due to circumstances beyond my control i wont be on wire

dear fellow users,
starting immediately i will be leaving wireclub due to reasons beyond my control its not permanent but i wont be on for quite a few months i apologise to all users of wire.
thank you,
sakura

preveiw

"c'mon ahsoka time for shadow training!" "ugh i dont want to go its boring" "yes but as shadow host we gotta train both our shadows and ourselves" "lillian cant we do it tomorrow?"
"ahsoka you know her majesties rules we gotta train every day no matter what!" "yes but everday we train and everyday we aid the crazy prophet only to get yeled at by the crazy old
coot every 5 seconds" "her majesty believes that one day the prophet might make a predicio regarding th great prophecy and the great shadow gods typhoon the sky god and the blue
dragon the earth god" "yeah but our jobs are to protect the queen not baby an insane adult" "hush ahsoka were here" we kneel before the queen and she stares at us sternly
"your late again i demand to know why and dont make up a story this time" lillian stands up "my queen in all respect we over slept yesterdays training wore us out" "hmph i donot
care today your traing exercise is to instead of yelling comands to your shadows you must tell your shadw what to do mentally almost like telepathy" "but my queen how can we do
that?" "lillian i told you; you must be one with your shadow both mentally and physically." i concentrate on the being that lies withing me the pheonix but i know that one day i
will control at lest one of the legendary shadows either blue dragon or typhoon. 'pheonix arise' i tell my shadow creature and my shadow legnthens and then rises forming a blue
pheonix "kraawwwwwwwwww!" it screeches i look next to me and see lillian with a red face trying hard to resist the temptation of verbally calling out her shadow creature; the
minotaur. i touch lillians shoulder and i gasp as i see a vison of lillian and her shadow being ripped apart i know that if a shadow is taken from its host before the host
natturaly dies the the shadow will become a real being living and breathing as we humans do. i remove my hand from her shoulder then i hear a faint voice whispering in my
head, i grabb my note book and my pencil and began to write; "ahsoka your eyes are pure blue!" i ignore her and began writing once more.


"seven children shall answer the call
to storm or fire the world must fall
and with a heros dying breath
foes bear arms to the doors of death"

i stand and run towards the room of the prophet and i see the queen standing over her as she lays on her bed "your majesty i........" "yes the prophet said that you made your first
prophecy today" "my queen how can i give prophecy if im not a child of a prophet?"

im not gonna leave wire after all

im not leaving wire so im and im more determined than ever to finish my story if you want a character in it let me know. i also need 2 names for the special characters im making. any questions please ask.

this is my last week on wire

ive felt to much pain and it keeps growing i think its time for me to leave and let things calm down im sorry to all the users here on wire and to my fellow meisters and especially my wire sister; Rose, GhostShadow30 forgive me.

owner of a broken heart

my heart is crushed i was rejected and im upset maybe things will get better idk anymore and i could care less. maybe love isnt ment for me





look below this post for my story offer if your intrested

im writing a trilogy if you want to be in it create a character and ill add it

please include a description of your character: looks; personality; if he/she ha abilities what are they? if they ave anyweaknessess what are they? if you do create a character i will try tofind place i my story for your character. if you have any questions please ask.

the shadows

everyone carries a little devil and a little angel within them these two are locked in constant battle it is up to us who emerges victorious. i believe as we make bad choices the devil within us grows stronger and stronger as the angel grows weaker. i have made many bad choices within my life time. the devil controls dark as the angel controls light. donot let darkness control you. we are children of god not satan. if you belive this send this to your friends and god will bless them. if not then something bad will happen to both you and them within the week.


kit taylor

*******-*******-*******-*******-*******-*******-*******-*******-*******-*******-*******-------
got this from my friend thought it was cool so i posted this

sakura

Songs I would put on a road trip mix CD

determinate by lemonade mouth
turn up the music by lemonade mouth
livin on a high wire by lemonade mouth

story without a title part 2

“Close your eyes,” the being of light commanded, and the youth obeyed immediately.

An ethereal touch settled over his eyelids. The being’s touch was cool, almost cold. Then, pain seared through Sebastian’s eyes, so powerful that it cast into shadow that of his shoulder and side. He almost did not hear the being’s words, so loud were his agonized screams.

“With this touch, I mark you as the Bright One’s own. Open your eyes.”

Sebastian did so, terrified that he would not be able to see. And for a moment, he could not, but then the darkness receded and the blurriness faded away and he was able to see his surroundings once more. Only this time, they were overlain with thick bands and gossamer threads of light.

“What have you done to me?” he asked. He rubbed his eyes, but the strange web of light didn’t go away.

The angel ignored the question. “For the remainder of your days, you shall serve the Goddess as a Citadel priest. I will take you to the Citadel in the Imperial City, and there you shall devote your life to studying sorcery and serving the Goddess. Do not give up, do not fail any task set before you, or you will suffer your father’s fate.”

“I will not fail,” Sebastian whispered.

The being of light watched him for a moment, as if judging his sincerity then stepped forward and helped him to his feet.

Sebastian rocked dizzily, and wrapped his good arm around his side, and was steadied by white, faintly glowing hands.

“I must make haste and deliver you into the care of the Citadel so that you do not die before you are able to begin making good on your vow,” the being of light said. “Close your eyes—this can be disorienting for untried mortals. Good. Now… step forward.”

Sebastian stepped, and felt as if he were falling through air. Then strong arms caught him, and lowered him carefully to the ground. He opened his eyes, and found himself staring into a stranger’s surprised violet eyes.

“I don’t know where you came from, young man,” the black-robed Citadel Priest said, “but there’s no doubt about it—you’re clearly one of us. Now hang on a second, and I’ll get a physician.”

“What?” Sebastian asked, disoriented from pain, blood loss, and his strange journey. He struggled to one elbow and looked about him for the being of light, but he was alone in a strange hall with this man whom he had never met.

“A physician,” the Priest repeated, then seemed to understand. “Oh, you mean to ask how I know you’re one of us. It’s your eyes. Violet, you know? Only servants of the Bright One have eyes to see the flow of magick in the world. Well, demons, Banes, and beings of light have them too, but you can’t be a demon or Bane—the Citadel shields won’t let anyone with evil in their heart into these walls—and, well, no offense, but you’re no being of light. Beings of light don’t bleed. So that makes you—”

“A servant of the Bright One. Oh my God…”

“Goddess,” the priest corrected, and then rose to his feet. “But we can’t waste time discussing theology right now. You need a physician. I will be right back.”

Sebastian watched the priest run down the hall. “A Citadel priest,” he murmured as the older man disappeared around the corner, “I’m a Citadel priest.”


ExLegeLibertas
*~*~*


The voice was cruel and merciless, devoid of pity for the broken shape before it's wielder owner. "For the last time, sergeant, what is security like within the Imperial Capital? How shall I gain access to the Princes?"

