Chapter One
Three hundred years later, I’m still dreaming of that night.
Of that encounter, of his eyes, of his words.
Worrying at my lip with my teeth, the jagged barren terrain of the hells stretches for miles before me. Like always, the view is uninteresting, but I stare anyway.
Losing myself to thoughts, the unchanged world before me goes out of focus. The hells will forever be as they currently stand—nothing changes, nothing evolves, nothing grows. Not here. It all will stay exactly the same, just as Netharis wants.
I’ve stood on this balcony countless times. Especially since that night on the battlefield. I stopped attending court, escaped Kassil, abandoned Druka, and withdrew.
To this library, wanting to learn.
Needing to figure out what kind of anomaly that fae is.
Meeting him set off a chain of events that has left me desperate to escape the hells but lost as to how.
I haven’t seen him since then, and at least now the dream isn’t nightly.
It comes and goes every few months, but it’s just enough to remind me if Netharis won’t grant me the ability to leave, then finding a means to end my existence is the next closest thing.
I’ve nit-picked over every detail, every uttered word, every possible meaning and have yet to find an answer that makes sense.
A mortal capable of seeing or perhaps even standing within the veil shouldn’t be possible.
Despite scouring this library, I’ve yet to understand how he possesses that ability.
He didn’t strike me as a necromancer.
Necromancy is forbidden across Eldoterra.
While it’s gotten easier to let the fae fade into the back of my mind, the mornings following the dream leave me ruined. Irritable, unable to focus, and mourning a life I’ll never have.
The dream is nothing more than a reminder of my place in the hells, and a sore reminder at that. I exist to serve my father, the god of death. And that fae—it’s a matter of time before his name shows up on a reaping list, I’m sure of it.
I’ll never see it. His name will never make any of my reaping lists. Netharis stopped giving me high profile souls as a result of that night. Punishment for losing control of my shadows and killing twenty-two soldiers.
They were bound to die anyway.
But Netharis doesn’t like to draw the attention of the goddess of Fate.
I lied about the fae that night when Netharis questioned me. I don’t know why. In the end, it didn’t matter. I shared what happened with Vaelyn, my twin, believing our bond as siblings was stronger than his allegiance to the hells.
I was wrong.
Retreating from the balcony in search of better distraction, I stride into the library.
In here, I can lose myself in thousands of books, tomes, scrolls—written histories, the comfort of silence, and the silver glow of magelights.
Here, I don’t have to think about my existence and how much I want it to end.
In here, I’m not simply a tool Netharis uses to tip the scales of judgment in his favor.
This library is my one last respite.
And gods know how much longer I’ll have access to it. Netharis’ swift and unforgiving temper has stripped me of nearly all joys I’ve managed to uncover in the hells.
Sweeping past the unkempt rows of shelves stacked with books, scrolls, obsidian boxes, and soul-filled crystals, I make for the center of the room.
The light shed by the souls follows my movement, swinging from one side of their crystalline prisons to the other.
Some bounce excitedly, as if trying to draw my attention.
I ignore them.
We want the same thing, these souls and I.
We’re all trapped here. I could free them, smash their crystals, set them loose within the hells. And in no time they would be found by one of the millions of prowling demons. Freeing them would be damning. There are worse things in the hells than being trapped in this library with me.
They may not believe it, but they’re safer here.
The soul crystals are everywhere—overburdening shelves, stacked in corners, piled on books. Some so ancient their red glow has faded, obscured by a thick layer of sulfuric dust. The light they cast creates pockets of red between the shelves, giving the aisle a pulsing, ominous hue.
“I am not sorry to disappoint,” I mutter to myself, to the crystals as I round a corner. “I’m no savior.”
No. I’m far from it.
Each crystal was once a living, breathing entity.
They lived a life, walked in the living realm.
Perhaps they had families, or lovers, interests and preferences.
Human or fae, possibly some demon souls linger here as well.
With their voices lost upon death, they now spend eternity here, subjected to Netharis’ neglect.
What I would give to be forgotten by him.
I’m forced to slip around a stack of books I’d left in the middle of the path, careful not to topple the curated pile I created. Random stacks and piles serve as a reminder—I need to return the titles to their shelf.
