Kingdoms of Silent Sorrows (Crowns Forged In Chaos #1)

Prologue

Amariel

Heat strokes my skin, pulling more and more sweat from my pores. The fire is relentless, as am I. Turning my back to the forge, I walk to the window and shove it open.

Breathe, calm down. Panicking does nothing.

I toss my long braid over my shoulder and press my palm to my heart. My chest is like firewood: rough, splitting open, and unable to stop the enemy—the truth of what I have done—seeking to devour it.

Every inhale is fueled by the aroma that surrounds me.

Death.

Spring flowers no longer bloom; their velvet petals decay under bloody boots.

“Don’t do it. Why did you look up?” I hiss out loud. Falling ash masks the sun.

It’s snow.

Why do you lie to yourself? I dream lies to keep the nightmare of my reality at bay.

The swelling in my throat feels like water transforming into ice. There is no more room to breathe; everything is solid. What’s done is done.

This is why you should not take breaks. Stop concentrating on your mistakes and try to fix them!

Grabbing the latch, I slam the window shut, heaving a deep breath. My muscles tremble as I grab a shovel, ready to get back to work. Once I forged things of beauty, tools to shape our world, not destroy it.

Now, I make grotesque things. But in their ugliness, there’s hope for survival.

Maybe that makes them beautiful in their own way. After all, how can we define survival without the existence of its antithesis? Destruction. Extinction.

This forge, which I hope will end this war, is also where the war started.

The war caught us off guard, like a bolt of lightning on a clear sunny day.

It should not have happened. The elves, who used to be loyal servants, knew they had to move fast. During our time of grief and shock over losing one of our own, they struck, killing another god.

The war against the elves, creatures lesser than us, has lasted only weeks.

Victory is on their side. Our hope is as minuscule and slim as the eye of a needle.

We try and try but can't thread it. I must find a way to sew us back together again.

After all, discarded scraps can be turned into a quilt, something needed again, cherished, and loved.

My back bows and arches, my thighs scream with pain as I bend and shovel load after load of fuel into the fire. My biceps shake so badly I lose half the scoop on the floor. My pride persists, urging me to keep going.

Wait! I pull the next shovel back. Don’t overfeed the fire. You’ll kill it. These hands will kill yet another thing.

I plant the shovel’s blade beside my boot and lean on the shaft, too tired to move, too exhausted to fall, yet too stubborn to sleep. The handle rests uncomfortably under my chin, propping my head up as I stare at everything I’ve done.

I forged thirteen swords as gifts for my fellow gods who desired peace. Those of us who didn't agree, or ignored matters altogether, received nothing. The swords were my version of a requiem.

I poured a piece of my core magic into the blades, a sacrifice most gods would not make lightly.

I fell into a daze as I carved intricate designs into each sword, loving it as a mother cradles a child.

I transformed a weapon into a piece of art to be admired rather than wielded.

I wanted to show my fellow gods that an item’s purpose could change.

We could change.

Peace lasted less than a season.

The extent of my creation came as a surprise, even to me. When I hammered my magic into the metal, I simply wanted the battles to end. Arguably, they did. The God Swords, the only weapons strong enough to kill us, were forged by my hands.

Mine.

I push the shovel aside, clenching my fists at my sides. If I didn’t need my hands, I’d sever them from my body, ensuring I could no longer create anything ever again.

One wrong move changed everything.

It all happened during our celebration. It was meant to be a dance, a show of our blades. Not a fight.

No blade had ever pierced our skin before.

How could I have known that when I pressed the tip against my fellow god, his flesh would yield so easily?

Breaths were held, complexions blanched, mouths gaped, bones shuddered, bodies swayed, collective gasps and shouts severed the shock, and yes, the awe, for never before had a god fallen.

Then, one of us dropped to his knees. Dare I say a smile tugged at his lips. He knew death had finally found a way to claim him.

Gods were immortal no more.

His noble heart didn’t resist. He reached up, gripped the blade, and drove it deeper into his chest.

Did he welcome death that much? Had we made life here so unbearable that he chose this ending over enduring us?

Or was it his way of telling me not to blame myself?

The world convulsed, the heavens groaned, and the balance was disrupted.

Those we viewed as friends saw an opportunity to become our foes, for they no longer feared the gods. One of the elves picked up the fallen sword; none of the other gods noticed, we were too stunned. During our shock, he drove the sword into another one of us, and chaos ran free.