"To... to the abyss wi-" the prisoner's choked words were cut short by the impact of a metal fist in his torso, accompanied by a horrid tearing sound as something sharp sank in at the forefront of the impact.

Jerran Kroil had only the energy for the weakest of whimpers as the black-armored hand twisted meaningfully in his guts. The echo of the bladed gauntlet's impact with Jerran's stomach had only just begun to fade from the cavernous understructure of Castle Scarlight, and now the only sounds were of Jerran's teeth grinding together as the last of his lifeblood fled from him in sheets on the dirty floor of the castle's dungeon. Jerran stared into the handsome, narrow face of his tormentor and hung his head, the final words of supplication to the Bright One trickling from his lips along with a rivulet of blood and a few tatters of his tongue.

Duke Ardran Scarlight stepped back, his fist drawing a wet sucking sound from the dead man's vitals as it withdrew. The Duke wore his customary attire for 'political actions', and the darkly beautiful black plate armor now glistened with the spatters of Jerran's murder. Twisting his wrist just so, he elicited a quiet metallic noise from the gauntlet and his fingers unlocked, the chains inside the hand-turned-weapon allowing movement once again. He shook his hand almost delicately, flinging long curls of scarlet off of the wide razor-sharp blades that followed the gauntlet's knucklebones.

"Brilliant, my Duke," said a sibilant voice to Ardran's left. "Simply brilliant." The accolade fairly dripped sarcasm.

"You disapprove, Inquisitor," was Ardran's response, a statement rather than a question.

"I do. You've killed him," the wispy dungeonkeeper said conversationally.

"And?" Ardran challenged, turning to regard his spymaster and confidant.

"And... you cannot extract information about the boys' whereabouts from a dead man."

"There are other guardsmen. Not all can be fanatics like... this," the Duke said, waving distastefully at the glassy-eyed face of Sergeant Kroil.

"You give too much credit to the mercenaries who do your kidnappings, Ardran. They are not soldiers, and it will not be long before Emperor Jaerol discerns just who is paying those sellswords' keep. Even the power of the Scarlight Duchy's army will not hold back the Emperor's wrath then, Jaerol's half-brother or not."

"If the mercenaries are so incompetent," Ardran said, turning his black-blue eyes to regard Inquisitor Thorin Criciax eye-to-eye. "Then send some of your own people." Ardran pointedly kept his voice light and friendly, belying the spreading pool of blood at his feet. "Surely you have rooted out the last of Baron Morill's infiltrators, you can afford to turn to matters of... outward diplomacy, yes?"

"After their last attempt on your life, my Duke, I cannot counsel harshly enough against decreasing internal security. The mercenaries will do their job. Just..." Thorin turned to sadly regard the cooling corpse. "...learn to value the information our guests contain more than entertaining your own sadism, perhaps?"

"What does it matter if one more guard is slain, Thorin?" Ardran growled impatiently, his facade of lightness dropping to reveal the scowling, malicious countnenance that much more regularly crossed his angular features. "There are thousands. Jerran's memory is a scribbled note of his name in some beancounter's ledger. He will not be missed. I have only to find the one whose will I can break with pain or payment, and the Throne of the Empire will be mine. Prophecy be damned, I'll see Jaerol and his fledgelings at the end of my sword one way or another."

Thorin endured his liege's tirade in silence, watched him stride powerfully from the filthy jail cell and listened as his metal-clad footfalls echoed to nothing in the castle's innards.

"Sleep well, Jerran Kroil," the Inquisitor said without a trace of warmth, as he ran his fingers across the dead man's eyes to close them forever. "You shall not pine long for your friends in the Afterworld."


Andante
*~*~*


Kiera squinted against the harsh red glare of the sun through the dust as another violent gust of wind blew in from the west. With one swift motion she pulled her veil higher on her face to shield her mouth and nose from the grating dust and at the same time brought her longsword up above her head to block Carith’s powerful overhead strike. His sword slid harmlessly downwards along her blade and she stepped forward past his guard, snaked her left hand over and around both of his arms, and locked them uselessly in front of him. His blade was pointing rather inconveniently away from her, and she slammed the pommel of her own sword into his temple. He crumpled, cursing, and she let him fall.

“Krei-ju,” came the call from her right. Kiera immediately sheathed her sword and bowed as the Qensat entered the practice yard. Kenj Feriim was not a large man---indeed, he was not even an averagely-sized man---but what he lacked in bulk he made up for in sheer lethality. Kiera had never personally seen the leader of her Order fight, but she was well enough trained to recognize an extremely deadly warrior when she saw one. Kenj moved like one of the lean and sinewy Jaapa cats that lurked the desert; his slow, almost lazy movements masked lethal speed, wiry strength, and unfailing biomechanical control.

It was a quality of movement that Kiera was beginning to develop herself; at last she was becoming a fighter worthy of the Yorejin Order that had trained her and given her a life and a purpose.

“You strike your students in the head when they make mistakes, warrior?” Kenj demanded, coming to stand at the edge of the practice ring. His arms were crossed over his narrow chest, and his eyes--seen only through the thin gap in his veil--were narrowed into two green slits.

“If they deserve it, Qensat. I would prefer that my students take a few bruises from me in the practice ring for their stupidity than have their heads cut off in battle because I did not give them a harsh enough reminder to always consider the counterattacks your opponent may use.” This last she directed at her pupil, who knelt in the white sands of the i-Duirid-dor Desert with his head bowed in shame. His mistake had been one that he should not have made past his first year of training, and he knew it.

Kenj glanced down at Carith and said shortly, “You are excused for today, boy. Go practice your herbology with Fedit.”

“Yes, Qensat!” Carith jumped to his feet, bowed, and ran off toward the Apothecary. Kenj and Kiera both watched him go and sighed at the same time.

Then Kenj turned to Kiera. “The time has come, warrior,” he said simply.

Kiera bowed low, rising only when the Qensat had departed from the practice ring. She did not need to ask what Kenj meant by that statement. She had known her whole life of the Prophecy and her role. Her people had known for years that they were living in a dark time, and the Qensat had been especially vigilant. The warlord Jaerol had crowned himself Emperor and begun conquering and coercing Kaldonia’s neighboring lands to slowly form the Kaldonian Empire before Kiera was even born. When Kiera was six years old the late Kaldonian Empress had given birth to Prince Deron, and the Qensat, who had already begun training Kiera as the Zatha Na Kor as countless other Qensats had done before him, had breathed a sigh of relief; perhaps this ruler, like many before him, would not be the man to spawn Aiden, the child of darkness?

But then when Kiera was ten years old, Prince Aiden Scarlight was born, and the Qensat knew that it was time to begin training Kiera in earnest, for she was truly the warrior who would become the Zatha Na Kor, the Sword Against Darkness.

She had trained fifteen years for this day. The day when the Qensat would tell her that it was time for her to leave i-Duirid-dor, to travel to Kaldonia, to win a place in Emperor Jaerol’s household, to earn the trust of Prince Aiden Scarlight, and to kill him.

