A Curse of Blood and Power: A Chronicle of Fanhalen

  NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as „unsold and destroyed“ to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publishers has received any payment for this „stripped book“.

  First edition in English 2021

  Copyright © 2021 Viviene Noel

  © All rights reserved. No part of this work is to be reproduced, distributed, or processed in any form, electronically, digitally, or physically without written and authorized consent from the author.

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  Copyright © 2021 Viviene Noel

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  16 months ago

  Kingdom of Elgona, village of Sar‘gona.

  Autumn had turned the lands into shades of brown and orange, leaving trails of leaves as the trees shed their coats on the blood-soaked grounds of Elgona. In the outpost town of Sar’gona, Delia Shàr squared her weakening shoulders to fight her last battle.

  The woman in front of her looked so young in the morning mist, so delicate; a face of innocence that baited all at first, a siren song to any beholder. Yet her eyes, that blood-red, burning gaze was old and lost; a depthless, swirling pit of the atrocities her soul was dealing with. She stood utterly still, a predator unfazed by her environment, a force of nature born with a gift to strike terror into the heart of her prey. That power enveloped her as she let the tendrils of shadowfire free.

  The heir was dancing on the thin rope separating salvation and destruction, and Delia was too aware of the power one wrong word could unleash. She took a hesitant step, ignoring the darkness spreading around her, her wrinkled hands held out before her.

  ‘You are not the monster they want you to be, Malhaeven. I am not afraid of you, but they are.’

  Malhaeven angled her head to the side, her eyes darkening.

  Delia moved closer, coating her voice with the soothing melody gifted to her kind. ‘Your mother fears your difference, it threatens her plans.’

  Delia knew her last breath was coming at last; the purpose of her life had been fulfilled, she would accept her end. Yet, if there was the slightest chance to keep the heir from destroying the remnants of humanity lingering in her soul, she ought to try. ‘The turmoil in your heart, the pain, the unbearable emptiness—it can be eased.’

  Her faith in Malhaeven’s ability to control her nature held, even if her grief had caused such suffering already. Delia had always believed in her. Despite the monstrosities the princess committed, despite her soul’s needs, there had always been a greater power at play within her.

  Meeting Malhaeven’s mocking stare, she threw her last weapon. ‘Eizefel deserves better than you destroying the world she loved. She will come back to you.’

  There it was. Her last chance. Their last chance. To bring to the surface the light Malhaeven had bonded with, that anchored itself to the depths of her soul.

  The wind howled in the distance, its whistle swiping the dead leaves off the ground. Time stood still for a second, the air itself holding its breath. Delia looked for any sort of flicker in Malhaeven’s gaze, a sign of redemption, a door leading to a path of healing instead of the destruction she was ready to bestow upon all in her path.

  The girl did not so much as blink. Instead, a soft laugh rippled from her. It lit up her face, transforming the wickedness of her features into a beauty as devastating as her power. Yet the sound was rotten, sickened, a shivering melody signalling the end. A strand of night-black hair brushed across Malhaeven‘s face. It brought the glints of red out in her eyes—a sign she had just fed.

  Demented. Abandoned humanity. A thing of nightmares, plucked from the depths of the seven Hells. Deep down, Delia knew it was too late. Malhaeven’s love had been violently ripped away from her, snuffing out any light that had remained. Destiny was a trickster, but he walked hand in hand with hope as his consort. Delia couldn’t bring herself to believe that the world would end by the hand of a broken-hearted Shadow.

  With magic gone, her reservoir hit its last drop. She shed silent tears as she stood at arms-length from the dark heir.

  ‘Your desperation will taste beautiful, Story-Teller.’ With a wicked grin, Malhaeven opened her palms towards her victim.

  Delia sighed, bracing herself for the tendrils of shadowfire that leapt from the heir. She dropped to her knees as though to utter a last prayer. But there were no gods left to pray to, not anymore. In a land abandoned by all, who would understand that only Story-Tellers held the answers to all questions? Delia’s order had been chased to near extinction. Despite her exile, the life threads binding her kind snapped in her own core as their lives were taken.

  As the Story-Teller accepted her own future, she rallied the magic left within her. A tear fell from the corner of her eye.

  Hoping there was enough power left within her, she whispered, ‘With blood and in truth, you are sworn. With blood and in truth, find your queen.’ With hope the remnant of her power would reach the blood sworns of her vanished protégée, she murmured the words one last time, ‘Find your queen. Find your queen.’

  The Story-Teller lifted her eyes to the creature who held their future in her palms, a plea on her lips.

  But Malheaven only cocked her head to the side and lunged.

  16 months ago

  Kingdom of Mealdan, town of Covalis.

  The sun was high in the sky as Emmerentia collected the last logs necessary to stock the backhouse to last their first winter. In the early morning, Fàaran had finished repairing the roof of the cottage they found abandoned in the middle of a valley near Covalis. For a man claiming his building skills were tremendously lacking, he had achieved a fine finish. It had taken the two of them several months to turn the ruined farm into land they could live off.

