PROLOGUE
The Spirit once existed in all creatures who lived in Armenda.
It gave life to the lifeless. Gifted those who were favored with the ability to conjure.Those with the gift could open a door within themselves and connect to the Spirit realm, drawing on its mystic energy. For a time, the world of Armenda lived in harmony, conjurors using their abilities to help their neighbors. Life was peaceful.
But that time was now long forgotten.
Like a snowflake giving way to the heat of summer, the time of peace melted into the great river of history.
Too small to be remembered against the turbulent flowing water.
Some of those living in Armenda became infected with greed that spread through the lands like a contagion. Swiftly, the differences between all beings became a reason for distrust. The peace became tumultuous until, finally, a gruesome war broke out, leading to the dark years of ashes. Like an uncontrollable forest fire, the war spread corruption and hate, suffocating those whotried to ignore it and burning those who fought. No one was spared. Gray smoke clouded the once blue skies, smothering everything that the war was fought over.
Eventually, the Spirit turned away from its creations in disappointment, but not before they shed a single tear at what had become of the once beautiful Armenda. The Spirit brought the tear to the leaders of the three races and offered one last gift, a treaty. By then, the agony caused by the war was stronger than the hatred they all felt for one another, and the treaty was accepted by all three peoples.
The treaty became the covenant that separated the three beings of Armenda for centuries to pass. The great leaders signed the agreement with their blood, sealed it with the tear of the Spirit, and then burned the treaty to ash, which was carried by the wind over the land. Afterward, the Spirit was never seen again.
From then on, the Sidhe kept to the western mountains, the Lysians to the east, and the Bavadrins in between. The leaders of each race kept the sacred promises of the treaty: never to harm a fellow leader or an innocent of another race, and to remain in their own territories unless an invitation was extended, or a message sent by the leader. To break the oaths was to ensure the wrath of the Spirit.
Stories were passed down for generations, breathing fresh fear into the young, ensuring they abided by the ancient treaty, for the price otherwise was too great.
None crossed the boundaries into territories not their own, for fear of upsetting the Spirit and bringing its fury onto their lands. For centuries, each race was believed to have kept to its own lands. The treaty was believed to be maintained by all.
For generations, those in Armenda lived with a tense peace.
Until one day, a Lysian decided to break the treaty.
1
ERIK
The guard stood before me, a silent sentinel amidst the dimly lit dungeon. He might have been mistaken for a lifeless statue if not for the steady thud of his heartbeat and the faint scent of sweat clinging to him in this suffocating stone enclosure. Unlike his talkative comrades before, this particular Bavadrin did not offer a word.
His silence hinted at a mind that functioned beyond mere idle chatter. Though I suspected it to be of small intellect, it was the brain of a Bavadrin, nonetheless.
With a deliberate glare, I turned my full attention to him, a mixture of boredom and curiosity pushing me to test his reactions. My lip curled, revealing the sharp canines beneath, a wordless threat hanging in the air. Despite my attempts to unsettle him, his heartbeat remained steadfast, his demeanor unwavering. The fool believed himself safe on the other side of these bars, unaware that Iallowedthem to confine me here,allowedthem to continue drawing breath.
With a huff, I stretched out on the hard stone bed, closing my eyes to the darkness that surrounded me. The sound of waterdripping against distant stone provided a maddening backdrop to my thoughts. Drip, drip, drip, followed by a pause, then another drip. It seemed like a symphony of relentless madness, each drop echoing through the damp dungeon. Time crawled by excruciatingly slowly, dragging its feet like an old, tired beast. With every passing minute, my thoughts continued to darken.
At first, memories of my people, my family kept me satiated. But as the minutes stretched into hours, the thoughts took a sinister turn. I found myself crafting elaborate fantasies of ways to torment the guards, whose presence only added to the rank stench of the prison.
In the recesses of my mind, I could almost hear Edmond, one of my brothers, scolding me, “Now Erik, remember why you’re here.”
For my people, for my sister,I reminded myself, repeating the words like a mantra. They were a flickering light in the darkness of the cell, a reminder of the precious reason I endured this. For my family, I would endure anything.
The scowl of the guard staring at me chiseled away at what little patience I still clung to. I turned my gaze to him, and he did not look away. Either he was brave or stupid, and I was inclined to believe the latter. He leaned his broad frame against the wall, his golden eyes filled with an unmistakable hatred that seethed from his very pores. There was something unyielding about the angles of his face.
I studied him, imagining the ways I could end the guard’s life if given the chance. Perhaps I would allow him to fight me, to see how many breaths it would take for him to realize his mistake. Despite his size and strength, his Bavadrin blood did little to match my stamina and agility. He was a lion in appearance, but a lamb in reality. The thought amused me, a dark smirk crossing my lips as I entertained the notion of his futile attempts to best me.
For my people, for my sister.
Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath, trying to find somesemblance of peace in the damp, heavy air. An irritated sigh passed between my lips. Time passed, marked only by the slow, methodical rhythm of my breathing and dripping water.
The voice of the previously mute guard cut through the air, though he did not speak to me directly. “You should not be here.” His voice carried a stern edge of disapproval.
“It’s fine, Willis,” a female responded, her tone confident but betrayed by the quickening of a nervous pulse that I could almost taste in the air.
The guard offered no reply, yet his own heart quickened. While he may not have feared for himself, he seemed concerned for her.
