A Human with a secret heritage.
A Nephilim determined to save his world.
A Light Fey running from a dark past.
An Elven Princess who lost her kingdom.
And the missing Fifth.
In a future where races that were never thought to exist roam the n...
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Zachariah Mathias
The sky beyond the windows was dark, a vast space of black with the glow of stars sprinkled here and there. The moon was a bright white orb in the sky, providing illumination for Zachariah in the training room, along with the golden glow of the lights hanging from the ceiling. The training room was a large stone-walled room with beams set in the middle, high above the ground and used for training and balance. The floor was covered with a gray mat used for padding in case anyone found themselves on the floor. The far wall was covered with multiple targets, many with dozens of holes where knives or arrows had embedded into them. The other wall was surfaced with a variety of weapons from blades small and short to long and deadly, and bows along with other weapons that only Nephilim could use.
Zachariah stood in the middle of the training room, one of the wooden training dummies in front of him. Normally he would be training outside, and with his partner, Calix, but it was the middle of the night and everyone in Voleaven-the kingdom where all Nephilim resided- were asleep. All except Zachariah. He held in his hand the blade of the angels, which had been nicknamed ferrum in pace or the blade of peace. It had been the Nephilim's job for 450 years to protect the races from the demons, from each other, and to keep the peace between them. Zachariah knew the state the humans were in. If this was considered peace then maybe they should just let the demons have at everyone.
No, Zachariah scolded himself, there are still people worth saving, good inside the evilest.
The sword in Zachariah's hand was a long glass-like blade with jagged edges, the handle black, and the crossguard in the shape of angel wings. The weapon seemed to give off an unearthly glow, a pale light that cast onto his face and dark hair, illuminating his blue eyes. He had been about to train, to swing the sword at the wooden figure, when he heard a door in the corridor slam, the sound echoing in the silence.
Zachariah ignored the sound and began to fight the wooden figure, the blade leaving deep dents and scratches on the surface. He swung the sword viciously as he tried to rid himself of the thoughts that circled around inside his head. He couldn't afford to think the way he was thinking. He was a warrior- the best in his generation- his mandate was to save others and keep the peace, not second guess himself. He swung harder this time, the hit vibrating through his arm, a feeling he was used to. He was about to land another blow when the sound of the giant oak door behind him slammed shut. He thought he had heard footsteps, so the sound hadn't startled him.
"It's past your bedtime, brother." A deep voice said from behind Zachariah.
Zachariah turned to see his partner, Calix, standing in a pair of oversized gray pants and a black shirt. His dark eyes were heavy with sleep, his skin the dark shade of his ancestors from a distant nation. Zachariah and Calix weren't really brothers, but they grew up together and everyone that was a worrier considered each other brothers or sisters in arms.