As the desert sun set over the white sands of i-Duirid-dor, Kiera returned calmly to her tent and began packing. She would leave at first light.
*~*~*


Eight days into her journey she came upon Sariim, the wealthiest city of i-Duirid-dor. The city’s towering white walls loomed in the distance, like a dust storm brewing on the horizon, and Kiera wearily directed Ironheart towards them. Both horse and rider were exhausted from a week of almost nonstop travel, and would relish a couple of days’ rest within the oasis city’s walls.

The sun was descending rapidly as Kiera hailed the front gates. Two guards--both wearing tattered leather armor--challenged her, demanding to know her business.

“I am seeking an inn for the night,” Kiera explained curtly.

The guards took in Kiera’s black robes and veil and exchanged a glance. “What brings a Yoreji into Sariim this early in the year?” one of them finally asked. “I thought the Khaa had no need for mercenaries until the fall."

“My Order’s business is not of your concern.”

“Our apologies, Yoreji,” the other said quickly. “We didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s just, we haven’t seen any other Yorejis in Sariim,” the first commented carefully. There was a tentative questioning note at the end of his voice.

“This conversation is over,” Kiera said sharply. “Open the gates.”

“Again, our apologies,” the guard said. “Garen, let her through.”

The talkative guard hurried to turn the great iron wheel at the top of the wall, and Sariim’s gates slowly opened.

Patting Ironheart encouragingly on the neck, Kiera took a swig of water and directed the horse through the gates into Sariim.
*~*~*


Early the next morning, in her small, cold stone chamber in the Hitet Inn, Kiera sat up suddenly in bed, covered in a cold sweat.

Something is not right. Somewhere in the background she heard a dull roar, like a sandstorm thundering against Sariim’s walls, but the air outside her window was calm.

However… what was that faintly glowing red haze in the distance?

She was out of her pallet in an instant. She had fallen asleep in her robes, and needed only to don her veil and gather her weapons before she was ready to face whatever trouble lay outside Sariim’s walls.

The Inn’s corridors were still and quiet in the predawn darkness, but as Kiera slipped outside into the courtyard she saw hastily armed members of the town guard rushing toward the front gates.

She did not stop them to ask what was happening. It was clear they were needed urgently outside the gates. She merely followed them as they shouted orders back and forth, knowing she would learn what was going on soon enough.

A hand on her shoulder stopped her. She spun, wrenching the man’s shoulder nearly from the socket.

The young man’s face was contorted in pain. “Lemme go, warrior!”

She released him, but did not apologize for her harsh handling; it wasn’t her problem that he didn’t know not to sneak up on a Yoreji.

“Am I glad I found you!” he told her, rubbing his shoulder with a wince. He had the thick accent of a Borderer, but his dress was pure Desert. I-Duirid-dor had been attracting many Kaldonian expatriates as of late. This one looked a little young to be part of the Town Guard, however. “Name’s Wird. The Cap’n sent me to your rooms, but you weren’t there. There be trouble an’ we be needin’ every man—pardon me, miss, everyone—who can hold a sword to help protect the city walls. The Cap’n even wants me, an’ I ain’t been nothin’ but a messenger fer the Town Guard.”

“What kind of trouble?” Kiera demanded impatiently.

The youngster pointed his sword toward the smoke billowing behind the walls. “Kaldonians,” he announced grimly.

“Kaldonians? But… the truce…”

“The bastards musta Gated in,” the young man continued as if Kiera had never spoken, “for our scouts saw naught to alert ‘em to the army’s presence. They ain’t yet breached our walls, but they be tryin’ hard to burn their way through. Cap’n says they outnumber us four to one.”

“Burn their way through? Sariim’s walls are stone!”

“Aye, and Kaldonia’s army is liberally sprinkled with sorcerers of the foulest sort. They be burnin’ a hole in the wall as though it were made of timber! Problem is, we can’t see which ones of ‘em are sorcerers, so we can’t kill ‘em.”

“Out of my way, Wird,” Kiera commanded, and the boy balked at the coldness in her eyes and scrambled aside.

As the black veiled warrior climbed the steep steps to one of Sariim’s many Towers, men and women stepped aside to allow her to pass before resuming what they had been doing. All knew what those of Kiera’s Order were capable of and none wanted to stand between a Yoreji and her prey.

As she stepped out into the cool early morning air she could see, spread below Sariim’s walls, a vast, shifting sea of red uniforms. Kaldonia’s soldiers were bold; they did not bother trying to blend in with the white desert sands, but stood proudly in clothing the color of blood.

A sharp glance at one of the young archers kneeling beside the battlement cleared a space for Kiera. She scanned quickly over the sea of Kaldonian soldiers and found her target. “Give me your bow,” she commanded over the din of shouted orders and battle.

“But…” the woman started to say, but Kiera interrupted her.

“Mine does not have the range, fool. Now hand it over, or find the blasted sorcerers yourself!”

The woman sullenly handed the bow to Kiera, who pulled two arrows from her own case.

There, a young red-head guarded by five soldiers fell as an arrow pierced his throat. There, two raven-haired young women sitting atop tall horses collapsed, arrows through their left eyes. There, an old man shouting orders died as he stepped before one of the five arrows meant for the vacant-eyed young men standing before him. Kiera picked off the last of the sorcerers she could see, and then solemnly turned back to the young archer.

“How did you know which ones they were?” the woman asked in awe.

Kiera sneered. “It wasn’t hard. None of them were wearing weapons; they would have been made to leave the battlefield the moment the walls were breached and wouldn’t need them. All of them were too poorly dressed to warrant the guards protecting them. And the most obvious: all of them had those violet eyes.”

The young woman grinned. “That should put an end to their attempts to burn through the wall, at least for a while!”

Kiera frowned, and leaning over the wall, uttered a curse. The archer stood up and followed the Yoreji’s gaze. “Oh no!”

Kiera had been too late. Kardonian soldiers were swarming about an opening in the wall. It was only large enough to admit perhaps two or three people at a time, but Kiera knew that the Kaldonians would have sorcerers in reserve to complete the damage and let the army through.

Kiera pressed the bow into the young woman’s hands. “Pick off anyone who tries to go through that hole. It is small yet, and we may be able to hold people off long enough to patch it.”

“What are you going to do?”

Kiera drew her sword. “I am going down there.”

“I’ll cover you!” the young woman shouted, but Kiera was already leaping over the battlement.

Sariim’s wall was forty-five feet tall, but every fifteen feet there was a small ledge—extending perhaps four and a half feet from the side of the wall—to allow Sariim’s soldiers easy passage from one part of the wall to another. A few agile Kardonian soldiers had managed to climb up onto the first of the ledges, but were swiftly being dealt with by the livid guardsmen who met them there.