  They had been lucky to stumble upon it in the first place, which she had to constantly remind herself of. She had been lucky Fàaran had stuck by her side throughout the last year. Not that she needed him to survive, but she would have had to face utter solitude. As much as her brother drove her to the edge of sanity, she was not ready to face this new reality alone.

  Emmerentia brought her hand to her forehead to block the sun as she approached the cottage, freshly fallen leaves crunching under her boots. A gentle, crisp wind swept through the surrounding trees. A sweet, vivid melody rising from the birds perched amongst the branches answered the breeze, dragging a smile from her face as she rounded the house. Winter was almost over, but they kept stocking wood as a precaution. Fàaran had built a small shelter for all goods that needed to remain dry at the back of the cottage. She stored the logs, locked the door and decided to take a deserved resting moment in the rocking chair on the porch.

  ‘Crippled crone style indeed,’ she sighed as she dropped in the seat.

  One of the horses neighed, cutting through the quiet. She turned her head towards the stables to see one of the goats had escaped from its enclosure. Emmerentia shrugged, flicking her braid back. The sun pierced through the clouds, casting shades of gold and orange on a landscape she pained to accept as her new reality; from the
stables to the pond, the vegetable garden and the fruit trees, to the goat enclosure and the chicken coop, this was her precious, exciting lot now. She snorted as she leaned back and crossed her foot over her knee.

  Even though she had willingly parted with her birthright and chosen her own path, selling milk and food at markets never even entered her privileged mind. She was a fighter, an adventurer perhaps, not...a farmer. Yet, she thanked her mother for forcing her to learn every aspect of running a house without servants. As much as she had snorted and protested, she realised now it was simply another skill in her arsenal that, as it turned out, had served her well.

  Farming was becoming her life. Had become her life. If anyone had presented her with the idea that this would one day be her daily routine, she would have laughed in their faces. She’d have never thought, in a million years, that listening to their groundskeeper and cook would one day be more useful than wielding a dagger. She would have bet decidedly against it, and lost the hand and all her gold with it. And—

  Emmerentia’s hands shot to her temples as a cold, writhing breeze whined at the back of her head. Uncomfortable and painful, as though someone was trying to find a way through to her brain. Grinding her teeth, she rubbed her temples hard, trying to push the hissing, intruding force out.

  ‘Shit.’ The pain intensified, fighting Emmerentia’s control over her mind. ‘Shit,’ she seethed, an angry grunt rising up her throat. It couldn’t be… All threads of magic had vanished months ago. The twin dug her nails into her temples. ‘Shit.’

  Fàaran’s voice rumbled near her, a distant echo. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Something’s trying to get in my head.’

  ‘There is no magic left in the lands. It is not possible.’

  She banged a hand on her knee and flashed her teeth at him. ‘Tell that to my head which is going to explode right about now.’

  ‘Can you hear someone?’ Fàaran crouched in front of her. ‘Is there a voice?’

  ‘It isn’t distinct.’ The only person with magical abilities she knew refused to speak to her and had banned her from her life since—

  Emmerentia refused to finish the thought, just as she refused to acknowledge the burning pit of despair within her chest. ‘It feels as though the wind is carrying barbed whispers into my skull.’

  ‘Does it seem to be a threat?’

  ‘How the hell would I know?’ she said through gritted teeth.

  ‘You’d feel a sense of urgency to grab a weapon.’

  Emmerentia only managed a shake of her head. She just felt the need to claw inside her brain and get the damned spikes out.

  ‘Then go lie down.’ He pushed himself off the ground. ‘Bashing your head in out here is only going to make it worse.’

  She flared her nostrils. He was right, of course. But the idea of lying down in the middle of the day when they were overloaded with work made her cringe.

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ Fàaran added as he walked off towards the animal enclosures, ‘I don’t want to have to stitch you up because you fainted and hit your head on a rock.’

  Emmerentia rolled her eyes despite the pain. Her brother, forever the cautious guardian. She got up and went straight to bed. As she laid down, the swirl of discomfort quieted into a layer of murky fog.

  Focusing on her breathing, repercussions of her life decisions flashed before her. She had become her own person, followed her instincts, trained hard to be the best in her calling—but at what cost?

  The sheer exhaustion of the past months settled in her bones and she let numbness take her. But as her eyelids closed, as she surrendered herself to the nightmares that plagued her sleep, a whisper slithered through the fog.

  Eizefel Castellain is alive.

  Then it was gone.

  16 months ago

  Kingdom of Amestris, The Court of Dusk.

  Hellion shot his hand forward against the wall. His knees buckled, but he steeled his legs and grunted, ‘Shit.’

  ‘What is it?’

  He waved his second-in-command off. ‘Nothing good.’

