Rising from Ashes | Book I

prologue

The year is 1909. Airplanes have taken to the skies and a naval station is being established at Pearl Harbour in Oahu, Hawaii. Kaiser Wilhelm is on his way to taking over the world but war is not yet brewing. Ladies of Europe are beginning to wear more vertical dresses and men curl the ends of their mustaches.

In Leihana it was a time of peace and merrymaking. The streets sparkled with the everyday magic of Sorcerers, and the little shops in street corners held passers-by entranced as tiny figures danced in snow-globes and mugs of cocoa made themselves.

In the city lived the more powerful Sorcerers, in their huge houses where footmen stood at the doors and even Commoners bowed their heads when they passed. On either side of Merchant Street, the wide, bustling central hub of the city, were the two biggest and greatest houses. One was always open and welcome to anyone, and people of all walks of life - Sorcerers and Commoners alike - went in seeking help and emerged with a smile. In daytime the windows were wide open and people in bright, elegant clothing would drift in and out. The house, large enough to be a hotel, was home to a large extended family and various people who seeked their shelter. At night its windows poured out light and the sound of laughter and music.

The other house was dark. Its windows were always covered tightly with heavy curtains, as if uncountable secrets were being held at bay. The footmen at the door were tall and burly and never seemed to budge. The house itself was majestic but gloomy, like a king in exile. And in it lived a family of three; the father, bearlike with a proud booming voice; the mother, a silent, sickly spirit; and the son.

Walter opened a clinch in the curtains. His fingers, too long and thin to look like they belonged to a twelve year old boy, were paper white from too long spent hidden from the sun. He pressed his equally pale forehead to the glass, cold breath fogging the glass, and looked down at the street.

People bustled around in the streets below, on bicyles and in motorcars and under umbrellas on the sidewalk. Common, ordinary people, like tiny beetles from where he looked down from his window four floors from the ground.

He didn't get to look for long. "Step away from the window, son," came a cold voice behind him.

Walter turned silently, letting the curtain fall back into place as he met the steely blue eyes of his father. Tall and straight like a tower, Walter Getzken Sr. seemed to fill the room.

"Return to your studies immediately. The world on those streets are not worthy of your attention."

Walter nodded once, curtly. Of course, he was right. Walter, only son of the oldest family of Sorcerers, was a king in comparison to the Commoners on the street below. But it did fascinate him, watching them going on with their meaningless, simple lives as if they meant something; ignorant of how inferior they were. He could never comprehend the blind arrogance that led them to believe they could ever be equal to people like him when they were so powerless.

Walter returned to his study, but that one glimpse - the only one he'd had in weeks - was enough to set the gears working in his brain. He had to do something; he had to put the Commoners in their place. Balance needed to be given to the world, where the Sorcerers ruled in their rightful place and the Commoners, who had no magic and could do nothing, would remain in subservience.

And as a little reward for his efforts, he would take the place of king.