Mystic

Chapter 18

The papers were a mix of notes, poetry, stories, and what Taryn could only assume to be visions, given they were written in future tense.

The Heir wrote in a very ornate, flowery language. Even her notes on magic tended to be very similar to that of her poetry. If it wasn't for the drawings of how to cast certain spells, Taryn didn't know that she would've been able to tell a difference between the two.

It was late now. Andre and Zeph were asleep and Taryn was reading by candlelight.

Gone are the days I used to cherish, the memories drifting in the wind as they rustle through my hair. I try to grab them, to hold on, but they slip just out of reach. Now tears of grief cloud my view, the blood on the battlefield a reminder of all that I've lost. I try to turn a blind eye but it's all I can see. Lost to the sands of time as the bodies are buried, the death count of my conscience higher and higher as the hours pass. And I stand there alone, completely and utterly terrified as I await the day I meet the same fate.

Yet another one of her writings. The Northern Heir couldn't have been very old at the time, which made all the poems and stories and paranoid writings about death even more disturbing. Taryn glanced towards Zeph. He had seen Andre die dozens of times at this point, she couldn't even imagine some of the other horrors he had to have witnessed in his dreams. Taryn shuddered at the thought.

She set the paper aside and reached for another one. She was getting to the bottom of the pile now with no success other than a few vague visions, if that's even what they were.

Another poem. She skimmed through it, the familiar themes of death and running out of time shining through in the writing. She swallowed hard, trying not to let it get to her. She had been reading writings like this almost all night at this point. She would've been lying to say it hadn't been getting to her.

She set the parchment aside and grabbed another one.

There was a heading at the top of the page.

Essence Magic, it read. Unlike the other magic notes, this one didn't have a picture. Taryn didn't think she had ever even heard of Essence magic. She kept reading.

The ability to manipulate, create, and withdraw one's essence from the body.

Next to essence there was a small circle. At the top of the page, Taryn found the matching circle, a definition next to it. Essence: A person's being. Magic, life, and healing comes from the essence. The ancients often referred to it as The Soul.

Taryn swallowed hard again, that made her uneasy. She kept reading anyway.

One of the hardest magics to master. If used incorrectly, it can kill the user, cripple them, explode the nearby area (once again killing the user), manipulate their mind and morals, etc.

In big, bold writing it read, DO NOT USE UNLESS NECESSARY.

The writing continued. Akin to necromancy. It is dangerous, and nearly all the writings on this specific magic have been destroyed. Only few knew the true secrets of this art.

Art. Taryn could think of a million words to call it, but art was not one of them. Disturbing, terrifying, she could go on.

The final line was three words, but was underlined and written in with heavier ink than the other notes, as if it had been written over twice.

It simply read, The Southern Queen.

Taryn leaned back against the headboard of the bed. Essence magic, it made sense. She closed her eyes, thinking back to when she was younger. She could remember there had been a man brought into the throne room, accused of treason for sneaking information to the North. Ophelia had tried to drag her away but had stayed. She watched from behind one of the massive, structural columns that decorated the throne room, watching. The queen held up her hand. His body seemed to glow, he screamed for only a moment before his body collapsed, nothing more than an empty corpse. But there was no wound, no bleeding, his skin hadn't even paled.