The First Portents

  “The Prophet of Revelation Height is a monarch beyond monarchs, for none command fate’s whispers as she and her line. The secrets of the ages gather in her chamber, veiling her in mysteries shared only with her keeper. Faune, grant that you never seek her gaze—for it is a burden no soul should bear.”

  — Calvandrel, “The Inked Seer”

  Prologue — Part 1

  The Heights of Revelation

  "Will we survive the second coming?" Shailone asked the darkness surrounding her.

  The chamber was ancient. Immense marble columns soared into the air, supporting a massive, domed ceiling. Smooth, unadorned walls encased her, austere and beautiful but no longer wondrous to her deep brown eyes. Rugs of exquisite weave broke the monotony of the polished, ashen stone floor, while the furnishings were sparse: a scattering of bright silken pillows and a single, dark podium at the center of the room.

  The sorrowful notes of fate that raged inside her head took momentary pause when she performed the tunes of long-dead songwriters and musicians she had never, and would never, meet. Their trilling crescendos and muted diminuendos wrapped around her as memories she had never lived. Each note carried the warmth of a stranger’s soul, and in those fleeting harmonies, she felt a human connection stronger than any prophecy had ever offered. These melodies, echoes of mortal hearts, brought her rare moments of peace, joy, sorrow, love, and the bittersweet thrill of longing.

  The prophet's mosque connected via an arched, elevated tunnel to a spiraling wizard's tower. Nestled among the sheer cliffs of the Ironstone Mountains in Alissia's northern wastes, the location was aptly named Revelation Height. For all its grandeur, only two souls lived here.

  The first was the prophet. Shailone was bound to the mosque, living through time rather than in it. Her powers set her apart from the world. Living with the Sight—eternal, unblinking, inescapable. Images of futures yet to pass, voices of people not yet born, and echoes of battles not yet fought swirled unbidden through her mind. She could neither master the foretellings nor relinquish them, each prophecy a torrent of sensation and meaning that struck without warning or mercy. Her gift was also her curse.

  Words from her lips had raised empires and prophesied the birth and death of kings. "You shall..." was the phrase her visitors longed to hear. But her visions offered no glory, only inevitability. They had no patience for ambition, no sympathy for dreams.

  Few sought the prophet’s words knowingly. The wise feared her pronouncements. Only fools and madmen dared crave her attention.

  She often wondered—did they truly want to know their fate, or did they simply hope she’d be wrong? In a thousand years, Shailone had offered no prediction of importance, a trend that was about to change.

  The second resident of Revelation Height was the Keeper. Dwelling alone in the tower, Nosic embodied a blend of skills and personalities. He was charged with the safekeeping of the prophet, the maintenance of their secluded domain, and the recording of her prophecies. His mind was linked to Shailone’s, and now he felt her fear flooding his own thoughts. The force of it stole his focus for a single heartbeat, just long enough to lose control of the levitating bucket he was using to water the gardens.

  It crashed to the ground, ruining a fragile tomato plant. Nosic sighed, bent to retrieve the half-keg, and then froze. His heart thundered like a Cadean war drum. Shailone needed him.

  Within the dome, Shailone tilted her head as if listening to the wind. She felt the fates' whispers brush her neck like a lover's breath. These intimate connections were incomprehensible to mortals. But this time, the fates were not gentle.

  Pain struck like a vice. Her cry echoed through the chamber as an invisible force gripped her throat. The winds of fate raged into a frenzy, a storm born within the stone walls. Visions came in waves—horrors she could not escape. Again and again, they tore through her mind until she collapsed, hands clamped over her ears, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  "We must survive the second coming!" she screamed, her voice ragged and broken. Her body convulsed, drenched in sweat.

  Suddenly, the winds stilled. The mosque's door latch snapped. The copper-banded entrance burst open with violent force. Shailone turned. Her eyes blazed with pure white light. As she floated to her feet, a figure stepped from the darkness.

  Nosic.

  He was shaken, his breath uneven. Her torment had become his own. Floating behind him were a quill, ink phial, and parchment—ready to record the revelation.

  "I am here, sister," his voice boomed telepathically. His lips never moved, but his message rang clear in her mind.

  She drifted toward him, touched his cheek. "The time draws near, brother. Our fate lies in the cast of the die."

  Their skin shared the same rich hue, their brown eyes alike in depth. His bald head gleamed in the glow of her power. "Nosic,” she said, her voice trembling, “it pleases me every time I see you." How long had they lived in Revelation Height? Centuries? Millennia? It no longer mattered. Her purpose was finally clear.

