comforting place for her as her mother had labored for Mrs. Green many years ago. After her death, Faythe would always find solace within the old decrepit building she was dragged along to as a child. Her mother had to fight against Faythe’s protests every morning to get her to come along, but it was there she met Reuben, the mill owner’s son. The once shy and timid boy with curly blond hair and dimples became a lively, playful spirit with Faythe’s pestering for someone to play with. It wasn’t long before she was more reluctant to leave than to go.
Once a week, Faythe would look forward to this delivery. Mrs. Green had remained a regular customer of the market stall bakery for years, though Faythe knew it wasn’t only the delicious pies that kept her ordering; it was a way for both of them to keep her mother’s memory alive. She purposely made her previous stops a little quicker than usual to have a few minutes spare to spend with Reuben and Mrs. Green.
Rounding the corner to the mill, Faythe slowed her brisk pace when the large off-white structure came into view. She almost halted at the sight of a dark, looming figure emerging from the dainty front door.
He was cloaked and hooded—an oddity considering the suffocating summer heat—but that wasn’t what made Faythe stumble in her tracks. The figure was tall and broad, way too much so to be like any of the men in town. Any human men at least. Faythe couldn’t see this man’s ears—to glance their delicate points that would confirm him as fae—but his stature alone made her think he was of immortal nature.
Faythe fought the urge to retreat as he glided toward her. She wanted to avert her eyes; to look at the ground and not pay any attention as he stormed forward. There was no other route to or from the mill without them crossing paths. Yet her eyes were fixed, compelled to track him. Her heart became the only sound, pounding loud in her ears in anticipation of the foreboding danger. She’d grown up with an instilled fear of the fae. Everyone had.
He advanced closer, and Faythe tried to catch a glimpse of his face in her curiosity to learn more about the strange male who held a poise different to any of the patrol she’d seen. He didn’t march and stand intimidating like the others; he was elegant in his movement and inconspicuous in his demeanor. It was clear he didn’t want to be noticed.
Faythe rarely looked twice at any of the fae guards who were a regular sight on the streets of Farrowhold. She found most of them to be carbon copies of the same brute force. But her intrigue was sparked by the mysterious fae stranger in front of her.
She expected him to float past without any acknowledgment of her, as they all did in their ignorance. Then, as he came a foot away, his head tilted upward, eyes locking directly on her. Their emerald color was striking, revealing deeper vibrant hues as he angled his head to the side and they caught the rays of the sun.
Time slowed in that second, or perhaps it was her heart as the loud thud faded to a distant hum. She thought she saw the same look of inquisition in his own eyes when they narrowed a fraction. Then he passed her completely in one long stride, and Faythe was broken from her trance.
She didn’t realize she’d stopped walking until she took a long, conscious breath and her surroundings came into clarity once more. She dared a look back, but the streets behind were empty, and he’d disappeared like a ghost in the wind.
When she faced her destination again, realization struck Faythe. What reason would a fae have for being at the Greens’ mill? Panic set in, and she pressed forward once again with a hurried pace.
Faythe didn’t bother knocking as she rushed through the mill door. The aged floorboards cried loudly with every desperate step to locate Reuben and his mother. She couldn’t call out for her worry.
In the large kitchen, she halted. Her relief at finding them was short-lived when she beheld the desolate look on Mrs. Green’s face and noticed her eyes glittering with tears. Reuben had his back to her, but when he turned, his face was ghostly pale.
Her heart dropped at his solemn expression in place of his usual quirky smile.
None of them spoke for a painfully long moment. When she couldn’t stand the suspense any longer, she choked out, “What’s wrong?” The pie box in her hands became a heavy weight, and she set it down on the nearby table before taking a step closer to her friend.
Reuben opened his mouth to speak, but it moved without any sound as if he was struggling to comprehend the news.
“I—I have to leave,” he finally got out in barely more than a whisper.
Faythe’s frown deepened. “What do you mean? Reuben, what do they want with you?” she asked in urgency.
He shook his head. “I’m so sorry, Faythe. I did what I thought I had to. I… They threatened me in the woods, said they would kill you all if I didn’t.” He stumbled with ghostly terror.
Faythe clenched her trembling fists to hide the betrayal of her fear. She had yet to hear the rest of what had him so horrified.
“What did the fae want?” she pressed again through a shaky breath.
His look turned grave. “He was a Nightwalker,” he said. Faythe’s eyes widened, but she allowed him to go on without interrupting. “He…he came by to warn me, tell me to leave, before the king has one who isn’t so forgiving bring me in. I’ve been spying information for Valgard—they cornered me in the Dark Woods some weeks ago. They asked me to find something, a stone of some kind, apparently hidden within High Farrow. I…I didn’t find it. I…didn’t…” Reuben trailed off, acknowledging the foolish and life-threatening act he’d committed.
His confession suffocated the air in Faythe’s throat and struck her heart into an uneven rhythm. Of all the things she imagined his woes to be, this never even made the list.
Faythe had never left her home kingdom of High Farrow, but the histories were common knowledge. All children were raised with the lore through stories and song. She and Reuben even had lessons together as children in this very mill about the dangers and threats of the centuries-old war in Ungardia that still remained unresolved.
The nefarious kingdom of Valgard, east off the coast of the mainland, had waged conflict on the rest of Ungardia over five hundred years ago. The mainland divided its territory between five kingdoms: High Farrow, Rhyenelle, Olmstone, Dalrune, and Fenstead—the latter two having been finally conquered by Valgard over a century ago during the great battles. They had tried and failed to take the former three, who now held a close alliance. But the overhanging possibility of another great battle made everyone afraid.
Faythe’s confusion and suspicion piqued, and the emerald eyes of the male outside flashed to mind. It was not often the fae offered mercy to her kind, and what Reuben spoke of was treason. King Orlon Silvergriff of High Farrow had his Nightwalkers rooting out those accused of such crimes to be sentenced to
death immediately.
“What are you going to do?” Faythe had no answers, and she didn’t expect to receive a useful solution.
Though he was a man now, Reuben still held onto his innocence. He was easily led, and his response to fear and pressure had always been to submit rather than fight. As much as Faythe had tried to whack the opposite into him through her brutal pestering to play with weapons and spar as children, it had always been Faythe’s idea of fun, and Reuben’s idea of torture.
“I—I don’t know, Faythe. I’m scared.”
At his tone of defeat, something in Faythe awoke: a need to help him in any way she could. She rattled through her mind trying to think of any possible resolve to save her friend’s life. Fleeing would be no easy task—High Farrow wasn’t the only kingdom with Nightwalkers in their royal service. He could be rooted out in any of the mainland kingdoms for treason.
Then one name sang above the rest in dawning: Lakelaria.
It was the one mighty kingdom that had remained clear of battles through the centuries. Lakelaria stood as its own great island to the west and was guarded by the wicked Black Sea, commanded by the queen herself, who was rumored to be the oldest ruler in the seven kingdoms of Ungardia—and the most powerful. Not much was known about the people or lands of Lakelaria. They had closed off their borders long before the conflicts started five hundred years ago and only allowed trade routes to remain open.
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