by D. Fischer
REBORN
RISE
OF THE
REALMS
- One -
D. FISCHER
REBORN (RISE OF THE REALMS: BOOK ONE)
COPYRIGHT © D. Fischer, 2017
ISBN-13:
978-1981943524
ISBN-10:
1981943528
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
NO PART OF THIS PUBLICATION MAY BE REPRODUCED, DISTRIBUTED, OR TRANSMITTED IN ANY FORM OR BY ANY MEANS, INCLUDING PHOTOCOPYING, RECORDING, OR OTHER ELECTRONIC OR MECHANICAL METHODS, WITHOUT PRIOR WRITTEN PERMISSION OF THE PUBLISHER, EXCEPT IN THE CASE OF BREIF QUOTATIONS EMBODIED IN CRITICAL REVIEWS AND CERTAIN THER NONCOMMERCIAL USES PERMITED BY COPYRIGHT LAW.
Everything in this book is fictional. It is not based on true events, persons, or creatures that go bump in the night, no matter how much we wish it were…
A Note of Thanks
I’d love to just take a moment and thank all the ‘underdogs’ out there that have to fight for what they want. Strength comes within - it starts with you - and just because you have to work harder for it, doesn’t mean you’re not meant to have it.
Fight for what’s yours and don’t let anyone stand in your way.
Dream big. You lack nothing.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
PROLOGUE
KATRIANE DUPONT
EARTH REALM
THE PAST
The frigid winter air seeps into my bones, freezing them down to the marrow. The skin on my cheeks resist against it, shriveling and burning with each subtle, chilly breeze. Even with the layers I wear—the coat, a long sleeve shirt, hat, and mittens—I might as well be wearing nothing at all.
I shiver as I glance around, my muscles quaking against the cloth that’s only job is to keep me warm. Absentmindedly, my numb mitten-covered fingers twirl the ladle, sloshing the contents inside my simmering pot as my head swivels at every subtle noise within the forest. My paranoia has the better of me. The closer I get to finishing my potion, the more my mind concocts its own brew of fear-laced emotions.
I glance back at my boiling pot. As each bubble reaches the surface, a few stray drops splatter into the air and splash against the side of the cast-iron cauldron. The fire licks up its sides, desperately trying to consume the cauldron itself, considering it a challenge. The snow melts around my makeshift fire pit, creating a cold puddle at my feet. The frigid liquid seeps through my tennis shoes and soaks my socks. As the bubbles rise from the bottom and free themselves once it hits the top, the crackling noise of the flames and the popping of each bubble echoes in the quiet winter night. The full moon is the only thing that lights my vision aside from the fire, a beacon aiding me in my quest in this thick blanket of trees.
I’m about to do something forbidden, something I know I shouldn’t. This could be my demise, my destruction. The chilly air isn’t the only thing that makes my muscles quiver, knocking my knees together. I could be punished and cease to exist. I’m aware of the consequences my actions could, or will, have.
I take a deep breath, fog leaving my nostrils on the exhale, and let go of the handle. The wooden ladle clinks against the cast iron as I bend to the ground and reach inside my brown, leather satchel. I was given this satchel during my Right, the ceremony that brought me into my rightful place as a witch.
My mother gave it to me during the celebration following that ceremony. Such a look of joy had crossed her face as I unwrapped it from its box. It was perfect, smooth; I had run my fingers along the pristinely knit hems and the embedded half-moon circle with a line down the middle—my coven’s crescent.
But now, the edges fray and stains from previous potions mar the once smooth leather surface, and a tear is beginning to form in the middle of the strap. I refuse to be rid of it, though. This is the gift that was given to me, my first gift as a rightful witch. It’s the symbol of my place among this world, no longer the girl I used to be, but of the witch I must become.
I flip open the flap and grip my hand around the last ingredient. The bottle is smooth and slick against my mitten-covered fingers. Standing up straight, I close my eyes, taking another deep breath while trying to subside my quaking. This is it. No turning back.
