The Rider's Greed Trilogy: Book 1: The Black Heart(On Hold. This Book Will Not Be Updated, I Am Writing The Manuscript For This Series)

The Rider's Greed Trilogy: Book 1: The Black Heart

Prologue

      The iridescent moon of Feiron shone through a murky window of a trivial throne room, its light, like a cloak, was draped over the stone floor giving even the smallest fissures that were strewn across the floor an ominous appearance. The small throne room was one of fifteen small rooms of a slight castle that resided in a basin in the Black Foothills of Feiron.

      Large marble columns ascended up the walls in all four corners of the room, devastating the moonlight beneath their dim obscurities. On the furthest back wall was a throne, its back level against the stone brick behind it. Made of solid gold, the only cushioning was where the head rested and where the rump sat. Red velvet curtains were suspended on the columns either side of the throne casting their black shadows upon the floor and the man sitting upon the throne, almost utterly obscuring the throne and the man in endless night. The man upon the seat was an elderly man who was swiftly upcoming his death. He was sheltered with dark robes which the pigment had worn from, from years of incessant use. Numerous moth holes peppered each stratum of his rags. It gave the impression the shawls were decaying along with their master. The only part of the dark shadowy man's physique that was unhidden were his furrowed and disfigured hands.

      The chamber itself was sultry, and the condensation in the air clung to the stone, creating the illusion that they were perspiring. It was a marvel why the old man was not winded underneath his layers.

      In the center of the room kneeled a young boy. The boy was on his knees, the icy floor chilling his bones and deadening the skin on his knees through his dark brown wool slacks. The boy's age was unknown but it could be predicted that he was older than twelve, but younger than sixteen by the set of his undeveloped features. Naively, the boy was gazing square into the man's veiled eyes, thinking he was only viewing the old man's head. Tender silence absorbed the room like a husband would clutch his dying wife's hand.

      The boy had dark brown, almost black locks that were marked with boyish ringlets and his eyes were a deep honey brown. It seemed as if you were keen on them for too long, you would misplace yourself in their earnest depths. Glazed over the eyes was dread. Behind his dread, was pure fortitude and cunning intellects that he knew would take him far in his life. A small sly smile parted his lips. Then, the old man spoke, flouting the edgy silence.

      "You understand your task?" he questioned in a rickety and hoarse voice. The boy then nodded, "I do." His voice was deep and level, it did not give way to his emotions and thoughts, and he knew with his voice he could captivate anyone.

      "Come over here," the old man wheezed with a painful inhale. The boy slowly picked himself off of the floor. The boy took vigilant footsteps towards the throne, his feet against the stone was the only clamor in the room other than his unsteady breathing. His fear began to overtake his muscles but he knew that he couldn't let himself display it, for the old man would easily have him thrown aside and another boy his age would take his place. Three small stone steps climbed to the throne, the boy advanced towards them, fearing he'd make a gauche error and trip. He scrambled up them gradually and warily, anxiety constricting in his chest.

      Now, the boy was less than two feet from the throne, when the gloomy old man fought to reach inside a crease in his robes from under his arm.

      "You must defend this with your life," the old man said as his hands quavered while pulling a small black container out from the fold. The man could effortlessly grip it in both hands, and he set it down onto his gaunt lap. The boy didn't recoil when the old man's breath started to come in rapid and shallow gasps. The boy just watched the man as he died.

       Finally, the man exhaled a last sigh and was tranquil as stone. The gleam of light from the elderly man's unseen eyes was now absent from the world forever.

      The young boy stood glancing at the unmoving frame of his master. He sensed no remorse. In fact, he felt nothing at all. Then, the boy strained forward and seized the small chest from the dead man's hands. He backed away slowly, descending the steps, and when he was a decent ten feet from the throne he pulled the box to his sternum. His fingers could sense the tight carved indentations in the wood of the chest.

      He sighed intensely, and detained his breath. He could hear the faint thumping of a heart inside the black box. He stood there for many minutes listening to the rhythm of the pumping heart, letting out his breath.

      At last, the bright moon was shielded by a fleeting cloud and darkness rose to embrace the room and swathed the boy and the corpse into shadows. As the boy's eyes accustomed themselves to the dark, they slowly altered from the sweet honey brown color and blazed a bright blood red. When his master died he had inherited his eyes, the Eyes. The Eyes that would let him complete his task. The Eyes that can glare into a person's very soul.

      The boy began to laugh. At first it came distantly and undersized as if he wasn't sure if the man could still hear him. Then it began to become increasingly gaudy until it was a perturbing shriek. At that time the boy had dropped the black chest on the hard floor and he was on his stomach slamming his fist against the bitter stone. His chest and stomach began to ache, but still he laughed.

      "I will rule them all!" he professed still laughing. The boy laughed the night away, until the moon and darkness vanished from the sky...