Part 1 – VOSCHANTAI UNIVERSE
LAVEN HEPHAESTUS ARVENALDI, II
VAIGON CITADEL — REALM OF THE WOLVES
Spring has always been the season of evolution, a revival of our land and us as one. It is meant to bring prosperity; it is the time frame of beginnings, never endings—especially not endings for the innocent.
‘Where is she?’ Roaner shouts as he finds me by the sound of my feet striking into the dirt. He desperately tries to keep up. He pushes himself to remain within a small distance of me. But, even I cannot keep up with myself as I ram into a tree; my body heaves backward by numerous lengths at the strength I hit the bark.
Roaner seizes my shoulders to hold me steady. ‘Laven, where is Levora?’
He heard her scream just as I did. Of course he did.
‘I–I do not know,’ my breathing immeasurably increases as I look about the woods—scouring for a single sound of her possibly being near. ‘I do not know,’ tears fall down my face as I frantically stand.
‘Calm down,’ Roaner pleads. I try to run again, but he seizes me once more. ‘Laven! I beg of you; please calm down!’ Yet when I look at him, he is just as distressed as I am.
‘She was just here,’ I cry out as I look around once more. ‘W–we–we–’ Roaner stops me in my stutter and urges me to stall speaking.
‘Breathe,’ he nods, but all I can do is cry.
‘Where is my sister?’ I grip my hair, and Roaner stands, glancing roughly through the trees encircling us.
He breathes in the air around us, and my eyes broaden as his eyes flood in a fog of grey and orange. Then, he grasps my arm, and we ascend through the woods. We come to an abrupt stop, and his eyes return to normal as he looks down at a small trail of pink flowers messily bestrewn, and at the end of the short path lies the destroyed stem of a flower with scarcely any petals left.
It is a Snapdragon. The flower that is given and only given when a love proposal is accepted. Then, the accepter gives the flower to the proposer.
Snapdragons are captivating yet grotesque when their petals are gone—a perfect symbol of love’s most compelling and hideous moments.
We both can sense that this is where she stopped, or worse, was stopped. Her scent goes no farther than this exact placement. Yet, somehow, there is no other scent lying here, only hers.
A strangled cry flees from the depths of Roaner’s chest as he kneels next to the flower ravaged in pieces. This . . . this is what one of the symbolisms of these flowers mean—the aghast countenance on his face when love is taken away.
Roaner grips the flower stem, and it deteriorates in his fingers as he stands; the remnants of the flower fall as ash to the ground. He stares at the petals below him as his chin trembles, and the tears he defied now fall down his face.
His eyes cast toward the sky, he is shouting Levora’s name with such aggression that the trees splinter and snap around us at the growing powers of a Sorcerer within him.
Neither of us will ever be the same.
“Laven,” my companion, Amias, pulls me from my thoughts. His eyes read me with a troubled gaze, but he says nothing of it. “You and I will have training before our run with the Mandem. Will you still be attending?” He asks as I try to finish off my meal.
“I believe I would enjoy amalgamating with today’s sparring session.” Morano says as he pulls a leather band from his wrist to tie his unruly black hair away from his light brown skin.
Amias raises an eyebrow. “The three of us… dueling at once?”
“No,” Morano answers. “Roaner will join me.”
A heavy breath is released from Roaner who gives a slight shrug as he tosses a green grape into his mouth. The orange hues in his greyish-blue eyes spark in amusement, he has been waiting weeks now to get revenge on Morano for how their last duel ended.
I lean back in my chair, slouching deeper into the seat as I stretch my arms across the chairs next to me. “Are you two not assigned to be in New Quamfasi this afternoon?” I remind them of the duties I am sending the both of them on in Xenathi.
Morano mischievously smiles. “Oh, believe me, I do remember. Which is why I am stalling, but,” he raises a finger. “You could go in my place.”
I chuckle at him.
“You know why Laven cannot cross the wall, Morano.” Amias’s arms fold tightly over his chest.
“We will still get there in due time,” Roaner eases into the conversation. “We will spar first. Will we not, Morano?” Roaner’s eyes shift across the large table toward Morano, who is smirking as he looks down at the half-cut eggs on his plate.
