Legacies, Destinies, and Betrayals.

Chapter #1 The Secrets of the Past

     I was born during the last part of the reign of King Markus and Queen Eliza who both died one night a few months after one of their twin daughters Isabelle had given birth to her first child, a son of the king's blood and of the highest councilor's blood. Her sister Iris was terribly jealous of this for she had only been given in marriage to a simple Lord who had not many servants or such. Iris had never found love in her heart enough to cover up the hatred of the fact that her sister had been born first and would Queen at their parent's passing. Isabelle was a gentle child full of love and peace, the things that a Queen must have to rule a land of peace and happiness. Her husband whose name was Elijah was a kindly man and the eldest born of the Lord Councilor's house. Their son was given the name Joseph and they ruled in peace until the following spring.

     All winter talk had been going around that one of the princess's had most defiantly killed the late King and Queen that fateful night. This was the end of the peace in our beautiful land of Carabelle. The whole country divided into two groups, one who supported Queen Isabelle with her rightful claim to the throne by birthright, and the other who supported Princess Iris and the horrid rumors that Queen Isabelle had killed her own parents as soon as she had regained her strength from having her son to ensure the fact that he was allowed to sit on the throne when he got of age.

     I was born to a farmer in the town of Winter Grass. I was the second born child and first born daughter. My name was Paige and at the time when this was taking place I had just turned 18. My older brother who was 20 had left a few months earlier for reasons known only to him and my parents. Since then it seemed as though my parents were preparing for me to leave as well. Normally my father would spend his evenings telling us about a magical people who used to live her before we did. The neighbors thought my family was crazy because we believed those old tales that they swore had no truth, but my father would tell them anyway oftentimes with the older kids from the town sitting outside our windows listening. He would let the stories wind their way into the night while whittling away at some new item for one of his costumers. However, since my 18th birthday he no longer whittled. He would be busy patching holes in saddle bags, tents, and other important items with my mom or he would simply not tell the stories at all and would explain how to navigate using the stars. This was the same way he behaved before my brother left.

      It was just a few weeks into the Spring after the death of the King and Queen when my dad pulled me aside in the middle of the day.

     "Liva, it is time for you to know something. Tonight there will be group of people who will arrive at the house when you would normally be asleep it is crucial that you be in that meeting." His eyes pierced into mine. "I mean it."

    That night I waited until my three younger sisters all fell asleep, slid my day dress back on, and crept down the stairs slowly past my younger brother's room. When I walked into the kitchen I was shocked by the number of people and the fact that I knew none of them. Living in a house of nine I was used to a crowd but there was literally no room left around the table and all of my dad's spare stools had been brought out and most were occupied. I hesitantly took a seat on one close to the door. But just as I set down there was a swift knock at the door. My dad seemed so serious as he made his way across the kitchen and through the living room. When he opened the door a boy about my age came through the door. He was wearing an old pair of pants that had been badly patched so many times they basically were a patch, an oversized t-shirt that was torn in many places, a coat that was made of nearly worn through deer-skin, and a black cloak. His black hair was standing up rather untidily and his face held multiple scratches. However, his brown eyes held something that commanded respect. He stood a few inches taller than my dad and was sorta muscled. His frame was lean but not scraggly. When he caught my gaze he smiled, revealing a kind feature that contrasted his rough demeanor.