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

by J. Levi

  The stranger calls the palace Obsidian Reach with an eye roll and a wad of spit to the ground as he continues.

  We descend farther towards the outskirts of the city, the volcanic mountain basin. Before long, the busy streets begin to diminish into less crowded alleys, and we approach the city hustle’s outer embankment.

  We enter the fairgrounds for a brilliant carnival: tents, booths, and pens stationed every which way. In the center is a large pavilion in vibrant colors. There are hundreds of city-folks—human and fae—walking through the tents. Laughter and hackling fill the space. The smell of roasted meat and salted, fried fish makes my mouth turn even dryer—unable to salivate from dehydration.

  The stranger leads us around the busy crowd and into a more massive tent behind the others that don’t bear the same exotic, vibrant colors or shapes. The tent is filled with long tables, dozens of stools, and chairs. In the back, there is a large table with pots and pans stacked high, a woven basket full of stained rags in the corner. A few lanterns hang from the tent poles in the ceiling. Nova steps in after me, posturing himself in front of me, almost as though he is guarding me. Nova has saved my life a few times now. Logically, I know I should doubt his intentions, but every instinct in my body screams to trust him.

  I swallow my thoughts and peer over Nova’s shoulder. The stranger stands in the center of the pavilion and faces us while he removes his hood. The human man is older, possibly near his fiftieth birth year. His hair is short and blonde. He has a thick beard, that’s a shade darker than the hair on his head. His bronze complexion is littered with wrinkles and scars. I stare into the man’s eyes but can’t tell if they were brown or black in the dim light of the tent. I step to Nova’s side to speak to the stranger.

  “Thank y—” I start.

  “—This is the mess hall,” the stranger interrupts. “This is where meals are served. You’ll come when the bell calls—miss it, you don’t eat.” He barks and points to another table near the pots and pans with stacked trays and a cutlery basket before continuing, “You’ll clean after yourselves and return your shit to the tables.”

  I nod, but Nova just stares intensely at the stranger. Before I apologize for Nova’s behavior or ask the question I’ve been itching to ask, the man steps past us. He leaves the tent, telling us to follow. Beyond the mess hall is a series of smaller tents and carriage wagons propped against bales of hay and wooden logs. When we reach the outer edge of camps, the stranger points to a small, dank tent.

  “Outhouses are behind the camps. You two will use this tent. I’ll ask around for spare cots. Until then, make do with makeshift pallets,” the figure says before turning. His face is grim and stone-cold when he says, “I am inviting you into my caravan under the good graces of my bleeding fucking heart. Use the tent or don’t. You may sleep in it, eat in it, fuck in it for all I care—you will, however, respect this caravan, the people and property. Am I understood?”

  I flinch at the crass words. I glance at Nova. He’s stiff and calm.

  “Are we slaves?” Nova asks.

  My eyes widen, darting between Nova and the stranger. For a moment, there’s only silence. Until the stranger bellows a thunderous laugh and heaves over with his hands on his thighs. He shakes his head a few times, looking at Nova and laughing even louder.

  “Shit, no kid. Though I do expect you to work a fortnight or two for risking my own neck to get you two out of those pits. Spend a few weeks with the caravan doing chores and odd jobs, and we’ll call it even.”

  “Why?” Nova says, growling under his breath.

  “Look, I come from the North, and I know Edonian leathers when I see them. I don’t know if you both came from there, but I can tell neither of you belongs in Orgard. You won’t survive on your own. Not with that attitude, for sure. I did myself a favor and hired some help around the caravan. It’s a win-win. I scratch your back, you scratch mine. We’re here in the city until tomorrow morning, and the caravan moves to the next rest spot towards the eastern coast. Travel with us to Andeil, we can part ways, or you can stick with the caravan. I don’t fucking care,” the stranger muses.

  He shifts on his feet as he awaits Nova’s response. Nova only nods in acceptance, which is better than I’d expected.

  “I’ll send some supper to your tent and some fresh clothes. Get some sleep, and we’ll train in the morning just after sunrise for a few hours before you two start your chores. Got it?”

