Dawn of Shadows



  the first installment of

  Dawn of Shadows is the first installment in the supernatural novel Prophecy of the Heir, the first volume in The Chronicles of Times series. Prophecy of the Heir is available in print or ebook at all major online retailers.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright © 2012 JC Lamont.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, posted on any website, or transmitted in any form or by any means―digital, electronic, scanning, photocopy, recording or otherwise―without written permission from the author, except for brief quotations in printed reviews and articles.

  Cover art by Caleb Havertape.

  Copyright © 2014. All rights reserved. Used with Permission.

  Crimson Moon Press

  www.crimsonmoonpress.com

  NOTE TO READERS

  Dawn of Shadows, a 21,000-word novella, is the first chapter of Prophecy of the Heir.

  The Chronicles of Time

  a seven book series released in three volumes

  Volume I: Prophecy of the Heir:

  (Books One and Two)

  Available in print and e-book

  Volume II: Covenant of Blood

  (Books Three and Four)

  Coming Soon

  Volume III: Abolition of Death

  (Books Five, Six, and Seven)

  Coming Soon

  Prologue

  Dawn of Shadows

  Appendix A: General

  Glossary

  About the Author

  Reviews

  Other Works by JC Lamont

  Crimson letters glistened across the thin sheet of parchment.

  The white-cloaked figure dipped the quill into the basin of blood beside him, then inscribed the final letters across the page.

  A sigh escaped his lips as he closed the tome, for its completion merely marked the beginning. As his finger caressed the name engraved upon the ornate cover, the memory of his father’s words echoed through his mind. Even now, he sensed the strain in his father’s voice. Are you certain you understand the consequences? The sacrifice?

  Yes, he had answered. She is worth it.

  Pushing from his mind all that was to come, he pressed his fingertips to his lips and then against her name. He withdrew from the walled garden, and wound his way through the botanical milieu of the royal grounds.

  Beneath a silver sky, he strode across the courtyard, and the palace doors swung open at his approach. The columned throne room lay before him, its alabaster pillars, walls, and floor shimmering with iridescent light. Embossed in the center of the floor, the trionicle―the royal emblem of three circles entwining a triangle―cast a golden glow upon his features.

  A tiered dais rose from the far end of the chamber; the first level lay bare, the second encompassed an array of white stones ablaze with an incessant flame, and the third held a gold throne and the one who sat upon it.

  Unburned by the flames, the cloaked-figure walked through the midst of the fire, bowed, and presented the tome to the King. His voice was but a whisper.

  “It is finished.”

  1

  Deep in the White Mountain, carved in gold across the face of the great chalice, the Laws of Time speak of what can and cannot come to pass, of what can and cannot be overturned, and of what can and cannot live forever. The chalice was empty, but that would soon change, and bring with it the end of all things…or the beginning.

  A new age was dawning, leaving the old Age―the Age of eternity past―forever forgotten.

  But of the great chalice, Lucifer Haylel, commander of the Malakim, knew nothing. Nor did he know of which age was his origin―the one to end, or the one just begun.

  He knew only that he grew restless.

  When he’d first heeded King Elyon’s royal decree to subdue and take dominion of Shamayim, he longed to do nothing more than explore the vast forests, mountains, and lone river that enveloped the world in which he lived. Enjoying the camaraderie of his fellow Malakim, savoring the supremacy that came with his rank as their commander, he reveled in the favor of His Majesty, and the privilege of being entrusted with the Ko’akh―the sword of power.

  But of late, a sense of unquiet gnawed at his ether. He sought something. Something more.

  Standing outside the glass-domed conservatory annexed to the palace, he stared up at the gold tree that grew within. Lush, ripe fruit hung from within a myriad of branches, shimmering in the light radiating from the palace.

  The only tree of its kind in all Shamayim―locked in a dome with no ingress.

  Curious. So very curious.

  A horn blare resounded from the palace, and he glanced away from the tree in surprise. A few moments earlier, King Elyon’s son had traversed the courtyard carrying a gold tome, and Lucifer wondered if the summons bore a connection.

  With one last glance at the enclosed tree, he strode towards the palace.

  2

  Clenching the reins, Michael hunched forward as Shakar’s hooves left the ground, her massive wings beating on either side behind him. The pegasus soared upwards, and Michael closed his eyes against the rush of air hitting his face. As the mare righted into a glide, Michael released the reins and held out his arms. He gave a euphoric shout and tilted his face upwards, inhaling the fragrant air.

  “Show-off!” a voice called out, and Michael turned to see his comrade, Mardikel, flying beside him on his own pegasus.

  Michael laughed. “You should try it.”

  Tentatively releasing his reins, Mardikel attempted to hold out his arms, but slipping from his mare, hastily reached for them again.

  “Move with her, like this,” Michael said, exaggerating the slight back and forth rocking motion of Shakar’s body as her hindquarters rose and fell with her wings.

  Mardikel imitated him, and after several moments held out slightly shaking arms. “I’m doing it!”

  Michael grinned. “Now dive.”

  Before Mardikel could retort, Michael tapped Shakar with his foot, nudging her into a dive. He leaned back, pressing his knees tight against her body. He kept his arms extended, and watched the speeding landscape approach. At the last moment, he nudged her again, and once more soared upwards.

  “One of these days you’re going to fall off,” Mardikel grumbled.

  Michael laughed and rubbed Shakar’s neck. “My girl would never let me fall.”

  A horn blast sounded, and they both turned towards the White Mountain in the distance, then looked at each other and grinned.

  “Shall we race?”

  “On my mark,” Michael said.

  “No, on mine,” Mardikel said. “Mark!”

  Michael raised a brow as Mardikel shot forward on his mare. “Silly Malak,” he said, patting Shakar. “He thinks he can beat us.”

  Hunching forward, he soon caught up to Mardikel. The mares soared over Shamayim neck to neck―the aura of light emanating from their gold manes and shimmering amber coats conjured the illusion of flaming horses galloping across the sky. Far below, the Khahi River serpentined across legions of meadows before cutting through a dense forest.

  Within moments, the White Mountain, forged from luminous Khahi rock, loomed before them. Jeweled gates enclosed the twelve levels carved into the mountain face. From the vast peak, in a subtle blend of uncut rock and polished stone, the palace rose against Shamayim’s silver sky. Its lone tower flew the flag of Shamayim, a gold trionicle against a field of white.

  Once more, Michael tapped Shakar with his foot, and she flew ahead of Mardikel’s pegasus as they soared over the royal conservatory. Gold leaves from the massive tree in its center spun a web of refracted light across the domed glass ceiling.

  As they approa
ched the palace courtyard, Michael noticed the large assemblage of Malakim waiting for their arrival. Sensing Mardikel’s desperate attempt to catch up, Michael dove into the courtyard, forcing several Malakim to lunge out of the way. Shakar’s hooves touched the ground, and as she cantered to a halt, Michael jumped off her back and bowed with flourish.

  Just then, Mardikel’s mare landed, but the Malak tugged too sharply at the reins. The pegasus halted abruptly, and Mardikel hurled over her head and landed on his posterior in the fountain.

  “I believe I won,” Michael said with a smirk.

  “You are late, Lieutenants,” the commander said, his voice stern. Shrouded in his gold cloak, with seven trionicles glistening across the front of his shoulder denoting his rank, he would have appeared quite austere if not for the amused gleam in his eye.

  Mardikel pushed himself from the fountain and wrung out his cloak, inadvertently splattering water on the lieutenant commander, Gavriel.

  “Late and pathetic,” Gavriel muttered, flicking water droplets from his chest.

  The commander waved them forward, and Michael and Mardikel followed him and Gavriel across the courtyard. As they passed beneath the lone white tree growing in the courtyard, Michael breathed in the fragrance of the pearlescent fruit that had made all the living creatures of Shamayim immortal. Ascending a set of steps to the palace doors, they joined three other lieutenants. Together, they comprised the Seven, the highest ranking officers of the Malakim.

  Crouched on the ledge above them, the Cheyoth―four winged beasts hewn from stone―leered down at them. Although the face of one was likened unto a Malak, the other three were of creatures unknown, and their chiseled features bore such an ominous countenance that Michael felt them ill-hewn.

  “Are we ready, then?” the commander asked.

  Without waiting for a reply, he pushed open the palace doors and led the Malakim past the white-columned archways adorning the vast throne room. Engraved in the center of the floor, a large trionicle cast a shimmering beam of gold light across the walls.

  Encircled above, stone pillars lined the gallery that held the royal court of Seraphim. Clothed in white flowing gowns, with bronze wings caressing their slender frames like cloaks, they sang in dulcet tones, their airy voices rising and falling in soft harmony.

  A massive gold throne rose from the third tier of the royal dais, and hovering behind it, a veil―woven with twelve arching rows of jewels―shimmered in an array of colors. The throne was empty, and befitting their privileged status as the sons of Elyon, the Malakim stood in formation across the room, with the Seven taking their places along the first level of the dais.

  Two massive pillars, gnarled like the trunk of an olive tree, towered on either side of the dais, with steps spiraling their girths. But Michael’s gaze rested on the flames smoldering across the white stones of the second tier. The commander was the only Malak to have ever passed over the stones of fire, when he’d been appointed his rank, and granted possession of the sword of power.

  Flames erupted from the stones, pitching sparks and embers into the air. The floor quaked, and a gust of wind whipped through the throne room, followed by a blinding flash of light.

  “Their Majesty, Elohim, the Most High!” the court of Seraphim heralded, veiling their faces with their wings.

  Michael bowed with the rest of the Malakim as the figure of King Jehuva El Elyon, spirit-lord, creator, and ruler of Shamayim, emerged from behind the veil. Twelve jewels studded the gold crown upon his head, and light streamed from his ethereal body, illuminating both his vesture and long white hair and beard. The gold hilt of the royal sword, studded with the twelve jewels of Shamayim, rested in the ornate sheath at his waist. A signet ring of the trionicle adorned his seven-fingered hand, which gripped a massive staff. Its shaft bore the carved faces of the Cheyoth, and at its tip, two sculpted hands with outstretched fingers rose into the air.

  On either side of King Elyon, two other figures in luminous raiment emerged from behind the veil.

  The King’s son, Jehuva Ben Elyon, Prince of Shamayim, Captain of the Malakim, personification of his father’s soul, stood to the right of the throne. His face resembled his father’s―ageless with strong, perfect features. Rich brown hair grazed his shoulders, and his dark eyes shone with intensity.

