The Twilight Thief: An Epic Fantasy Adventure (Thrones of Midgard Book 1)

by J. Levi

  Shifting is a physical transformation as much as a mental one. Lythenian’s change into beasts that are as large as woodland bears. Their primal consciousness taking over. Mother removes her clothes, the shift will tatter her clothing into ribbons. Her face contorts, and her skin shivers while tiny ripples pulse through her flesh. Her emerald green eyes begin to glow, accompanied by the sound of bone cracks and flesh ripping. My mother falls forward, but before she touches the stone floor, her hands shifted to paws. Her flesh is flooded by waves of red fur, a luscious coat that shines in the dull candlelight.

  Her deepened gaze peers into me. She’s a magnificent beast, perfectly articulated to hunt, kill, and protect. This is the true beauty and terror of the lythenians.

  My mother’s beastly form shakes her head, her body shifting with it, and her fur fluffs at the movement. I reach out a hand, caressing her wolf snout before giving a gentle scratch to her brow and around an ear. She licks me resoundingly. A long trail of saliva drips from my face.

  “Ugh, gross!” I exclaim.

  She huffs, probably an animalistic laugh.

  The wolf sits back on her haunches, then I hear the familiar snap of bone and rip of fur as it recedes back into her twisting flesh. A few heartbeats later, and my mother returns to her fae form, kneeling on the ground.

  I help her pull on her tattered gown. I scowl at myself for not being able to achieve the same shift. I want it, but I know I’ll never achieve it. I’m Veryn’s daughter, tainted.

  “I understand, my little pup.”

  “I’m sorry. I—”

  “Don’t be,” she says. “I know you can become one with your wolf, Merida. I can feel it. You just have to feel it too.”

  “I don’t know how,” I reply, frustrated.

  “I know,” she says. “Pray to Duina and Ruina, ask for their guidance.”

  I make a mental note to pray to the twin goddesses, Duina the Meadow and Ruina the Wanderer. Mother recites the fables of the twin wolves often. Each sister bestowed a fragment of their essence, taking shape into majestic black and white wolves. Each sister takes the other’s wolf, so they’re always together. Pack, mother says with meaning I don’t quite understand.

  A silence falls between us. Before I realize the question even festers in my mind, I ask, “Did Aedan know how to shift?”

  My question lingers between us. Mother’s face tightens, as it always does when I mention him. She told me of Aedan years ago. Being raised in a prisonous tower, I’ve relied on my mother’s stories, fables, and memories. Her words were the only solace and refuge I got from the cruel reality of our home.

  “I don’t know, your…” My mother pauses. I reach for her hand and squeeze. I know it’s hard for her to talk about Aedan, so I wait patiently while she worked through her thoughts. I regret mentioning him already.

  She smiles solemnly. I know I’ve resurfaced her grief. There have been many nights where I’ve held my mother as she sobbed in her despair, the grief of losing him.

  She doesn’t know if he is even alive, but she holds onto hope. She pleads and prays and begs to the gods above and below that she’ll find him again one day. I pray, too, but for her broken heart to finally heal.

  I don’t believe in wishes. Wishes don’t come true in nightmares, and that’s what my life is, a never-ending nightmare. But if it did believe in wishes—if some flicker of magic held true in the stars I’ve never seen through skies of volcanic ash, I’d wish for my mother to be reunited with her son.

  To change the mood and distract my mother from her somber thoughts, I say, “I’ll try again.”

  She merely nods.

  I concentrate using the breathing techniques my mother showed me in a meditative stance. Allowing my mind to wander, thoughts of Veryn overpower everything else. Veryn plans to pawn me off on someone else, a mere tool in his games and schemes. I know he’s malicious, but I never imagined he’d sell me to the arcenians. My mother has told me stories of them, about how vicious and monstrous they are, how dumb they can be. She described them in her fae tales as beasts that kill and maim without remorse. The same creatures that capture, rape, and eat their enemies without guilt.

  This is to be my fate. I was sired by an insufferable tyrant only to be sold into a sick union. I can refuse, I think.

  We can refuse.