The first ledge was clear but for Sariim’s Town Guards, who scrambled out of the way of the falling Yoreji. The moment Kiera had tumbled out of her fall and regained her feet, she again vaulted off the wall onto the lower ledge. As the stone rushed to meet her she heard the unmistakable sound of a bowstring being released above her. A Kaldonian warrior tumbled from the ledge—the young archer’s arrow jutting from his throat—as Kiera rolled once again out of her fall and rose to her feet. Another was already replacing the dead soldier, but Kiera did not need to take the time to deal with him; two guardsmen were already closing in on the Kaldonian, their already-bloodied swords held high.

Kiera leapt off the wall, and tumbled into the midst of the enemy.

The next few minutes were a blur of hacking and dodging. Surrounded by this many men, Kiera did not waste time with the artful slices and parries Sariim’s guardsmen seemed to prefer when fighting the few Kaldonians who managed to gain a foothold on the ledges. Before she had risen from her fall the Yoreji had both swords in hand, and immediately began to lay waste to all those who came too close to her. Kiera was an incredibly swift and dangerous warrior when armed with either of her swords. With both in hand, she was Death incarnate.

The enemy made a mistake when they first began fighting Kiera. They did not know what the swordswoman’s black veils and robes signified, and mistakenly thought they were fighting an “average” warrior. Indeed, they did not even give her the same wary respect they would grant an average soldier; they saw that they were surrounding a “mere” woman---a rather slight woman at that---and assumed that her attacks would be weak and largely untrained. They did not realize that in the desert women were often chosen for sword training over men because their light weight and small size made them swifter and more agile fighters. And they did not that a Yoreji warrior---whether male or female---was easily the match for any of Kaldonia’s best fighters.

As a result, the first wave of Kaldonians easily fell prey to Kiera’s sword.

The second wave was not quite as stupid, but they too made mistakes. They recognized that the woman before them was highly accomplished, but they did not understand her style. They assumed that most of the veiled female’s attacks would come from the longsword she grasped in her right hand—it was heavier, and thus its weight made it easier to chop through armor and bones. But Kiera did not deign to resort to blind hacking; she aimed her attacks carefully, spotting every little opening in the Kaldonian armor and using her small, light curved blade to slice throats and stab eyes and armpits while parrying with her heavier longsword.

The second wave of Kaldonians fell nearly as easily as the first, and by the time the third was converging upon the Yoreji, Sariim’s guardsmen had begun to follow Kiera’s example and join the fray beneath Sariim’s walls.

However, they failed in the end. Despite their efforts to hold back the Kaldonian army long enough for the breach in the wall to be fixed, the Kaldonians managed to push into Sariim. There were simply too many of them, and as Kiera had expected, they had sorcerers in reserve.

Kiera had raised her longsword to block an overhead strike by a giant of a Kaldonian soldier when the first explosion occurred. Backwards they were thrown, Kaldonians and Sariimans alike, along with great chunks of glistening white stone. Kiera lay on her back, stunned and coughing on dust. A sword fell toward her belly, and she rolled rapidly to avoid it before rising to her feet to finish off her attacker.

All around her the Kaldonians were rushing for the wall, except for a single woman who sat proudly on her horse amidst the carnage with a smug grin proclaiming her satisfaction. Kiera pulled a knife from her belt and hurled it toward the woman. The sorceress fell, screaming, and the Yoreji did not wait to see if she lived or died, but turned and ran back toward Sariim, stabbing at Kaldonians as she went.

The battle moved within the city walls.

It was a long, exhausting day of fighting, and in the end Sariim fell to the Kaldonian army. The Khaa was captured and executed beneath the crumbling walls of the once great Desert city. His trusted advisors surrendered, and their weeping children were returned to them with only an ear missing from each to warn their parents of the dangers of future disobedience.

Sariim’s militia, however, did not surrender. Many—Kiera among them—continued fighting the invaders even as the Khaa’s grotesquely mutilated head was nailed to what remained of Sariim’s wall. “We of the Desert have vowed to die, down to the last child, before we will allow ourselves to be controlled by a foreign power,” the Captain of the Guard told the tattered remnants of his men. “But let us take as many of these Kaldonian bastards down with us as we can!”

The result was wholesale slaughter. At Duke Ardran Scarlight’s command, very man, woman, and child in the city was murdered. Kiera herself killed seven children that day, blowing tiny needles tipped with fast-acting poison at them to liberate them from the brutal torture of their Kaldonian captors. But she could not find every Sariiman child, and was far too often busy defending her own life to bring merciful death to the Kaldonians’ helpless victims.

Eventually, darkness descended once again upon the city. Kiera, covered in dust and blood---some her own but most not---crept through an alleyway toward the dancing light of a fire and the jovial voices of victorious soldiers.

But for the sounds of celebration ahead, the streets around her were silent and bereft of people. Kiera had not seen another survivor of the devastation for hours. She had spent the time between early evening and deep night attacking small groups of Kaldonian soldiers as they patrolled the streets looking for more victims. It was clear the soldiers had no intention of leaving survivors, and Kiera had no intention of dying. After all, she had a greater purpose she had yet to fulfill. It was time that she leave this place behind and resume her journey to the Imperial City.

She needed to depart soon, but there was one more individual she wanted to kill. Duke Ardran Scarlight. She knew he was in Sariim somewhere. She just had to find him… and she had no problem leaving a trail of bodies behind her as she searched.

The alley Kiera was moving through bent sharply to the left, and in that direction she could see the warm glow of firelight and the shifting shadows of many men. She glanced around, looking for an easy way up the wall to her left, and spotted a small notch just above her head. Quickly, but quietly, she climbed, and then crouched low as she made her way across a stone roof. Below she could hear snatches of song and drunken laughter.

She lay on her stomach at the edge of the roof and peered over the wall. Sure enough, in what was left of Sariim’s city market a small fire had been built, and sixteen Kaldonian soldiers sat around, grinning as a rather soused man drunkenly toasted wine, women, and warfare.

Kiera needed to get past them, for on the other side of the market square was the Khaa’s house, where she was almost positive the Duke would be staying tonight.

Most of her needles had been used up earlier in the day. However, she still had a few, and she opened a tiny vial and methodically dipped each one in its amber liquid. A tiny wooden straw in her pocket was just the right size to hold them all. She placed it carefully between her lips and exhaled sharply. Twenty poisonous needles flew through the air, and she was rewarded by the yelps of a few men who clutched at arms, throats, and faces in surprise… before collapsing, dead.

She used the brief turmoil to jump off of the roof into the midst of the soldiers. Her saber met the head of one man, separating it clean from his body, before the Kaldonians had a chance to truly note her presence. His head bounced once upon the ground and rolled between the feet of one of his comrades.

There were now only eleven of them left alive.

She had managed to kill eight of them before reinforcements arrived and she was quelled with a brutal blow to the back of her head. Collapsing to her knees, she tried to dodge a kick to the stomach, but could not move fast enough. The blow knocked the breath from her lungs and she landed hard on her back. Vision blurring and gasping for air, she barely made out the figure of a man as he stepped purposely toward her, lifting his sword to stab her through the stomach.