Not today.
Tucking my wings against me, I weave around yet another waist high stack.
Before long, the familiar wooden table in the center of the library comes into view.
It’s an intricately carved thing. Dark ebony wood, thick legs carved to resemble the skulls of various creatures from the living realm.
Humans, Fae, werewolves, vampires… All horrors in their own ways.
It’s a table suited to seat fourteen. Lined with matching chairs that have collected centuries of dust, save for the last few at the end, it’s meant for Netharis and his thirteen children. His thirteen vessels of death, Death Bringers.
We’ve never sat here together. Not once.
No one visits this library aside from me.
Vaelyn and Ylara will seek me out here, knowing it’s one of two places in the tower I have the clearance to visit.
I’ve turned it into my little sanctuary in the hells.
If such a thing could exist. The table is covered with dozens of books, some stacked quite hastily, others left strewn open to whatever page I read last. It’s an unsightly mess for sure.
Dragging my eyes upward from the disarray, the black metal chandelier hanging overhead comes to life with light as I bend and crook my fingers.
A vast, yet soft circle of silver light fills the room, washing over the table to chase the shadows away exposing the titles and text.
With a sigh, I seat myself beside the head of the table and draw a stack of three books closer.
Many of the library’s works are historical accounts of the hells, bestiaries on various demon types. Every once in a while, I’ve stumbled upon a roughly translated piece from the living realm. Finding them is like a breath of fresh air after emerging from a dark cavern.
Surprisingly, I’ve come across journals penned by Netharis himself.
I don’t know what I expected when I decided to read them. They’re nothing more than retellings of his victories, securing noteworthy contracts, or speculation on mortal politics. Nothing worth reading, nothing to help me find answers about the fae, about leaving the hells, or about ending myself.
In a moment of petty spite, I burned them.
He never noticed.
Pulling the first book from the stack, my eyes gloss over the title.
The History of the Harpy. Pushing it aside, I move on to the next.
The second book resonates under my touch, and I freeze, brows furrowing.
It’s a strange crawling sensation, creeping along my fingertips and rising up my wrist. Malbolge runes dance over the leather surface, writhing toward the center, and arrange themselves.
Fated Celestials.
I pull my fingers away and shudder as the sensation ceases. What kind of defense mechanism does this book possess? And why is it here? I don’t recall retrieving this book, and I absolutely would have remembered feeling that.
Could Ylara have found it and left it?
Near the bottom of the cover, a name. Crissop.
It’s not a name I recognize, and I’m going to assume human as it sounds neither fae nor demon. Laying my palm flat against the cover, the creeping sensation shoots up my arm, faster than it had before, and I gasp, snatching my hand away.
No pain, just a strange pulling.
Raising the left sleeve of my black robes, I inspect my arm. Turning it over, searching for markings, or changes in my flesh.
Nothing.
Alright. Interesting.
“You have that look about you, Ves.” Vaelyn’s voice is teasing.
Startled, my eyes dart across the room.
Vaelyn approaches, striding into the center of the room at the far end of the table. His smile carries the mischievous glint I know all too well. He’s bored and now he’s come to entertain himself by annoying me.
“Vae…” My greeting trails off as I cross a leg over my knee. “You find me in a state of disarray.” I gesture to the books strewn across the table.
He runs his thumb along the back of each chair as he continues his approach. The grating sound of his talon cutting into the wood sets my face into a scowl. Head swiveling, his cerulean blue eyes sweep over the room.
“I see this.” He nods. “I hope for your benefit today isn’t the day Netharis decides to seek you out here.”
My laughter is bitter. “I’ve given Netharis no reason to visit me, and he hasn’t visited this library since—” I stop myself, staring at the pile of books blankly for a moment before I force myself to meet my brother’s stare. “He doesn’t visit the library. You know this,” I finish firmly.
Returning the book to the stack, I pick up the first book I’d moved, The History of the Harpy, and place it over Fated Celestials. An attempt to hide the cursed book from his view. I don’t know how it ended up in the library, but something tells me it shouldn’t be here.
And I’m not about to be blamed for it.
Vaelyn has already proven his worth as the heir of the hells.