  “Training?” I ask, surprised. The stranger nods and then grins. He nods towards Nova before he explains, “You’ve got a mean swing kid. Most can’t handle a greatsword like that. You have any training?”

  Nova seems unmoved by the praise or question. He merely nods his head and says, “I have some—I trained in Rhenstadt, though I usually handle rapiers or daggers.”

  “A fae, such as yourself, training in Rhenstadt?” the stranger asks suspiciously. He eyes Nova for a beat until he shrugs and continues, “Tell me, is sword master Keir still teaching in Rhenstadt?”

  Nova nods.

  “Well, I’ll be. That fucker will never die. Keir’s gotta be what, in his eightieth year? I trained with him back probably before you two were even born. Anyway, you got some basic skills, and I think I can train you with other weapons. You barely survived that fight,” his words weigh heavy through the air.

  The stranger nods at me and says, “I think you could do with some formal training the most.”

  I flush with embarrassment. I preferred reading about the daring adventures and battles of swordplay rather than practice it myself.

  “Easy, don’t get your trousers in a bunch. Not everyone is primed for battle. Much less prepared to go sword and claw with a fucking cravyn. Come to training, and I’ll toughen you up a bit. Maybe we can get some calluses on those soft hands of yours.”

  I want to embrace the privilege of being offended, but I nod in approval instead. I swallow the pride that wants me to defend myself.

  The stranger claps a hand against each of our shoulders and suggests we need new clothes. “I’ll see what we have lying around, and someone will bring them to your tent,” he says, then he points past the camps toward a gate that leads into a smaller mountain near the volcano. The entrance has two soldiers standing outside the gate, monitoring the carnival from afar.

  “If you head through there, it’ll lead you into a series of natural hot springs. Use them to wash up,” he suggests and flicks a copper coin at Nova, who snatches it mid-air without a glance. “Payment for the springs.”

  He’s about to leave the mess hall, but before he passes through the tent opening, I manage to blurt, “What’s your name, sir?”

  The stranger turns back, scoffs, then retorts, “Sir? Kid, do I look like a sir to you? You know what, don’t answer that. Names Langlo but call me Lan for short.”

  Lan leaves the tent.

  Nova leads the way towards the hot spring archway, following Lan’s advice. I’m thankful for the reprieve. I’ve learned to breathe through my mouth, given the wretched stench soaked into our clothes is offensive.

  We pass through the arch, and the guards give us no issues. Neither of them even glance at us with suspicion. A small booth lay within the cavern mouth, and an old fae woman perches on a stool. She eyes us begrudgingly. Nova slides the copper coin across the wooden booth and the woman offers a curt nod and directs us to a private spring.

  She guides us through a long shaft with a lantern filled with flickering blue flames. The tunnel opens into a round grotto. The ceiling is open, exposing the sky of black ash and soot that snuffs any light from the moon or stars.

  The hot springs are small pools and divots in the smooth carved volcanic floor. A long winding river weaves through the grotto. Hot steam emanating from the water. There are citizens bathing, laughing, and relaxing. The old woman disappears down another tunnel. We follow after, as best we can, with the dim lighting. Nova seems to fare better in the dark than I do. I brush m
y fingertips against the smooth carved wall until we arrive at a smaller chamber with a private hot spring pool. The water glows a slightly dull blue. A brazier near the entrance blazes brightly. The ember light dances across the smooth water surface of the spring. The old woman turns without a word and disappears down the dark tunnel again.

  I pull off my mud-caked boots when Nova clears his throat and points to a bucket and brush near the spring. He dips it into the hot spring, then steps away from the pool far enough so when he pours the water over his bare muddy feet, however, the filthy water doesn’t flow back into the spring. After he finishes, I mimic his movements until my feet and lower legs were sufferable to enter the pool.

  I pull my shirt off, turning away from Nova as I pull my trousers down. Heat flushes my face in embarrassment.

