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

by J. Levi

  I don’t respond. I can’t respond. My throat tightens and my tongue feels stout against my teeth. My eyes shift between Veryn and my mother.

  “It seems your little act of disobedience didn’t spoil the first impression,” he starts.

  Disobedience? I want to scoff, but I bite my lip instead and savor the taste of blood, keeping me grounded.

  “The Chieftain has agreed to wed his heir to my own. Unifying two kingdoms, and blah blah blah. Honestly, I rather loath consorting with such fiendish brutes. But alas, war requires many peculiarities in one’s decisions. Merida dear, I might find it in my heart to actually compliment you for this unification.” A long pause for melodrama. He positively adores his melodrama.

  “Then again, why would I?” he snickers, and his vicious grin spreads from ear to ear.

  “Why don’t you tell us why you’ve summoned us, Veryn.” My mother says—her usual casual poise flowing from her tongue with elegance. My mother rarely speaks of her past, but I imagine she’s had experience in regal etiquette.

  Veryn decides to ignore my mother’s verbal sufferance. Instead, he twirls a finger through his spider-silk hair and says, “Merida dear, do you know why Obsidian Reach is built into the side of a volcano?”

  The gawdy black palace of molten glass and posh embellishments is undoubtedly a sight to be seen. Aside from its outward appearance, that’s as far as my knowledge of the castle or its volcano went. I slowly shake my head. Words pose too much risk with the anxiety and rage pulsing through my veins.

  “Well, I’m not surprised,” he says condescendingly. “You see, dear, the volcano once stood as nothing but a mere mountain. A peak that stretched into the heavens of Harheim. It’s said that atop the mountain was a beautiful temple built by the god Elach himself. A place where the people of Midheim could visit their gods and bestow their unwavering devotion.

  “Of course, the gods did not stay in Midheim long. Many of them left to other realms of their own creation.” He pauses, stealing a glance at my mother, his eyes trail along her languish body. His tongue flicks across his bottom lip before he continues speaking, returning his gaze to me.

  “The temple sat abandoned, though, in their departure, the gods left a herald. This herald prophetically communed between the gods and their creations of Midheim. Centuries passed emphatically. Within her grief, she sought the attention of her creators. She wreaked havoc across the land, blazing the luscious earth with her torturous fire. She ended her tirade at her precious gods’ temple atop the mountain. She bore her powers into the mountain. It is said her intentions were to erupt the entire realm in fire and chaos. Instead, she merely turned the mountain of gods into a volcano. The ash had filled the sky and darkness swept the southern lands.”

  Veryn swirls a finger in the air, impersonating the ash-filled clouds that cover the skies.

  “Before the Seventy Winter War, my father saw the volcano for what it was: an advantageous foothold. So, he commanded his armies and forced his slaves to erect the Obsidian Reach. He also understood the far greater advantage hidden beneath the craggy basin,” Veryn’s face perks into a deathly smile. He’s enjoying his theatrics.

  “The herald of the gods returned to the volcano she’d created to incubate her spawn. Centuries passed before the first clutch had hatched, but eventually they did. And from the herald, birthed the wyverns.

  “My father discovered the herald’s eggs, still nestled deep within the mountain long after their mother had fled the realm. Centuries of experiments and theories until he perfected a way to hatch the eggs. He bred the prime wyvern bloodlines and slaughtered the weak, only promoting the purest until he managed a legion of terrible glory. Unfortunately, his numbers were far too little to post any sanction against the humans during our recent war. I’ve taken on his patronage, cultivating the fine specimens within the volcanic reaches.”

  I’m beginning to grow tired of his monologue. His voice sounds like nails dragging across iron cleats.

  “Then why wed Merida off to the arcenians if you have your army of beasts,” my mother hisses. Veryn is amused, his mood borderline cheery.

  “Whispers travel through The Dion Mountains. Whispers of horrible, wicked things brewing in the kingdom of humans. Terrors I wouldn’t dare plague on your simpleton minds,” a chuckle escapes his hefty breath. “I need soldiers on the ground as my vylorian army rides the wyverns which brood in the mountain. Does that answer your question, Ryna of Riverpeak?”