Amias lays a heavy hand on Morano’s shoulder. “I wish you luck, and I cannot wait to watch this duel transpire.”
“It never fails for the three of you to be a pain in my ass, does it?” Morano rhetorically asks with a mouth full of eggs.
“This is what you get in return for becoming our brother, hellion behavior at its–”
I stop speaking and lean my head toward the opening dining room doors.
That familiar musky scent of the sweetest citrus and sea salt forces through the room. It is hard not to recognize the smell that has crippled me in my strongest moments.
I grip the chairs my arms are resting on, all it does is gain unwanted attention as the wood begins to quietly crack within my palms.
Morano’s eyes shoot in my direction, drawing more attention to me. I urgently remove my hands from the wood and push them through the curls in my hair.
“Oh! I–I did not know you all were still eating; I can come back later.” Maivena flushes, quickly backing away. Her long dark curls project over her shoulder as she sharply turns through the doors to leave.
“Ah, no worries over it. We were just finishing up here. We will be on our way.” Amias stands, sending the servant a cordial smile. She does not see it; she never does—only because no servant is allowed to look a royal in the eye.
“Is this your obligation to clean the dining hall?” I raise an eyebrow.
Her fidgeting begins.
She will lie.
Maivena never tends to the dining area. It is an elderly servant that cleans this room, Miss Rovelle, to be precise.
“Yes,” she answers.
I smirk and stand as Amias, Morano, and Roaner leave the room and I follow.
As I stop at the door, her head keeps down to the wooden floors.
“After this,” I begin. “You are done preening the dining hall from now on. I will give the chore to someone else.”
“I am capable of cleaning the area.”
“No, you are not. Not when you have not consumed enough fare to compensate for your work throughout the day. The chore is not yours. You are to rest and eat when you are done here.”
* * *
The piercing sound of Vaigosian silver colliding together electrifies the air, bouncing off the trees and echoing over the river. The shrieking blare startles outlying does and their fawns, causing them to rush by in a burst; birds move through the air, their frantic wings shaking leaves from the trees. Amias strikes from a perfect angle for my thigh, and misses by a hair as I divert to the left.
At each swing of our blades, sweat glides from our skin and hair in a flick of rain. It streams down our bodies as we spar under the beating spring warmth, soaking the hems of our trousers, making the fabric cling to our skin with every movement. We could, and we have gone hours upon hours, challenging the other in an enduring fight to see who will prevail and who will deplete first.
If we have any strong suit other than being born Wolves and given gifts of power, it is our agility with swords. From the day Amias and I were born, our fathers had this silver intricately crafted as presents of our birth; our mothers were frightened by such gifts, and we were never allowed to use them until we came of proper age. Although, we got our hands on them when young and ignorant, we were soon caught after the silver cut through my hand at nine years old. The scar is still deeply embedded into my palm as a memory of the destruction silver can do to a Wolf.
We proliferated into our bodies, filling out into men as young teens, naturally growing wiser and more robust due to our blood being of Werewolf descent. All four of us were swinging these lethal weapons around before our mothers anticipated. Our loving bearers may have wanted to keep us safe at all times and from all beings, but they are the reason we are the men we are today.
My blade whispers through the wind; Amias drifts to the side in an easy lean.
“Did you see the young woman your mother brought with her from Gordanta?” I swiftly sink below the swing of Amias’s silver. It strikes the tree next to me—bark flies from the body of the tree in the form of tiny sharp arrows.
“Apolla brought someone with her from Gordanta?” Morano asks as he intently watches our movements. “Who?”
I roll my eyes at the mention of her. “She did, and I have not an inkling of her name nor do I know who she is. She never introduced herself to me before I found her lying naked on my chaise when I returned to my chamber from my run last night.” The sex-crazed girl was sent back to the dorm she was staying in with a sheet thrown in her face. She left this morning, putting my unease to rest, gladly knowing there would be no naked surprises from women I do not know.
“Oh?” Amias grabs his sword from the flesh of the wood. “And did you forget your name when her thighs wrapped around your waist?”
“Amias,” Roaner warningly calls.
“Fuck you,” I lash my sword, and it cuts through his trousers, nicking his skin in a small thin line. His eyes straighten, holding a threatening gaze.
His jeering persists. “Did I press a nerve in virgin Prince Laven?”