“Stop,” came the command.

The figure froze. Blinking, Kiera managed to clear her vision enough to see that the Kaldonian soldier’s face was red with rage.

“But sir,” he said, never taking his eyes off of her.

A second figure stepped up to his side. In the flickering firelight Kiera could just barely see the Captain’s insignia embroidered onto his uniform. “I said stand down, soldier. The Duke will want to see this one personally.”

With a reluctant sigh the soldier lifted the blade away from Kiera’s stomach. Then he flipped the sword around and, before Kiera had a chance to move, slammed the pommel into her temple.

The world around her immediately dissolved into blackness.


KC is a teacher now! Aiden sat on his windowseat, arms wrapped around his legs and chin resting on his knees. The early-morning breeze fluttered the curtains around him, hiding him from a casual glance. He ought to be in bed; he knew this, knew it upset the servants to find his bed unslept in, but there was something ... something ... out there that drew him from his sleep.

Not that he suffered so much from this incessant insomnia, no, it was more a perverse grumpiness that came with the idea that he ought to be tired after staying up all hours of the night. This was the fourth such night he'd sat awake here in his windowseat, watching out over the city, to the desert beyond. He didn't even want to look at the bed behind him, feeling both guilty and giddy when he did.

What was it about the last week that made him so restless? It was almost as if there were something in the air, something .. coming, perhaps, like the hot mugginess and calm just before a storm. Something was changing, for good or for ill, and he could almost sense it.

He shivered, tugging on his robe to bring it tighter across his shoulders. He shifted a little, conscious now of his achy legs and back, freezing feet, and an ever-increasing need to relieve himself. With a sigh, he decided to get up and dress.

He trotted down the castle stairs to the kitchens and surprised the cooks there. They gave him hot bread, fresh from the ovens, a little bit of cheese, and some left-over fowl from the night before. He leaned back in a corner and tried to make himself unobtrusive. He succeeded better than even he'd anticipated ...

As the sky lightened, the kitchen became even busier, with more servants coming and going, fetching food to all the nobles who dined alone in their rooms and to the grand dining room where the king took his breakfast every morning. The under-cook hounded the servants non-stop, making Aidan frown. He decided to take action when the man halted everything in that section of the kitchen with a tirade to a nervous girl who had spilled some of the king's wine.

"Do you think that's really necessary?" he asked, loudly, standing and advancing around the large preparation table.

The under-cook was not the only one to jump and stare. Anger clouded the man's judgement and he scowled furiously at the prince.

"How I run my kitchen is no concern of yours, your highness."

Aidan smiled. Those watching the drama carefully and surrepitiously edged away.

"How my servants are treated affects me very much," the prince added.

The under-cook snapped back, "We are all servants of your father, the King! I will not tolerate --"

Aidan was both amused and horrified by the situation he found himself in. He soon added anger as the servant girl, her tray tilting precariously, jumped back to avoid the under-cook as the man rounded on the prince. With a clatter, the glasses she carried, and the flask of wine, slid to the floor and smashed with a deafening clatter. The under-cook interrupted his tirade to whirl on the girl.

She was already, face white, mouth open in shock, bending to attend to the mess when the under-cook back-handed her, screaming, "You careless fool! How dare you be so thoughtless!"

On the ground, tears coming to her eyes, the girl cowered. The under-cook raised his arm to strike her again, but Aiden caught him by the collar. Although the man topped him by several inches, the prince hefted him easily. He tossed him backwards, to the ground and then stepped toward him. Anger flashed in his eyes and his hands curled to fists.

"Get out," Aidan said, steely-voiced and shaking a bit with emotion. "You are dismissed - don't ever set foot in this castle again."

The man stared at the prince, for a moment looking as if he would argue, and then he scrambled to his feet and fled. Aidan turned back to the girl, but the kitchen was now completely empty. In the doorway stood Kaldonia's other prince. Amusement and disdain pulled down the corners of his brother's mouth and he stared down his nose at Aidan.

"Well done, brother," said Deron. "Yet another story for the commoners to bandy about."

Why was it that Deron could always, no matter what the circumstances, make him feel so much like a misbehaving little boy? Aidan wondered. He scowled down at his toes until Deron left. He picked up a broom and swept up all the glass, but was unsure what to do with it and so he left it. He snagged some more bread and went for a walk.

Later that morning, unbeknownst to Aidan, the furious under-cook, once he'd overcome his initial fears, came back to the kitchen to complain to the Head Cook. He tripped on the flagstones in the kitchen and fell, knocking his head heavily against the stone of the ovens. He never regained consciousness. The servants whispered amongst themselves....

story without a title part 1

A novice—not yet even twenty years old—startled awake at the sound of the scream and, without bothering to waste time slipping into her robes, rolled out of her pallet and rushed into the hall in her small clothes.

The Prophet had not had a vision in many years, and the last one had been of so little consequence that the woman had nearly been sent out into the streets. “Let her ply her trade as a fortune teller,” the priests and priestesses had said, “for she is of no use to us as a Prophet.”

However, the High Priest had pitied Erida. The woman was mad, like some Prophets tended to be, and would surely perish if they cast her out of the Citadel. And besides… she might yet have a vision of some merit, returning the Citadel to its former—and long lost—position as the most prestigious temple in all the kingdoms.

It was this last that lingered within the novice’s mind as she tore through the halls toward the Prophet’s chamber. This vision might restore the Citadel to its former glory! Grabbing a scroll and a quill case from the stand outside of the Prophet’s door, she turned the doorknob and slipped into Erida’s room.

The room was rank with the sour smell of human sweat. Tiptoeing across the chilly marble floor toward the screaming Prophet, the novice watched the waiflike form writhing on the soaked covers of the great, canopied bed. Erida’s hands and feet were twisted into grotesque claws that tore at the sheets in her agony. Her face—normally so pale that she was like to be burned by moonbeams—was contorted into a scream that went on and on. Her brilliant blue eyes were wide open, and fixed on a point somewhere between the bed and the novice. There was nothing there—nothing but the vision—and only Erida saw it.

The novice watched the woman for a moment, then pulled the Prophet’s desk and chair toward the bed, sat down, and waited.

Gradually the screams died down to sobbing, then whimpering, then nothing. Erida’s whole body relaxed, and she lay trembling for a moment before finally succumbing to the stillness that always followed a vision. Silence descended upon the room.

The novice carefully unrolled the scroll, dipped the quill into the murky ink, and watched.

And at last the Prophet spoke. The quill scratched rapidly over the surface of the scroll as the novice carefully took down every word of the Prophecy.

“In the heart of winter, on a dark night,
The firstborn son of Jaerol’s royal line
He’ll come to you, full of magical might
To remake the world in a new design

Look deep into the gaze of mesmerizing blue
You will see truth in those brilliant eyes
Here is yet more advice for you to pursue:
He will need your trust, he will need allies.

