A Crown for the Promised

Prologue

The stranger who’d brought Reagan to this lifeless place dreamed of finding the truth of the realm. Reagan was a simpler man. He dreamed of owning the weapon the stranger carried. A weapon that shouldn’t exist, from a place only children believed in.

Dragging himself up the wind-scarred trails of the craggy mountain, Reagan soundly cursed everything that had put them in this position. Ahead, his wife Astrid was struggling similarly against the harsh winds. They were hunters from Kaeyn Arenth. Reagan was the finest tracker, and Astrid was the best shot. The only two daring enough to venture deep into the Dark Woods. But even they had never gone beyond that. Not until Damien, that was.

Ten nights ago, an oddly dressed man had come knocking on Reagan’s front door. His coat, much like Reagan’s own hunting leathers, reached his knees, but the patterns etched on it were unlike anything Reagan had ever seen. Feathers and foliage curled and eddied from the hem up, like smoke trails from a bonfire. The warm yellow threads reminded Reagan of the amber found in the mines of the Kerlen Trails. Underneath it was a jerkin of sorts, as intricately decorated as the coat, fastened by two rows of buttons. From the safety of the doorframe, the chilly northern wind set Reagan’s body trembling under his thin hemp tunic, but the stranger gave no indication that the weather was any cooler than a windless night.

On the man’s head, a ridiculous teardrop-shaped hat added to his oddity. A white feather roosted on top of it, and the same yellow feather-and-foliage pattern bedecked its edges.

Even now, the feather waved in defiance of the howling winds from the tip of Damien’s silhouette as he trudged ahead of them.

Verdania, Damien had claimed. He hailed from Verdania. Reagan could only guffaw at such a ridiculous claim.

Stories of Verdania were common in Kaeyn Arenth. Legend spoke of a floating kingdom above the clouds. They called it the kingdom of heaven, a home of the Angels. It was a myth. Something only an insane Morbidian would believe. But the machinery Damien had been carrying…

If there were any proof of Verdania’s existence, the weapon Damien carried would be it. A wooden stick augmented with bronze—a metal as fictional as the mythical realm. The warm yellow metal was as warm as it was beautiful. Damien had introduced it as a rifle. Its first thundering roar convinced Reagan every story he had ever heard about Verdania must be true.

Damien offered Reagan a bag of coins for safe passage to the Blackened Peak, but Reagan had no use for a mythical land’s currency. He desired the rifle, nothing less. As expected, Damien had groused and haggled at first. But when Reagan offered an ultimatum, Damien conceded with a sigh, saying, “Only after you get me to the Blackened Peak.”

They departed the next day. Reagan brought his trusted bow and dagger with him. A quiver of arrows for the Dark Woods. Another quiver for the Mourning Mountains beyond the woods. He considered a third quiver for the Blackened Peak, but his hands were full. Astrid had come along, as always. Damien carried the rifle, claiming it could protect them. Reagan did not doubt him one bit.

And that was how they’d ended up here. Three madcaps, lost on the trails of the Blackened Peak, seeking a fool’s dream.

The higher they climbed, the colder and darker the Peak became. How long had it been since they had last seen civilization? Reagan could not remember. The path was little more than scraggy rocks with hardly any proper footing for them to walk on. Trees were scarce. The land, barren. There wasn’t enough warmth or light for greenery. There was no life here. No hares, no snakes. Not even flies or maggots.

At first, he was grateful for the missing animals. No animals meant no threat, unlike in the Dark Woods. Then the food ran out. And with nothing to hunt, dread came.

“We should head back to Kaeyn Arenth,” Astrid suggested as she bit down the last bread.

Reagan nodded. There was nothing in this place.

“We press on,” Damien insisted.

“Don’t be daft,” Reagan argued. “That bread was the last of our food. We’ll die of hunger if nothing else gets us first.”

“You can leave if you wish,” Damien replied. He tapped on the bronze of his rifle. “But this won’t be yours.”

Leaving him was tempting. No weapon was worth more than a life. But they continued.

Reagan again considered abandoning the quest when the rocks on the path turned black and smooth like glass. The blackness of its surface sucked in all the colours touching it, the ground now shrouded in darkness.

It was unlike the gloom of night. Any other night, the moon lent the landscape an entrancing blue that made the world around him glow. This… This felt like death. Like someone had stolen the colours of the world. It was starting to creep him out.

A cry—ominous and perplexing—echoed through the black lands. For all Reagan knew, it could be in his head. But the sound of a woman’s weeping plucked at Reagan’s heart, cajoling him into a sense of pity. A voice suffused with suffering and torment.

Help me! the voice begged, sobbing.

“Who are you? What do you want from me?” Reagan’s voice quavered. His feet led him ever deeper into the black lands.

