Abyss of the Fallen

by Diana Estell

  As Magethna’s gaze drifted out the window toward Dagon, her singing trailed off then stopped. The others stopped as well. She placed a hand on the window. “He’s a casualty of Savila’s war. We all heard Mary’s blistering words.”

  “I hate to admit it, but seeing Dagon slouched on his bench in such a state feels … uncomfortable.” Dorian rubbed his forehead. “I’m not sure what to do with this.”

  Magethna turned and looked at Dorian. “Well, we have to start somewhere. Wait, remember that large parchment we saw in a window a few paths over? It offered services to understand and master human emotions.” Magethna took out her daily planner and thumbed through several pages. “Here it is. ‘Willow Galgrins. Professional counselor, life coach, and yoga instructor. No emotion is too hard to soften.’”

  “I think I’ll pass. Besides, how successful can such services be, when so many feel unhappy here in the Second Land?”

  Magethna shared a sketch from her planner. “This woman, Willow, on the parchment is all smiles, and I love the green color of her shawl, very peaceful. She looks so sincerely sparkly, maybe she could help others feel that good too.”

  “I don’t know about her.” Dorian shook his head. “She looks too happy, maybe even happier than you,”

  “See, then there is hope for everyone.” Magethna beamed and put her daily planner back in her pocket, which stitched itself up.

  “Still, her references should be checked,” Dorian said.

  Sssh … click … sssh …

  Magethna turned to Raglen as he repeatedly unsheathed his sword about a hand width, then dropped it back in … click.

  “I have been holding back my words for far too long. Mystil is dead, and I knew her the longest. You two,” Raglen said, pointing at Magethna and Dorian, “pine over Dagon as if Dagon and Mystil were equals!”

  “Raglen …”

  Raglen held an open palm out toward Dorian’s face. “Just stop! Let me remind you what we all know. Dagon is not a casualty of war. He was there from the beginning. He participated in humanity’s doom. He was an invested knight who turned evil.”

  “We do not know Dagon’s path, but we do know justice was served,” Dorian said. “The scale of guilt tips more to Savila.”

  “He was guilty then, and he’s guilty now.” Raglen said. “Savila’s law, written in stone, bound Dagon, but he went above and beyond that law when he took matters into his own hands by luring Mark out of the Glynns’ house. He even used and abandoned his beloved Mary in her time of need.”

  “What if Dagon didn’t alter the document of stone, and it was Savila who commanded him to the Glynns?” Magethna said. “I’m sure he tried to block Mary’s senses and Savila stopped him,”

  “We have no proof either way,” said Dorian. “Incrimination is not based on mere action. Strangely, we didn’t detect anything near Mary when Mark was captured,”

  “What if—”

  “Magethna, we have no—”

  Magethna spun to the side, facing Dorian, shooing him with her hand.

  “Let me finish. We have Mystil …” Her words abruptly ceased as she bowed her head.

  Dorian and Raglen placed their hands on her shoulders.

  “I wish I could cry like Dagon did,” Magethna said. “Perhaps he can shed tears because he’s half human.”

  “About that. We don’t know what Dagon is. His blood is immortally lethal.” Dorian removed his hand from her shoulder and folded his arms over his chest. “That means Savila could use it to kill any of us. Dagon could kill any of us.”

  Raglen’s hand slid off Magethna’s shoulder when she turned and walked over to Mark’s bed. With her back to the other Seraphs, she placed a hand on one of the patches on the quilt, lifted her hand, and turned. “Dagon was just as shocked as we were when Mystil … died. He’s remorseful.”

  “Or a skilled actor,” said Raglen.

  “Love is hope—”

  “Magethna, you have to concede that Dagon may be evil and is forever lost.” Dorian came over to Magethna and, once again, placed his hand on her shoulder.

  “And hope is love,” is all she said as she looked into Dorian’s eyes.

  She drifted back to the window and stood next to Raglen. Dorian followed to stand on the other side of her.