My phone buzzes inside my fluffy winter coat and I jump from the abrupt noise, almost dropping the vial. The breath leaves my lungs in a rush, flooding me with relief, grateful for the distraction before a concerned frown pinches my eyebrows together.
It’s after midnight. Who would call me at this hour?
Fishing it from my pocket, I see my mother’s name appear on my screen. My phone chirps at me, pleading with me to answer the video chat. Hesitating for just a moment, I swipe the screen to accept the call and my mother’s moving face comes onto the screen, along with the white sheets of the bed she lay in behind it.
I suck in a breath, the sight of her not for the faint of heart. My chest aches, seeing her in such a condition.
Her face is sunken in, her chocolate-colored eyes hallow inside their sockets. Those eyes used to be filled with such warmth, but now are stained with blood shedding tears as they plead with me. She coughs before she can mutter her greeting, “Katriane, don’t do it.”
I feign innocence, though my voice shakes, giving away my lie before I have time to voice the entire sentence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Her sunken eyes narrow, the skin pulling too tight around their lids. Her once slightly aged and wrinkled skin now appears paper thin. “I’ve seen what you’re about to do, Katriane. You mustn’t . . . it’s forbidden.”
I sigh loudly and glance around, avoiding those eyes that will haunt me for the rest of my life if I don’t follow through with my plan. I don’t look for anything in particular, but I can’t keep looking at my mother and the reminder that the fated weight of the witches now rest upon my shoulders. Watching the blood dribble down a mother’s cheek to her jawbone would break any child’s heart. I’ll do anything to make it stop.
My mother, Janine, is the psychic of our coven. I should have known she’d see what I’m about to do. This wasn’t exactly a planned mission, but deep down in my bones, I knew it was necessary. Forbidden or not.
Demi-Lune, my coven, is suffering at the hands of an incurable illness. We’ve just learned that this illness is taking out witches from every coven. We don’t know where it comes from, how we got it, or how to cure it. We only know that it brings the blackest of deaths. The virus—or whatever it is—is eating the host’s body from the inside out. The vital organs inside the infected bodies are bleeding, sucking the blood from their necessary veins like the vampires that plague Earth. We’ve tried everything—a trusted, real human doctor, potions, pleading with Erline—but nothing has worked.
My mother barks out another cough and my attention zones back to the tiny screen. I watch as she pulls the napkin from her mouth. Blood soaks the soft tissue before it leaves the sight of the camera.
“You cannot summon Erline. Dealing with Mother Nature—the Fee—always comes with a price.”
Erline is the Fee in charge of this realm—of Earth’s realm. Many call her Mother Nature and believe her to be a mythical creature, needing a face and name to blame the
one who causes mayhem and destruction. But she’s real—a Fee, or Faery as some may call them. There are many Fee, each controlling their own realm, like it’s their Godly right. But my only plea is for the one who controls this realm . . . the one who made us, and the one who should hold some ounce of mercy for her daughters.
I lower my voice just above a mumble. “I know they do, but someone has to do it or you’ll die. The coven, the witches—they’ll all die.”
She shakes her head, her unwashed, greasy hair unmoving. “Don’t you think Erline knows that? She would have done something by now if she were capable,” she pauses. “Katriane, if you summon her, it’ll have severe consequences.”
“There is no choice,” I scream into the phone, impatient, my nerves raw and exposed. Time is running out. I don’t have time to argue with logic when logic has failed us.
She remains quiet, shocked by my outburst. “This action will bring about an untrustworthy beast and confuse the realms,” she whispers, attempting once more to talk me out of it. “If you do this . . . if you follow through, I’ve seen what that beast can do. It’ll bring about the reincarnate of the First Born, Katriane. Our lives are not worth that kind of risk.”