  Hovering to the left of the throne, his face hidden in the shrouds of a white cloak, the Shekinah, personification of the King’s spirit, swept a nebulous hand over the gold lampstand beside him, igniting it with seven tongues of flame.

  The Seraphim unfurled their wings, and the host of Malakim rose.

  King Elyon took his place upon the throne. The gold-fringed hem of his white cloak trailed down several steps of the dais.

  “Come,” the King’s voice thundered. “Bear witness to the laying of the foundation of Time.”

  3

  Commander Lucifer Haylel led the Malakim through the royal gardens, then down several levels of the mountain into the woods behind the palace. The ground sloped downward, and the trees grew dense and close together until suddenly the path ended abruptly at a severe drop.

  His gaze swept the Sea of Glass at the base of the mountain, a pool of water countless leagues in circumference. Massive trees encircled the sea, their trunks forming a grand colonnade around the water. Though Lucifer had explored this place before, and knew the sea could scry over any part of Shamayim, he didn’t understand why King Elyon would desire for them to gather here.

  He waved for the Malakim to file in on either side while he led the Seven to an organic terrace near the surface. Chattering amongst themselves, the host descended along tiered rows of thick, ivy-entwined branches, reclining on the lush rustic seating encircling the vast sea.

  Along the uppermost limbs, the head Seraph, Isel, led the Seraphim across the colonnade. Light from their wings glittered across the leaves. With a regal air, Isel settled against foliage that conformed to her body as she reclined. Her lavender-hued black hair cascaded over one shoulder and swept over the twelve jewels glistening across her gold bodice.

  As the Malakim continued filing across the tiers, Lucifer was surprised to see the Centaurs join them. Though the Malakim often engaged in flight races and other various games with the scorpion-tailed, winged equestrians, the Centaurs rarely ventured so far from the forest. Lucifer dipped his head in respect to Vafar, the lead Centaur. The gold coronet across Vafar’s forehead barely tamed the mane of wild black hair straggling past his shoulders as he motioned for his herd to spread out across the base of the colonnade.

  Lucifer’s surprise deepened as even the Ophanim, who cared for the grounds and creatures of Shamayim, joined them. Small, jovial beings with pointy, expressive ears, the Ophanim hoisted themselves onto the lower branches with surprising agility.

  “Whatever this Time is,” Gavriel said, “every being in Shamayim has been invited to witness it.”

  “Indeed,” Lucifer said, his curiosity mounting. “I would have assumed only we sons of Elyon would be privy to such an occasion.”

  Elohim descended into the colonnade, and the host fell silent.

  King Elyon, the Prince, and the Shekinah walked across the glass sea, their footfalls sending a thunderous echo through the fathomless depth. Even after they had halted in the center of the pool, the rumbling took several moments to dissipate.

  King Elyon swirled his finger between the carved hands of his staff. As though they held an invisible sphere, a dark liquid slowly filled the space between them. Below, the glass sea turned black, mirroring the orb of infinite darkness now resting in the staff’s out-stretched hands. A deep, low humming reverberated from the sea.

  Michael leaned forward. “What is it?”

  Gavriel never looked up from the floor. “A fluid matrix of water and matter particles.”

  The rest of the Seven stared at him.

  “It’s a what?” Lucifer asked, speaking for all of them.

  Before Gavriel could respond, the Shekin
ah transformed into a luminous dove and disappeared into the orb. Deep in the Sea of Glass, he reappeared, a streak of light soaring through the watery matrix.

  Stunned, Lucifer stared from the staff to the sea. “The orb is a portal.”

  The glass sea adjusted its depths to the Shekinah’s flight, pursuing the luminous dove as he traversed deeper into the darkness. The humming escalated into a roar of rushing water, and an intense heat rose from the floor’s surface.

  Lucifer glanced back at the orb atop King Elyon’s staff. A pinpoint of light revealed the Shekinah had reached the center of the matrix.

  “What’s happening?” Michael asked over the deafening roar.

  “Energy,” Gavriel said. “Created by the Shekinah’s flight pattern. The resulting heat waves have activated the water and matter particles, forming a cosmic furnace, and―”

  “And it’s going to explode,” Lucifer finished, leaning forward in anticipation.

  The tumult reached a feverish pitch. Steam billowed in a vaporous dance across the surface of the glass sea.

  The Prince stepped forward and placed his hand over the black orb on his father’s staff. For a moment he hesitated, then his voice echoed across the Sea of Glass: “Let there be light!”

  4

  The center of the sphere ignited. Lucifer shielded his eyes as both the glass sea and the mirroring orb erupted with light. White-hot luminescent waves radiated throughout the matrix.

  “Brilliant,” Gavriel said.

  “Such formidable power,” Lucifer mused. “The ability to create…out of nothing…by mere vocal command.”

  Beside him, Michael retrieved the spare sheet of parchment he often kept in the pocket of his breeches, and began sketching the scene before him.

  Hovering over the water, the Shekinah’s avian form grew far greater than Lucifer would ever have thought possible. Its now-massive wings gathered vast volumes of water together, as it flew in a circular motion over the sea, drawing it into a cohesive body until an immense, spinning sphere of water hovered above the Sea of Glass.

  At last, the bird slowed its flight, and cradling the watery sphere in his wings, enveloped half the globe in darkness.

  “You called it ‘energy’?” Lucifer whispered.

  Gavriel nodded. “A three-dimensional cosmos of untold immensity, activated by the intense fusion of heat.”

  Mardikel smirked. “What I’d like to know is who activated Lieutenant Commander Know-Everything?”

  Usually Lucifer would have found the lieutenant’s comment humorous. Of the Seven, he was closest to Michael and Mardikel, and often found the company of Gavriel and the other three lieutenants tedious. But for once, he was interested in whatever knowledge the lieutenant commander could offer. “Activated by energy?”

  “After a fashion,” Gavriel said. “Energy is really a property of space-velocity, of which His Majesty is the cosmological constant. We’ve just witnessed the genesis of a finite universe with spatial curvature, that is essentially flat, but which―”

  “Pray tell,” Mardikel said, “how is it that you know all this?”

  Gavriel cocked his head. “Perchance it has something to do with not spending every waking moment racing pegasoi, showing up late for royal summons, and falling into fountains.”

  Mardikel rolled his eyes.

  After a moment, Lucifer leaned towards him. “So how do you know all this?” he whispered.

  Gavriel shrugged. “It just comes to me.”

  “Ah,” Lucifer said, somewhat disconcertedly. “So, a universe, you say? As in, a whole other world?”

  Gavriel nodded. “A world which King Elyon apparently calls Time.”

  “And what is the purpose of this Time?”

  “That I do not know,” Gavriel said.

  Lucifer stroked his chin. Perhaps the King had sensed his restlessness, his longing for something new.

  With each rotation of the spinning sphere, Lucifer and the host watched as King Elyon added to his work. Layers of atmosphere now enveloped the watery globe, with the icy seventh acting as a protective barrier. The heated core of the sphere had resulted in the formation of its mantle and crust, and the intense temperature had caused it to become buoyant and rise. At the King’s summons, it breached the water’s surface, a vast landmass he deemed the Gaia.

  Although an intricate scheme of channels and reservoirs retained water, forming a myriad of lakes and rivers, a lone continent now covered three-fourths of the sphere, leaving a solitary ocean behind. An explosion of plant life followed, shrouding the Gaia in a variety of lush foliage.

  Lucifer stared at the King, aching to share this ability to create something from nothing, to possess the power to speak something into existence, to hold in his hand an object that had a moment ago had been nothing but air.

  Beside him, Michael pulled out another sheet of parchment, and Lucifer wondered how many scrolls he could possibly fit in his breeches. His gaze returned to the glass sea, and to the clusters of hydrogen and helium, left in the wake of the Prince’s command for light, that floated aimlessly through the cosmos.

  At the King’s order, one of the clusters coalesced and ignited into a molten ball of plasma. White light burst through the day star’s surface as plumes of outward-flowing gas curled and spun into space.

  No longer needing to cast the sphere in shadow, the Shekinah circumnavigated a large cloud of astral dust. Accelerating his speed, his movements compressed the cloud into a celestial body of concentrated mass, until it formed a blue-white rock that reflected light from the newly-created sun.

  As the universe continued to stretch outwards, clusters of hydrogen and helium continued to coalesce, erupting into ribbons of light, as spirals of stars banded into galaxies. Beams entwined and swirled, traversing the universe in an ocean of color. Shades of blue faded to green, then yellow and orange, deepening from red to crimson as waves of light drifted through a gauzy maze of celestial dust.

  Clustered in the spiral arm of a milky-white galaxy, the original sphere now hung within its own solar system.

  Lucifer glanced over at Michael’s parchment and was surprised to find the focus of the sketch was King Elyon’s son.

  “Why haven’t you drawn the King?” Lucifer whispered.

  Michael glanced up, and stared thoughtfully at the Prince. “The King is creating through him,” he said. “I don’t know how, or even why, but he’s channeling his power through the Captain, as though he is the universal life force.”

  Lucifer studied Michael for a moment, then glanced back at the King. “How can you tell?”

  Michael shrugged. “The way they look at each other. I get the sense that this is the greatest thing they’ve ever done together. Almost as if they’ve been waiting an eternity for this moment.”

  Lucifer stared across the sea once more, his gaze resting first on father then on son.

  “It’s breathtaking, isn’t it?” Michael asked.

  It took Lucifer a moment to realize the lieutenant spoke of the cosmos itself. Before he could respond, Gavriel leaned towards them.

  “The spectrum of colors is the result of light waves being stretched and shifted,” Gavriel said. “As the universe continues to expand, it’s pulling the stars farther out into space.”

  “I could use a good stretching and shifting,” Mardikel said, leaning back against the moss.

  Gavriel glared at him. “Does the power before you truly evoke no fear, or do you care for nothing beyond your ability to race a pegasus?”

  “It is breathtaking,” Mardikel said, defensively. “I just prefer expressing my respect in ways devoid of endless commentary.”

  Lucifer held up a hand to silence Mardikel. “No one questions the display of power, or the fear it evokes,” he said. “It is quite formidable.”

  Gavriel turned back to the other three lieutenants―Ambriel, Uriel, and Sariel―with whom he’d spent most of the creation conversing. “I’m most curious regarding its inhabitants.”