  From behind, I hear a hiss, a grunt, then a curt vulgar word that causes me to blush further. I turn to witness Nova, already naked, slowly crawling into the pool, steam bracing his tarnished skin like fog in the Capital’s Ivory borough harbor on a spring morning. He unties his hair, letting it fall to his shoulders. I notice it’s more brown than the reddish tint of his beard which has grown some since I’ve met him.

  I swiftly drop my undergarments and slip into the water before Nova turns to me. I move more hastily than I anticipated and splash into the spring loudly. Nova chuckles under his breath in between the winces and hisses. His back is still turned to me, and I can see the wounds I healed, but not completely.

  “I can heal those fully,” I offer, wanting to ease his discomfort.

  “No,” he commands but not unkind. “They already think my claim to be a healer is bullshit. No need to give them more reason for suspicion. I’m sure it looks worse than it feels.”

  “It looks pretty fucking worse,” I say, unknowingly aware of my use for vulgarity.

  Nova turns to me now, a half-smile on his chapped lips. Sweat and steam condensation pools against the divots of his upper lip. Nova’s collar bones are sharp and firm, the black stone still hangs from his thick neck. His shoulders are round and tense. His chest—by gods, his chest—is built broad and muscular for his lean size.

  My eyes stare at the ridges of Nova’s stomach. Blood warms my cheeks as my gaze slowly draws along the narrow curves of his hips that lead far lower than I should be gawking. Thankfully, the hot spring water distorts everything below. The ominous glow from the spring floor leaves much to the imagination.

  I look away, trying to tame my thoughts and my noticeable blush. It doesn’t help that Nova cups water in his hands and brings it to his body as he slowly rubs his skin. The firelight from the nearby brazier dances along the ridges and wet sheen of his skin on his torso. By God’s, this is what torture truly feels like.

  “Do you want to ask me something?” Nova calls out. I realize I’m still staring. Nay, gawking.

  I panic—I don’t know what I’m doing or why I’m reacting to him the way I am. I consider confessing, but do I even know what the truth is? I feel confused, but Nova’s presence invokes a sense of calm and anxiety, which makes no sense.

  I’m startled when a rush of hot water splashes against my face. Nova stands with a mischievous grin and splashes again. I dunk my head under the water and resurface to Nova, standing closer...ridiculously closer.

  “Where did you get your scars?” I blurt out, breaking the tension that swells within my chest.

  Nova’s body is beautiful, his flesh is littered with scars, some deep and rigid, while others are faint and barely noticeable in the dim light. The most noticeable is the burn scar on his shoulder, the flesh still pink. It’s more recent than the others.

  Nova smiles lazily as he traces his fingers over a few deep scars along his chest and upper stomach.

  “Too many stories that take too long to tell,” Nova muses.

  I don’t bother pressing it further. Instead, I slip into the trance of tracing the scars with my eyes and memorizing each of them as water trickles slowly down against Nova’s tanned skin.

  Nova tilts his head to the side, a posture of curiosity. His eyes dart across my face, searching for something.

  “I thought the royals frowned upon having male lovers?” Nova says without really asking, amused.

  “I—I don’t, I mean…” I muster and with as much fervor I can summon in my voice, I say “Where in Eridh’s hell do you get off?”

  Nova raises a single brow and says with a honey soaked tone, “do you really want me to answer that?” And then proceeds to wink!

  Nova climbs out of the spring, water pouring from his lean back. His backside is barely visible in the shadows that swallow his body from the faint firelight. He peers over his shoulder and smiles, and Gods, that smile wounds me. I think I feel my knees wobble beneath the water.

  Nova reaches behind his head and scratches at his auburn curls. It’s a nervous tick that makes him appear more normal. Even with his pointed ears, intensely vibrant eyes, he’s still the same person. I realize I prefer him in this form than the one before—he looks natural, as if his true form offers more beneath the surface.

  Nova squints before he chuckles, “Bairry’s balls. I forgot to bring a change of clothes.”

