The Blood of the Lion Page 2

  But the damage was already done. The incident had erupted what little peace remained among the citizens. It had taken everything to silence the people and keep them in place, but as the land grew more dangerous, Morei now faced an even bigger problem. A problem that he thought might be the reason behind all these disturbing incidents. It was this letter before him that stared mockingly at him like some twisted joke. Morei reached forward and slid the yellowed parchment closer, the noise awfully loud against the mahogany desk. He forced his eyes down at the cursive, which was elegantly and intricately written, though the message itself was clear. The entire country was in danger.

  Biting back a string of curses to the Gods, he read the letter over again in the silence of his study.

  The Gods won’t help you, and neither will the sharpest sword. Sorréle will fall before the next summer, and in the ashes that remain, a new empire will rise. An empire that will be greater than anyone has ever seen. This isn’t a warning—this is your chance to say goodbye to the world you’ve known.

  –The Nameless One

  Morei let go of the letter and reached for another drink. What he was really trying to do was drink his way into an answer, but so far, it hadn’t worked. It was foolish, yes, but under the circumstances, he needed some way to relax. Just yesterday, a woman had run into the town square, screaming that her floor was cracking open and demons were crawling out by the hundreds. Soldiers had tackled her and dragged her into the dungeons. Within the hour, she had suffocated herself by wrapping the shackles around her neck when no one was looking. But the damage had been done, and his citizens were freaked out. All throughout the city, Morei heard reports of wooden posts being erected with sage tied to the tips and written prayers nailed to the wood. Hordes of people were amassing in the town center, engaging in group prayer sessions and crossing their hearts with their fingers in a traditional fashion. All cried out to Greve, their God of Strength.

  So far, it hadn’t worked. Morei wished he could say he was surprised, but he wasn’t. The Gods hadn’t been there for him when he lay dying on some old dusty floor, so why would they show now? It was a bitter thought, one shadowed in shame, because to doubt the Gods meant to doubt the very culture he lived in. But how else was he supposed to justify the abandonment of them when he needed them most?

  It was his duty and his alone to protect the citizens, not that of the Gods.

  Morei wanted nothing more than to cast this letter aside in a fire and watch it burn. He wanted to laugh it off and accept it as joke that someone had pulled to try to scare him. But it wasn’t, and deep down in the pit of his stomach, he knew that. This was a threat to the entire country—but from who, he didn’t know. Morei didn’t know anyone who wielded that kind of power, but he surely wasn’t calling their bluff either. Given the circumstances of the last five weeks, it would have been foolish to think that this letter wasn’t somehow tied to it all.

  But that was what worried him the most. Was this Nameless One responsible for what was happening in Sorréle? And if so, why?

  When Peter, his chancellor, had handed him the rolled letter and said that it was addressed for him, Morei had asked the obvious question of who it was from. Peter hadn’t been able to give him an answer. In that moment, a cold hand had reached into Morei’s chest and gripped his heart so tightly, he had been certain it would burst. The information that followed had been enough to make his skin crawl.

  The letter had been delivered from a strange man, emaciated from likely weeks of travel on foot. When he had handed the letter to the nearest soldier, the man’s eyes had rolled back and he had dropped dead—a sign of a cruel energy bond. It was an unsettling revelation because it meant whoever The Nameless One was could break a man’s will and warp their mind. It was a dark practice and forbidden in Sorréle. But it was the kind of energy manipulation Morei was fascinated by and spent countless nights reading on.

  The commoners called that kind of work black magic along the streets, a manifestation of one’s pledge to Sekar, the Dark Lord himself. The proper name was Dark Energy, and to wield such power didn’t take a sacrifice to the Gods—it took a sacrifice of one’s sanity. Wielding Dark Energy and conquering it could give one the ability to manipulate the raw elements of the world—fire, water, wind, and the metals within the ground. Such a strength would make one indestructible. A king of kings. A God to mortals. A God to the divine, for not even the Gods would touch power so dangerous.