  Lucifer’s head jerked towards them. “What inhabitants?”

  “Is it not obvious Elohim has created this new world for habitation?” Gavriel asked.

  The other three lieutenants nodded agreement, with Sariel adding, “The whole planet is conducive to maintaining life.”

  “We shall see,” Lucifer said, then shot Michael and Mardikel a sly grin. “Perhaps my skill in effectively taking dominion of Shamayim has inspired King Elyon to create another world in need of subduing. Why else should he wish us to be its witnesses?”

  “To revel in its resplendence,” Gavriel said. “In which I actively engage.”

  “Oh, trust me,” Lucifer said. “No one questions your reveling.”

  Neither Lucifer nor Gavriel was disappointed, for they soon witnessed an eruption of creatures. Air, sea, and land now abounded with animals―all fueled from the life force emanating from the Shekinah’s presence.

  “The animals can procreate,” Gavriel said.

  Lucifer tore his gaze from a pair of colossal reptiles with massive skulls and rough, scaly skin. “Say again?”

  “They possess the ability to evolve in a myriad of different breeds and varieties.”

  The commander sat up straighter. Rule of such a world would never lead to restlessness. “This makes the possibilities for dominion endless,” he muttered eagerly, not realizing he had spoken aloud.

  Gavriel shook his head.

  “Well, does it not?” Lucifer asked.

  Gavriel merely smiled. “You clearly have not realized something about this world.”

  “And what is that?”

  Before Gavriel could respond, the Shekinah flew up through the glass sea and perched on the King’s forearm, and Lucifer heard his name. His head snapped towards King Elyon who continued to speak, his lips never moving, and Lucifer knew only he could hear the words.

  Then he turned back to Gavriel, and a smile crept over his face. “Now you shall see if my assessment was correct. Follow me,” he said, addressing the rest of the Seven.

  Leaving the rest of the host behind, the Seven slipped from the colonnade, and the commander led them to the gatehouse where Elohim awaited them. Isel, Vafar, and the head Ophanim, Groblik, also joined them.

  “Come,” King Elyon said. “Accompany us on our visit to Time.”

  5

  With Mardikel at his side, Michael trailed behind the commander as they followed Elohim to the crest of the Great Stair―a steep stone outcropping that diagonally bisected the mountain from the royal gardens to the southern foothills. On either side of the stair, a waterfall flowed down rock and stone as it fed the Khahi River below.

  In silence, they descended past the layers of gardens, winding paths, and hidden alcoves that pervaded the White Mountain. Beyond the southern foothills grew the royal vineyards, and in the distance, fields of white and gold shimmerweed swayed in the breeze.

  At the base of the mountain, the stairs gave way to a grand courtyard of luminescent Khahi stone. Had the double gate at its far end been closed, the molded halves of the trionicle would have formed the royal insignia.

  Though Shamayim extended indefinitely beyond the courtyard, between the gates loomed nothing but the Mistlands.

  Michael recognized this realm as the place of his origin. He had been conjured from mist, lacking consciousness until he walked through a ring of fire that had burned in its midst, the flames of which encased his vaporous form in a bronzed, ethereal body. Seeing the White Mountain for the first time, he had felt inexplicably drawn to the luminous palace at its peak. All around him, newly created Malakim had ascended with but one goal, one inescapable desire―to enter the palace and discover the one who dwelt within.

  “I knew he would take us to the new world,” the commander said.

  Gavriel smiled, but said nothing.

  They soon neared a white archway several fathoms wide. Between the vast columns, a scrolled trellis design supported a crystal trionicle. Through the veil of liquid glass that hung between the columns, streaks of pink and crimson graced the sky of the new world as its sun peeked above the horizon. At the foot of the portal, the Great Stair resumed, descending to the ground below.

  King Elyon and the Prince stepped through the veil. Without hesitation, the commander joined them. Michael stepped through next, and an immense pressure enveloped him. As the others followed, he stared in astonishment, for the movements of his limbs seemed trapped in slow motion.

  “It will take a moment to adjust,” Gavriel said, the only Malak to walk through without discomfort. “The atmosphere of Time is slower than that of Shamayim.”

  “I knew that,” Mardikel quipped, as Isel, Vafar, and Groblik also passed through without issue.

  Below them, the Gaia swelled with life, a verdant panorama of treetops, fields, and winding rivers. Their descent continued, and the view of the landscape waned, clouded by rolling hills and timberlands.

  At last they reached the ground, and stood on an elevated expanse of fertile soil that stretched for leagues in every direction. A gentle river ran through the barren expanse, flowing towards the botanical milieu in the distance that bordered it.

  As the Malakim followed King Elyon towards the riverbank, a small creature bounded from the far trees on its hind legs. Thick scales covered its body, and short spikes ran down its back and tail. It halted, sniffed the air, then cocked its head and emitted a clicking noise.

  The commander stepped forward, hand outstretched. “Hello, little fellow.”

  The creature leapt through the commander’s chest, raced across the bare field, and scurried into the underbrush. The commander whirled, feeling his body in surprise.

  Gavriel shook with laughter. “I thought as much,” he said. “That’s what I was trying to tell you. It’s a sub-natural world. Did you not notice when we first stepped from the Great Stair how the soil was not disturbed by our footfalls?”

  “But that fails in practicality,” the commander said, bewildered. “Why would I desire to conquer a world beneath me?”

  Gavriel patted him on the shoulder. “All is well, truly. Take pleasure, for pleasure’s sake.”

  When they reached the riverbank, King Elyon halted beside the water’s edge. In the distance, the meandering river cascaded down a waterfall before branching out into four separate rivers.

  The King turned to his son, he said, “Let us make creatures in our image, in our likeness.”

  Kneeling on the ground, his white cloak pooling about him, King Elyon immersed his hands in the moist soil. Michael stared, captivated, as the meticulous design and precision of a creature’s body, limbs, and face were flawlessly sculpted from the earth. He committed every detail to memory so that he could sketch the scene upon his return to Shamayim.

  The Prince then conjured an orb of light which hovered above his hand. He, too, knelt, and inserted the orb into the being’s chest. The Shekinah, shrouded in lucent form, bent over the creature and breathed into it.

  The soil around the mud-being’s nose and mouth transformed into flesh; the lips turned pink, and eyelashes curled against its cheeks. Skin crept outwards across the face, and individual strands of hair formed on the top of its head. Soil continued transforming into flesh, down its neck and across its frame, until the entire creature was encased in a corporeal body.

  The chest began to inflate, then relax, and inflate again.

  “It’s breathing,” Michael said.

  “He is breathing,” the Prince said. “He is earth-kind.”

  Michael was startled by his voice, for beyond the command of light, never had he heard the Captain speak. Soft, yet commanding, the voice held a formality befitting royalty.

  The man’s eyes fluttered open. He rose to his feet, first examining his own body, then comparing it to the ethereal body of the King. “Who are you, my lord?” he asked at last.

  “I am Elyon,” the King said, “SpiritMaster: Creator of Time, the earth and its sky.” He waved an outstretched arm to e
ncompass the landscape. “This world is your home; its inhabitants are under your domain.”

  Stunned, the man surveyed the vast world around him, yet as his gaze swept over the Malakim, he appeared to stare through them.

  “He can’t see us,” Michael said in surprise.

  The commander sighed. “A sub-natural world ruled by a sub-natural mud-race,” he said, his voice betraying his mounting disinterest.

  Michael shrugged. “He doesn’t appear to see the Captain either.”

  The Prince circled the man, studying every movement, every gesture, engrossed in even the smallest change in facial expression or body language. Yet the man seemed oblivious to him as he stared at King Elyon in awe.

  The man stepped forward. “And who am I, my lord?”

  In answer, King Elyon stretched forth his hand.

  Across the expanse of soil, a small gold sapling sprouted, then grew taller and thicker as branches spawned from its golden trunk, until a full-grown tree stood before them.

  6

  A gnarled, key-shaped knot lay within its massive trunk. Light from the day star danced across the ripe, iridescent fruit, and a cool breeze captured the rich scent. Lucifer stared, stunned at the realization that this gold tree was likely the same as the one enclosed in the conservatory of Shamayim.

  The ground rumbled again, and his view of the tree was hidden as the field erupted with all manner of fruit-laden trees. All along winding paths, trees blossomed with leaves that glistened like emeralds, or waved soft branches that grazed the ground in a willowy dance. Trailing ivy spread along the ground, decorating the floor of the garden. On either side of the riverbank, a variety of blooms burst from the ground and filled the air with fragrance.

  “This is Ayden,” the King said with a wave of his hand. “The Garden of Elyon.”

  It took the man a moment to recover from the demonstration of power he’d just witnessed. “And who am I?” he asked again, even more weakly than before.

  “You are Adahm, son of Elyon, steward of my garden,” King Elyon replied. “Walk with me, and I shall show you the nature of tending it.”

  Perplexed that the King bestowed the privileged appellation to a corporeal being, Lucifer lingered several paces behind as the Malakim followed Elohim and the new creature through the vast garden. Amongst the sub-natural plants new to him, Lucifer recognized a few of numinous quality―luminore briar, ivywood underbrush, shimmerweed, muscherons, and several fruit trees. Surely the gold tree was also numinous, but rather than anticipation, Lucifer felt only disappointment. If His Majesty had no plans to enclose this one as well, there was apparently no mystical element to its fruit. He had been sure it must have held some great power…perchance even the power to create.

  When they reached the center of the garden, Lucifer once more beheld the gold tree. Beside it grew a white tree he recognized as identical to the Tree of Immortality that grew in Shamayim’s courtyard.

  “Freely you may eat of the fruit from any tree in my garden,” King Elyon said to the man, then paused beside the golden tree. “Save for one.”

  Lucifer’s head jerked towards the King, but he quickly averted his eyes, grateful the King had been too engrossed in the man to have noticed.

  King Elyon’s hand lightly caressed the trunk of the gold tree. “Do not eat from this tree,” the King said. “The fruit of this tree, the Tree of Conscience, possesses the power to reveal the difference between that which is good from that which is not…but with lethal consequences. If you eat from it, you will die.”

  The man gazed from the King to the tree and back again.

  Though Lucifer held no point of reference for death, he likened it to a return to non-existence, and by the alarmed expression on the man’s face, he did as well.

  They continued deeper into the garden, until King Elyon stopped in a large clearing beside a serene lake with numinous water that reflected the azure sky above.

