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

by J. Levi

  “What the—” the prince says. I dive forward as another pulse of magic penetrates the black mirror. I crash into the prince’s waist, throwing him to the ground just in time to avoid another black blade slashing through the air.

  “Get off me,” the prince grumbles.

  I don’t oblige. Instead, I use the full weight of my body to pin him to the floor. Both of the assaulting blades were meant for the prince. The realization sits in my gut like spoiled goat’s milk. I roll off the prince but keep an arm over his chest to keep him down. The black sheen in the mirror still fails to reflect, the surface ripples like a stone cast in a still pond. Emerging from the glass, a tall, slender, tanned figure appears. The man is fae. His ears have sharp points, his eyes glow topaz. The man is dressed in dark robes with a vibrant off-white sash binding his waist. He holds an arm out and with a pulse of magic, a black blade appears, firmly gripped in his hand. He cocks his hand back, a cocky grin showing a sharp canine tooth. Before the figure can throw the blade, I summon my magic out of pure instinct, the need to survive. I’m barely aware of my magic crawling over the prince, pulling him into the twilight flickers of violet and blue. With a quick thought, we wisp into the lord’s private chambers where Ricon still fumbles through cupboards.

  “Bairry’s balls, what the hell?” Ricon curses.

  I climb to my feet, knees still shaking from the influx of magic radiating from the figure. The prince heaves on the floor, curled on his side while the effects of wisping run its course. He recovers fast and mumbles, “G—guh—guards.”

  I kneel beside him, cover his mouth with a firm hand and shush him.

  “Let’s not do that, okay?” I say.

  “Tell me what in Eridh’s hell is going on,” Ricon barks.

  Before I can answer, the door leading to the hall breaks open. The fae steps through, a black blade in each hand, cocked and ready to fly. His movements are fast, nearly impossible to track, but easy to anticipate. I summon my magic with ease, the static bursting with adrenaline. I wisp behind the fae and wrap an arm tight around his throat, pulling him down to the floor with me. We struggle on the ground until the fae headbutts me, summoning stars in my vision. Ricon comes closer to intervene. Before I can warn him to stay back, the fae drives a black blade into Ricon’s thigh, the blade disappearing the moment fae releases their hold. My magic rages against my skin at the sound of Ricon cry out. I wisp out from under the fae, appearing above him and driving the heel of my boot into his face. The loud crack of cartilage is music to my ears. The prince is recovered and standing huddled against an armoire.

  “Guards! Guards, help!” He calls.

  The fae mutters something in another tongue and a rush of static pulsates from the mirror on the armoire.

  “Get away from there!” I shout, but the prince glares in defiance. I wisp beside him with a simple thought and shove him toward the bed where he catches himself on the footboard, just in time to miss a thick black paw with crescent-shaped talons swiping from the black surface of the mirror. A long snout covered in thick scales emerges, followed by a hunched back with finger-like barbs protruding. Its tail is long with a club of spikes at the end. Black ichor oozes from the porous holes throughout its grotesque physique.

  “Gods above, what is that thing?” The prince’s voice is shrill.

  “Bad news,” I reply.

  The beast snarls and lunges forward, aiming for the prince. Ricon, being the idiot that he is, throws himself in front to shield him. The creature sinks its fangs into Ricon’s shoulder. They both fall to the ground while I slam the dagger I retrieve from my boot into the beast’s neck. I twist the blade and drag it hard enough to slice open the scaled flesh. The monster releases Ricon from its bite. Without wasting a moment, I grab Ricon’s wrist and the prince’s ankle. The violet and blue of twilight pearlescent swirls around my body, pulsating as I breathe. My magic sings as I guide it to consume the prince and Ricon, pulling us into its void and away from all the bullshit.

  6

  Leluna

  “…Purge of Arcana…that is what our cousin called it. A wicked deed that is. She still won’t come out of her room. The maids replace spoiled food with fresh upon her tray, yet each day it still goes untouched. I managed to get her into a rocking chair by the window last week. Her frame were nothing but taught skin and bone, the poor thing. I fear the horrors she witnessed before escaping Edonia will forever haunt her….”