There is still one more piece that you must know
His younger brother, the one they shall name
Protect him, his lifeblood must not flow
For without him, your world will be cast into flame”

With these last words finally spoken, the Prophet rubbed her blue eyes, sat up in the bed, and peered at the novice through a tangle of long blond, sweaty hair.

“I see you and I loathe you, I know you and I hate you, la la, la la, leave me alone!” The Prophet said in a singsong voice.

The novice carefully rolled up the scroll and placed the quill back in its case. “Go to sleep, Erida,” she said with as much tenderness as she could muster after the excitement of hearing the Prophecy.

“La la, la la, leave me alone!” she heard again as she slipped out of the room and locked the door on the Mad Prophet within.

Walking briskly, she left the Prophet’s Quarters where she had been assigned duty that night—and how she had resented it earlier, having to babysit a madwoman!—and slipping into the Temple Quarters, she reported immediately to the High Priest.

“A Prophecy, a Prophecy at last!” she cried, waking up the hundreds of sleeping priestesses in the Temple Quarters.

A Prophecy that would bring glory to the Citadel that had produced it!
*~*~*


Thousands of miles away, another Prophet had a vision.

He was riding his camel across the sands. It was late afternoon, and it was scorchingly hot. Sweat pored in rivulets down his face and collected about his throat in the sodden folds of his robes. Behind him, the others on guard duty rode in silence as they patrolled the borders of their land.

Roneth turned over his shoulder to offer the warrior behind him a drink from his flask. They were nearing the well that they had been seeking for days, but they were also nearing their last reserves of water, and those who had extra were not above sharing.

He caught a brief glimpse of the dark, friendly face of Forial behind him. And then he was falling, falling, falling.

When he woke again, it was to the sound of his own voice speaking. Faces hovered above him, worried faces, and a flask of water neared his lips, but all drew back when he began uttering the words in a horribly disconnected voice.

“He’ll come, the child of darkness and blight,
The evil child born beneath the sign
To summon shadows; to cast away light
And to usher in the world’s decline

His words will ring both pure and true
But listen closely; he speaks vile lies
Allow him to become close to you
But destroy him, or it shall be you who dies

There is yet more knowledge I must bestow
Aiden has more power than any can claim
It must not run free, or there will be woe
For his magic will allow him to win this game”

The words poured from him like blood from a wound. When at last they were gone, he sat up slowly, swallowed, and looking up at the friends surrounding him, said, “We must write this down.”

“A Prophet,” they whispered, making no move to find scrolls or quills. “We have a Prophet in our midst. A Prophet.”

Snarling in frustration, Roneth rose from the sand, called his camel to him, and began searching his packs for something to record the words of Prophecy upon.

It had been his first vision. It would also be his last.
*~*~*


One thousand years in the future, Emperor Jaerol’s wife gasped her last, shaky breath, closed her bloodshot brown eyes, and died as her newborn son’s cries echoed through the palace.

“Mama, wake up,” the little boy standing by the side of the bed whispered, shaking the Queen’s limp arm lightly as if that would rouse her. His father’s tears scared him. He wanted his mother to wake and tell him everything was okay.

The Emperor sobbed, hugging his four-year-old son to him, and behind him the midwife gathered up his infant son, swaddling the babe in silk blankets before handing him off to a wet nurse.

“Oh, Deron, your mother... she’s not going to wake up,” Jaerol whispered into the little boy’s hair.

“He killed her,” Deron said acidly, ice blue eyes glaring down the hall where his newborn brother had been taken. “I hate him.”

The Emperor turned Deron’s chin toward him, forcing those mesmerizing, angry blue eyes to meet his own. “Aiden is your brother, Deron. He needs your love, not your hate. This is not his fault.”

“He killed her,” was all Deron said in response. "If I become Emperor one day, I will kill him."

Outside, a comet blazed in the midsummer sky.
*~*~*


Fifteen years later, two strangers departed from their seperate lands for Kaldonia at the exact same time.
*~*~*


In the dim gray, early morning sunlight, a cloaked figure swung into the saddle of a lightly built--but carefully bred--mare. A second figure stepped lightly upon the desert sands and offered water, bread and cheese to the rider.

"You know your duty?"

"How can I not?" the rider asked in a cold, smooth, sarcastic voice. "It has been drilled into me over and over again. I am to go to the Imperial City, gain access to the palace, earn a place within the royal household, win the affection of the Emperor's younger son--a child who might be powerful enough to become the next Kaldonian Emperor--and kill him."

There was another silence, longer this time, as the other individual contemplated the rider's words. Then--"You have killed often enough now that the mere idea of bringing death should not bother you. It must be the fact that your job is now to kill a child that brings that hard, angry edge to your voice. Am I correct?"

"He's fifteen," the assassin whispered. "According to the ways of his people he is no longer a child. And even if he were, I would kill him, for the Prophecy demands it."

"The Prophecy demands it," the other assured, and giving the horse a sharp slap on its rump, sent the assassin out into the desert, toward Kaldonia.
*~*~*


From the Citadel deep within the forests three days ride outside of Kaldonia, a young novice accepted a walking stick from the Citadel's High Priest, said a prayer to the Goddess to ensure safe travel, and stepped onto the road leading to Kaldonia.

"Remember," the High Priest said, "The younger brother must also be protected. The success of the older child depends upon that of the younger."

"I know," the traveler said sharply. "I have studied the Prophecy as much as you have, if not more. I will protect both princes with my sword, my magic, and even my life if need be. No harm will come to them. I swear it in the name of the Goddess."

"She will hold you to your vow," the High Priest said. "See that you do as you have promised."

Andante
Two Years Earlier


He had started his training too late in life. A nine and a half year old child, his Master always said, had already been thoroughly indoctrinated with the moral codes of his or her society and only required parental discipline to make moral behavior habitual. Such a child could--with proper reconditioning--be trained and initiated into an alternate moral system, but this generally required undesirable amounts of time and effort, and there was always the risk that the child might at any time suffer a relapse in which he or she rejected the new system in favor of the original. If a Bane wished to train an apprentice, it was best to begin when the child was no more than six years old, and preferably as young as four.

"If you were not my own son, I would never have bestowed upon you the honor of training, for you were too old," Gorain said with a scowl.

"Yes, Master," Sebastian murmured, head bowed in filial supplication where he knelt on the cold, hard marble floor across from middle-aged Bane.

"No, you troglodyte, draw the Control glyph like this!" Gorain corrected, tracing the symbol in the air with a white feather. Sebastian watched for a moment, then dipped his finger into the thin, silver dish of blood once again and carefully traced the glyph on his scroll once, twice, and thrice. Gorain watched, violet eyes narrowed, before finally nodding his satisfaction.

"Of course," the Bane continued as Sebastian began tracing the Demon glyph, "if that w*xy$ of a mother of yours hadn't kept you from me for so long, your training would have begun at the proper time, and you would already have become a full-fledged Bane two years ago! Why I married that Brerran b@&y% instead of a proper Gevara woman I don't know. Just think, if not for her you would have been well into your advanced coursework by now, and nearly ready to begin your Journeyman testing. But no, here you are, almost eighteen years old, and you are just now ready for your initiation! And you have the audacity to call yourself my son! I was already working on my Master status at your age!"