  Here, the man named a select group of animals the Prince called to the garden. Summoning them in their own tongue, his voice mirrored the whispers of the wind as it gently rustled through the trees. While Gavriel and the other lieutenants marveled at the discernment of the man’s choice of names, pointing out those that resembled the unknown beasts of the stone Cheyoth above the palace terrace―ox, lion, and eagle―Lucifer crept back to the center of the garden.

  He stared up at the gold tree, his disappointment abated; King Elyon’s proscription surely confirmed the mystical properties of its fruit. He gaze fell on the key-shaped knot in the trunk, a feature unique to this particular tree, as nothing of the like existed on the one in Shamayim.

  If he didn’t miss his guess, a real key grew beneath the bark.

  “Beautiful, is it not?”

  Lucifer whirled to see that Michael and Mardikel had followed him into the clearing. He nodded, then smiled. “Beauty does not begin to describe its essence, nor what in its very nature it possesses.” He reached out a tentative hand. “Its existence provokes an insatiable desire to comprehend its power; a power so…”

  His hand touched bark instead of passing through the trunk. “I thought as much,” he said, and his smiled deepened. “This tree is numinous, visible on both our plane and the earth-kind’s. Its twin grows in the royal conservatory.”

  Michael glanced up at the sky. “We should rejoin the others.”

  Lucifer followed his gaze. From the view on the Gaia, the sun drifted across the sky in a graceful arc. The clear blue faded into rich streaks of orange and gold as the sun prepared to kiss the horizon. With a sigh, Lucifer acquiesced, and they returned to the clearing just as the last of the animal pairs ambled through the trees.

  Sadness flickered across the man’s face as he gazed after them.

  Staring deep into his eyes, as though studying the core of his being, the Prince spoke, his voice soft and reserved. “It does not do for him to be alone. He understands the longing of wanting someone to love, of the yearning to be so loved.”

  King Elyon gazed at his son for a moment, then passed his hand over Adahm’s face. The man tumbled to the ground in a deep sleep. King Elyon knelt beside him, and as he touched the skin beneath the man’s heart, the Prince gripped his own side. Blood spilt from the man’s wound, and the King removed a bone, then sealed the flesh, leaving behind a small scar.

  He then laid the bone under a grove of trees. Immediately another appeared beside it, then another, followed by a heart and a pair of lungs. Muscles and bones multiplied until they formed yet another breathing creature enveloped in corporeal flesh―a female earth-kind, also indwelt by a sphere of light.

  The man stirred, and contemplated his scar, until King Elyon emerged from the thicket, leading the woman by the hand. Scrambling to his feet, the man stared at her in awe.

  The King joined their hands. “Male and female, in the image of Elohim, have I created you. United, you reflect my likeness. For this reason, man shall join himself to his wife and cling to her, for together they become as one,” he said. “Fill the land with your progeny, for this day, I bestow upon you lordship of this world; its ground, sky, waters, and creatures are yours to subdue and command.”

  As the couple retreated deep within the garden, engrossed in each other and their new world, the King turned to his son. “On the morrow, we shall honor the completion of Time. Then, in the evenings, we shall visit them.”

  Lucifer shifted his stance, bewildered by Elohim’s fascination for these sub-natural beings. He could not fathom why a spirit-lord, a being of such high ethereal status, would deign to fellowship with the likes of creatures fashioned from mud.

  † † †

  Upon their return to Shamayim, the King dismissed the rest of the host from the colonnade. As the Malakim descended the White Mountain towards the great woodland beyond the northern foothills, they plagued the Seven with questions concerning what the couple was like up close. Michael walked beside Mardikel and the commander, who remained uncharacteristically silent,
while Sariel, Ambriel, Uriel, and Gavriel happily divulged all they knew.

  As they reached the foothills and disappeared among the copses, the realm of the WoodHavens came into view―a village of rustic elegance suspended amongst the trees. The leaves softened the radiance of the palace, casting an emerald glow across the woodscape.

  Organic bungalows spawned from massive trunks and limbs, adjoined by a labyrinth of bridges, decks, and stairs that spiraled the girth of wider trees. A large clearing in the heart of the WoodHavens provided a common area, and many Malakim settled amidst the tables and moss-covered chairs growing amongst the lush foliage.

  The Seven ascended to their private bungalow, and Michael ran his fingers along the rail of the bridge as it swayed beneath a dappled canopy of leaves, feeling the smooth braided vines beneath his fingertips. Though he recognized the privilege granted to watch the creation of the new world unfold, now that King Elyon had finished his Time, he longed for the next adventure.

  Mardikel must have read his thoughts, but he’d no sooner broached the subject of racing when Gavriel turned on them both.

  “After all you’ve just witnessed, how can you think only of your foolish games?” he asked, pushing open the door of their bungalow.

  Tree limbs formed the bungalow’s walls, their leaves creating a roof of flora. An elevated loft provided separation between the sitting area and the sleeping quarters, where seven ivy hammocks grew in a spacious half-circle.

  Gavriel uncovered the fire pit in the center of the room, and the luminore briar erupted in flame. “I shall never understand your fascination with rivalry.”

  “Competition,” the commander snapped, speaking for the first time since they left the sub-natural world.

  “Pardon?” Gavriel asked.

  The commander sank into the moss of his favorite chair and closed his eyes. “Competition is a motivational tool one relies on while striving to pursue excellence,” he said, mimicking Gavriel’s loquacity. “It is healthy and relieves petulance. Perhaps you should try it.”

  Michael and Mardikel failed to stifle a chuckle.

  Gavriel stared at the commander. “What ails you?”

  The commander said nothing, and Gavriel, evidently deciding to ignore him, reclined beside the fire, animatedly chatting of the new cosmos with Sariel, Uriel, and Ambriel.

  Michael retrieved a new roll of parchment from the hollow of the tree beside his hammock. Settling in, he sketched the formation of the earth-kind, while the lieutenant commander spoke incessantly about the inherent workings of corporeal bodies. Michael had long finished and started a new sketch when the conversation turned to the sudden explosion of foliage in Ayden.

  Mardikel plopped in his hammock and feigned sleep by emitting loud snores.

  “Come now,” Michael said, giving Mardikel a kick. “You must confess the sprouting of plants and trees was astounding.”

  “My deepest gratitude,” Gavriel said. “There is hope for you yet.”

  “It was astounding,” Mardikel said, rolling over defensively. “When I saw it. But I dispute the necessity of hearing about the biophysical proponents of photosynthesis for all infinity.”

  Michael laughed. “I’ll grant you that.”

  “There was hope for you,” Gavriel muttered.

  Without a word, the commander rose from his chair and left the bungalow. The rest of the Seven stared after him in surprise, then Gavriel shrugged and resumed his discussion with the other three lieutenants.

  Shifting in his hammock, Mardikel looked over at Michael. “Do you share in the commander’s disappointment with the sub-natural world?”

  “It’s of no consequence,” Michael said, putting the finishing touches on his latest sketch. “I doubt we’ve discovered every facet of Shamayim. And besides, I was thinking we should try racing through the caves within the White Mountain.”

  “Brilliant!” Mardikel said.

  Michael rolled up his parchment―a scene of the commander brooding silently, Mardikel feigning snores from his hammock, and Gavriel bald, reminiscent of the time he’d drawn too close to the fire pit while studying luminore, an incident the lieutenant commander didn’t care to discuss.

  A tranquil lull filled the air, mingled with the entrancing voices of the Seraphim in the distance, singing of the power and majesty of King Elyon. Lying back in his hammock, Michael imagined flying Shakar through the serpentine tunnels of an endless cave, and let the gentle rustling of the trees overhead lure him to sleep.

  7

  With his gold cloak trailing the mossy floor, Lucifer paced a forest clearing as he waited for Isel and Groblik. Large, bronze muscherons grew at the base of the trees, and Lucifer stared absently at the leathery underside of their massive caps, before turning in the direction of the White Mountain. It would not be long before the palace was once more at full luminescence.

  Chewing on a twig, Vafar leaned his broad torso against a great oak. His scorpion tail swished nonchalantly. “You are obsessed.”

  “How can I not be?” Lucifer snapped. “That tree is the source of Elyon’s power.”

  “You’re just displeased he didn’t give you the new world,” Vafar said.

  Lucifer stared in disbelief. “What do I want with a sub-natural world? I don’t begrudge Elyon his new plaything. If he wants to partake in such undignified behavior as kneeling on the ground and fashioning creatures from mud, then so be it.”

  “Then what ails you?”

  “He keeps it to himself,” Lucifer said. “Obviously, he does not wish to share power.”

  Isel glided into the clearing, followed by Groblik. “Why, may I ask, have you summoned us out to the forest in the middle of twilight?”

  Lucifer turned to her. “I wish to know your opinion on what we’ve just witnessed.”

  Isel stared at him, stupefied. “You want our opinion on the new world, this Time?”

  Vafar spat out the twig. “He’s obsessed with the forbidden gold tree. It seems being second-in-command to Elohim is not enough power for the commander.”

  “What does ‘commander’ even mean?” Lucifer retorted. “Other than that I have been entrusted with this,” he added, gesturing towards the Ko’akh. He drew the sword and stared at the trionicle adorning the center of the white hilt, surrounded by the twelve jewels of Shamayim. “And exactly what does it do? What purpose does it serve? It certainly does not enable me to create.”

  He ran a hand down the blade, then issued a mild gasp of pain and surprise as white vapor seeped from a gash in his finger.

  Groblik looked at him in astonishment. “I’ve handled various Khahi metals, and never have they”―he searched for the right word―“wounded.”

  Isel cocked her head and stared at the sword. She reached out to touch the blade, but when her hand made contact, she recoiled in fear. “That blade has slain a spirit-lord.”

  “What do you mean?” Lucifer asked. “Who?”

  “I know not,” she said, staring at the sword in awe. “But I can sense its past.”

  The others merely stared at her

  “I am not mistaken,” she added coolly, evidently perceiving their doubts.

  “Let me see it,” Groblik said, then studied the sword as he held it level in both palms. “This blade is not pure Khahi. There is something else. Some other element has been infused in the blade.”

  “What do you mean?” Lucifer asked.

  Groblik looked up at him. “I could craft a Khahi sword just like this one, but even if the blade impaled you, you would feel no pain. At worst, you would be temporarily immobilized.” Glancing back down at the Ko’akh, he added, “Whereas this blade…could kill you.”