I shake off the memory. I’m trying everything in my power to change the tides of war, but like any creature, I have come to learn we can’t control the current. We must endure and fight during the flows; in the ebbs, we must plot and search for hope, even when all feels lost.

My skin is stretched so taut it burns as the heat from the starfire in my forge rages on. It has long hardened my hands, causing the ivory skin of my palms to turn a pinkish hue.

A lover’s touch once smoothed my skin. Now everything is hard: my life, my heart, my gold-colored eyes, which have cried so much that the salt has practically turned them to calcified stone.

I flip my wrists and uncurl my fingers, letting out a slow breath. Thick black soot and oil etch so deeply into the lines of my skin, I fear they will never call me beautiful again. I’m the stitching of a war-torn blanket: threadbare, cut up, and ripped apart.

I look toward the god who’s casting a vast, impenetrable shadow along the stone wall of my forge’s corner. To Lucian, I’m still beautiful, innocent. But he’s always been attracted to dark, broken things.

Lucian has attached himself to me just as his shadows stitch themselves to every creature. This god is a friend and foe, an enemy and lover. He’s the mirror that reflects all angles—the things we love and parts of us we lust to change.

“This war will kill us all,” I mutter to myself, yet Lucian, a god attuned to the faintest whispers, hears me. That man can hear the whispers of the northern winds, even when others can’t feel them.

Lucian leans against a mountain of star rocks. The large pieces fell from the heavens, and they made the hottest fire. He resembles these stones—all muscle, hardness, and heat. His body has set me on fire many nights; I call upon those memories. I hope one day, my body will warm for him again.

His hair is as dark as the vast sky, but his skin is as pale as the untouched ice of the Crystal Mountains. He bears the hands of a killer, yet the mouth of a savior. His eyes are always plotting, but his smirk is the quill that pens the first strokes of peace.

But what is peace but a dance of seduction, anyway?

His heart is a soulless depth none have dared venture to chart.

Yet I have.

I have mapped out his peaks and valleys, discovered the monsters that lurk in his shadows; one might argue I have tamed them, but I am wise enough to know no wild animal can be broken.

Love is a game of trickery.

Some call Lucian’s mind shallow. But they forget that even shallow waters can steal souls. Depths indeed hide many secrets, but shallow lands are the most treacherous; there is nowhere to hide from Lucian’s mind, no escape once he sets his sights on you.

My head hangs, and a bead of sweat leaps off my cheek and dives into the sandy ground of my forge. I watch, mesmerized, as that tiny droplet sits on top of the small grains of sand, rejected from being absorbed.

My world has refused me for what I have done.

I raise my foot and step on the bead of moisture, forcing it to merge with the ground. I will fix this!

Lucian tips his chin up, ever the observer. His hands are caked with dried blood, making his skin tone indistinguishable. Bloodstains mar even the paleness of his prominent cheekbones. He wears the grime like the finest of silk, tailor-made for him.

He hates his beauty, which is why he’s content with filth covering him. It keeps others at bay.

He is the God of Turbulence. He created darkness and light, two opposing forces that fight to swallow one another.

He opens his palms: one fills with a light so bright, I am momentarily blind. The other with a void so dark it pulls my body closer. With a wave of his fingers, the darkness and light clash.

His magic purrs as the battle in his palm takes center stage. It drowns out the sparks of my fire, a heat so intense no elf could survive entering this forge. I used to sit for hours after we made love, watching him make this symphony that lulled me to sleep.

“Such is life; what shall you have me do?” he murmurs in a relaxed tone, as if he’s on a shore listening to waves, entirely untouched by the haunting purr of war drums pounding outside our walls.

When an immortal discovers they can be killed, they either swallow the pill like Lucian has or reject it like the others. I’m lost in the middle; the pill sits on my tongue, for I am unwilling to swallow it but not foolish enough to spit it out.

“Fight for it!” I hiss as I grab my hammer. Fight for me! So we can have an eternity together!

Water hitting molten steel is how his eyes douse me, begging me to stop, to cool. The steam his acknowledgment produces rolls off me. “I might have reached my end, but I’m still an ember. I still live!”

A tear rolls down my cheek. It pulls him up as his shadows reach to catch me. “I am lit, I am here! I’m trying to mend what I broke,” I cry.