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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Sylvia Enren
The truth still hadn't sunk in, she would not allow it to.
The night before, Sylvia and Camellia had come to a small village- if you could even call it that- on the road to Voleaven. It was more of a pit stop, with stables and fresh water for horses, a small wooden shop, and an inn. They had stopped for the night, Camellia using the last of her gold to rent them a room for the night, food for the road, and a warm dinner.
Sylvia devoured the plane vegetable and venison soup in an unladylike manner before scarfing down the fresh loaf of bread. How, in all her years of luxury, had she not cherished such things? While Camellia went to the small shop next door to restock, Sylvia had retired to the small, stuffy room that reeked of old cigar smoke and the sweet smell of wine. She crawled into one of the small beds, grimacing at the hard surface and scratchy sheets.
She had lain awake, her mind replaying the horrors of the past few days over and over. A small part of her still believed that she would wake from this nightmare or that maybe, just maybe, her Uncle had made it out alive like Demetre had.
But Sylvia knew her hope was as empty as the promise she had made to her Uncle.
She would go to Voleaven, warn the Nephilim, and then what? Take back her kingdom? Become something she had never wanted to be? A Queen?
Alone, Sylvia had curled up under the rough blankets, taking in the unfamiliar scent, and finally, allowed herself to cry.
Camellia woke Sylvia at the first ray of dawn. They gathered up what the Fey was able to buy from the shop- mostly food and bandages- before they set out on their last day of traveling. What awaited them at the Kingdom of the Angels- as her mother used to call it- she did not know. Departing from the inn without a word of gratitude, they walked.
And walked. Until the sun had begun to claw its way over the horizon, until the brisk spring air had turned warm, bearing down on her. They passed traveler after traveler, each just as content on ignoring a lone Fey and Elf just as much as Sylvia was content on ignoring them. The more they continued on, the more Sylvia's patience dwindled. She wanted this journey to be over.
Doubts and self-pity weighed down on her heart, pulling her under an ocean of sorrow. She didn't speak to Camellia, didn't ask how her arm was, or how she slept, or anything of the matter. It wasn't like Camellia would reply anyway. Sylvia hated the silence, the sound of rocks crunching under her shoes which made her feet ache. She almost wanted Camellia to talk, to not stop until they reached Voleaven, just to pull her out of her own thoughts and sorrow.
They had reached an open plain, no trees, no villages, no travelers. To the North, Sylvia could see the mountains of The Empty Peaks, pointed jaggedly into the sky. To the south, the land stretched until a shadow of The Stilan could be seen. The rhythmic sound of hooves filled the long, hollow silence. The beat growing louder and louder. Sylvia saw the Fey tense, her hand coming up to rest on her short sword like she had done when a traveler passed.