  I startle from my stance. The voice in my mind is unlike my own but familial. I wait for the voice to speak again, but nothing but the sound of miners hammering in the mineshaft far below the tower rings through the night tirelessly. The king offers no rest for the slave miners, human and dwarven and fae. I only saw a dwarf once. I upset king Veryn. His punishment method wasn’t to inflict pain on me, but instead, he had his Knight Commander whip a slave dwarf. Twenty grueling slashes. She was dead by the tenth.

  “Truly, Merida, what did you expect?” Veryn said with that sinewy grin.

  For a heartbeat, my skin crawls like something moves underneath. The hair on my arms cling like static—my gums itch, and my teeth ache. I want to sink my teeth into his throat.

  We can sink our teeth in his throat.

  I startle again, kicking back from the pile of sheep hides.

  “Don’t fight it,” my mother says. “You’re finally opening to your wolf. Don’t resist.”

  Is that what you are, my wolf?

  As you are mine, it says.

  I’m afraid.

  We do not need fear. We only need blood, it says.

  The image of Veryn soaked in blood flourishes in my mind. The imagery is beautiful and intrinsic. A flutter of nerves in my gut churn in excitement over the idea of tearing Veryn’s head from his neck.

  Together, the voice promises, and I believe it.

  Together, I promise in return.

  Never one, without the other.

  Static crawls against my skin, my eyes pin, and vision pulsates in and out of focus. The tears that drenched my face feel ice-cold though the air is hot. My skin twists and shivers and pain ripples through my body. The sound of bones snapping and flesh-tearing. Slowly, I feel myself change. I watch my mother gawk at me in shock, awe, and pride. I hear her heartbeat pulse rapidly.

  She is proud of us, it says.

  5

  Nova

  “They came again, those foul beasts. Decrepit machinations from the darkness. They made off with four of ours before we managed to fend the monstrous hounds off. They were good men; they need not die so futile. I pray to Azael, though my prayers remain unanswered. Has he forsaken me—us?

  – From the private journal of Alkar 49 B.M.

  Ricon slams into the stable wall, dry heaving as the effects of wisping settle. I pat a firm hand on his back to offer some comfort. I smooth out the rumbles in Ricon’s doublet. The seamstresses of Richtenfel did fine work with little time. The dark ocean blue gossamer pairs well with Ricon’s bright blue eyes. Gold clasps fasten the doublet down the front of the vest and contrast the white linen sleeves of his undershirt. My ensemble pairs well with his, though my doublet is moss green with black sleeves and leather trousers. A black braided belt cinches around my waist. I left my usual eight-inch dagger at the villa. It’s too big to conceal in this getup. I have a carefully smithed five-inch blade tucked into my leather boot instead.

  When Ricon’s heaving stops and collects himself enough to stand tall, I shuffle out of the small cubby in the back of the stable. We step out into the cooling summer sunset and make haste toward the main chateau.

  “Hey, you there—stop,” a raspy voice calls. A soldier adorned in fine metals ushers toward us from a gatehouse parallel to the chateau gardens. I brush up against Ricon and lean into his body. Since he’s taller, I gaze up at him, pretending to swoon.

  “What are you two doing out here?” The raspy soldier finally says. I bury my face into Ricon’s shoulder, feigning a blush.

  “Apologies,” Ricon says in a deep baritone. “My companion and I were…searching for s
omewhere private and got lost.”

  The soldier has the decency to squirm at the admission. It’s too dark outside, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he blushes a little.

  “Right, erm. I’ll escort you back to the party,” the soldier says, and we oblige.

  “Works every time,” I whisper to Ricon.

  I survey the castle grounds. Guards march their usual route. I can see the banquet hall the houses the gala above the garden hedges. A row of glass doors spans across a marble terrace. The violin quartets strum through the open doors. Gentle banter of laugher and conversation vibrates off the stone staircase we approach. Ricon thanks the soldier for escorting us and passes a silver mark for a tip. I peek inside to see the gala filled to the brim with guests.

  We enter the chateau through a grand hall. I nod towards a narrow arch off to the side, and Ricon disappears through it. I casually enter the banquet hall, immediately regretting the plans. The gala is packed with noble aristocrats, posh bureaucrats, eager courtiers, and overly enthusiastic servants. I hate people, but I hate them even more when compressed into confined spaces, even though the chateau banquet hall is far from confined.

