To No End (Tales of Forgotten Fae #1)
Prologue
PROLOGUE
Cambria - Northern Kingdom
For those who see the future, speak not of it, for fear of bending its many winding branches.
Excerpt, Tome of Sight, Ch. 1. Verse 4.
After hundreds of years of turmoil and senseless bloodshed, there had finally come a time for peace between Cambria, the kingdom in the north, and Artume, the southern kingdom. A feeling of normalcy had returned to the Fae people and all other creatures who resided in these territories. Ravaged lands had been restored, trade had resumed, and people began to prosper once more. Kingsguards dwindled in numbers and assumed the lowly duties of patrolling between the borders of the Riverlands. There was hope amongst the Fae, and once again, they began to grow their families with the belief that a new generation would inherit a better place than what came before.
But peace in the land of the long-lived was a fickle thing, and fear can be more dangerous than any assassin. It behaves like a blade in many ways; with guile and precision, puncturing the confident exterior and laying bare the viscera within. A knife, when it’s at your throat, presents an undeniable reality. But fear is far more dangerous because, unlike the blade, its influence is masked by other emotions: greed, lust, aggression—fear can hide behind all of these, and it is far more lethal in the hearts of those who rule.
One night, a seedling of this immense power swept gently on the tides, gliding upon the black waves as they hurried toward shore. When it crashed into the rocky coastline, it clung to the gusts of the west winds, swirling up the craggy cliffs until another torrent of air carried it through an open window, where it found a sleeping host.
King Aeon I, son of Ciaran, ruler of Cambria, awoke suddenly, chest heaving, blinking his eyes furiously to shake off the horrors his dreams had unveiled. His wife, Queen Nyla, tried desperately to console her frantic husband as he gasped the words, “A vision…! A vision! A prophecy.” Sweat slicked his brow and arms, his muscles finally unclenching as he awoke fully. “I must speak to Idris at dawn,” he pleaded, wide-eyed, to his beloved. At the mention of the name, her skin paled and her features hardened. Her eyes met the king’s with concern, knowing what would follow.
"You know I cannot tell you what I saw, or it may not come to pass. Anything I say could alter it," the king snarled.
He stood and pounded his fists on the long oak table, gripping the edge while dropping his head in frustration. The sound echoed across the stone archways of the High Council chambers. Idris, unfazed, looked intently at the king, silently awaiting his next words. For Idris did not often stand before this table, and whenever he did, it was him and the king alone. Idris was very old, yet you wouldn’t know it from the sharp angles of his appearance. He had served Aeon, and his father before him. As spymaster, he was aloof, with no friends, kin, or lovers to speak of. In truth, Idris managed to fit in wherever he went. His silent manner and calculated presence allowed him to simply exist, blending in like ivy curling around a lattice. His contributions to the realm were crucial, providing the king with information about his enemies’ movements.
Idris nodded, “My king, I understand. I will not press you, as your dream sight has never failed us. But what can you tell me so that I may serve?”
The king scanned the room nervously to be sure they were alone.
“Call the Order, demand an Offering, and light the Pyres of Ennae immediately,” Aeon whispered.
Idris began to rub his hands nervously. “My liege, are you certain? Once we do this, it cannot be undone. The High families of the North will not give up their sons and daughters without suspicion!”
“You know I would not ask this of anyone if it were not dire. I’d give of my own brood were they of age to serve. May we never relive the horrors of our first king’s sacrifice. I would never take lightly the families I ruin and the lives I take in the Offering,” Aeon said penitently, sorrow beginning to fill the otherwise regal features of his handsome face.
“I am certain our time of peace is coming to an end, and we must be prepared. We must be the ones to gather intel and strike first. I need the Order reinstated.” Aeon looked flatly at Idris, the silence between them palpable.
“My lord, the sky will dance with red this eve, though it gives me no pleasure. I shall summon the others to the Elorns, where they will train the Offering until they are ready. Then we will remind our Fae brethren in the South why peace is the only option.” He paused, looking away in contemplation, remembering how the winds of war always find a way of returning. And with those winds came opportunity. He locked eyes with the king and quieted his words, just above a whisper, “Remind them that they are only safe by your will, sire.”
That evening, the Pyres of Ennae were lit, and one by one the red smoke from the burning Gaia Wood spread from mountain top to mountain top, sprawling across the vast territories of Cambria. The enchantments bound to the wood ensured only the lords and ladies of the High Court could see the signal. To the outsiders, there was nothing, not even the faintest scent of fire and ash. Nothing to draw concern from them that anything was awry. Idris himself stood idly on the tower, using his powerful magic to light them, one by one, without so much as lifting a finger or alerting a single Kingsguard.
The Pyres of Ennae were a symbol, a message that had lain dormant for over two hundred years. That evening, the most respected, royal, and wealthy families of Aeon’s Court would know their king was calling—and they were to answer. In thirty days’ time, they would each deliver one son or daughter of conscription age to the Offering, and they would never see or hear from them again.