“Here we go…” I hear Morano mumble under his breath.
I indignantly whip my sword again; it fiercely shrills through the air; he jumps backward at the unforeseen strike. His movements are sudden after my thrashing—sudden yet expected. Although, if I were a random person against Amias, I would be dead by now going against his unpredicted actions. Nonetheless, this is why I chose him as my Right Hand the day I turned eight and ten. He nearly has as much equal say in what happens within the Four Courts of Vaigon as I do. I decided on him because Amias has been my trusted companion for years; he can control and wield his powers faster than any man or woman I have met. If anything were to happen to me, he would be next in line for High Prince and the Throne.
“You are rather aware that I touch none and bed none other than the woman I will belong to.” The tip of my sword just barely touches his neck, and he smiles hellishly.
“If that is so,” Amias begins. “Then tell the truth as to why you had a lady’s scarf in your chamber last night.” I press my forearm firmly against his throat and I block his sword with mine, preventing his from gracing my skin. I will the force field building in my forearm to a stop before I throw him through the woods. “Are you lying about what you did with that woman last night?”
His dark skin is dewy. Locks of his hair dangle over his forehead, and drippings of sweat land on my arm as he diabolically smiles at me.
“Not a chance,” I respond.
“Enough,” Roaner steps in. “It is now my turn with Morano.” He unstraps his waist vest letting it fall to the ground as he unties the laces at the top of his undershirt and pulls it over his head exposing the tattoo we all share along the length of the right side of our body: a Wolf sigil encompassing our initials layered upon each other.
Roaner’s sword draws from his sheath, and he looks down at the shining silver held sharply outward. It is the sword left behind from his father after his death. The very last thing he has of him. “The problem lies within it being normalized that men must always want to have sex just because a beautiful woman is in front of him.” Roaner steps forward as Amias and I move, and Morano follows. “Or, somehow, it justifies our worth as a man by the number of women we have laid with. Especially a naked, beautiful woman. For some, that is not the norm.”
“Perhaps some men should measure their worth by the number of women they truly satisfied in bed and not by the amount they have laid with.” Morano lightens the mood with his wittiness as he too removes his upper clothing. “For me, my worth would stand higher than the Terseian Mountains.”
Roaner, Amias, Morano, my brothers. My vilest headache and my utmost treasure. We are bonded; our blood courses through each other’s veins by the Blood Bond Ritual. The day I turned eight and ten, I chose them all. The Blood Bond Ritual is often between two people only, but the four of us knew we came into this life to find one another, so I made sure to have it sealed that night.
Roaner lightly moves on his feet, not a sound can be heard, but it is seen—his precise footing echoes nothing.
After Amias as my Right Hand, the third of us is Roaner; he is just as quiet as he is murderous. His bloodline is directly linked with Martana, one of the deadliest Sorcerers known in our history—making Roaner my Assassin, my executioner. He massacres silently with not a trace of you left behind, and he elates in it.
Morano gradually forms position as he draws his sword. The weapon lays across his arm with the point of the silver measured perfectly with the tip of his elbow. Most importantly, he is always steady on his feet.
Morano is four. My Emissary, my seer, and searcher. He finds critical information with the ability to see through your thoughts without you ever knowing he was there. Although he does not barricade through minds often, he has the charm to con anything out of you that he wishes. Or, if there must be an alternative, he can be vile and destructive until he finds what he needs. His appearance can be ever-changing to get what we must descry; he could appear to someone as a woman, man, or child. Any creature he can summon, he can be. But to all of us, he is always in his authentic form.
Roaner and Morano each have a different approach when fighting, making both of them difficult to take down. And they both will fight with whatever strength they have until they die, most importantly, they are harder to take down when it comes to protecting their own.
“Begin,” I call out, and their blades begin ringing against one another louder than mine and Amias’s were.
The High Priestess performed the Blood Bond Ritual the year we all were between the ages of eight and ten and nine and ten. It is held on the sixth full moon of every year, Summer Solstice, a time in the year considerable enough to be our holiday, lasting for a week until the full moon is gone and the waning gibbous takes its place.
“One!” Amias yells the moment Morano is pinned to the ground under Roaner’s sword. Slowly he begins to circle their duel to be sure all that is transpiring is fair.