  "The fates have sown the final seed, my brother. The last of the Chosen is born. Time slips away, and judgment approaches with a sword." Her eyes dimmed. Darkness reclaimed the room.

  "Go. Fetch your pets. We must send a warning to those wise enough to listen."

  "Can we survive?" Nosic asked within her mind.

  He doubted the people of Taolk. He had seen the world with his own eyes, traveling far before his brother—the last Keeper—had died, summoning him back to Revelation Height.

  Shailone had never left the mountain. Not once. Twice, she'd stepped outside to gaze at Taolk's twin moons. Both times, her Keepers died forcing her back inside. After Nomric's death, Nosic had found a solution. At midnight each night, the ceiling became translucent. From her prison, Shailone now watched Else and Solse journey across the stars.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Each night, a pang of sorrow struck as she greeted the celestial bodies. Her madness had never been a choice, and the wrath it birthed simmered beneath the surface, unbidden and cruel.

  Was she fated to destroy all those she loved? She banished the thought at once, true madness waited at the end of that path.

  "I cannot see it, little brother," she said. "The future is uncertain now. But do not dismiss Lord Aric's Chosen. The Maker has faith in these children. It is time we did the same."

  Nosic bowed deeply and departed to carry out her will. He showed no emotion, though doubt gnawed at him.

  Left alone, Shailone turned her thoughts to the Chosen. Their fates, so near now, were terrible beyond imagining. One memory returned to her: the birth of the first.

  How long ago had it been? A thousand years? More?

  She embraced the vision. Time no longer mattered.

  That child's time was nearly up.

  Prologue — Part 2

  The Blood of Ages

  Wind howled across the Crystal-Mist Forest, tearing through the dense canopy with primal fury. Rain, sharp as arrowheads, pelted the elven city of Raven’s Perch in thick, relentless sheets. A tortured scream pierced even the deafening gale.

  On an elevated platform, a small group of priests waited outside a solitary, vine-entwined dwelling. Their breaths held tight, they stood vigil beneath the storm. Among them stood one who did not flinch, Felixx.

  His eyes were bitter, his mouth drawn into its usual scowl. Felixx, Elder of Raven’s Perch and High Priest of Faune, was a figure both revered and feared. Master of both ancient arcane arts and modern druidic magic, he alone guarded the secrets of a forbidden tome, one cast into the void of space for its unimaginable power.

  Another scream rang out, more anguished than the last. Felixx glanced toward the dwelling but did not enter.

  Inside, Seline, his youthful mate, strained against thick, reinforced leather bonds. Since her conception, visions of death and ruin had haunted her sleep. At first, she felt it such a blessing—her child, her legacy, the natural product of her loving union. But gradually, the warnings became clear. Her wonder turned to dread. The child was dangerous, she knew. Now, whispers of madness clung to her name, and for the safety of both mother and child, she had been confined. Today, bound for the child’s protection, she writhed with fury.

  “I will not bear this child!” she screamed, wild-eyed and trembling. She spat at the slim priest chanting a hymn of blessing at her feet. “The child will split the path of elven-kind! Felixx, I know you can hear me. You must kill the child. Destroy your son!”

  The young priest said nothing. He filled a goblet with blessed water and resumed his sacred duties, face pale but resolute. He had known Seline his whole life. She and her husband were pillars of the community. They had been so happy to conceive. Thunder shook the ground beneath them as Seline sobbed, every breath ragged. Her legs trembled. Her body convulsed in pain. Then, there, the babe’s tiny head began to crown.

  The priest looked up, eyes glowing green, and offered Seline a sad smile. She returned only a crazed glare.

  “Seline,” he said gently, “your baby will need you. The time has come. Do not fight….”

  Lightning struck.

  A shrieking bolt spiraled from the storm-black sky, obliterating the shelter’s roof. It struck Seline’s swollen belly dead-on. The air hissed as power poured downward in a blinding stream. Her body arched violently; the babe emerged to the shoulders. Seline’s bonds vaporized in the light. Lifted from the bed, she glowed like a star.

  The terrified priest reached out, seizing the radiant babe in his hands. The shock wave hurled him backward, child in hand, the umbilical cord severed and smoking.

  A second bolt tumbled downward, striking Seline with an even greater ferocity. She shot into the wall with bone-crushing force.

  Flames erupted. Chaos engulfed the platform as elves scrambled through smoke and ruin. The newborn’s cries mingled with thunder and flame.

  Felixx’s howl rose above it all as he cradled Seline’s charred form to his rain-drenched chest.

