Chapter 1 #2
I turned the book over in my hands. An illusion had made it appear ordinary, when in fact, the chapter I was currently reading described how to enter the dreams of others.
A frightening prospect, if my own dreams were any indication, and certainly not what I had been hoping for when I’d picked it up.
I’d awoken the last few weeks slick with sweat, screams ringing in my ears, cobalt-blue flames flickering behind my eyelids.
My nightmares were becoming more frequent, and I was convinced that there had to be some kind of spell or potion in this library that could tame them.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t to be found in this book.
As a child in the village of Wealdstone, a mere speck in the vast region of the west known as the Outlands, I had heard many tales about the witches of old. Hateful creatures with rotted hearts who laid curses upon princes and turned their romantic rivals to stone with a simple look.
I’d never met another of my kind, not even in Valnar, and so I didn’t know for sure if the stories were true.
My powers had materialized from nowhere when I was just a girl, coming and going in quick spurts with no discernible pattern, and fearing retribution, my family had sworn me to secrecy.
Before the age of three and twenty—the year I’d left for Valnar—my greatest feat of sorcery had been heating the water for my morning tea simply by laying a hand on the kettle.
Not long after I’d secured a post at Valnar Castle, I happened upon a spellbook in the library—Practical Conjurings and Their Histories—that explained in great detail the optimal finger placements for enchantment of household objects.
It was beginner magic, according to its author, but it allowed me to complete my duties in half the time.
Soon, I was stealing away to the library in the middle of the day when I was sure that most of the castle was asleep.
I’d devoured all the literature I was able to get my hands on, discovering illusions, conjuration, and even how to lay minor enchantments on my tools to make my life the tiniest bit easier.
Now I wandered between the towering shelves, my fingertips skimming the spines of the books that were nestled against each other.
There had to be hundreds of thousands of tomes housed here: historical accounts from the king’s court, religious texts, even romance novels.
I stroked the golden lettering of A Guide to Reminiscence, savoring the sensation of the calfskin bindings against my skin.
Setting my tools on the floor, I glanced up and down the deserted chamber, quietly placing Application of Psychal Magic on the Dream State back on its shelf.
It was early evening, and most of the nobles would have only just risen for the day.
Vampires preferred the evening, finding the sunlight to be rather uncomfortable.
And despite the large human population in Valnar, time moved according to the vampires’ schedule.
I was confident I wouldn’t be disturbed.
My fingertips warmed as magic spilled out of me, bringing my tools to life to begin their work.
I strolled between the bookcases, in step behind the broom as it scratched rhythmically against the carpeted floor.
The library was organized, of course, but by whose system I couldn’t tell.
The shelves were not labeled, so I would have to sort through the tomes one by one until I found anything more useful about dream magic.
What little light had been seeping through the windows was lost by the time I arrived at the opposite end of the library.
I had unearthed a manuscript on oneironautics and was lost in its convoluted prose, the text brimming with words I had never seen before.
Unfortunately, though, I feared that dreaming lucidly and being an active participant in my nightmares might do more harm than good.
I sighed dejectedly, tucking a lock of chestnut hair behind my ear as I rounded the corner, reading as I walked. Nine chimes of the bell tower in central Valnar signaled that the day shift was nearing its end. Mrs. Cathers would expect us to report to the kitchens before long.
A cool pulse of surprise washed over me, wrenching me from my reading, and my head snapped up, my book and broom shattering the silence as they clattered to the floor.
A man with black hair lounged in an armchair by the hearth, a weathered tome lying open between his palms. His face was strikingly handsome, with a straight nose and sharp jaw that could have been sculpted from marble.
He carried an air about him that was reserved for only the wealthiest and most powerful of Valen.
A ruby was nestled into the silver band on his index finger, the gem so large that I could spot it from where I stood.
It glowed in the warm light of the fire.
Unlike his eyes, which were depthless and black as obsidian.
Shock rattled through me as I realized I had seen his face before.
I had caught mere glimpses of him in person on the rare days that he rose before sunset, but I was intimately familiar with his likeness as it was captured in a massive oil portrait in the great hall.
I had spent countless hours on my knees beneath its gaze, scrubbing the floor with linseed oil until my muscles ached.
And I’d known his name since I was a child in the Outlands.
King Mordric, First Son of King Norrix and Queen Sybil, Ruler of the Realm and Head of the Hellebore Bloodline, among other titles.
His lips parted as if to speak, revealing the sharp tips of his fangs.
I instinctively sucked in a breath, the snap of fear I felt a vestige of a time long past when vampires fed on humans for sustenance.
And in fairness, they looked fairly lethal up close.
Cursing myself silently for my carelessness, I dropped into a low curtsy.
The thrum of my pulse was all I heard as I stared at the carpet.
Witchcraft was not forbidden in Valen, but I’d learned long ago not to draw attention to myself.
The creak of the armchair was my only warning as he rose. I flinched, holding my breath. But there was only silence.
When I finally lifted my chin, I was alone.