  “But I’m immortal.”

  “So is a spirit-lord,” Isel added.

  Vafar took the sword from Groblik and swished it through the air several times, then arched it again in a flurry of motion, crisscrossing it back and forth. The movements were so fast the blade appeared to leave a luminous trail as it reflec
ted light from the dimming palace.

  Lucifer gaped at the Centaur’s prowess. “How did you do that?”

  Vafar shrugged and handed him the sword.

  Lucifer turned to Groblik. “You can craft more of these?”

  The Ophan nodded.

  “Would you be willing to do so?”

  “Whom do you wish to immobilize?” Groblik asked.

  Lucifer sheathed the Ko’akh. “Do you not realize what we’ve just discovered? Elyon is not eternal; he was created by the reigning spirit-lord of Shamayim, whom he then killed, and whose throne he claimed as his own. Then he ate from the gold tree, acquiring the power to create. What do you think he will do to us if he finds out we know his secret?”

  Vafar shifted his stance. “Have you forgotten that we just witnessed Elyon create a gold tree? What makes you think he didn’t create the one in Shamayim? And if he didn’t create it, who did?”

  Isel tilted her head. “Perhaps the spirit-lord killed by that blade.”

  Vafar shook his head in disbelief. “So Elyon slew an eternal spirit-lord, the creator of the original gold tree?”

  “No,” Lucifer said thoughtfully. “It’s the tree. The tree is sovereign.”

  “Pardon?” Vafar asked.

  “The tree is eternal. The source of all things. Ever-existing.”

  Vafar arched a brow. “The tree just naturally existed, with no beginning?”

  “Perhaps a higher-advanced life form planted a seed in the Mistlands,” Lucifer said, growing agitated. “What difference does it make where the tree came from? The point is it was there, and from it, Shamayim came to be. And at some point, Elyon ate from it. He knows that tree is the source of his power. Thus, he denies us access to it. A creator is sovereign over his creation, and Elyon wishes to be solely sovereign.”

  Groblik stared up at him. “Commander, what if the fruit of that tree can kill you as it can the earth-kind?”

  “Doubtful,” Lucifer said. “It can kill a corporeal being. But we are ethereal, just like Elyon. It will give us the power he denies us.”

  Vafar ran a hand down his face. “What if Elyon is eternal, and thus only he can safely eat from it? What if it is locked away for our protection?”

  “If it could kill us, he wouldn’t have needed to lock it away,” Lucifer said. “He would simply tell us so as he did with the mud creatures, who, being warned, will obviously never eat from it. But we, who are ethereal, are barred access. There is but one reason for that, and one reason alone―so only Elyon can eat from it.”

  “What of it?” Vafar asked, stamping a front hoof. “Maybe it’s his preferred delicacy and he doesn’t wish to share.”

  Isel tossed back her long lavender hair. “If you are so confident of this, why don’t you just sneak into Ayden and eat from that tree?”

  Lucifer shook his head. “If the gold tree in Shamayim gave Elyon the power to create, then anything he creates using that power is naturally inferior to the original. I’m sure the tree in Ayden possesses enough power to maintain him whilst he is away from Shamayim, but I doubt it would be enough to make us creators. Only the original can grant that initial power.”

  “So what do you plan to do?” Vafar asked. “Break into the conservatory and eat from the tree so that you too can create? What is it you even want to create? Your own universe to rule?”

  “And what’s wrong with that?” Lucifer asked. “Elyon apparently killed for such power.”

  “So you plan to slay Elyon, and take Shamayim for your own?” Isel asked.

  “I doubt it would come to that,” Lucifer said. He turned to Groblik. “You said you can craft swords? Blades that will immobilize?”

  Groblik nodded.

  “Then that’s all we would need,” Lucifer said. “We wait until Elyon is visiting his mud-race companions, immobilize whoever is against us, close the gates, eat from the tree, and inform Elyon that he can continue to rule his little sub-natural universe, but that he is no longer the ruler of Shamayim.”

  “What of those who wish to remain loyal to Elyon?” Isel asked.

  “So be it,” Lucifer said. “They can join him in banishment.”

  “And what of us?” Vafar asked. “Are we to serve you instead of Elyon?”

  Lucifer sighed. “You would be a creator. You could create an entire universe for yourself. You could create herds of Centaurs, or other creatures which to dominate and enslave.”

  Isel tilted her head. “But you would rule Shamayim?”

  “I think this sword gives me that right,” Lucifer said. “I am the only one who can fight Elyon if it comes to that. Elyon, too, has a sword. I’m sure its blade also possesses whatever lethal element this one does.”

  Vafar studied him. “And you swear that you will always grant us access to the tree in Shamayim?”

  “Naturally,” Lucifer said.

  “So if you have the sword, why tell us your plan?” Vafar asked. “Why involve us?”

  “I can’t do this alone. I need Groblik to make the weapons, you to train the Malakim in swordcraft, since you evidently possess the innate ability, and Isel to inform me when Elohim has vacated the throne room to visit the sub-natural world.”

  “And what if we don’t go along with you?” Isel asked. “Would you just kill us, here and now? Do you not think Elyon would notice our absence?”

  Lucifer stared at her. “You would rather remain loyal to a king who claims to be eternal when he is not, than to be a creator yourself?”

  Isel stared straight at him. I share in your disdain for the corporeal. Though she spoke, her lips didn’t move, and Lucifer knew he alone could hear her words. But if what you say is true, and the tree is sovereign and birthed Shamayim, then we will not be able to create an ethereal world, as you well know.

  Lucifer’s eyes narrowed. What is it you want?

  I want a throne beside yours. I want to be Queen of Shamayim.

  Lucifer gave a slight nod. Very well.

  Isel smiled coyly. “I am merely curious as to your response if one of the others do not share in your obsession with this fruit,” she said, for the benefit of Vafar and Groblik.

  Lucifer turned to them. “Are you with me or not?”

  8

  Situated along the northern length of the mountain summit, the vast great hall of the palace swelled with laughter as the celebration of Time ensued. Michael and Mardikel stood beside one of the food-laden tables showcasing a variety of cuisine made from Manna―a popular choice amongst the Malakim. From its petals, honey wafer chips were made, and honey meade brewed; from its seeds, water was roasted to percolate a hot beverage; and from its leaves and fruit all manner of fare were created.

  After selecting a few of their favorites, they approached the fountain in the center of the hall gushing with wine, and filled their goblets with its rich essence.

  The King raised his chalice, and a silence fell over the room. “To all that I have created, for it is very good; to the man and his wife, may they forever be happy and prosperous; and to my son,” he paused, holding the Prince’s gaze. “For all things were created by him, and for him.”

  The host raised their glasses in return and drank.

  The Prince raised his goblet, and a silence fell once more. “To Ariel.”

  Though none but the King seemed to know of whom he spoke, the Malakim raised goblets once more, echoing his tribute.

  The celebration resumed, and Mardikel chattered about an obstacle course design while Gavriel and several others approached the Prince. Steering Mardikel in their direction, Michael followed, noting the Prince nod in agreement as the lieutenant commander spoke of the earth couple’s aesthetic nature and ability for abstract thought.

  “Eternity has been planted in their hearts,” the Prince said. “They possess an innate desire for communion with their author, as well as the capacity to reciprocate love, and the ability to discern truth.”

  “And what is truth?” Michael asked, attempting to join the con
versation.

  The Prince turned to him, and the gaze constricted Michael’s chest. “I am.”

  † † †

  After slipping unnoticed from the great hall, Lucifer and Isel descended the sloped woodlands behind the palace to the Sea of Glass. Vafar and Groblik awaited them on the terrace where the Seven had watched King Elyon’s creation of Time. Before vowing allegiance to him, they had demanded Lucifer test his theory.

  “Do not forget the tree in Ayden is inferior,” Lucifer said as he stood on the edge of the terrace. “I doubt it will allow me to create.”

  “But if it holds power, surely it will allow you to do something,” Vafar said.

  “Or it will kill you,” Isel said sweetly.

  “I told you it cannot kill an ethereal being,” Lucifer snapped. He commanded the glass sea to show him Ayden, and the floor scryed over King Elyon’s garden in the sub-natural world. As it passed over the Tree of Conscience, Lucifer ordered it to stop.

  “What makes you think the sea can act as a portal?” Groblik asked.

  “The properties are the same as the veil we walked through to enter Time,” Isel said. “Though unlike the veil, someone must be on this side of the sea to open the portal.”

  Lucifer stared through the water at the golden fruit glittering in the sunlight, its luscious appearance sparkling with the power he knew it possessed within.

  “What are you waiting for?” Vafar asked.

  Without replying, Lucifer stepped off the terrace. He fell through the sea, feeling the water compressing against him as it propelled him downward. Just as he felt the suffocating pressure would be his end, he found himself standing in the garden beside the gold tree.

  He glanced up to ensure the presence of the Sea of Glass, and was relieved to see a watery window hovering above him. Turning back to the tree, hesitating only for a moment, his breath quelling with expectancy, he reached for a piece of fruit.

  The touch sent a tingle through his fingertips and down his arm. Anticipation mounting, he pressed the fruit against his lips, and the tingling sensation spread across his face.

  With trembling hands, he took a bite.

  A euphoric rush of energy surged through him, coursing through his ether. Every fibre of his being felt aflame, akin to his awakening, when he’d walked through the flames that had forged his ethereal body.

  He glanced about, searching for something to test his power on, then strode to the riverbank. He stared at the rushing waters. “Arise,” he ordered.

  A column of water rose from the midst of the river, and Lucifer’s eyes widened in fascination and awe. “Take form,” he commanded.

  The column took on the likeness of the Shekinah as a dove, separating from the rest of the water as it spread its liquid wings and soared.

  “No, one of those colossal lizards called dragon,” Lucifer said, his ecstasy echoing in his voice.

  At once the dove changed shape, its body transforming into a great beast with scales and claws. Its liquid nostrils flared and its bulbous, unseeing eyes stared at him, as though awaiting his next command.

  “Be as you were,” Lucifer said.

  The water crashed back into the river as though it had never risen.

  Shaking with excitement, Lucifer strode back to the gold tree, then vaulted upwards through the glass sea window. Once more standing on the terrace, he smiled in triumph at the others. “Now that you have witnessed the power of an inferior tree, imagine what the original possesses,” he said. “So I ask you again, are you with me or not?”