  Above, the clouds churned. Lightning danced like divine wrath through the sky. Felixx looked up, his heart a drumbeat of horror, as a vortex spiraled into being directly above the babe.

  Urgency surged through him. He laid his mate’s head gently down and ran for his son at its heart.

  The priest sat where he had landed, stunned, the glowing child held in awe. The air stilled. Silence blanketed the forest. Then came the blast.

  A wave of raw, burning energy erupted from the child. Priest, shelter, platform—obliterated. Only Felixx survived, shielded at the last instant by hastily muttered words of power. The force expanded outward, flattening a quarter mile of city before surging skyward in a final, terrible gust.

  It was prophecy made flesh.

  The wind traveled on, across continents and oceans. It was the herald of Aric’s first Chosen, and it carried a warning of great strife.

  When silence finally returned, Felixx sat alone in a vast crater, the child in his arms. The elf’s eyes were cold, unreadable, locked onto the symbol etched into his son’s chest.

  A perfect teardrop, it was the mark of Aric.

  Prologue — Part 3

  The Die are Cast

  The vision faded.

  Shailone lifted her gaze to find Nosic watching her with his usual thoughtful reserve. In his hands, he cradled several small jade statues, each intricately carved in the likeness of a bird. No two were alike. Every figure represented a different kingdom of Alissia.

  These were the prophet’s messengers.

  Old magic pulsed faintly from the statues, magic from an era long buried. Their worn features bore testament to the passage of ages, a reflection of Shailone herself. Kingdoms had risen and fallen. She had watched more than one collapse into dust. Her mother had seen even more.

  "You worry he may not accept his fate?" Nosic’s voice touched her mind, the words smooth and unobtrusive.

  It was his affliction, silent speech. All their family had been marked in some way, some strange gift or curse carried in the blood. Of the twelve siblings born to their line, only three remained.

  Even after centuries, Shailone still struggled with the vulnerability of sharing her every thought. With her Keepers, there were no secrets. No sanctuary. No corner of the mind untouched. And yet... Nosic tried. He did not pry unless necessity demanded it.

  He was far more respectful than Nomric had been.

  But now, his concern overpowered his restraint. She felt his presence close around her thoughts, gentle but firm—like a hand ready to catch something fragile before it shattered.

  She did not resist.

  Offering the man a faint smile, Shailone motioned for him to sit. A polished wooden slab floated gently over, settling mid-air before him, suspended as if anchored to invisible legs, as steady as any table.

  “I worry his fate is too cruel,” she said softly. “No one deserves a life of isolation.” The words stung even as she spoke them. Resentment rose like a tide within her, too familiar, too personal.

  Nosic, focused on his task, didn’t look up. “I will send these immediately,” he said as he finished inscribing the final of six letters. He always preferred to write by hand rather than use his telepathic abilities.

  Shailone never fully understood the distinction, but she had long since learned not to interrupt when he was deep in thought. A smile tugged at his lips as he delicately folded the last letter.

  “Is there not a difference,” he mused, “between sculpting a figure and merely tracing the lines of one already made?” His eyes sparkled. Despite their mental bond, Shailone knew there would always be parts of him, of anyone, that even prophecy couldn’t reach.

  Then his tone sobered.

  “War stirs in the kingdoms. Is it wise to send warning to all? Even those who refuse the Maker and his son? You said it yourself: we must trust in Aric. Why alert those who will never heed his voice?”

  Shailone’s smile returned, sad and knowing. “Revelation Height endures only because the prophet favors no one, my brother. If Aric wills it, he can block our message from reaching ears unworthy of it. We must simply do the work given to us—and leave the rest to fate.”

  Bowing his bald head once more, Nosic gathered the letters and departed. The remaining messages floated obediently in his wake, following him through the door, which shut behind him with a soft, final click.

  Alone again, Shailone’s radiant eyes dimmed. Wearily, she lowered herself onto a crimson silken pillow. As always, solitude invited the fates’ whispers to return, spiraling lazily through the chamber like strange tempests bound to her presence. Names she would never know surfaced unbidden in her mind, but she refused to let them pull her attention from the vision she had just received.

  “Our fate rests in the cast of the die,” she whispered, the words reverberating mournfully through her ashen prison. “I believe in the goodness of Aric... but even I cannot reconcile the hell these children will endure for our sake. I pray they are strong enough for the burdens they must bear.”

  With a final effort to keep her heavy eyes open, Shailone succumbed. Sleep, the only true escape from the relentless voices, claimed her at last, carrying her into the realm of dreams and spirit.