I suck in a shaky breath, her words frightening me like she knew they would. Erline created all in this realm—the beasts, the land, the people. She also created her first child with the help of Kheelan, the Fee in charge of the Death Realm. Together, a daughter was created. The First Born witch, Myla.
Erline, fearful that Kheelan would be her daughter’s demise, hid Myla from him. But Erline’s protectiveness and sense of possession—that of which only a mother would feel—was what brought Myla’s death in the end, or so the stories say. It is said she sacrificed herself. For what, I’m not sure.
“If you do this, if you follow through, all could be lost. The future would remain uncertain. Even I cannot see what is foretold.”
“You don’t know that,” I mumble.
She stares at me, searching my eyes through the screen. Her jaw ticks, more prominent with the lack of muscle and fat surrounding her protruding bones.
My mother lowers her voice. “You need to let this illness run its course. If we lose some of our coven . . .”
“I don’t accept that,” I snap, my eyes narrowing. “This virus is designed only for death.”
My mother pleads with me before I press the red end key, ending the video chat. Her face now gone from my screen, the noiseless woods cause a shiver to run up my spine. There’s no sign of life out here, no noise for distractions or comfort.
I pocket my phone and hold the vial of herbs in front of me. Taking a deep breath, I uncork it and gently tap a few flakes into the boiling water. I watch the pot, and for a few moments, nothing happens. Relief mixed with frustration settles in the pit of my stomach.
Just as I release a flustered sigh, the ground shakes. At first, it’s a quiet little rumble off in the distance, but as it grows nearer, the drifts of snow shake. The flakes bounce against each other and level their piles by the waves.
My cauldron’s contents slosh but I don’t dare grab it. I step back, narrowly avoiding the hot liquid as the cauldron tips over. It melts the snow in its wake and rivers down the slope, the fire diminishing and casting darkness all around me.
I glance around, turning full circle, until the wind picks up. The snowflakes sail in every direction, whipping me in the face and freezing my skin. I do my best to shield my face, regretting the choice I made by summoning our Mother.
Chanting a spell in the tongue of my ancestral magic, my lips move at a rapid speed. In my desperate state, the words are louder than it needs to be as I try to create a shield using my own wind to keep the stinging snow at bay.
The spell takes effect, the freezing pain no longer rubbing my skin raw, and I blink my eyes. Several tears fall down the humps of my burning cheeks and I watch the snow take a different route once it connects with my own winds.
Luckily, my black hair is short and isn’t affected much from this unnatural occurrence. The burn on my raw skin from my tears is a painful reminder of my mother’s condition . . . a reminder of why I’m here, why I’m doing this.
I glance around, the blizzard making it difficult to see anywhere but a few feet in front of me. Twigs and leaves from the fall season begin to mix with the snow, beating against every tree, every surface it runs into.
The wind stops, so sudden that my heart skips a beat. I chant the words to drop my own spell, the cold winter air feeling warmer now that it isn’t being whipped around at subfreezing temperatures.
Flakes of snow and debris fall dead to the ground as if they were never disturbed to begin with. The footsteps from my entrance are gone, making the scene look like it’s freshly fallen. It’s so quiet I can hear my own breaths escape my lips and my heart pound inside my chest causing the vein in my neck to throb.
The air shimmers and waves in front of me. I hold my breath. A form takes shape, colors swirl and churn, invading certain sections of the shimmering figure until a full body stands before me. I release the air from my lungs, a puff of mist slithering from my mouth, and I’m left speechless.
Erline is beautiful. Long, blond hair reaches the back of her knees. A light dress, the color of her pale skin, drops to the snow-covered ground, matching its surface as it drapes past her ankles and out behind her. The skirt of the dress resembles a river, flowing as if it cascades around a bend.
I move my eyes to her face as she tilts her head up from looking at the ground. The most angelic features cause me to hitch a breath. Straight, medium-sized nose, perfect cheekbones, flush, rosy patches in all the right areas. She’d be striking if it wasn’t for her black, unnatural eyes. No whites, no colors, no irises—just black orbs inserted where normal eyes should be.