  I’m unfamiliar with the title he addresses my mother by.

  “Perhaps, if you behave yourself, I’ll let the trolls ride you—” Veryn starts, but a snarl rips from my mother’s mouth as she spits at the Veryn’s feet.

  Veryn stands from his throne and casually approaches us. He reaches for my mother and traces a finger along her collarbone, then her shoulders. His fingers fiddle with the black iron chain that hangs slack against her back. He grabs the chain between his boney fingers and yanks. A soft whine escapes my mother’s lips as blood trickles down her neck and onto her chest.

  My mother rolls her shoulders and cracks her neck before she straightens her back and returns her gaze to the dais. Veryn chuckles as he tracks a finger into her dripping blood and licks it. Red from her blood still dresses his teeth and fangs as he grins.

  I feel myself shift within my own body. The fear and insecurity I struggle to hide swiftly transforms into anger and rage. My pupils and nostrils flare as I scowl at the tyrant, my father. He swipes another finger through my mother’s blood, and when he notices that I’m nearly panting in rage, he growls. Veryn bares his blood-stained teeth at me. His raw energy emanating from him makes me want to submit, but I will not obey.

  I am tired of obeying, yielding, and crying because of this monster. I growl right back, baring my fangs.

  A king’s guard from behind kicks the back of my legs, forcing me to the ground, crashing onto my knees. I cry out in pain, which transmutes into a vicious snarl. My breathing is sporadic, and the sounds that escape me are pure animal.

  “Merida,” my mother calls. A harsh slap echoes through the throne room. Veryn backhands mother, forcing her to her own knees.

  Veryn tugs at his tunic while rolling his shoulders, recollecting himself. A small dribble of my mother’s blood on the corner of his lip.

  “I must say, I find it deeply disturbing when my pets choose to misbehave,” he purrs.

  “I am not your pet,” I growl, placing emphasis on each word slowly. I don’t care about the consequences at this moment, the punishment for disobedience. An instinctual urge overtakes me, a calling deep within me that tells me what to do next. It feels natural. It feels safe.

  “Oh, but you are my pet. Though it seems I must remind you who your master is,” he snarks—a snap from his fingers and the guards in the throne room swarm at us.

  A loud roar shakes the gawdy crystal chandelier above. A guard rushes at my mother, but she grabs him by the neck—spins around, launching the guard through the air and into the obsidian throne. I hear the resounding noise of his spine snapping as he falls to the ground.

  I meet my mother’s gaze, her eyes are glowing a vibrant yellow with a ring of red. Her fangs hang low from her parted lips. She wraps her fingers around the iron and thorn collar and rips it from her neck. She tosses it across the floor, and it skids along with the marble floors coming to a halting stop by Veryn’s feet.

  Veryn starts yelling commands at his king’s guard, but I can’t understand his words. His voice sounds muffled. My mother roars beside me, her fae features slowly transforming into a beast. She’s no longer the gentle guardian who sings me lullabies or braids my hair.

  “Run,” she says. The last words fall from her lips as her flesh cracks and shrivel like rivers rippling surface, the sound of bone and flesh twisting and snapping. Within a heartbeat, she’s shifted her body into a luscious red-fur. My mother is now a feral wolfkin, a protector—a predator. The wolf snarls, bar
ing her teeth like a vicious grin. She barks, wrenching me from my stupor. The red wolf steps towards Veryn, who looks both perturbed and bored.

  I slip between the guards surrounding me, my iron chains clink against the ground. I duck underneath a soldier’s outstretched arm and shove my weight into another, knocking him off balance. Rapidly, I make it to the iron doors, still ajar.

  I move through the labyrinth of halls leading toward my tower chamber, a habit from over the years. When I realize my only path to escape would be through the gardens, I tuck my arms in close and sprint as fast as I can with the amount of slack the chains around my ankles allow. A tear cascades down my cheek as I buckle around, corner after corner. Mother and I were supposed to be escaping together, not just me alone. I want to turn back, but I know it’s too late. I have to push forward because it’s what she wants me to do, and it’s what I truly want—what I need. Freedom, the voice of my wolf calls.