  It would make the wielder untouchable.

  A knock on the door pulled Morei out of the depths of his thoughts. “Who is it?”

  “Peter, Your Majesty.”

  Nodding to himself, Morei called back, “Come on in,” and poured another glass of Kendell’s Milk. The sweet liquor was strong and could bring any man to his knees, but for Morei, it did nothing except remind him that he wasn’t entirely human anymore. Ever since that awful night, he had changed. He was stronger than any warrior, and faster; he healed at an increased speed, and could drink for six men without feeling anything. With this, his ability to harvest energy had also increased. No longer did he feel the wave of fatigue strike him when he manipulated energy to his bidding. While the feeling was exhilarating, it was terrifying. Morei didn’t know the limits of his new strength, and all these changes were only reminders that his body wasn’t entirely his anymore.

  The door opened. Peter stepped in, but kept it cracked behind him. The large man brushed a red lock of hair out from his eye and blinked a couple of times. “A bit dark in here, don’t you think?”

  Morei sipped on the liquor, drinking down the nerves that always flared when he was in the presence of someone else who didn’t know his secret. “Fine by my standards.” Truth was, he could see crystal clear down to the scratch that faintly lined the right edge of his desk. Someone had unsuccessfully tried to buff it out when his father had ruled.

  The chancellor pursed his lips and nodded. “Very well.” Peter cleared his throat then, and Morei recognized the behavior as nerves. Whatever he was about to say was not good. “As promised, I told you I would fetch you . . .”

  Morei slowly nodded, his thoughts racing. Was it another madwoman running about like yesterday? “Go ahead.”

  “Soldiers have already contained the situation, but they have not approached the woman,” Peter began. The chancellor always had a way of trying to start a bad conversation with a positive perspective. It drove Morei crazy, but he bit his tongue for the moment, waiting for the rest. “The woman has conducted a blood sacrifice to Sekar.”

  Morei’s muscles tensed at the mention of the God of Darkness. “Are you sure?” It was a dumb question, but he couldn’t help himself. There were strange occurrences plaguing the lands—anything pertaining to that, he could wrap his head around, but this was different. This was against Geral law and the practice of Drügale, the Vorelian religion.

  Peter met his eyes and gave a curt nod. “Yes, Your Majesty, I am sure. The woman looks mad and was speaking in some strange tongue I have not heard before, likely part of whatever she’s touched with. It was a goat that was slaughtered.”

  Morei stood, forgetting all else. “How many people saw?”

  “A few hundred, and they are still there,” the chancellor said solemnly.

  Cursing, Morei drank down the rest of the liquor in a clean sweep and set the glass down with a deafening ring. He checked his belt, ensuring he had his sword, and stepped around the desk. “Why didn’t you kill her already? Something like this shouldn’t be put on display.” His words were harsher than he intended, but he didn’t apologize. What they were dealing with was evil and rancid; it would spread like an illness over the city. It needed to be eradicated as quickly as possible.

  Peter cleared his throat. “As you requested, I am to come for you if anything like this happens.”

  There was no animosity in his words, but Morei still felt them as a stab. He chose to
ignore it though, biting his tongue instead. “Then let’s be off before the rest of the city sees this.” As he approached the chancellor, the large man didn’t move out of the way. Instead, he dropped his eyes to the letter on the desk behind Morei.

  “You’ve been drinking,” Peter noted. “The letter must be good if you’ve pulled out Kendell’s Milk.”

  There were times when the chancellor’s observations were useful, but now was not one of those. “It’s an endearing letter to the people of Geral. They wish us a good season,” he replied with a cold sarcasm as he met the redhead’s bright-blue eyes.

  But the damn chancellor didn’t move. He knew Morei too well. “How bad is it?” His voice had dropped three levels to near a whisper.