Perhaps I would be further along if you allowed me to work at my own pace, rather than always keeping me back for fear that I will surpass you. But one day, Father dear. One day...

"Forgive me, Master," was all he said out loud. "I will try harder to please you in the future." He kept his eyes lowered respectfully so that his father could not see the hate that burned within their ice-blue depths.

"See that you do," Gorain said coldly. "Failure, as you know, will not be treated lightly."

An unexpected chill ran up Sebastian's spine, retracing old, newly healed, and fresh scars spanning his back, chest, and legs. Just wait until I come into my full power, father mine. I will repay you, blood for blood. With interest.

Gorain rose smoothly from the floor. Crimson robes pooled around his feet, so dark that the bloodstains were nearly impossible to see. "Come," he commanded, gesturing with one carefully manicured, sharpened fingernail for Sebastian to rise. "It is time to make you become what you were born to be: A Bane worthy of the D’Zaniall family name."

Another Bane to bind the sons and daughters of this family to darkness? I think not. Please, Bright One, give me the strength to do what I must.

"Yes, Master," Sebastian murmured as he rose from his place on the floor and followed the Bane to the heavy iron doors at the far side of the work room.

The Ritual Chamber was a large, perfectly circular room erected of obsidian. The gleaming black walls were punctuated every four feet with a small niche in which a single candle floated in a chalice. Those chalices, Sebastian knew, were filled with blood. He was, after all the one who performed the sacrifices every morning that supplied both the blood and the power required in the spells performed here.

Beyond the candles, there was only one thing in the room. A giant pentacle had been carved into the floor and inlaid with silver. The space at the very center of the pentacle bore a dull, rusty stain; that blood Sebastian had supplied personally for rituals, and many times. The multiple crisscrossing scars on his wrists bore silent witness to the rigors of his apprenticeship.

“You may begin, when you are ready,” Gorain said, taking a seat on the smooth glass floor and gesturing for Sebastian to move onto the pentacle.

Sebastian had been told many times what was expected of his this day. Although he had never performed a Summoning himself, he had seen it done by Gorain many times, and had been taught everything he needed to know about the process. However, until this past year, he had not yet had the power to actually call a demon, let alone coax it to possess him, lending him its power in exchange for the opportunity to experience the wonders of physical existence.

Now, however, Gorain considered him to be ready. Now it was time for Sebastian to join with his demon.

Sebastian knelt in the middle of the pentacle. Two deep breaths put him in Trance. Three more called forth the Mage Sight, allowing him to see the web of energy twinning through and around him. Examining the violet taint about Gorain—the demon Arakial who shared Gorain’s body—and comparing it to his own untainted gray, he reached into the folds of his robe and pulled a double-edged obsidian dagger from his belt.

It was time to end this.

Five shallow slices across the wrist and five bloody glyphs drawn within the points of the pentacle, and he was ready to call the demon…or so he hoped it seemed from Gorain’s position. In truth, Sebastian had made a few important changes to the setup of the spell. Instead of drawing the five Demon Summoning glyphs—the Astral glyph, the Darkness glyph, the Demon glyph, the Control glyph, and the Bane glyph—Sebastian switched out the Darkness, Demon, and Control glyphs for the Light, Being of Light, and Protection glyphs.

It was a bold thing he did, and an incredibly dangerous one. Any moment Gorain could come closer to inspect the glyphs, and recognize Sebastian’s betrayal. And Gorain was the most powerful Bane alive, far more powerful than Sebastian, who was growing into an immensely strong mage. If Gorain figured out what was happening, he would undoubtedly kill Sebastian—after torturing him brutally—and use his blood to power a week’s worth of rituals.

Sebastian, however, intended to have that being of light summoned and guarding him before his Master had a chance to notice anything was amiss. Even Gorain was no match for a being of light, demon-bonded or not. And when Gorain was defeated, Sebastian would be free of this family curse, this horrible tradition that bound generations of D’Zaniall children to the horrors of the Bane Magicks.

Now that the five glyphs were drawn in blood, it was time for the Summoning. Sebastian drew the blade across his wrist once again, cutting deeper this time until the blood streamed down his arm and dripped from his fingers to the floor. As the blood pooled he released his mind and magick to wander free of his quickly weakening body. He felt no fear, no anger. Nothing. Only a sense of purpose. He focused on the blood pooling about his knees, and sent his consciousness down through the puddle of blood and out into the Astral Plane.

It was cold. All about him was a gray mist that swirled into suggestive shapes before dissipating back into the fog. Nothing substantial existed here. Even Sebastian was a mere wisp of energy.

In this realm of possibility, desire could be shaped into reality. Sheer power of will was the greatest tool of a Bane, and it was skill that Sebastian excelled in above all others. Peering intensely into the mists, he concentrated on the type of being he wished to call, bending all of his knowledge of the being of light to the task. When he felt an answering whisper from out in the mists, he visualized that being of light standing before him within the confines of the pentacle.

Then he opened his eyes.

The creature he saw before him was everything he expected, and nothing. Yes, the being of light was possessed of an unearthly beauty, with white-blond hair, moon-pale skin, and wings of light—every feature that a being of light was supposed to possess—but why did wrath, not love, burn in those eyes? Was not a servant of the Bright One supposed to be a good, righteous being? Why were his angry, piercing blue eyes fixed on Sebastian, and not on the demon-possessed Bane staring in openmouthed shock at the edge of the pentacle?

“You dare summon me with your filthy magicks to this place of desecration?” the being of light thundered. His wings were arched behind him like a hawk closing in on a kill.

“I…” Sebastian started, then stopped, unsure of himself. Was there another way to summon a servant of the Bright One? “The magicks I used to summon you are the only ones I know.”

The being took a step toward Sebastian. In one swift motion he drew a silver-hilted sword and lay the blade against Sebastian’s throat.

The apprentice Bane froze. The steel was immensely cold against his throat. He felt the blood drain from his face as he realized, for the first time, that the being of light might actually be offended enough to kill him.

This was not going as he had expected. Already Gorain was kneeling on the stone outside of the pentacle, tracing the Demon and Control glyphs onto the obsidian floor outside of Sebastian’s pentacle. He clearly intended to take control of this situation, and was calling a demon to help him do it.

The being of light stared deeply into Sebastian’s eyes. The young man was shocked to find himself looking into eyes the same startling violet color as Gorain’s own. “Why have you summoned me?” the being demanded in a low, dangerous voice.

“A fantastic question,” Gorain said.

Sebastian started at his voice, and felt a slight sting as a thin trickle of blood ran down his throat from where the blade sliced him.