  The room is grand, with vaulted ceilings and gold embellishments on nearly every surface. Buffet tables stuffed with exotic dishes line half the hall. The string quartet is playing their instruments behind the crowd near a grand fireplace. Intrinsic stallions carved from Marble adorn each side of the hearth. I admire the beauty in the center of the gala, a dance floor. Courtiers and their suitor’s dance choreographed routines, never touching. How boring.

  Beyond the festivities, the lord and duchess sit at the head table, overlooking the whole banquet. The duchess smiles fondly at the lord as he leans close to whisper sweet nothings that cause the duchess to giggle. Near the table’s edge sits the man and the young lady I saw at the stables earlier today. The prince, I’m reminded. A soldier adorned in silver chestplate and pauldrons approaches the table, falling to a knee before asking the young lady to dance. She blushes redder than a sweet tomato picked straight from the vine.

  While the prince is distracted, I weave through the crowd, occasionally bumping into partygoers pretending to be drunk. Little do they know, while I slur my apologies, I swipe their watches, brooches, and pendants without suspicion—a servant with a tray of flutes carrying bubbly walks by. I swipe two and down the first. I bump into a slack-shouldered gent and offer the empty glass to him. He blindly takes it. Before he can protest, I disappear into the crowd, casually sipping at my second glass.

  A squirrely old gent in a white frocked shirt tucked into black wool slacks approaches the lord from behind. The seneschal.

  “There you are,” I mutter under my breath. The seneschal steps away from the head table but stands close enough to attend the lord and duchess as needed. I approach from behind, accidentally knocking into the seneschal and spilling my flute of amber onto his white frock.

  “Oh, gods. I’m terribly sorry, mate—I seem to have lost my sea legs or land legs. Do land legs exist?” I slur with a heavy northern accent.

  “It’s quite alright, sir,” the seneschal says.

  “Reginald?” The duchess asks without looking over her shoulder.

  “Apologizes, your grace. I’ve had an accident. Might I request a reprieve to change my soiled shirt?” Reginald asks with careful poise.

  “Of course, Reginald. In fact, take the rest of the night off. You work too hard,” The lord calls over his shoulder.

  I lean heavily into Reginald, feigning the clumsiness of a drunkard. “Be a good man, help me to my rooms?” I breathe heavily in Reginald’s face. The tart scent of alcohol is heavy on my breath.

  “Very well, sir,” he says and braces my waist to support my weight. We leave the banquet through a side door, a single guard stands outside, at ease. We pass the guard and take the hallway to the main corridor. When we approach the narrow arch that Ricon disappeared into earlier, I knock my weight into Reginald while slipping a hand into my boot to retrieve my dagger. I press the sharp point to the man’s throat, the tip only pressing gently against his shaven neck. “Make no sound and I promise to not bring you or anyone else any harm tonight.” Reginald doesn’t move, cautious of the blade against his throat. One small slip could end his life in seconds. I guide him to a maid’s closet hidden from view by a granite pillar. I found the closet earlier during my scout.

  Ricon steps forward. A candle flame is the only light that illuminates the cubby. He draws a blade and dips the tip into a vial of blue elixir.

  “Don’t move,” I say to Reginald softly. “It’s only Tonic of Tame. You won’t remember a thing by the time it wears off.”

  I ease the pressure from my dagger away from the seneschal’s throat so he can speak freely. Ricon takes the seneschal’s hand and swipes a thin cut across the back of Reginald’s hand, small enough to be considered a parchment cut. I release my hold on the man and he doesn’t move to flee. Ricon snaps his fingers in front of the man’s face. Reginald doesn’t blink.

  “Place your left hand on your chest and lift your right arm,” Ricon commands. Reginald follows the direction without hassle.

  “Works like a charm,” I say. “Where’d you manage to get your hands on a vial of Tonic of Tame?”

  “I have my ways.”

  “Shiela from the Little Loo?” An Arch-Alchemist, Shiela possesses a skill that rivals any alchemist of Edonia.