  – a private letter from Saidyaa Locair of Ishkar to her brother 892 B.M.

  Midday luncheon in the palace gardens is an exhausting endeavor. The courtiers congregate for their noon fix of food and gossip. The cooler morning air fades as the bright sun overhead heats the air. Summer in the capital is mild, but the past week has been warmer than usual.

  I peruse the montage of gowns in the court, adorned by gemstone and face paint. Their postures are tight, their hair permed, and their lips curled into facetious smiles. The majority of them aren’t older than seventeen. The queen invites them on the behest of the crowned royal prince for the promise of courtship, though the prince never spares a second glance to these ladies.

  To an innocent bystander, the scene looks cheerful and inviting. To a trained eye, however, it’s obvious this is warfare. The gentle exchange of insults that are masked as compliments. A courtier says, “Those shoes are simply the talk of the season.”

  Translation: Everyone laughs at them behind your back.

  Another girl coos, “I must know who does your hair.”

  So, I may avoid them. Your hair looks atrocious.

  “That brooch is lovely. Is it an heirloom?”

  Your grandmother has a tragic taste, as do you.

  It takes every ounce of self-control not to roll my eyes or shake my head at the ostentatious troupe.

  I’m standing behind the principled and pretentious lady Vaneeda of Laenberg, cousin to lord Montares. She’s dressed in gaudy pink with white lace and silver jewelry. The pompous woman is obviously in her thirties but claims to be twenty-six.

  Tell that to your sagging tits, lady Vaneeda.

  She sits with three other girls, just as gaudy, pompous, and annoying.

  My hands are clasped behind my back and my head is held down. I don’t stand out, and that’s precisely what I want. My uniform is black with a white strapped apron cinched around my waist. It contrasts with my deep brown, olive skin and currently hazel eyes and black hair. My eyes are usually dark brown and my hair a rich brown, but I can alter some of my features to blend in better with the help of a little illusion magic.

  I’m an attractive girl in my own right, but the illusion I wear gives me a slightly pudgier face, sunken eyes, and blemished skin. The perfect disguise to not draw attention. Since I can fade into the background.

  I was inserted into the castle undercover a few weeks ago. After Nymueh, a fellow guildmate failed to report for her routine updates, the Assassin Guild upper ranks became nervous, and they don’t like to be nervous. Nymueh is a close friend of mine. We trained together in the guild for years. For a time, we even lived together. We were close, very close. That is until Nymueh needed “space.” She moved out of our apartment in Rhenstadt. That was years ago, and I’ve only managed to get a few posts from her with very little to no details, just to let me know she’s not dead, I guess.

  “You’re too close to this, Leluna,” my commander said in his condescending tone.

  “Don’t give me that bullshit. I’m one of the best you have. Sending someone else is just going to waste all of our time,” I snarked in return.

  “Think this through. Nymueh hasn’t reported in three weeks. We have to assume she’s been compromised,” he reasoned.

  “You can assume whatever you want. Nymueh shouldn’t have been sent into that gods damned palace in the first place. This is far above her pay grade, and you know it,” I sniped.

  “She volunteered.”

  “Then I volunteer too. Send me
in. I’ll do what Nymueh was sent to do, find her, and get the fuck out of there.”

  The debate lasted far longer into the night, but eventually, I coerced the commander to agree. I didn’t even have to pull the “I’m your adopted daughter” card to convince him.

  The mission is simple. The capital city has been suffering strange disappearances for months. Every day dozens of citizens disappear without a trace. There’s been no official decree of recognition by the royal family. The city guards do little to placate the city-wide panic that’s building. The Guild suspects the queen is behind the disappearances. Nymueh volunteered to infiltrate the palace, uncover any incriminating evidence of queen Morda’s or king Gilderoy’s malicious conduct, and get the hell out.

  I’ve looked for weeks and still no sign. The dungeons are stitched into labyrinths of tunnels. I’ll need to get creative to narrow down my search. Maybe I’ll seduce a Knight’s Guard. I cringe at the thought, but an assassin’s gotta do what she’s gotta do, right?