  “I will always miss Mystil,” Magethna said.

  “We all will,” Dorian said. “What we can do now is help Mary.”

  Raglen nodded.

  Just then, Mary came outside her house and whispered Dagon’s name. A musical sound to Magethna.

  At the same time, Henry and Francis wept.

  “There will be a way to bring Dagon to justice!” William vowed between sobs.

  Ice cold steam followed Savila when she left the throne room, making her way to Mark’s cell. Her glass stilettos rang as they struck the black glass floor. With her mind, she changed her wardrobe to an outfit the boy would never forget. Her chain mail shirt, throwing-knife skirt, and glass boots transformed into a silvery gray floor-length dress and open-toed matching high heels. Rows of softly-draped, scalloped edges cascaded like flowing water; her sword concealed within. The dragon-head hilt rocked gently to the fluctuations of her swaying hips as she walked toward the cell. Braids underneath her glass headpiece loosened and became smooth within the rest of her shiny blonde hair, trailing down her back and partially over her shoulders. The headpiece transformed into a thin band, set in a half moon shape on top of her head like a gleaming tiara.

  The shadow soldiers bowed when Savila entered the cell. She paid no attention to the soldiers. Mark sat on the floor, hugging his knees. Blood and sweat matted his hair. Savila walked over and stood in front of Mark. The boy looked up with red-rimmed eyes. She folded her hands and stretched her lips into a wide grin. Reaching down, she patted his head.

  The boy flinched, cowering beneath her hand. Leaning back, his forehead furrowed as he stared at her face. “I saw you … in my … dream. Who are you?”

  “Although you already know, I will answer your curiosity. My name is Lady Savila, and this is my dominion. This is where you will remain.”

  “Please. Let me go. Someone, help me!” Mark’s eyes darted erratically around the room. His fetters snapped and grated, his body lifting, as if somehow, emotionally, he needed to be as strong or stronger than his captive chains.

  “Who would help you now?” The shadow soldiers said in unison then howled in laughter.

  “Death,” Savila said.

  Tears mixed with sweat streaked his cheeks. Her fingers raked his hair. Mark, recoiled from her touch as her nails began digging and scraping his scalp. Her fingernails grew longer and sharper … and black. Her toenails resembled claws.

  In one quick movement, she flung his head back and stared at his face, causing Mark to cry out.

  “You look so much like your father,” she said, softening her tone.

  “You knew my father? How?” Mark trembled in her grasp.

  “Not your pathetic human father, your father!” Mirrored in his eyes, her pupils elongated, the color changing to blood red.

  Mark repeated as if to himself, “Fear not … Fear not.”

  In her reflection, her skin pulled taught, revealing her bones.

  “Dagon!” Mark screamed. “Let me see Dagon.”

  Savila released his head so quickly it whiplashed forward. She unsheathed a sword and lifted it into the air above her head.

  Mark shuddered. His chains shook. Three shadows materialized through the blackened walls. These shadows were bigger than the other soldiers, and they had crowns with large nail-like spikes.

  Savila leaned down. Her dress changing into scales. Her words blistered like flames. “The Shadow Kings come to bear witness. What did Lord Dagon do while he was in here with you?” She placed the blade of her sword against Mark’s throat. Seething heat radiated from the blade.

  “He didn’t do anything to me. He just asked me questions.”

  “Let’s see about that.” She
sheathed her sword and pressed her blackened nails against his forehead, pulling images from his mind. “Did you see Lord Dagon take anything from here?”

  “No, Lady Savila,” reported one of the shadows when Mark didn’t answer. “We saw Lord Dagon take nothing. He only asked questions with his blade at the boy’s throat.”

  With a hiss, she released her fingers, and Mark wrenched forward, gasping.

  “Hold out your arms.”

  He held his arms out, his eyes welling as he continued to gasp.

  “Your bonds are loosened. Did Lord Dagon try to remove your chains?”

  “No! I begged for help, but no one would help me!”