  9

  “A new adventure awaits us,” the commander said to Michael and Mardikel as the three reclined on the organic seating in the WoodHavens common area. “Our most exciting escapade yet.”

  All around them, Malakim talked and laughed amongst themselves, save for Gavriel and the other members of the Seven, who were huddled by themselves in one corner, still recapitulating on the creation of the sub-natural world.

  Before either Michael or Mardikel could question the commander, and much to the surprise of the entire host, Vafar and several other Centaurs strode into the WoodHavens. Each wore a satchels strapped across his chest.

  “Welcome,” the commander said, jumping to his feet and spreading out his hands. Then, addressing the Malakim, he called for silence. “As you all know, King Elyon honored me with the Ko’akh, the Sword of Power. Now, I have the pleasure of sharing that honor with some of you, albeit in a less significant way.”

  Vafar unslung his satchel and set it down on the ground with a clunk. The commander withdrew a sheathed sword and handed it to him. Michael stared in awe as the Centaur performed a rapid series of crisscrossing motions, the blade flashing every which way as he arched it through the air, even tossing it from one hand to the other in a continuous flurry of movement.

  The host applauded the performance, and Vafar gave a bow.

  “As you can see,” Lucifer said, with a wave at the satchel, “Groblik and a few of the other Ophanim have been kind enough to fashion similar implements for those of you who possess the skill to wield it.” Turning to Michael and Mardikel, he added, “Care to be the first to try?”

  Michael reached for a sword and pulled it from its sheath. Like the Ko’akh, the hilt bore the twelve stones of Shamayim, though it was bronze rather than white, and lacked the trionicle. Grinning, he sliced through the air. Mardikel took another, and together they attempted to emulate Vafar only for both blades to go flying through the air and clatter on the ground several paces away.

  Laughing, they retrieved the swords as the commander once more addressed the host. “As impressive as Vafar’s acrobatic finesse is, the potential of these swords goes far beyond flurry displays.”

  Drawing a sword from the satchel, he unsheathed it and turned to Vafar. Michael watched in amazement as the two engaged in a sparring performance. Due to the prowess of their thrusts and parries, it was evident this was not the first instance for either of them.

  “Now you try,” the commander said, turning to Michael and Mardikel.

  Michael imitated a thrust he’d seen the commander execute, and Mardikel blocked. Picking up the pace, they flitted about the common area in an ungainly dance of thrusts and parries until Mardikel failed to block, and Michael’s sword slashed through his arm.

  “Oi,” Mardikel shouted as the limb dangled uselessly at his side. “I can’t move my arm!”

  Trying to stifle a laugh, Michael lifted Mardikel’s arm, then released it and watched it flop back down.

  “So glad you find this amusing,” Mardikel said, feigning annoyance as he swiped his blade at Michael with his other hand.

  Michael felt a sweeping cold slice through his arm as the sword passed through it, and then it too fell limp. Roaring with laughter, the two Malakim proceeded to stab each other until Michael, dragging one leg behind him, managed to impale Mardikel through the chest. The Malak stiffened, then toppled over backward.

  After the paralysis wore off, several Malakim stepped forward and requested swords, all of which were identical, and the common area was soon filled with partially immobilized Malakim slashing at one another amidst their hilarity.

  After several rounds of sparring, Michael took a break and practiced performing a flurry. Though he repeatedly dropped the sword, he refused to give up, and with each attempt was able to hold onto it a little longer than before. His confidence growing, he glanced around the common area for the commander, and spotted him approaching the table where Gavriel reclined.

  The commander held out a sword to the lieutenant commander, who merely arched a brow.

  “If His Majesty had intended for us all to have swords, he would have given us all swords,” Gavriel said dryly. “And even if he had, I would not stoop to engage in whatever you call this preposterous play.”

  “Swordcraft,” the commander said with a smile. “The art of swordcraft, to be precise.”

  A blade thrust through the chest of nearby Malak, a
nd he fell backwards on the ground beside Gavriel.

  “That is not art,” the lieutenant commander said.

  Stepping over the impaled Malak, the commander joined Gavriel at the table. “A sport, then,” he said. “A competitive activity involving both ability and skill.”

  “Commander, look,” Michael said. Stepping forward, he whipped the sword through the air in a crisscross of motion with nearly the deftness of Vafar.

  Lucifer dipped his head. “Well done.”

  Gavriel shook his head. “This ‘ability and skill’ severely lacks both purpose and practicality.”

  Recovering from his latest immobilization, Mardikel stared at Michael in awe. “How did you do that?”

  Michael shrugged. “Practice.”

  Mardikel swished his sword through the air, and managed a few adroit arcs before the sword flew out of his hand and clattered across the table, knocking over Gavriel’s mug of hot manna.

  “And such wonderful ability and skill it involves,” the lieutenant commander observed.

  † † †

  After several sparring sessions in the WoodHavens, Lucifer selected those he deemed possessed the most potential, and informed the rest that they would be given another opportunity at a later time. He then put his elect through another series of drills out in the meadows, while he and Isel walked amongst them. The Seraph surreptitiously quested into their innermost beings to sense their desire to please Lucifer as their commander, and to follow him as their leader. After she telepathically informed him of whom he should and should not keep, Lucifer then divided the Malakim once again. And as before, he had those who were eliminated hand in their swords with the promise of future auditions. He was pleased to note both Michael and Mardikel were amongst those she felt would remain loyal to him no matter what he asked of them.

  During the next set of rounds, he had the Malakim perform against the Centaurs. Knowing the difference in height would be quite a challenge, he used the drill to determine ranks, with those who eluded immobilization the longest awarded the highest positions.

  To no one’s surprise, Michael and Mardikel were the top contenders, and though a few others came close, not one Malak had beaten their time.

  Glancing across the meadow, Lucifer saw Michael preparing once more to go up against a Centaur, this time Vafar himself. A little ways away, Mardikel practiced at his sword flurry.

  “Commander.”

  Lucifer turned to see Groblik coming towards him.

  “Thank you for coming,” Lucifer said to the Ophan. “After this session, I am instructing the Malakim to rest for a while. But then they shall begin mounted sparring exercises against the Centaurs.”

  Groblik stared up at him in surprise. “Mounted?”

  “Naturally,” Lucifer said.

  The Ophan turned away and proceeded to walk amongst the Pegasoi grazing in the meadow.

  Lucifer followed him. “If we are forced to immobilize the other Malakim, they could simply fly away, which would mean only the Centaurs could pursue them. Worse, Elyon could create a cavalry of warriors with which to try to retake Shamayim. Granted, by then I too shall be a creator, but I have no experience, and may need time to learn.”

  As he spoke, Groblik patted a few pegasoi he passed by, occasionally reaching up and stroking their necks and muttering to them in words foreign to Lucifer. Now he turned to him and shook his head. “They will not turn against King Elyon.”

  Lucifer stared from the Ophan to the pegasoi and back again. “Pardon?”

  “Their leader is Chayah, the Prince’s mount, whom I assume you realize you could never master. I’ve just quested towards several of them, sensing for any self-will outside Chayah’s, and I guarantee you, they will not turn.”

  Lucifer ran a hand over his face. His numbers were too small to do this without mounted warriors. Groblik had already informed him that he sensed only three other Ophanim would join the conspiracy. And although Vafar had told him all the Centaurs were willing and now privy to the plot, Isel sensed none of the Seraphim would take part. Lucifer envied their ability to quest towards their own kind, discerning their inclinations without passing on their own thoughts. He lacked the ability to even speak telepathically amongst the Malakim, and could do so only with one who had the gift. Thus, he had to rely on Isel’s ability to gauge the Malakim’s dedication to him, and hope it was an accurate evaluation of their supporting his usurping the throne.

  “There may be another way,” Groblik said. “There are other winged beasts, but they are free, wild, roaming deep in the forests across the river.”

  Lucifer stared at him in surprise.

  Groblik chuckled. “Did you really believe you had subdued all Shamayim?”

  “What makes you think these other beasts will turn?” Lucifer asked, ignoring the slight.

  “The pegasoi are domestic; they enjoy the companionship of other creatures, and even take pleasure in having owners who ride them. The beasts of which I speak, the khimari, are feral. If you could break in their leader, and make yourself its master, the herd would follow.”

  “During the next training session, take me to the khimari leader. I assure you, I can break the beast in.”

  “Taming creatures that were created to be wild may arouse suspicion,” Groblik said. “Especially amongst the other Ophanim.”

  Lucifer considered his words. “Once I’ve broken in the leader, how long will it take before the others can to do the same?”

  Groblik shrugged. “I would say two, maybe three more cycles of King Elyon’s visits to the sub-natural world.”

  Far across the meadow, Michael sparred against Vafar. “Then we should be all right,” Lucifer said, heading towards them.

  He’d no sooner reached the dueling area when Mardikel rushed up to him. “Commander, I can do it,” he said, grinning proudly. “Watch.”

  But before the Malak could perform his flurry display, shouts of cheer erupted from the Malakim. Pushing through the crowd, Lucifer saw them hoist Michael up in triumph and parade him around the meadow. Then his gaze fell on Vafar lying on the ground, a sword jutting from his underbelly. Michael had not only been the first Malak to impale a Centaur, but had immobilized the general himself.

  Lucifer clapped his hands in formal tribute, a smile creasing his face. Beside him, Mardikel sheathed his sword and turned away.

  10

  “How did you manage to impale Vafar?” Mardikel asked, as Michael and the commander strode behind the others on their way back to the WoodHavens.

  “It wasn’t nearly as heroic as the others made it seem,” Michael said. “Vafar parried my last attack with such force it actually ripped the sword from my hand and I fell. But just as he reared up on his hind legs, I managed to grasp the hilt and plunge the blade into his underbelly. Then of course, I had to roll out of the way before he fell on top of me.”

  “Quite impressive, nonetheless,” the commander said, and Michael felt a surge of gratitude at the praise.

  They reached the bungalow, and though Michael had looked forward to resting in his hammock, Gavriel’s newest obsession was lecturing them on the pointlessness of swordcraft. Despite Michael and Mardikel’s attempts to persuade him to give it a try―for the lieutenant commander’s broad frame and imposing presence would have proved a formidable asset against the Centaurs―Gavriel flatly refused.

  “I prefer the strength of intellect and the power of knowledge to sword and sheath,” the lieutenant commander had retorted. “And would rather hone my cognition on wisdom rather than dull it at the whetstone.”