  A guard halts from his routine patrol to engage, but I slam the heel of my foot against his knees, breaking the bone and ligaments. I wrap the black chains that bind me around his neck and pull tight. He struggles while aimlessly reaching behind his head to grab me, desperate for air. A few heartbeats later, the soldier goes limp. Without remorse, I catapult from the stone floor and continue my escape.

  I reach the glass doors leading to the garden. A thundering howl bellows through the halls behind me, my mother’s I recognize. I feel a wave of power rush against me, the howl invoking a strength in my bones, forcing me to move even faster. A roar reverberates after. It’s vicious and cold. My body shudders at the sound. It belongs to Veryn.

  I stumble through the glass doors and across the black pebble flowerbeds to the courtyard. The chains between my ankles keep catching against shrubs and stumps littered throughout the yard. My breaths are shallow and swift, my heart roaring in my chest.

  I see the stone stairwell against the ashlar. Merely a few paces before the stone steps, my chain catches against the stump of a dead shrub. I fall hard, my face slamming into the pebble stone earth. Shouts dance around me as guards swarm into the garden. A few sentries stationed on top of the wall-walk draw their bows with arrows and aim for me. I fumble to untangle the chains when I hear a crack through the air. My eyes widen. My heart trips for a long gruesome second. I recognize the loud crack. It has filled my ears and struck against my flesh all too many times.

  A king’s guard steps forward with the silver emblem of two serpents embossed on his chest of armor carries and an iron-tipped whip in his hand. The guard draws back his arm high above his head, a position I recognize. I swallow my fear, unhook the chains, and tumble for the wall-walk stairs. The crack of the whip sweeps through the air and searing pain slices into my back. A sob erupts on my lips and my eyes swell with tears. The pain consumes me, it swallows my senses, and I become numb. I can feel another slice through my back again, but the pain doesn’t follow. I only smell the sweet tang of coppery blood. Kill, the voice in my mind ravages. Kill them all.

  They are too strong, I whisper back in my mind.

  We are stronger.

  Never one without the other? I ask my wolf, repeating its words.

  Never one without the other.

  I snarl at the guard with the whip, my fangs glaring under my curling lips. I allow my rage to take over, to wield me like a swordsman wields a blade. I feel the twist and turn of flesh and bone. My skin buzzes with static as silky fur rips from my flesh. Only a few moments pass until I merge into the beast that rages within me. My chains groan and snap as my form grows beneath the iron clasps. My wrists and ankles break free from the metal.

  I howl—wait, no—my wolf is howling, its voice now in place of my own.

  The darkened garden shines in vibrant hues I couldn’t see in my other form. The peppery and sweet tones of life from the greenhouse fill the air as well as the dull bitterness of fallen ash, and the sulphuric stench pouring from the mine shafts. A symphony of pattering heartbeats drum in a variety of tempos, some fast and rigid while few are slower, more precise.

  The urge to tear through flesh consumes me—us. With our fangs bared, we lunge across the garden at the whip-wielding guard. Kill, kill, kill, our voices meld into one in our mind. By instinct, we pounce through the air until our paws slam into the guard, forcing him to the ground and sink teeth into the guard’s neck, piercing metal and iron armor. My wolf rips his throat out, blood spraying from his torn flesh and dousing our fur until we release his flesh from our mouth. The other soldiers wearily approach. My wolf shakes our blood-drenched fur, scarlet red painting the ground like a rain of carnage. We howl deeply, launching towards the stairs leading up the wall walk. We scale the steps and run along the obsidian crenulations. We peer over the ledge at the city of stone and clay further down the volcanic mountain.

  A faint cry brings me—us to a halt. Our ears pull back, and tail tucks low against the ground. The cry is weak, but we know it’s mother. Mother, friend, love, my wolf screams in our mind.

  We whimper at the sound of another cry, we recognize the pain she’s suffering. My wolf turns to retrace our steps to help her, but a broken howl drifts through the air. My wolf feels the words and the meaning behind her call, the color of sorrow.

  She says, “Flee, my love, my pack. Be safe.”

  Pack? We don’t recognize the word, but it brings a buzz of familiarity to me, my wolf.