The Blood Bond Ritual is performed in the manner of a slight indentation to each of our wrists, conjoining our skin at the cut and holding until the bond is complete.
Something different sparked between our bonds. Each of us advanced stronger than we went in. All four of us now bearing a bit of the other’s powers. We truly knew we came out different from how we went in when Artemis arrived the moment the ritual was complete. Then, each step she took toward us made the world silent.
Dark, prosperous blue cloaks were placed upon us—looping around the neck, falling right over our left shoulder. Still, to this day, we wear the cloaks. A white gold chain brooch gathers the fabric in perfect drapes. At one end of the breast-pin, an arrow sits in the middle of our shoulder, holding the thick blue linen. The other end of the brooch is Artemis’s bow that gathers fabric right below our neck. Four chains loosely hang in heavy gold across the left half of our chests, four chains of rich white gold signifying each of us.
‘The world will know you as the High Four, you bear my weapon, and a gift of power now touches you from the Gods of strength and resilience to enhance what you now own as one. Your alliance is like no other; alone, you have the strength to conquer; together, you are lethal. Wear these consistently, especially in war, and you will always walk out the way you went in.’ Her words struck unfathomably; it became our constant prayer the day she spoke them into existence. That day, we became the true Leaders of House Arvenaldi.
As swift as an arrow from Artemis’s bow, Roaner’s feet launch him into the hovering tree above; he has grown to be choreographed to each footing and branch that hides him perfectly.
Silence.
Morano circles below the tree, searching for him, but one particular spot will always keep Roaner hidden from sight. There is only scent that Morano could use to find him.
Smoothly, he jumps from the tree, the silver in his hands held high, the sharp point directed downward.
Roaner purposefully misses him, Morano collapses to the ground beneath Roaner’s weight; the leaves from the tree spring up and move with the direction of the wind from their collision. Morano’s sword is now in Roaner’s hand, and Roaner’s is entirely impaled into the earth next to Morano’s cheek.
The blade ever-so-lightly kisses Morano’s neck as he pants.
“I have a question,” Morano says as he lies on the ground.
Roaner stands. “And what might your question be?”
“The young servant girl . . . she would not have anything to do with that scarf Amias found, would she?” He slowly stands. “Maivena, is it?”
The three of them watch me with questioning gazes.
I do not answer him as that twinge of fear arises.
“Your Wolf is pushing forward—one eye beaming brightly blue. I know this look, Laven.” Morano’s demeanor diverts from playfulness to trepidation. “That is the same stricken expression as every every other person when words are spoken of their mate.”
Naturally, I begin to pace. “I do not know what you speak of.”
“You lie.” Amias watches me trace every step back and forth.
“How long have you known?”
I do not respond to him.
“Laven,” Roaner hardens his tone as he calls my name.
“It was seven years ago . . .”
“Seven years ago?” Morano shouts in disbelief.
They all hold a puzzling mien as I take a glance at them.
I continue my persistent path.
“My Gods, Laven,” Amias rasps out. “You have known for seven years, and you have not said a thing?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “And what would my uncle say about me being mated to a servant?”
He would have her torn to shreds.
“Forget what Lorsius would think, have you told her?” Roaner points down the path to the Servant Grounds far off through the woods. I helplessly look down the way in the hope of seeing her walking along, even using my vision to its highest capacity; it would be as if seeing her at a glance. And I would take it.
I exhale, anticipating easing the rising tension in my shoulders. “Maivena has yet to come into her Wolf and know of me.”
I want her to feel what I felt when I found her; she will know the day she comes into her entire self that I am bound to her in an immutable manner, as she will be bound to me . . . and we shall have one another in all the ways the Gods created.
I just do not understand why she has not shifted into her Wolf yet. How is it taking so long?
“I have her scarf because she left it in the dining hall. The guards were going to burn it, but I knew that smell. I know it belongs to her; she always wears it.”
Scarves to their people represent more than just some garnishing clothing piece. I could never allow something with such a profound purpose to be burnt.
“And you still have not told her you two are mated yet; why?” Morano presses further for answers.
“You discern why.” I stop my consistent stride and sit down, leaning back against the tree, I close my eyes. All the possibilities, all of the horrifying outcomes roam through my mind. If her outcome were anything near what I went through, I would have this entire nation blown to smithereens.