  Thus Michael eagerly embraced the next round of sparring sessions with the Centaurs, and once more they traipsed down to the meadows with the rest of the commander’s elect.

  Inspired by Michael’s example, every Malak was determined to immobilize a Centaur, but found they were not tall enough to impale one through the torso, nor were they overly keen to position themselves beneath their hooves to reach the underbelly. Their d
etermination, however, greatly increased their agility, and everyone’s time before immobilization increased dramatically.

  Sitting cross-legged on the meadow, watching the others as he once more recovered, Michael cheered on Mardikel as he sparred against a rather large Centaur. But as the duel progressed, he noticed the Malak backing away more and more, and feared he was growing fatigued.

  Mardikel had reached the edge of the nearby wood, and Michael was dumbfounded to see him turn and run. The Centaur cantered after him, but instead of ducking into the woods, Mardikel ran straight for the nearest tree. Taking two strides up the trunk, he launched himself off, twisted in the air, and thrust his sword the chest of the Centaur.

  Mardikel raised both arms high in triumph, grinning proudly.

  Cheering loudly, Michael rushed over to him.

  “Where is the commander?” Mardikel asked.

  “He headed into the forest with Groblik a little while ago,” Michael said, then clapped him on the back. “That was brilliant!”

  Mardikel smiled weakly as the rest of the host joined in congratulating him.

  They resumed sparring, but no other Malak was able to immobilize a Centaur, as the latter could no longer be lured anywhere near a tree.

  † † †

  The commander returned several sessions and a rest later, and Mardikel eagerly told him of his victory over the Centaur. Although the commander nodded his approval, Michael noted that he seemed unusually preoccupied. And not until the host was fully refreshed did he reveal where he had been by leading them deeper into the forest than they had previously ever gone. Ahead, the trees thinned, and the commander halted and turned to them, his eyes bright with excitement.

  “Although the Centaurs have presented a challenge to most of you,” he said, “I have recently acquired something that will enable each and every one of you to defeat them.”

  The host’s cheer was interrupted by a roar in the distance. Disconcerted, they fell silent.

  The commander grinned. “I have every confidence in your ability.”

  He then turned and led them out of the forest, where they stood on a ledge overlooking a large meadow. In newly erected enclosures of ivywood, designed and cultivated by the Ophanim, were the eeriest creatures Michael had ever seen. Their bodies were those of winged horses, but each bore the paws, head and mane of a lion, with a tail like the scaled body of a serpent, complete with lidless eyes and pointed fangs.

  “Brilliant!” Mardikel exclaimed when he could find his voice.

  “Are you daft?” Michael asked. “They look horrid.”

  While the rest of the host recovered from their shock, and followed the commander back onto the forest trail that led to the meadow, Michael remained on the ledge, staring at the morbid beasts with trepidation.

  “Aren’t you coming?” Mardikel asked.

  Michael sighed, then nodded. Taking up the rear, they followed the path through the woods, but as they rounded the bend, an Ophan Michael had never seen before trudged towards them. Although known for their high spirits, this one gestured wildly, scowling and muttering. He halted when he spotted the two Malakim.

  “Some creatures were not meant to be tamed,” the Ophan snapped, then brushed past them and scurried around the bend.

  “What was that about?” Michael asked.

  Mardikel shrugged. They had reached the meadow, and the sheer number of beasts astonished him. Hundreds of makeshift aviaries spanned for acres across the meadow, each containing thousands of the lion-headed, serpent-tailed steeds. The other Malakim gathered around the closest enclosure, staring at the creatures in fascination.

  Inside, the commander had mounted a particularly large, black beast and cantered towards them. “These are the khimari,” he shouted so all could hear. “As you can see, they are quite powerful and, I believe, will bridge the gap of disadvantage between Malak and Centaur.”

  Once more the host erupted in cheers.

  “Unlike pegasoi,” the commander continued, “khimari are wild. But a few Ophanim have graciously agreed to assist you in breaking them in. Those in this aviary are ready to be mounted.”

  Amongst the hordes of khimari, Michael spotted Groblik and only three other Ophanim. Each stood in front of a khimara, and ran a finger down the face of a creature from forelock to muzzle, muttering something indistinct. As the beasts calmed, the Ophanim fitted them with Khahi mesh-link bridles, then moved on to another set of creatures.

  “Only four agreed to break them in,” Michael murmured.

  Mardikel shrugged. “Matters not,” he said, slipping through the limbs of the enclosure.

  Michael grabbed his arm. “What if the little one was right? What if they are not meant to be tamed?”

  Mardikel stared in surprise. “This is the only way to defeat the Centaurs. You wish for our victory, do you not?”

  “Naturally,” Michael said. “But―”

  “Then come on.”

  After sizing up a large mahogany khimara, Mardikel mounted. A moment later, he found himself sprawled on the ground. He clambered to his feet, firmly grasped the reins, and tried again. Once more, the creature bucked him off. Several Malakim joined him, but all attempts to mount were met with the same fate.

  “What are you waiting for?” Mardikel asked. “It’s merely a matter of staying on.”

  Michael chortled dryly. “I can see that.”

  Reluctantly, he stepped inside the aviary, but as he approached a deep brown khimara, the beast flared its nostrils. Smoke issued from its mouth, and throwing back its head, it emanated a low, guttural roar.

  A chunk of flaming sulfur spewed from behind the khimara’s fangs and slammed into Michael’s chest. His tunic caught fire and he hastily smothered it out, then smacked at the flames that had ignited his hair before it burned away. For several moments his skin shone a burnished gold beneath the tattered shreds of his tunic, before fading once more to bronze.

  “I don’t think they fancy you,” Mardikel said, laughing.

  “The feeling is mutual,” Michael said, suppressing his humiliation.

  While the Ophanim continued breaking in the khimari, the Malakim persisted in their attempts to mount. By the session’s end, most could canter around the aviary. The Centaurs came to judge their progress, and Vafar praised Mardikel’s agility on his beast.

  Discouraged, Michael leaned against one of the limbs. Any time he ventured close to a khimara, it pawed the ground and assailed him with flaming sulfur. Although the commander had not yet remarked on his incompetence, Michael had noticed his look of concern, and knew his silence would not continue.

  Heading back to the WoodHavens, the Centaurs and Malakim trekked across a meadow near the White Mountain, pausing in a grove of Manna trees, whose fruit offered swift renewal of strength. Before the commander had introduced sparring, the Malakim had merely eaten for pleasure, but Michael noticed he now often found himself growing hungry.

  “Uggh!” Vafar spat a chunk of fruit and glowered at the tree in disgust. “It’s gone sour.”

  Michael sniffed his own, then took a large bite. “It tastes all right to me.”

  Mardikel and the other Malakim nodded between mouthfuls, but Vafar merely snorted and motioned the Centaurs towards their forest.

  With a pensive gaze, the commander stared after them, then handed his untouched fruit to the nearest Malak. “Finish up and get some rest,” he said. “Next session, you shall begin sparring in the air.”

  Lost in his frustration, Michael lagged behind as they headed towards the WoodHavens. Mardikel didn’t seem to notice the slower pace, and talked of nothing save for their impending victory over the Centaurs.

  “Oh, did I tell you?” the lieutenant asked. “Vafar said he plans on personally training me next session. He thinks I’m really good.”

  Michael barely heard him. His own contact with Vafar that session had been when the Centaur walked passed him, scowling darkly at yet another failed attempt to mount, which se
rved only to heighten Michael’s feelings of ineptitude.

  What you do, do quickly.

  The caustic voice broke Michael from his thoughts, and he turned to Mardikel in surprise. “What did you say?”

  “I said Vafar is going to personally train me next session.”

  “No, after that.”

  “I only said what a relief it will be to finally be on their level.”

  “You said nothing else?” Michael asked, glancing around, but it was only the two of them on the trail as the others were far ahead.

  “No,” Mardikel said, then laughed. “Perhaps you’ve been hit with too much sulfur.”

  Michael glanced down at what was left of his tunic, and knew he looked pitiful. As they resumed walking, he let out a deep sigh and stared up at the silver sky. Abruptly, he halted.

  At first he thought it was a statue, for it stood tall and motionless as though carved of stone. But as he gazed at the figure in the lone tower, he realized it was the Prince, staring deep into the mist beyond the borders of Shamayim. Sorrow etched his expression, as though he were in mourning.

  “What do you think distresses him?” Michael asked.

  Mardikel turned, not realizing Michael had stopped, then followed his gaze. “The Captain?” he asked, arching a brow. “He’s the Prince of Shamayim. What could distress him?”

  11

  High above the meadows, outside one of the alcoves carved into the White Mountain, Lucifer watched Michael’s futile attempts to mount a khimara. Across the meadows, the other Malakim performed mounted sparring exercises.

  From within the recess behind him, Vafar’s voice broke through his thoughts. “We must make haste.”

  Lucifer entered the alcove. Rich veins of amethyst branched out in various directions along the luminescent walls. “Are you sure this cave is vacant?” he asked, staring down the serpentine tunnel that led to underground springs of liquid jewels. Ophanim could often be found harvesting the crystallized foam that bubbled along the edges.

  Vafar nodded. “The next time Elyon goes to Ayden, we must make our move.”

  “No,” Lucifer said. “Michael is not yet ready.”

  “He will never be ready,” Vafar said. “The khimari know they are being tamed for ill-intent, and they sense in your lieutenant a reluctance to break them. He is weak.”

  “To the contrary, he is the best I have,” Lucifer said calmly as he inspected one of the amethyst veins. “Groblik tells me these jewels possess a power he has not yet learned how to tap into. He suspects each jewel offers a different―”

  “Mardikel is almost as skilled with a blade as Michael is, and he can ride a khimara,” Vafar said. “That makes him superior.”

  “Michael just needs a little more time.”

  “When you reveal your plan, he will not so easily turn as the others.”

  “Michael is loyal to me.”

  Vafar snorted. “Your regard of him blinds you to the truth. He needs to be relinquished.”

  Lucifer whirled. “No. It is my decision, and mine alone.”

  “Without fare, my herd will grow weak!” Vafar snapped. “And I notice that you too cannot eat. You will need strength to wield the Ko’akh if it should come to that. We cannot wait any longer.”