  She tightened his shackles. Mark winced as she pulled his arms out for further inspection, her reptilian hand came under his elbows and locked them up straight. Her black, shiny claw traced methodically along the path that her eyes had just scoured. Black clawed fingers scraped the skin along his veins, drawing no blood yet she thirsted. Her mouth watered, and her parched lips began to crack.

  “I’m anxious for the completion of what is mine.” She turned away from Mark and whispered to one of the crowned shadows. “I find no evidence on the boy’s skin. His skin smells like iron. Could the boy be covering for Dagon? No, that is an impossibility. Dagon is more likely stealing blood for his own power.”

  Smiling, she spoke in a tone which, while neither pleasant nor unpleasant, hardened like truth set in concrete. She placed her sword near his left cheek to emphasis her point.

  “You will satisfy many things, but if I could satisfy my thirst, I would. Alas, this is not yet to be.”

  Mark only shook his head, his breath hitching in short gasps.

  “What you bear will carry you into death, as your blood will satisfy laws and my bonds of thirst. After yours, more blood will come as my eternal dominion over humanity will never be broken.”

  With a reptilian hiss, she flicked her body up. Part of her scales rose slightly, then lowered back into place.

  Without another word or glance, Savila, the Shadow Kings and the three shadow soldiers left Mark’s cell, and with a sharp clang, his cell door closed.

  She ordered the shadow soldiers to leave them but her kin, the Shadow Kings, stayed with her in front of Mark’s cell door.

  “One of the four Cherbs loyal to Lord Dagon heads to Rome with a vial of Mark’s blood.”

  “How is his mind not revealing itself? Ligon asked.

  “With angelic ash, but I have foreseen all of this,” said Savila.

  “We have enough evidence to cast Dagon into isolation, Lady Savila,” said Lamel. “He has committed treason.”

  “May we arrest the Cherb before he gets to Rome?” said Listian.

  “No, for Lord Dagon’s own ploy for power will be his undoing, as the price tag of love will tighten ever more around his neck and the neck of his beloved. No, we will let things play out, for his death will be better served on a platter, chilled by the loneliness of his passing.”

  “He is no longer with her, so he will die,” gloated Lamel and his brothers, Ligon and Listian, laughed.

  “Vengeance is almost at hand, my kin. So, Lord Dagon wants to live in the light? Then by all means, he shall, for the revelation of pain he will know. His beloved has no real proof of his innocence, only his word.”

  The three kings walked back to their private quarters while Savila went back into the Throne Room. She sat on her throne and stroked the winged armrest of her chair with her black claws changing back to shiny red fingernails.

  With her mind, Savila scanned the skies looking for the Cherb, though she saw it not. Stolen blood moved toward Rome. With joy, Dagon was on the road he would take to his own death. For the blood stolen would not come back void. She waited in triumph as blood waves crashed beneath the glass floor. He and his precious human bonded mate would soon be writhing in pain as their lives, the life of Mark and all of humanity are bound to Savila, through the law of blood.

  About the Author

  Thank you for reading the preview of Book II. Please follow Diana’s journey at her website: DianaEstell.com for release dates, launch team news and more. If you enjoyed the title please consider taking a moment to leave an honest review on Amazon and Goodreads! These are especially helpful for authors! Thank You!

  Since a very young age, Diana traveled the world exploring new cultures, history, and art. These experiences fuel her writing. Since the age of seven, dictionaries became her playgrounds for learning new words and crafting her own unique ones. By age eleven she wanted to be a ninja, so she studied hard and earned a black belt in three different styles of martial arts. Later in life, she earned a degree in Cultural Anthropology. Diana’s inspirations include gothic art, architecture, and world history.

  She enjoys reading fantasy novels, science fiction, and biographies. Bram Stoker’s Dracula remains her favorite novel to this day. Since her parents would not get her a dragon as a child, she writes about them. Currently, she lives in the Chicago suburbs with her family. Diana’s first novel, Abyss of the Fallen, is the first book in a trilogy.