Finally, I open my eyes. The three of them now sit in front of me, and Morano fiddles with a small white flower that fell from the spring tree.
“Lorsius has been stuck in his ways for years.” Amias says. “I do not think it is possible to get someone like him to revoke the laws of Royals and servants not having the right to be mated. What I do believe is that if you speak with him, he may–”
“He will not . . .” I swallow to rid the dryness in my throat, remembering the day. “I have already tried once before.”
Roaner falters. “You did not tell him it was her, did you?”
“It will be one cold day in the very depths of hell before I tell him it was Maivena and myself that I spoke of.” I reach down and grab Amias’s sword from the ground and hand it to him. “May you do something for me?”
Amias smiles knowingly and nods. “I will look after her while you are away in Terseius.”
“And even after that,” Morano states. “We all will when we are home.”
Roaner nods in agreement. “You should not have kept this to yourself for so long.”
He may be correct, but this was something I was allowed to keep to myself.
I fill with reassurance knowing she will still be under reliable protection while I am away, it may not be as extensive as mine, yet Amias is an onlooker and protector like no other. There are reasons he commands our Mandem, his fighting skills being one of many. Nothing in my mind says he would not be suitable to watch over her while I am gone.
“I do not–I am not partial to leaving her,” I speak lowly.
“We understand . . .” Amias nods, not making me say what I fear will happen without my watch over her.
“We are not the Leaders of House Arvenaldi for performance—although we are a sight for a sore eye.” Morano lifts an eyebrow with a simper plastered on his face and I chuckle, kicking at his shoulder.
Roaner looks down at the mark branded on his wrist and ours. “I am with you all until death; my vow is just as much over Maivena as it is over you all.”
“I do love you, Laven,” Morano begins. “But I will never forgive you for assigning me to go to New Quamfasi so unexpectedly.”
Amias holds up a hand to stop Morano from carrying on. “I will say, you sending them to New Quamfasi is quite dangerous.”
“Yes,” Roaner nods. “But we are the only ones the people of Old Quamfasi respect out of us all, we both keep quiet and give them no reason to attack. And if they did attack and we are innocent, that is blood they would not wish to have on their hands.”
“Given how desperate we are to find a cure for this rabid fucking disease being spread by rogues, hopefully they will provide us aid. If I provide them enough coin–”
Amias chuckles, and I know what he is about to say next. “The Old Quamfasian people want nothing to do with us, New Vaigon. No matter how many coins we provide. And we cannot blame them for wanting to keep their healing secrets to themselves for so long after what Lorsius did those years ago.”
“I am trying to build an alliance,” I say through gritted teeth. Bitterness is all I feel hearing of how my uncle treated the Quamfasian people. I listened for years and years to how he took their women, how he slaved the children, and what he did to the men to ensure they could no longer breed Quamfasian children. Even to this day, I still must hear him crow about what he has done.
“And does Lorsius know of this?” Morano asks.
“Lorsius can kiss my ass,” I retaliate. “He got us into this mess of a rivalry, and I am trying to get us out of it.”
“You need to remember the history before trying to regain an alliance with them. Your uncle fought pettily those years ago, he won that war by cheating, and he knows how the Gods feel about that. He is lucky Artemis did not come and strip him of his powers. Quamfasi was precious to Artemis, yet Lorsius still has many of their people enslaved here,” Amias points toward the servant grounds. “Yes, there are servants here from our lands, but you and I know well enough that Maivena is one of those children that Vaigon’s guards took.”
The three of them sit there as still as statues after Amias speaks.
As I look at them, I project the memory of her arrival from my eyes to theirs.
‘She is even more beautiful than Helen of Troy. Who would like her first?’ My uncle looks at me from the Throne with a crooked smile as he nods his head toward the naked girl lying nearly lifeless on the shiny floors. Bruises and cuts are all over her skin. Her dark hair is matted with dirt and leaves.
‘Uncle Lorsius, I–’
‘Either you take her to your chamber and do what you would like with her, or I will let Benjamin here,’ he points to the guard standing above the girl with a smirk, he gropes himself, and I turn my head away. ‘I could let him take her to the guards’ grounds; he can show you how to do it.’ I snap my eyes toward Lorsius, and he is not looking at me. Instead, his eyes are devouring the girl lying curled on the ground.