  My stomach drops, and I swear I’m about to vomit in humiliation. We forgot to wait for fresh linens.

  The only thing I can muster in response is, “Fuck.”

  19

  Merida

  “We the gypsies broke bread with the greatest rulers of Midgard, twisting tales and casting light to the macabre. The fae brought with them parlor tricks, but we, the people of old, remember what our mothers taught us. The ancient ways of Midgard, the true way to harness Arcana.

  – Madam Terfoot, mother of gypsies 12 B.M.

  “Move it, you mangy mutts,” a crass soldier sneers with an unnecessary tug of my iron shackles. We move along obsidian corridors, turning corners and scaling stairs. The bustle of steel boots falling into a rhythm as soldiers escort us is enough to make me cringe. I cautiously study the vylorian guards. I know something is off since twice the typical number of soldiers stormed into our tower chamber and clasped an iron collar to my mother’s neck. Sharp thorns in the collar’s brim intrude into her skin. A long black-clad chain dangles against her back. It perfectly matches the black iron shackles that adorn her wrists and ankles. No matter how rough the guard, she doesn’t resist. Nor does she snarl when they taunt her with barking mockery or spit at her feet. I wince at their repulsive display of disdain, and my blood curdles at their jests.

  I recite the mantra in my mind, the words my mother whispered to me just before the soldiers burst through our chamber door. Don’t react, don’t give in, bide your time. I repeat the words internally, like a chant or mantra. It’s the only thing keeping me from ripping the guards’ heads from their rancid bodies.

  A king’s guard grips the black chain that’s secured to my mother’s collar. He gives it the occasional tug as we’re escorted. He acts as though he’s walking a dog. Disgusting.

  He’ll be the first I kill. My tongue glistens in saliva at the thought of tasting the vylorian glutton’s blood. I allow myself to imagine placing the very collar on my mother’s throat around his. I itch at the thought of dragging him across the black marbled floors and lynching him over the railing of the grand spiral staircase in the foyer of Obsidian Reach.

  I’ve memorized the better parts of Obsidian Reach over the years, which is why I recognize the path we’re taking. The throne room. My disobedience during the tour pissed Veryn off, indeed. I’m confident we’re about to receive the punishment for my actions.

  When we pass the tall iron doors, flourished in gold leaves and silver lianas, I lower my shoulders and raise my chin. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me squirm before him.

  Veryn sprawls across his throne. His head is tucked against the armrest and his legs dangling on the other. He’s always in this lax manner when his machinations are genuinely sinister. Th
is isn’t what I’d imagine being a king’s posture, more like a prepubescent child too bored to sit still. And as a child might, Veryn is about to unleash his tantrum.

  Veryn doesn’t bother giving us a glance even as we stand before the dais. He balances a silver goblet between his fingers, carefully swirling whatever is sloshing inside. His other hand brazenly caresses his spider-silk hair that drapes over the throne.

  We stand in silence with stiff backs and narrow breaths barely audible. Only the sounds of the sloshing goblet carry through the air. The suspense is harrowing. It’s another mind game Veryn often uses until I anxiously waver. I’ve been whipped, cut, bones broken, and had burning coals braced against my flesh. But none of which felt as ominous as this odious silence.

  To my surprise, my mother speaks first, breaching the silence. “Your hair has grown some, Veryn. I hadn’t noticed when you visited my chambers the other day.”

  The sloshing goblet freezes mid-swish, the king’s face slowly turns to meet my mother’s gaze.

  “How kind of my pet to notice,” he purrs.

  He adjusts himself on his throne until he’s upright. He snaps his fingers and a cowering servant, hidden in a corner behind the dais, swiftly appears to collect the goblet.

  “Ryna, darling. I must say black iron is truly your color,” he mocks.

  My mother doesn’t react. Her face is unmoved and stable, her body still stiff. Veryn’s eyes move to me, and I struggle to keep the same composure as my mother. My knees shiver and my shoulders slouch.

  “I’ve just received word from our visiting friend from the other day,” he muses. “Care to know what they’ve said?”