The book, Reagan. The book will tell. Read it. Hurry.

“What book? And how do you know my name?”

Read the book! It hurts, oh! Each word was a sob.

“I don’t unders—”

READ THE BOOK! the voice roared.

Reagan yelled, hands raising involuntarily to cover his ears.

“Reagan!” Astrid’s hand jerked his shoulder. “What’s happening? Who’re you talking to?”

“Someone… needs help. Further up… the mountain.” The sentence took seconds to form.

“Reagan, there’s no one here.”

Reagan looked around. Nothing but the black rocks.

“I…” His heartbeat thumped against his ribs, like a bird trying to escape its cage.

“We have to turn back,” Astrid pleaded.

“We press on.” Damian stepped up to them, jaw set. “A few more climbs and we will reach the peak. Have faith! Samael protects us.”

Reagan could not see the paleness of Astrid’s face. In that place, everything was monochrome. But the dread in her eyes was clear as day. Her dread filled Reagan with terror. Not because he feared for her, but because she was the bravest person he had ever known. And she was afraid.

Cold sweat flowed down Reagan’s brow. Turn back. Turn back and never return to this dark place.

The voice called, No, Reagan. Don’t abandon me. Please… it’s painful.

“Did you hear that?” Astrid asked.

“Yes… Yes, a woman. Crying! You hear her too?” Reagan replied. Finally, some reassurance that he wasn’t losing his mind.

“No, no, a man. He was… shrieking. Yelling for help.”

“I don’t hear any voice,” Damien said, confused. His fingers tightened around the bronze hilt of his rifle.

“We’ve got to help them. Reagan, let’s help them, and then we can get out of this place,” Astrid said.

She clutched at his wrist. Before Reagan could respond, Astrid dragged him further into the black lands. The huge cliffs around them narrowed, converging into a single trail. It led to an archway built from the same glassy black rocks.

Beyond the arch, lay a valley. Black rocks formed a stone circle in the valley. At its centre, the rocks fused, seemingly tethered to the mountain.

Save me, Reagan. Save me from this torment.

The black rocks shifted, churning into a maiden. Young and eternal. Reaching out for him. The blackness of her skin and her gown were as deep as the night sky itself. They glinted with each movement she made, glittering like stars in the darkest night.

“You’re beautiful,” Reagan gaped. He didn’t care that his wife was by his side. He had seen the most beautiful woman in Morbidia. Far more beautiful than Astrid. He could not hear what Astrid was saying, nor did he care. He walked forward and reached out for the maiden’s hand. To touch her.

When his fingers were an inch away from hers, Reagan heard the roar again. The rifle.

The maiden’s hand shattered like glass. She shrieked in pain, and her body shifted and churned. Wings sprouted from her back, and she became a flying beast.. Her wings were feathered, much like predatory birds, and they whipped a mighty gust of wind past Reagan. Snake-like scales covered her body. Her long jaw widened to reveal fangs sharp enough to tear him apart. Her other hand elongated, nails becoming talons; as menacing as any predator in the sky. Despite her new appearance, she was still as black and smooth as the rocks that made the mountain.

You dare bring HER weapon into our home? the beast shrieked. The valley roiled in response. The very surface of the mountain creaked and shifted and turned. The black rock seemed to inhale, and more of her kind emerged from the surface.

“Reagan! We have to go,” Damien hollered. “Move. I’ve got it. The truth of this realm.” He cocked his rifle again and fired. The beast shattered, fragments slicing Reagan’s face, neck, and hands.

The Son of Verdant has the Book! the mountain screeched. It sounded like death. As if victims of war had risen from the ruins of battle and wailed in unison. Reagan jerked back at the sound.

Reagan took Astrid’s hand. Run, just run. He scrambled, clarity finally cutting through.

After a few strides, he realised Astrid was lighter than she should be. Although he still held her arm, she was nowhere to be seen. Chunks of meat fell like rain from he had last seen her.

The mountain had torn his wife apart.

The death screech continued. The beasts flew around him. Vultures around a carcass.

A carcass. That was what he was now.

“Damn it, Reagan. Move!” Damien called again. He fired again, and the rocks near Reagan shattered.

Move.

But he couldn’t. Not even as the horrors descended on him.

Pain shot from his spine. His hands jerked, twisted, and tore. Talons ripped and shredded his back. He fell to his knees. And when he thought he would finally drop to his death, he flew instead, leaving the lower half of his body on the mountain.

Below, he saw Damien scurrying back through the archway, the bronze rifle in one hand, and a book in the other. The warm, yellow, beautiful bronze of the rifle’s hilt grew smaller. Reagan’s last glimpse of the world was of the mountain moving like an animal, fangs bared.