  “No, actually. I swindled it from Leluna in a game of cards last winter,” Ricon says smugly.

  “Where do you think Leluna got it from?”

  Ricon sighs, defeated and says, “Shiela from the Rhenstadt slums.”

  I chuckle, stowing my dagger back into my boot. “Ready?”

  Ricon nods before commanding the seneschal to escort us to the royal wing under the guise of guests to the lord. The old gent walks hastily through the halls of the regal chateau. He takes us through a spiraling grand staircase, reaching a pair of heavy oak doors trimmed in gold. Two guards stand posted outside the doors. They shift their weight as we approach.

  “I am to escort these guests to their chambers by the request of lord Montares,” Reginald says, reciting Ricon’s command beautifully. The tension in the guard’s shoulders eases as they open the doors for us to pass. Beyond the threshold, the halls are far more garish than the rest of the chateau I’ve seen during my scouting. The royal wing overlooks the inner garden courts and the atrium beyond that is glowing a soft sea green light. I didn’t see the foreign man from the atrium at the gala. I imagine he’s meditating under the glass dome.

  When the seneschal stops in front of a white oak door with gold leaf vines adorning the wood in a weaved pattern. Ricon opens the door and pulls the seneschal close behind. I follow, checking the halls one last time and close the door.

  I work swiftly with Ricon to bind Reginald in silk sashes from the linen closet and tuck him into the wardrobe.

  “Don’t move or make a sound,” Ricon commands and closes the wardrobe shut. We move to search the room succinctly. While Ricon carefully skims through drawers, I move to the ensuite to search the cabinets. Nothing. We move into the adjoining study, another room filled with bookcases and artifacts. My fingers tingle at the thought of swiping a few priceless treasures until Ricon clears his throat, “Don’t even think about it.”

  “I was just looking,” I lie.

  Ricon chuckles, knowing full well it’s a lie.

  Suddenly, a soft trickle of static skitters down my spine. It’s familiar and foreign concurrently. The hair on my arms stands on end as I stare at the door leading back into the lord’s chambers.

  “What is it?”

  “Huh?” I say, breaking out of the fog. “I’m going to check the other chambers in the wing. Maybe the lord gifted it to his wife or daughter.” Ricon nods in agreement and continues to search the study.

  Back in the main hallway, the static rush returns, this time with more fervo
r. Like a guiding compass, I follow the traces of magic down the way we came to another gold-leaf decorated door. The magic becomes overwhelming as soon as I step through the dark threshold. I catch the scent of frankincense and old parchment. I’m not sure if it’s from the room or magic, but it’s enough to force my eyes to swell. A pierce ringing sings in my ears as I step farther into the room. A floor mirror near an open terrace thrums. I pull a vial from my doublet and shake the contents until they glow, ember shrooms from the Hjornholm mines. The soft orange glow casts light through the room. The mirror, which should reflect the ember shroom glow, remains black as night.

  “What are you doing in here?” A voice says from behind, startling me enough I drop the vial of ember shrooms. The glass shatters on impact and the moss spreads across the stone floor. Somehow, I know who it is before I turn to look into the forest green eyes, dimly lit by fading ember shrooms. I quickly slip into the guise of a drunkard and sway heavily.

  “Forgive me, sir. I seem to have turned every which way and got lost,” I slur.

  “Sir? Do you know who you’re talking to?”

  I bite back a sigh. “No, sir. It’s too dark to see your face,” I reply.

  “Oh.”

  The static hum pulsates through the mirror behind. The magic pouring out of the frame is enough to cause shivers through my body.

  “I recognize you,” the prince says. Shit.

  “I’m sure you do, sir. I’ve been putting the lord’s spirits to good use at the gala.”

  “No, not from the gala,” the prince says, not buying my guise. “The stables. This morning. I saw you raking stalls.”

  Before I can lie my way out of the growing tension, a thin black blade flies through the air, passing the tip of my ear by the breadth of a hair. It flies past the prince, the blade edge drawing closer and leaving a thin line of blood on the prince’s cheekbone. The black blade disappears before it pelts into the wall. The prince groans in surprise and hisses when he brushes a hand against his cheek, blood smearing the back.