  There was no way of escaping this. Morei had had full intentions of speaking to Peter about the letter, but not right at this moment. Stepping out of the way, he gestured at the haunting letter from behind and let Peter sweep it up and read the beautiful cursive.

  A handful of heartbeats passed. Too long for one read over, so Morei knew Peter must have been rereading it to ensure he had seen those threatening words right. Finally, the chancellor dropped the letter as if the paper had burned him to the touch and met Morei’s gaze with a somber look. “Do you think . . .?” He trailed off.

  “That this Nameless One perhaps is responsible for what’s been happening?” Morei finished the question and shrugged, but remained tense. His shoulders bothered him from how tightly wound up he was these days. The muscles would lock up if he sat for too long or hunched over a book. “Possibly, but there’s no way to prove it. Still, we should take extra precautions around the city.”

  The chancellor motioned to the door, and Morei gladly stepped out, though the act was accompanied by a fleeting sense of anxiety. Staff members and soldiers walked about his halls, and as always, that meant the potential that one of them could see what he was hiding, what he really was. As Peter closed the door behind them, four Geral soldiers took up positions behind the pair, and they began to walk down one of the grand halls.

  Generations of Geral crests stared back at Morei along the stone wall, each one modified to be slightly different. The generation before had given the rearing lion red eyes, while the one before that had elongated the beast slightly, making it almost disproportionate. Now, the proud animal reared with a fierceness that resembled what the Geral family had built the city on: strength and resilience. And without the cartoonish red eyes. Morei would go to his grave ensuring the current lion—engraved in black with a sketched artistic style—stayed as long as it possibly could.

  The sound of scraping metal and boots echoed behind them as they walked. Peter spoke first, his voice weighted by the daunting letter. “You will have to tell the council about this at the meeting today.”

  One thing Peter was good at was following rules—he’d been born and raised that way, and felt they were necessary to keep order. Morei disagreed with this philosophy. Some rules were good, others unnecessary, and some meant to be broken. This was a case where he would have avoided telling the council about the letter, at least until he had more information. But if that were discovered, he could be considered as having acted against the good of the people, and that could get him voted out. Right now, all this letter would do would stir the pot and get everyone scared. It was a reality he had to live with, though, especially with Peter on his heels. “I know.”

  They were a country on the verge of war. A country that reeked of distrust and violence. Ever since the rumors of the demons, dying crops, and strange creatures, the royal families of Sorréle had begun pointing fingers at each other. Diemon, in the north, had gone as far as to believe that King Drexis of Caster was the Demon King conducting all this madness. It was comical given the king’s older age and long reign already, but Morei didn’t laugh. The accusations only reflected the darkness that was sweeping through the lands.

  And now a letter from this Nameless One threatened the very existence of Sorréle. How could Morei even begin to amass an army to protect themselves and the other three royal families if they were too busy pointing fingers at each other? If he presented this letter to them, they would turn on him and say he forged it in an attempt to trick them into pledging fealty, so that he could raise an empire and rule the entire country.

  The last thing he wanted was to cause war, but if war kept his city alive and thriving, then he’d do it. Sometimes sacrifices were necessary. As a king, Morei knew that, but he wasn’t sure he was ready for the task at hand if it meant his secret being revealed. Though, the thought had tickled his mind on occasion in the late hours. If the royal families turned on him and his city was threatened, he’d reveal himself. He’d have to. The revelation would likely cripple Geral, but only momentarily, because once the citizens realized he wasn’t some monster with horns, but simply a man trying to keep the city alive, they’d stand with him. That was what he wanted to tell himself, at least, but the thought still made his stomach turn in knots. There was also a massive chance the city would revolt against him.

  No matter how he approached this, Morei knew there would be steep consequences. Yet it seemed regardless of how he felt, the certainty that he would have to tell the people the truth of himself loomed closer every day. The only thing that gave him confidence was that people were survivalists. They wanted to stay alive, and if they believed he could guarantee that—not that he knew how to guarantee a future at this point—then they’d have to trust him, and he could prove himself along the way.