  Along the wall-walk, soldiers line the parapets and arch their bows. They will kill us, my wolf says.

  But mother, friend, pack. We can’t leave, I cry back.

  “Where is she?” Veryn’s voice screams across the garden.

  We can’t go back, my wolf says. We survive. Our eyes burn as my wolf returns towards the battlement’s edge, and jumps. Our heart fractures as we abandon the only person who’s ever loved me—us.

  We can’t kill him, my wolf says again as though to convince me.

  My only thought is, not yet.

  The whirling whistles of arrows dance through the air as we land against the rocky terrain beneath the curtain wall. Most of the arrows sing their song until they pierce stone or dirt—but one arrow flies true and pierces my wolf’s shoulder. We tumble down the volcanic slope—towards the clay and stone city below.

  20

  Nova

  “The fall of Errelon caused an imbalance in the arcana of Midgard. When our ancestors arrived in this realm, they did not bring magic, such as humans believe. They merely harnessed the leylines of raw magic deep within the earth, setting it free. The people of Errelon harnessed that innate magic, twisting it into something malicious. The Reckoning brought destruction, leveling half the continent and destroying the world tree Ydreill. By the grace of the gods, a single seed was gifted to the survivors, to grow and nurture, restoring balance to Midgard.”

  – personal notes of archivist Shelin Graspero 321 B.M.

  The guards chuckle with their brows raised high while Cas and I scurry through the hot spring’s archway leading back to the tents. After realizing we didn’t bring clean and sanitary clothes before we went to the hot springs, we tried and failed to wash our dirty ones. Even after scrubbing them in the bucket of spring water, they still wreaked of the death pit.

  I bundle my soiled trousers and boots and hold them just below my waistline to cover myself as modestly as possible. Cas does the same. I may or may not have stolen a few glances during the rush and exhilaration of running naked through the night.

  We run barefoot through the sand, which feels tantalizing against the newly formed calluses on my feet. I hear Cas wincing every other step, his royal feet against the unforgiving dirt. As we cross the sand field and reach the camps, a few carnival residents cheer, laugh, and whistle. Someone even catcalls and another tosses a white handkerchief in my face as I run by. I resist the tug of a smile.

  I dive into our tent first, tripping over a pile of clothes and onto bedrolls layered with sheepskins. Cas rushes in after and t
rips, too—directly on top of me. It takes a moment before I register the clothing we both used to cover our groins were now loose from our grip, as we are now exposed and pressed firmly against each other, skin to skin.

  For a significant period, we don’t move. Neither of us dares to even breathe. I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to suffocate the growl that wants to rumble— Cas’s weight pressing against my body in a way that causes an immediate reaction, not only in me but him, too.

  The snap and crack of the burning wood from campfires outside the tent, the gentle murmur of caravan members, chattering, and the hitched arbitrary sounds of our breaths fill the deafening tension. A sudden and loud round of laughter outside the tent bolts us from our temporary state of paralysis. Cas leaps from me and scurries to a corner of the tent.

  I sit up, pull a sheepskin over my lower waist, collect the soiled clothes and boots from the ground nearby, and toss them into a pile near the tent flap.

  I reach for the pile of fresh clothes. I pick out pieces I think will fit and toss the rest at Cas, who’s still stiff in the corner like a frightened fawn. I’m not sure why, but the fact the prince’s demeanor is so prudish is amusing. I have a wicked and devious thought, mostly mischievous but a touch petty as well. I’m still sour about my new pretentious traveling companion and his privileged stature.

  Just as I pull the sheepskins from my waist to stand, an older woman, human, half my height, white hair pinned back, and a vibrant-colored robe draped across her shoulders with a fur shawl, steps into the tent.

  She’s holding two large bowls in her hand. I can smell the meaty and savory broth inside as steam slowly rises from the rims. My mouth musters a slimy coat of saliva as my mouth gapes—the old woman’s gaze shifts between Cas and me, and then her eyes lower. I realize I’m still standing, naked and exposed. Cas looks like he’s about to hyperventilate.

  I offer a casual smile, eager to pretend I’m not at all embarrassed.