The Bane rose from the floor, blood dripping from his wrist. He leveled his dagger at Sebastian. “I am going to assume this is a mistake—the stupid mistake of an untrained apprentice Bane—and not the betrayal that it appears to be.”

Sebastian did not respond. Indeed, he did not dare to move at all. Gorain looked from his son to the being of light, then smiled darkly and closed his eyes for a moment. A breath later a demon appeared within the boundaries of Gorain’s bloody glyphs. Its calculating violet eyes examined the chamber for a heartbeat, then came to rest upon the one who had summoned it.

“I see you have bound me with your magicks, Bane. What is your bidding?” the beast asked. Its scales were so dark a blue black it seemed to disappear into the obsidian chamber. Those unearthly eyes gleamed—disembodied in the darkness—as it stared hungrily at Gorain.

Gorain ignored the demon, and focused instead on his disobedient student and heir. In a voice so low Sebastian had to strain to hear it, the Bane said, “I shall give you one chance, boy, to redeem yourself of this transgression. Join with this demon and destroy that thing you summoned, or I shall turn this beast upon you and end your treachery forever.”

Sebastian shook his head slowly. “You forget my pentacle, Master. Neither you, nor that demon, may pass.”

Gorain sneered. He lifted his hand, and with one lazy gesture shattered the obsidian beneath Sebastian’s feet. The young man collapsed as the ground beneath him arched and then exploded. Sharp slivers and shards of glass cut his hands and knees.

The being of light merely looked at the buckling ground in disdain and rose an inch or two above it. His sword followed Gorain’s throat all the way to the ground, then remained there poised against the youngster’s throat, ever steady.

Sebastian glanced up in horror to see the demon stalking across the glass toward him. Panicked, he turned entreatingly to the being of light.

“Please,” he cried, “you have to do something!”

The being merely lifted a slender eyebrow. That sword never wavered. “Oh? Why is that?”

The demon had crossed the boundary of the pentacle now, and was sniffing hungrily at Sebastian’s bloody glyphs. It lapped tentatively at the pooling fluid, heedless of the sharp glass, and then turned eager glowing eyes toward Sebastian.

The apprentice Bane shivered, then forced his eyes back up to the being of light and strove to answer his question. “I have bound you with my magick!” He pointed to the Protection glyph. “You are obligated to assist me!”

The being of light merely laughed. “You cannot bind me with your weak and dirty magicks! Foolish mortal! You know so little of the magick you attempt to wield!”

Desperate, the apprentice Bane tried another approach. “You are a servant of the Bright One! There is a demon here, and it is going to slaughter me!”

The being glanced briefly at the demon. His face darkened for a moment. Then those violet eyes met Sebastian’s once again, and they were infinitely cold. “I fail to see how that is my problem.”

Sebastian did not get another opportunity to plead his case. The demon slid up next to him then, and the being of light stepped delicately out of the way, taking his sword with him and sweeping his wings away from the demon in disdain. Then he watched with almost scientific interest as the creature reached out with clawed hands and grasped Sebastian’s wrist.

Almost gently, the demon lifted Sebastian’s arm to its mouth. A black, forked tongue darted out of its black maw through razor sharp teeth and sampled the blood. Sebastian convulsed in pain as that rough tongue scraped across his flesh, and tried to wrench his arm free, but the beast was immovable.

“Please,” Sebastian whispered, turning over his shoulder to beg the assistance of the being of light, but he was met with only that hard, cold gaze.

Sharp teeth grazed his skin, opening a new, shallow slice next to the ones Sebastian had cut himself. The demon watched the blood well for a moment, and then thrust his head forward to feast.

“Stop,” Gorain commanded. The beast paused, teeth a mere centimeter from Sebastian’s flesh, and turned impatient eyes to its master.

Gorain stepped across the broken, shattered boundary of the pentacle, and came to a stop beside the demon. He looked down upon Sebastian with a sympathetic expression, but his eyes were heartless. “It does not have to be this way, Sebastian. Draw the Invitation glyph upon the ground. Accept the demon. Join with him. His power will be yours forever, and you will never again have to endure the insolence of creatures such as this being of light. Join with the demon, my son, and kill this haughty creature. Then you will be a Bane. Will you do this?”

Sebastian shuddered as he glanced from his father, to the demon grasping his arm, to the watching being of light, and back again. He swallowed against rising nausea and fear. The thought of what he was about to do made him sick.

“No,” he whispered.

“No?” Gorain asked.

“Neither I, nor any of my descendents, will ever again be a vessel for a demon or a practitioner of Banal magicks. Kill me if you must, but the answer to your question is no. I will not join with this demon.”

“Then you are no son of mine,” Gorain said. He reached into his robe, and pulled his obsidian dagger free of its folds.

Sebastian tried to flinch back, but he was held fast in the demon’s grasp, and before he had a chance to blink that blade was buried to the hilt in his shoulder, then his side. He froze in pain and shock. Gorain ripped the dagger free, turned away, and began wiping the blade clean on his crimson robe.

The demon’s nostrils flared at the scent of fresh blood, and it turned eagerly to Sebastian.

“Feast, demon,” the Bane said as he walked away. “Feast, then return to your realm. I have no further use for you today.”

At those words, the demon lunged forward, jaws open wide, razor sharp teeth glinting in the flickering candlelight. Sebastian could not even move, but only knelt dumbly there in glass and blood as the thing attacked him.

There was a sudden blur of light, followed by a solid, wet thunk and a sword’s humming song. The monster’s great head landed beside Sebastian’s left hip. Its body collapsed in front of him. He found himself staring across its corpse at the being of light, who blew lightly on the edge of his blade—sending drops of black blood wafting away like dust—and returned the sword to the sheath at his waist.

For a moment their eyes met. Then the being’s violet gaze darted away from Sebastian, and his voice thundered forth angrily. “Stop, mortal.”

Gorain stopped midstride and turned. His demon eyes widened incredulously as they fixed on what was left of the beast he had called. They grew even wider as they found themselves staring at the end of an immensely sharp sword wielded by a being of light. Then they narrowed, and a condescending grin spread across Gorain’s face.

“I suppose I shall have to kill you myself,” the Bane sighed.

The being of light merely smiled and shrugged off the fireball Gorain sent shrieking toward him. He caught the next one, and extinguished it in his hand, then stepped forward and grasped a terrified Gorain by the collar of his red robe. “I, on the other hand, am not going to kill you,” the being of light hissed. “That would be more than you deserve. No, I am going to send you to the Hell you so like to consort with, where you can be the plaything of demons until you have learned the error of your ways.” And with that he gave the Bane a firm shove backwards, and Gorain disappeared, as if he’d been swallowed by air.

Leaving Sebastian and the being of light alone.

The being crossed the room to Sebastian in two steps, and knelt by his side. “Your decision not to join the ranks of the Banes who came before you is the single reason I have spared your life. You have performed far too many filthy abominations for me to have spared you for any other reason. Now, you must repay the gift with the life you have been given back.”

“What do you want me to do?” Sebastian whispered.