  What a mess. A year ago, I was deep in shit with the pirates of Coldwater Bay. Royal politics have never been my forte. Stabbing swashbuckling pirates, however, definitely more my thing.

  Infiltrating lady Vaneeda’s services were a slice of cake. It didn’t take more than a few empty threats to her previous handmaiden to send her off, scurrying in the middle of the night. I hoped the woman’s lordship heritage and position in court would score an occasional audience with queen Morda, but no such luck. The queen is a complete mystery. No one knows where she comes from, aside from rumors and speculation. I wonder how I’ll feel when I look into the eyes of the villain who sanctioned the Purge of Arcana. In the beginning, hundreds in the capital were lynched, beheaded, or burned alive every day. My parents we among the victims.

  I wield illusion magic, as did my mother. I was twelve when they came for her. My father refused to let them take her. I was hidden beneath the floorboards in a closet upstairs. They murdered my father first. I heard his screams and the choked sobs as he drowned in his own blood. My mother screamed and wailed as they dragged her out of the house. More guards evaded our home, thrashing about. A man who loved to play with sharp objects found me and had his way.

  The Purge of Arcana didn’t stop there. It cascaded onto the runeologist, the alchemists, the potion brewers, linguimancers and transmuters. Anything magic and anyone who tried to defend or hide the users of magic met the same fate.

  I was found among the wreckage days later by my adoptive father—the leader of the Order of Assassins. He took me away from the Heath Borough of Gedaley, and back to his home in Rhenstadt. I’ll always be thankful for his mercy. But sometimes, I hate him for the life he gave me.

  “Well, I heard he traveled to Ishkar to negotiate a marriage treaty between kingdoms with princess Sayeida,” one of the court ladies says briskly.

  Wrong.

  “I heard he traveled to Rhenstadt to apprentice under the swordmasters,” another girl chimes.

  Also, wrong.

  Lady Vaneeda smirks, “I have on good authority the prince is neither in Ishkar or Rhenstadt.”

  “Please don’t hold back, mi’lady,” the first girl soothes.

  Yes, please don’t hold back, you pretentious twat.

  “The lord of Laenberg, my cousin, hosts the prince for the summer.”

  “The entire summer?” The first girl asks with disappointment. Lady Vaneeda hums in response. I almost feel sorry for the girl. Almost.

  “When will the prince return?” The second girl asks.

  “Hard to say,” Vaneeda says. “Laenberg celebrates the Sacred Six this week in time with the summer solstice.

  “Praise Ulir the Maiden that he has a safe and swift return,” the first girl prays. The feathers of muscle in lady Vaneeda’s neck twitch.

  Across the luscious gardens, a wave of murmurs sweeps over the crowd as they watch as the queen step through an open corridor and stroll through the garden paths that weave through rose shrubs. She’s draped in exotic black leather and translucent silk flowing from her waist, ruffled against the floor as she walks. Her hair is dark brown and bound into an intricate braided bun atop her head, which firmly seats her royal crown. Dazzling sapphire gems encased in a silver band. The diadem glistens in the summer sun.

  Her raven eyes scan the courtyard with a wise and calculated gaze, a predator’s gaze.

  Returning my attention to lady Vaneeda, I notice she’s leaning into another court girl, whispering sweet lies into her ear.

  Does this woman ever stop talking?

  ***

  Deep within the castle’s underground labyrinth of tunnels and sewers, I stand near an opening barred by thick iron bars stemming from the ground to ceiling. I nestle into a small crevice arched towards the drain entrance. This tunnel is used for excess rain or sewage to seep into the ocean from the Ivory Palace.

  The sky is dark, the moon somewhere below the horizon, no longer casting its umbral glow. Without the glimmer of moonlight, the ocean waves are solid black. The subtle purr of crashing waves against the castle cliff echoes through the tunnels behind me.

  I hear the shift of rock and sand nearby. A soft whistle chimes twice. I whistle the same tune in return.

