A Kiss of Fate

Prologue

An Empire shattered by the raging winds of time. The great Kingdoms of Elyzia fallen to ruin. The mighty commanders of old usurped by the corrupt and self-seeking. Men of wisdom supplanted by craven flatterers. The prosperous lifted to the clouds, and the impoverished dragged to the pits. Everything he had built for Aria, withering into the husk of glory that once was.

“Hail, Lord Vorigan!”

The members of the High Council rose and inclined their heads in reverence.

The Emperor made his way toward the ornate dais, flanked by two of the Imperial Guard, the dreaded sentinels of Aregon. The scales of his blood red armor glinted in the dull sunlight seeping through the immense crystal window behind the dais.

He adjusted his cape and lowered himself into the dark marble throne. Ah! If only they knew of their impending fate. If only he could make them all understand. If their fallen ‘gods’ ever returned, it would mean the end of the mortal world.

Only he could prepare the children of Elyzia for what was to come. Only he could stop the cycle of ruin and save them. All of Elyzia had to stand as one.

Unity above all. It was the only way.

The various envoys and warlords settled into the stone chairs set against the curving wall.

Vorigan leaned forward, hiding his distaste behind a mask of indifference. He held no love for the two-faced Councilors before him. They had no true master, but their greed. They preyed on weakness, like the lowly scavengers they were. No matter how he desired to sink his fangs into each of their necks, they still held a certain sway over their wards.

What made them special? What made the commoners cling to them like lost pups? Was it the false promises of prosperity, or perhaps the empty vows of true freedom?

The silence reigned for a moment, before Hadrian Willmont, the warlord of Turahn spoke. “We have failed to capture the Atlantian, your highness,” he said. “He is one of the first six. Ca…Capturing him will be difficult without cooperation from the Imperial Guard.” His gaze remained focused on the foot of the dais.

The Emperor frowned, his steel enclosed fingers steadily tapping the armrest. Ah! The accursed Atlantian. He had to be eliminated before any more complications could arise. If there was one thing Vorigan detested above all else, it was self-righteous renegades disrupting the peaceful lives of his beloved subjects. After all, what was an Emperor without them?

The Envoy from Lycaonia, Julian Le Cordier, cleared his throat. “He speaks truly, your grace. The Atlantian cannot be underestimated.” He paled as Vorigan’s gaze pierced his gray eyes. He brushed aside a lock of hair. “We have already lost three of our best trackers, and one was a lieutenant to the first pack.”

The council hall broke into whispers and murmurs.

The Emperor studied his countenance. He often wondered why the Lycan King had made this inexperienced half-human his envoy. He had an eloquent tongue and a cunning mind, but he was no commander. Maybe that was his purpose. Councils like these were crofts for bigots and flatterers, leeching, as they did, on the rooted prejudices of the common folk.

The noisy babel faltered when Gregor Ironfang stood, drawing many looks of wonderment and indignation. His stone cold features betrayed no fear of death or doom, as befitted the Scion of Argent. “Pardon my impertinence, sire. But this is no time to be conferring about a lone Atlantian. There are more important matters to be discussed.”

Julian tilted his head. “Matters of more import?”

Gregor directed a dark glance at the Lycaonian Envoy, his eyes inscrutable. “Indeed.”