She opens her plush, red lips, a slight sneer lifting the curve of her nostrils. “My daughters do not summon me,” she growls. Her voice, though thick with condescension, is like beautiful windchimes orchestrating a song I’ve never heard.
Her black eyes, her voice, her presence, hypnotizes me and I give a little shake to my head. “I had no choice,” I mumble once I find my voice. It sounds meek even to my own ears.
“There is always a choice!” she yells, her beautiful features twisting in such malicious anger.
I take a step back, frightened. “Erline . . . I– I need your help.”
Her eyes narrow. “I know all about the death disease, my daughter. What makes you think you have the right to ask me for a cure?”
I double blink. If she knew all about it, why hasn’t she helped us? Why does she allow it to continue? “The disease will wipe the covens from existence. I thought . . .” I frown and stand up straighter, finding my backbone and steeling my heart, “I thought of all people—beings, whatever—that you’d rather we existed than not. We’re your flesh and blood.”
Her eyes continue to smother me as her jaw ticks with her obvious annoyance. I threw her words back in her face. We’re her daughters, not her creations. She should be helping us. I’m beginning to hold little faith for this woman, this Fee, that stands before me.
Erline’s curled lip lowers, smoothing back to that luminescent and youthful-looking skin, as she reaches some sort of conclusion. “And you’re willing to pay the price?” her voice sings.
Relief fills my heart, chasing away the sense of dread. However, I chew the inside of my lip, the taste of blood hits my tongue, and I consider the possibilities of what this price might be. Making deals with the Fee always comes with its own set of consequences. My heart jumps, skipping beats as my fear skyrockets. Here goes nothing. “Yes.”
A toothy, sweet smile lifts her lips at the corners. Her perfect teeth seem to glow as she takes a graceful step closer. “So be it.”
Without further questions being voiced on my part, she raises a delicate hand. The snow, the dead, sticky, wet leaves, and twigs swirl around me. My body becomes weightless, my feet leave the ground as I’m
lifted from it. I panic, feet kicking in the empty air. I want to scream, but the oxygen leaves my lungs in a desperate attempt to escape. White light seeps from my pores, illuminating the night around me and blinding my eyes. My skin feels hot, too hot, as I fight for breath. Each vein smolders, and every pore burns. Pain, unlike any I’ve ever felt, begins in my bones and curls my toes. They crack, reshape, reform. I clutch my hand around my neck as it turns into a claw with pointed talons, trying to fight for much-needed air. Pain blossoms in my head—a dull ache a first before a thousand invisible knives sear through my temples, blooming like a flower.
The wind stops and I drop to the ground. Landing on my feet—or what were once my feet—my lungs fill with blessed oxygen. My chest expands beyond the limit I’m used to, and the sound that leaves my nostrils as I exhale is far too loud, like a horse after a lengthy race.
I lift my head and glance around. Everything is brighter, sharper, even in the pitch-black night. Every detail, every bending line, curve, and spike of each snowflake is detectible as my vision adjusts.
Involuntarily, my eyes flit to Erline. The smile on her face has grown into a genuine one filled with love and adoration. I stare at her skin, my new vision making it possible to see the smaller details. Pores—she has no pores.
Her lips whisper, “Darling?”
As if they’re not my own eyes, they lift to hers. When I try to speak, my lips don’t move. Frustrated, I try again, and nothing happens.
What did you do to me? I shout in my head. At the non-verbal yell, a puff of smoke curls from my nose and a feeling of irritation that’s different from my own can be felt. In my peripheral vision I see a black snout, scaled but sleek.
“No need to shout, Katriane. I can hear you just fine.” She smiles, tilting her head to the side.
I attempt to double blink, though my eyelids don’t move. I seem to be watching her like a child sitting in front of a TV. My body shifts and my head lowers, except it’s not my head . . . or my body.