  Slowly, a cloaked figure approaches the drain tunnel’s opening. I recognize Kael instantly. He’s a muscled brute, nearly two feet taller than me with an angular, heroic face. Kael’s brows are always pinched downward and tucked beneath brown strands of hair and his lips are cemented into a thin line.

  I doubt he’s smiled or laughed in a decade. I’ve worked with him for years—aside from knowing his name is Kael, I don’t know much about him. He’s a charmer, I muse sarcastically.

  “Report,” he says.

  A real charmer.

  “A lot of gossips,” I say softly. “Nothing beyond that.”

  Kael squirms nervously. He never fidgets like this.

  “What happened?”

  He startles, slipping back into his mask of calm composure and says, “We just received a night crow. The prince is missing. His chamber was ransacked and there’s blood.”

  “Bairry’s balls. What the fuck is going on down there?”

  “We have reason to believe the prince has been assassinated,” Kael adds.

  “Was there a body?”

  Kael scowls a moment before finally answering, “No.”

  “Well then, without a body, he could just be injured.”

  “There was a lot of blood.”

  “Severely injured.” I correct.

  “Perhaps, the queen hired someone to bring him back to the capital,” Kael says more like a question.

  “It’s possible, though I doubt it’s her style. She ordered the fucking Purge of Arcana by gods. Suppose the queen sent someone after the prince. They’d leave the body behind—especially while under the safety of the lord and duchess of Laenberg. queen Morda would have reason to accuse them of treason—the perfect frame job. That’s how I’d do it, at least.”

  A long pause before Kael says, “I can do nothing with speculation of grandeur. I need you to—”

  “—I’m not a fucking lap dog!” I interrupt. “I’m here to find Nymueh, first and foremost. The second I find her, I’m getting the fuck out of here.”

  “Those aren’t your orders.”

  “Fuck orders.”

  “We need you to get closer to the queen.”

  Absolutely fucking not, I want to say. “Why?”

  “You know why. We need to know what Morda is plotting so we can stay ahead. The kingsguard dispatched a battalion of two-thousand soldiers just this morning to march on Laenberg.”

  “You’re asking me to risk myself and get closer to the queen. I’d like to know why.” I snap, “I did not survive the purge barely with an inch of my life, get recruited into the Order of Assassins, kill countless marks, just for the thrill of it. I want the queen.”

  Kael stares, long and har
d. I stare in return because I’m sick of the cryptic messages. He knows I can get the information another way.

  “I don’t even know why I bother with these schemes. I should just march into the queen’s chambers right now and listen to the sweet song of my blade sliding into her throat. I imagine the sounds she makes while choking on her own blood will surely give me butterflies.”

  “We have precise orders not to, and you know it. The queen has spent ten years brainwashing and manipulating Edonia into compliance. Kill her now and you’ll make her a martyr.” Kael barks, louder than usual. I know he’s right, but fuck the gods if I’ll ever say that aloud.

  “So, I get to listen to pompous court bitches complain about the weather instead,” I groan. “I can’t just plant myself into her services.”

  Kael hands me a rolled parchment through the bars. “Schematics show a direct route to the queen’s private chamber through the servant halls.”

  “What about the blueprints for the dungeons I requested? It’s a gods damned maze down there, and I’m wasting time just trying to find Nymueh.”

  “The chances of her still—” Kael starts, but I interrupt.

  “Until I feel her cold dead body in my hands, there’s still a chance she’s alive. Get me those blueprints, Kael. I mean it.”

  “I’ll put in a request with the commander,” he says. Before I can respond with a question or retort, Kael is already gone, leaving the way he came.

  I sigh heavily and take one last look at the blackened ocean, as I slip back into the palace to continue my mission.

  7

  Nova

  “…a ceremony to invoke the will of gods. The ritual has long since been forgotten, though there are documents stating the instrinsic lessons are coveted by a secret society within the fae of Errelon. The last recorded performance of the ritual known as d’vasicei Othoer happened over a hundred years ago. The practice was deemed far too dangerous even for the heavenly devout.…”