  An infuriating noise fogged his brain, whirling around in a desperate attempt to make itself heard. He quickly extended his hand to Arel and gritted out. ‘Blood.’

  Without a sound, his general sliced both their palms and slammed hers into his. The strength of her glamour melded with Hellion’s. The fog became clearer, but instead of clarifying the words, it sent an array of images through his mind. All misty, all unclear, and all with a very distinctive scent.

  The High Lord of the Court of Dusk swore low and filthy, dragging more power from his general. And when the name appeared against his closed eyes, he let out a scream of rage that had Arel stagger back and let go of his hand.

  Hellion knew what the trigger was. He knew what it meant.

  A stolen memory snaked through the cloud enveloping his mind.

  A vow someone had forced him to forget.

  The roar that broke out of him shook the entire court.

  16 months ago

  Kingdom of Valàander, The Royal Castle of Vassalis

  ‘Nava’s unit has fallen, your Highness.’

  Nepherym Vasselian bit down on her lower lip, fighting the tears that threatened to break.

  It had to be a nightmare. A long, horrible nightmare she was due to wake from soon. She lifted her head from the manuscript before her and met her general’s dark stare. ‘If my sister is gone, what forces do we have left?’

  The young princess felt her throat constrict before she realised the sob stuck within for the past few days was no longer contained. She quickly pushed off her chair and turned around to face the window.

  Idan cleared his throat. ‘We have four units left and the royal guards.’

  No, no, no.

  It could not be down to her. She was not ready. She rubbed the sweat off her small hands.

  ‘Nerreth’s unit was stationed across the bridge and—’

  At the mention of her brother’s name, the remnants of her heart splintered in her chest. She clenched her fist into the fabric over her breast, as though she could grip through skin and bone and hold the pieces together.

  It took all the will left in her destroyed soul not to scream his name. But she reeled in the fear and breathed out, searching inside herself for the bond uniting them since birth. He knew the forest surrounding the bridge better than anyone, had been punished for wandering around the edges many times, maybe...maybe he’d gotten away. Maybe all his knowledge aided him in finding shelter.

  He would come back to her. He had to.

  The princess looked out the window—at the fires burning in the distance, at the dark smoke in the sky, at the cries she could hear through the glass. So much death and despair, so much suffering for a conflict Valàander was only a casualty of. The Scholars were respected, regardless of the belittling whispers she’d heard—fanatics, lunatics worshipping gods that no longer existed. Maybe they never did. They did let them all burn without interfering. But this was a peaceful nation that kept to its own agenda with barely any interaction with the other kingdoms. Without magic, they became an insignificant speck on a map.

  Nepherym doubted the world ever truly grasped the importance of the power of infinite knowledge her people possessed. A fallen tree on the road, that was what her land represented. A mere obstacle on the path to the desired destination of a bloodthirsty and wicked nation.

  Idan’s voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘I have ordered a retreat. What are your orders?’

  The new heir apparent to the throne of the Scholar Kingdom of Valàander clamped her eyes shut. She had not been prepared for this, should not be the one deciding.

  Nepherym quietly placed a hand on the window, as though she could reach far away into those grey clouds and reduce them to embers. The cold of it numbed her hand. Her who
le family dead, for nothing. Her soul-bonded brother probably in the clutches of those creatures—or worse.

  Maybe Karaleen knew what treasures laid hidden in her city, and the destruction of it was a part of the plan she carefully laid the day the Shadow Queen, her own mother, unexpectedly died. So untimely, her death. So close to the Eight’s council, when their magic was at its peak, that it had to be a ploy.

  Nepherym slowly exhaled. She would not let those monsters get close, not an inch closer to her capital. Lands burned, people died, that was the circle of life, but the treasures held between her walls were timeless, priceless, and she would ensure they remained locked away from all who attempted otherwise.

  They would not get a finger on one of the manuscripts.

  She clenched her fists, rage and grief powering through her small body. A thread, deep within her, pulled tight, straightening her spine.

  Wiping at her eyes, she said, ‘Get everyone inside the castle gates. No one else dies.’

  She turned away from the window to face her father‘s general. The only man she trusted to hold whatever lines they had left before they were wiped out. The only man who had silently supported her rebellion against the life they chose for her, her bid for control of her future. How had they come to this?

  Nepherym held up her chin. ‘I need the Book of Bargains.’

  The noises around them vanished into oblivion as she spoke the words all Valàandari feared above all. The words most believed were solely night-time tales for children to instil discipline and respect for their traditions. Only High Scholars and the Royal family knew the truth.

  ‘There has to be another solution,’ Idan pleaded, blocking the door to the hallway, ‘your father would have never resorted to this.’ The dreadful concern on his face truly touched her. He had been her father’s right hand since she could remember, remained by her family’s side through it all. And even now that he, too, had lost everything, he still refused to let her risk herself for what their loved ones had died for.

  All gone. To protect her—little, fragile Nepherym.