I look toward my mother, and she refuses to glance at me.
‘Mother.’ My voice cracks through the bond.
‘Breathe, my love.’ She gently responds. ‘Take her to your chamber, have her bathed, fed, and clothed. I will discuss this situation with your father after you are gone. Be careful; she looks hurt.’
I hesitantly step down the stairs from the Throne. When I reach the girl, I gently lift her from the ground, hiding my face from my uncle and the others as the tears threaten to slip from my eyes.
She does not fight; I do not know if she is even breathing as I pick her up.
I ascend from the Throne Room and appear in my bathing chamber before Lorsius can say another wretched word from his brutish mouth.
I pull my cloak off and wrap it around her as she sits still as the night, staring toward the ground. I kneel in front of her trying to catch her gaze, but her head is hung too low.
‘I–I am Laven. What is your name?’
There is a tiny breath that escapes her lips, and I ask her again . . . and again.
‘Maivena . . .’ her voice is dry and soft.
Maivena.
‘Did they–did any of those men touch you?’ I think I may throw up.
Her head shakes.
‘Please, do not feel like you have to lie to me.’
Her head shakes again. ‘They only took my clothes . . .’ her voice is even quieter than before.
I let the tears fall down my face as I tighten my cloak around her. I pull myself together as I see her own tears staining the purple fabric wrapped around her. One of us must be the stronger one here; I will not force her to be that one.
I can practically feel the hollowness inside her.
How lifeless she appears.
‘One day,’ I promise, ‘I am going to kill them.’
There is a slight shift in her, but she will not look at me. ‘Why?’
My jaw tightens. ‘Because they touched you, and you will learn fast here, Maivena, that I do not tolerate men touching women outside of their consent.’
Her eyes lift to mine, and I can see how young she is. She looks barely my age, four and ten? If even that.
‘Laven,’ she mumbles. ‘You are kind.’ She says with a flat expression.
I find a small smile in this ever-growing hell we are trapped in. ‘Let us see if you still find me kind when I deliver their heads to their families.’
Their eyes are still staring intensely into my own. “And you did.” Amias remembers the fall of many of our guards who held a hand in bringing her here.
“Yes, attached with a charming note to raise better men.” Nailed with a spike to their foreheads. Their orders were not to strip her naked and gawk at a young girl; they chose to do that. And I got my revenge for it.
“You turned eight and ten not long after that . . . when you found out she is your mate.”
I still remember the surge of wrath, the blood-thirsty anger I had within. “And I slew them one by one—elation is not strong enough to describe the pleasure I felt when taking their lives. Benjamin specifically.” It was a full moon; I had just found my mate, and I was fucking livid. I also had new powers to test after the Blood Bond Ritual.
“I did not know it was for her,” Morano says quietly.
I smile. “No one did.”
“You should have let me help you.” Roaner sharply speaks. “If you let me help you that would not have led Lorsius to imprison you and no one would have known we did–”
“I did not want help.” My response is immediate. I did not desire help, nor did I require it. And I do not want to allow my thoughts to go near those hell-filled years in Wyendgrev Tower. “I wanted Maivena to know that I will rend apart any man who comes near her by myself. I savored the feeling of Benjamin’s heart beating to a stop in my hands.” After I carved bits of his skin from his body, I found delight in his screams and cries for help.
“You are a psychopath,” Amias says through our mind link after hearing my thoughts.
“I was slightly ruthless then.”
They bellow out a laugh. “Then?” Morano questions. “And did you just say slightly? You still are incredibly ruthless. You are just in a man’s body now. Which makes it all the more worse.”
As I go to speak, a member of our Mandem is vastly approaching. “There you all are,” Alexanti calls. “Hua is summoning all for our afternoon run.”
I nod as he rushes off to where the others are waiting.
Amias, Morano, and Roaner stand first, holding their hands out for me to take. I reach upward and their hands grasp my arm to pull me from the ground, the hands that will always pull me up no matter the circumstance, as mine will do the same.