  Even if he had to bleed to do it.

  A Walk with Fate

  The Demon Killer. The most-wanted dagger in history. And Syra had it, tucked in its midnight-black sheath that was scripted with strange runes no one could even dare try to read. The hilt was embedded with rubies, so she had wrapped it with a red cloth to protect the blade from unwanted eyes. Then she had hidden it underneath her cloak, so that even the most curious person didn’t notice the ancient sheath. She had not asked for the blade, but fate had chosen differently.

  Syra tugged at her black hood, pulling it farther down and hiding her features from the majority of the public as they passed a small group of laughing women wringing clothes out. It was safer that way. With the most dangerous weapon in the world, Syra had to be cautious, no matter where she was. There was no one she trusted, save for the two who had accompanied her on this journey. The blade could destroy cities and make a king an emperor.

  That meant one thing: don’t get caught. Syra had a bounty on her head. It had carried over from Sorréle in the west after they had run into a couple who recognized her from sketches in Whale Village just north of here. It was bad news. Syra had really believed that once they landed in Diyrặ, things would be calmer, but they hadn’t been. King Drexis must have sent ships with her sketches east toward the neighboring country after she fled on horse.

  The question now was how many people here knew of her and the Demon Killer. The bounty sketches didn’t outright state the nature of the relic; that would cause mayhem. All they said from the few Syra had seen was that she was armed with a weapon, dangerous, and owed a large sum to Caster. The bounty for capture alive would be large enough to sustain a family for four generations. It was all the reason in the world to cast aside day jobs and go hunting for the girl with fire-red hair and green eyes. It wasn’t like she was hard to miss with those features— hence the cloak.

  The dirt crunched underneath Syra’s boots, creating a methodical tune that captivated her thoughts. The sun was high in the sky, close to midday, and just off to the right, the water lapped lazily along the shore. The Gulf of Beritisian was crystal blue, a hidden gem tucked away from the fierce ocean waters of the Merrél Sea. The air smelled like back home in Sorréle—salty, moist, just like the sea. It triggered hints of Syra’s childhood, of a time simpler and purer, when her biggest worry had been what she would eat for dinner.

  They walked
along the outskirts of the infamous Nighthunter Federation, away from the majority of the public. Rumor had it that the Nighthunters were black market assassins and some of the best in the world, striking deals with the highest bidder. Based on the look Kar had given her when she brought that up, it was true. They were a dangerous group because no one was protected, not even royalty. If someone paid enough, anyone was a target. But they covered their trail by being a sanctuary for anyone who needed clemency. No crime could be committed on the Federation’s ground. Doing so resulted in death by execution, no exceptions. It was this law that Syra and her friends hoped to lean on when they were being hunted.

  Friends, she pondered, letting the thought dig its claws into her mind.

  They were more than that. They had saved her life. Friends were inconsistent and never there when she had needed them the most. Kar and Dryl were different.

  They also weren’t entirely human.

  As the stories went, Guardians of Death were once mortal boys, taken from their families at a young age. Usually it happened when a boy was abandoned by his family due to unforeseen causes, but rarely, the boy was taken when he still had a family. These boys, like Kar and Dryl, were brought to the Soul Realm—the underworld—and trained for countless summers until they were nineteen summers. Then they underwent the excruciating Commitment Ceremony, which bonded them with a weaker demon and gave them extraordinary abilities, like immortality, enhanced strength and healing properties. If a Guardian in training was an exceptional Energy Harvester and lived through the ceremony, that ability too was enhanced. But all at a cost.

  Their skin turned to pale blue, and once normal-colored irises shifted to a crimson red. Their bodies became etched in what was simply deemed the Marking, an ancient tribal symbol of their Guardianship. The process to get the Marking was a secret to Syra, and no matter how many times she asked, Kar or Dryl never gave her an answer. They would not speak of it.