* * *
For the past seven years, I have had to grapple with the pain of having someone so close, yet so far. I have become the servant to despair in all of its ways. There were days when I would ask: why did Artemis pick her for me? Why would my fate be held in the hands of someone I cannot have? And for the most part, someone that cannot have me. But then I see her; I hear her quiet humming as she performs her duties, and every negative thought I once had diminishes. It disintegrates like winter, meeting the spring, and just as the sun rises; ridding the snow into poppies, Maivena beams within the flowers; glistening, waiting, as if I am finding her for the first time again.
I have heard stories as a young boy about the person I would be given—as I grew older, I learned how to treat my person to come. I watched the countless men and women who would bed many women and men, only to find their mate soon and be abandoned in return for their actions. But then, there was a shift in them. Their anger grew untamable, the desperation for connection, the treacherous screaming in the night. The bond was being rejected.
‘That is how you will not act.’ My father would whisper. He had bred me into being the man Maivena deserves, while she is already everything and more for me. Maivena may not know I see it, yet I am very aware of her soul’s tendencies; it is pure, genuine, and whole.
“Laven, are you listening, dear?” I flicker my eyes to my mother as she watches me intently.
Hua, one of our Generals, my mother, and I are discussing my leading of the Mandem in Terseius. The outbreak of rouge Wolves’ rabid with infection is what we are currently gaining control of and why I have Morano and Roaner in New Quamfasi asking for help or a cure.
Terseius being the land with the highest grade of injuries and deaths, I am being sent to lead and rid them of the outlanders. This will not be my first time leading a Mandem into battle. At the age of seven and ten, I led Partalos through a war of rebellion with my father; the Quamfasian people that once ruled New Vaigon returned for revenge years after my uncle stole what rightfully belonged to them.
That was no easy battle to fight, mentally nor physically. Those of Old Quamfasi are well known for their unusual magic and unbelievable powers; many of the Quamfasian’s have a line of Fae blood and Sorcerers’ blood that makes them Hybrid superiors.
We nearly lost that war until my father allowed me to choose to concede or continue. After that, the Quamfasian people did not wish for the land back; now, it was just a horrid memory. They did not covet a Throne. All they wanted was to be left in peace. That is all they have ever asked for.
During that war, there was not a single person I killed; there were only men that I hit hard enough to knock out. I kept in thought that one of those men or women could be a relative of Maivena. I would never forgive myself for such a thing. She would never forgive me.
When word got back to Lorsius of my decision to concede, he had no choice but to comply with conceding as well. His tormenting and taking of their people ended that day. If only that war had happened six seasons sooner, Maivena would still be with her family, and I would find her the right way.
“You set sail at sunrise,” my mother says as she brushes a hand over my hair. I open my mouth to speak, but she quickly interrupts. “You will not ascend to Terseius. Ascending with that many people will weaken you and render your powers short. So instead, you will sail and keep your strength before I allow you to ascend back and forth numerous times across the continent.”
I smirk and nod.
“Now, remember to stay fed, drink, and watch over yourself.”
“Mother.”
“I am smothering,” her face falls, and guilt arises within me.
“You are not smothering, but I am not a boy anymore.” Of course, I no longer need to be reminded of such things, but if it puts her mind at ease to say them, I will allow her to remind me repeatedly.
“How long is Lorsius in Gordanta?” I ask.
“However long the Duke needs him. May it be forever.” She happily announces, feeling freed from his presence.
“Well,” I nod, “stick with Hua while I am away. I have already asked her to keep you accompanied while I am gone. She mentioned going hunting; you could join her if you would like.”
She smiles up at me, placing a gentle hand on my cheek.
“I am proud of the man you have become.”
I smile while shaking my head. “Was I given a choice to turn out otherwise?”
The hand that was touching my cheek pushes gently at my shoulder. “Yes, yes you were.” She nods.
Like Lorsius.
“You are given knowledge; it is up to you to retain it and give it purpose. You did exactly that. Your father would have been so pleased to see you grow over the years.”
* * *
Reaching across my bureau, I toy with the soft fabric of the white and beige scarf, simultaneously writing on a blank notecard. I have written this note ten times throughout the night in fear of frightening her or possibly my words not sounding the way they do in my head as she reads them.
Meet me at the East Lake ten sunsets from today.
I will be awaiting you in the courtyard;
find me in the maple tree.