  Lucifer drew in a deep breath, loath to admit Vafar was right. He’d been keeping track of the rotations of the sub-natural world, which marked King Elyon’s visits to Ayden, and timing them to synchronize with the sparring sessions. “Not this session, but next,” he said. “Elyon would call it ‘the morrow’ by Time’s standards. We will strike then.”

  † † †

  With each failed attempt to mount, Michael’s ether burned with humiliation. Accustomed to receiving a nod of acknowledgement, or a word of praise from the commander, he realized he was lost without it.

  So far he’d succeeded only in walking a khimara around the enclosure, lightly holding the reins. A far cry from riding. His face was streaked with dirt and ash, his hair was slightly charred at the edges, and his fresh tunic, as well as his breeches, were burnt and frayed.

  Fraught with disappointment, he tried convincing himself he didn’t care if he was eliminated and no longer able to compete, even if it meant listening to Gavriel ramble on about the geological structures of the sub-natural world for all eternity.

  The clanging of steel diverted his attention. In the distance, Vafar and several other Centaurs engaged in an intense training session with Mardikel, mounted on his khimara. The lieutenant was on the offensive, and Michael’s frustration with himself deepened at his inability to be at his comrade’s side, joining in his challenge, or simply cheering on his impending victory.

  “Lieutenant.”

  Michael spun to see the commander on the other side of the corral. With downcast eyes, he approached his superior.

  “Walk with me,” the commander said.

  A silence fell between them, until finally the commander spoke. “I cannot over-stress the importance of our next session, an all-out competition of Malak versus Centaur.” He paused, and turned to Michael. “Suffice it to say, I do not wish for you to be left behind, but I cannot postpone it any longer.”

  Michael nodded numbly.

  “You have skill, Lieutenant, far beyond the others. You possess not only the deftness of a proficient swordsman, but also the traits required of a great leader.”

  Michael shifted his weight, dumbfounded by the unwarranted praise. “Any skill I possess comes from your instruction.”

  The commander turned towards him. “Failure simply means you’ve discovered what does not work. It’s only when one ceases to try that failure becomes an obstacle instead of a catalyst for success.”

  Michael nodded.

  The commander smiled and clasped Michael’s shoulder. “Never give up, Michael,” he said softly. “I know you will not fail me.”

  Though the commander’s words initially filled him with confidence, by the session’s end, Michael was still unable to mount. The other Malakim were headed to the WoodHavens to rest, and he kicked at the soil in frustration.

  “Michael,” Mardikel shouted, rushing up to the aviary breathlessly. “I impaled seven Centaurs single-handedly in one round.”

  Michael dipped his head. “Congratulations,” he said, though he knew his voice lacked enthusiasm.

  Mardikel leaned against one of the limbs forming the enclosure. “You must show it who is master,” he said, nodding toward the khimara. “Groblik said you need to will it into submission.”

  “I know what I must do!” Michael said, harsher than he’d intended.

  Mardikel blinked in surprise, then grinned. “You’re just not used to having to work at something like the rest of us.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The Commander favors you,” Mardikel said with a half-smile. “He always has, even if you don’t see it,” he added hastily, seeing Michael was about to argue. “You’ve always excelled at everything―riding, racing, swordcraft―while the rest of us scrambled to keep up with you. Even while Vafar was training me, I overheard the commander talking about you. He said once you exerted your will over the khimari, you would prove once again that you were best. He expects you to win in the game against the Centaurs next session.”

  Mardikel spoke with such high regard for him that for a moment Michael could only stare. Though they’d always competed against each other, Michael never paid much attention to who won or lost. “Well, the commander expects an awful lot, then. I can’t even mount the beasts. Besides, I think you have successfully eclipsed me as the best,” he added, respect in his tone. “You were the one who impaled seven centaurs.”

  “Well, six,” Mardikel said sheepishly. “One tripped and fell on his own blade.”

  Michael laughed. “But who’s counting?”

  Leaning against the limb beside Mardikel, he stared out across the enclosure. On the far end, the khimara licked its front paws.

  Mardikel punched him in the ar
m. “Come on, let a comrade give you a hand.” He slipped inside, approached the khimara, and grabbed the reins. “I’ll hold him; you mount.”

  As Michael drew near, the khimara struggled to break free, but Mardikel tightened his grip on the reins. No sooner had Michael placed his hands on the beast’s back, the lion-headed horse reared up on its hind legs.

  Mardikel yanked the reins, jerking the khimara to its knees. “Now,” he cried. “Get on!”

  Michael hesitated. Despite the strong disdain these creatures felt for him, and his own lack of regard for them, to see the animal strain against Mardikel’s hold made him uneasy.

  “Enough,” he said. “I don’t want your aid!”

  Ignoring the dumfounded look on Mardikel’s face, Michael stormed from the aviary.

  “You can’t give up!” Mardikel called after him.

  “I guess my will is not strong enough,” Michael shouted without turning back.

  Stalling his return to the WoodHavens, he traipsed through the meadows. Pegasoi grazed around him, and spotting Shakar amongst the amber-metallic herd, he gave a soft whistle. Although her ears twitched, she didn’t lift her head.

  Michael forced a laugh. “Are you angry with me, then?”

  Shakar snorted in response. Michael took a few steps closer, but she trotted away.

  “What are you jealous for?” he yelled. “I never rode one of those things. Not even once!”

  Even more agitated than before, he strode away when something butted him from behind. He turned, and found himself face to face with his winged mare. She sniffed his chest, then his face.

  “Believe me now?” Michael asked, stroking her velvety neck.

  A stream of light caught his attention. A luminous white unicorn cantered across the meadow, a flourish of evanescent light trailing behind it. It paused to stretch its wings, and an aura of light danced from its feathers.

  “The only one of its kind,” a curt voice said.

  Michael turned to see the Ophan who had accosted him and Mardikel on their way to the khimari for the first time.

  “She’s beautiful,” Michael said. “What’s her name?”

  “His name is Chayah,” the Ophan snapped. “He belongs to His Majesty, Prince Elyon. And he’s not to be ridden by anyone but Prince Elyon!”

  “I was merely admiring . . .”

  He let his voice trail off, for the Ophan had stridden away.

  “He should befriend Gavriel,” Michael muttered to Shakar. “They’re both ill-tempered.”

  He stroked the pegasus despondently, lost in his thoughts. Surely his skill with a blade must account for something, even if only to rescue him from Gavriel’s endless rants against swordplay. The commander’s voice echoed in his mind. Never give up.

  The soft glow of the palace highlighted Shakar’s muscular physique, and Michael stared at her thoughtfully. “Are you up for a challenge, girl?”

  12

  “Wake up; we’re late!”

  Michael jolted upright in his hammock.

  Mardikel stood above him. “Come on!”

  Michael gazed about the loft, disoriented. The bungalow was empty, save for Mardikel and himself, and he realized he must have fallen asleep―a phenomenon that usually occurred only during Shamayim’s brief period of twilight. “Did you fall asleep too?”

  “No, I’ve been practicing in the common area with a few of the others.”

  Frantically, Michael pulled on his boots, threw on a fresh tunic, then ran towards the door, strapping on his sheath just as Gavriel entered the bungalow.

  “I need to speak with you both,” he said.

  “Concerning what?” Michael asked.

  Gavriel’s voice was toneless. “I do not presume you to be that blind.”

  Michael stared at him. “Blind to what?”

  “Your swordplay games.”

  “We don’t have time for this,” Mardikel said, tugging at Michael’s arm.

  “We can argue swordcraft later,” Michael said, opening the door. “We’re already late.”

  “It’s not doing any of you any good. Least of all you.”

  Michael spun on him. He felt incompetent enough with his failure over the khimari, he didn’t need the lieutenant commander criticizing him for sleeping. “I can handle it!”

  Gavriel grabbed a piece of fruit from the table and flung it at him. “Eat it.”

  Incredulous at the lieutenant commander’s bizarre behavior, Michael tossed it back to him. “I don’t want it.”

  “I thought as much!”

  “Have you gone daft?” Mardikel asked.

  “Let’s go,” Michael said.

  The two raced out of the WoodHavens, but as Mardikel turned toward the forest Michael headed for the meadows.

  “Where are you going?” the lieutenant shouted.

  “Go on, I’ll catch up,” Michael said.

  † † †

  From the edge of the Khahi River, on the far side of the forest near the khimari corrals, Lucifer stared at the palace jutting from the White Mountain, awaiting Isel’s signal. The Centaurs were already there, and the Malakim were due to arrive soon. Vafar stood beside him, restlessly pawing at the ground.

  Lucifer tapped the hilt of the Ko’akh. “Once Elyon leaves for Ayden, I will go to the base of the White Mountain and close the gate,” he said. “Then I will return here, inform the host of what must be done, and we will besiege the palace.”

  “What do I tell the Malakim in the meanwhile?”

  “Have them start their game,” Lucifer said. “Their exhilaration will work in our favor.”

  Isel’s signal resounded over Shamayim, a melody on the horn of the Seraphim she had informed him she would play when King Elyon left for Ayden. Lucifer felt his ether pound in his chest. “It’s time.”

  † † †

  It took Michael longer than expected to find Shakar, as evidently the pegasoi had decided to wander to a new meadow in the opposite direction of the competition. As he flew over the riverbank, he saw hordes of khimari-mounted Malakim lined up in formation, and was relieved the contest hadn’t begun without him. The Centaurs had gathered on the opposite side of the river, and an unbridled rivalry resonated in the air. Michael spotted Mardikel amongst the ranks on the front line, and reined in beside him.

  Mardikel stared from Michael to his mare, aghast. “You’re going to fight the Centaurs on Shakar?”

  “No, I’m here to pick daisies.”

  “You always did have gall.”

  “I like to think of it as flair.”

  “You mean stupidity.”

  “She’s better than your hairy, sulfur-hacking nag.”

  Mardikel rolled his eyes. “At least my sulfur-hacking nag can defend me from the rear,” he said. “Khimari serpent bites immobilize the Centaurs.”

  Michael glanced at the swishing serpentine tails. He’d known fighting on a pegasus would be a disadvantage; the leonine heads of the khimari aligned with their shoulders, granting their riders a wider sparring path, whereas he would be forced to maneuver around Shakar’s neck. But he’d never even considered a khimara’s serpent tail as an offensive asset.

  “I’m not worried,” Michael said, forcing confidence into his voice.

  Mardikel shook his head. “If you beat me on her, I’ll immobilize myself for life.”

  “I hope you do well,” Michael said. “There is no one else I’d rather fight beside.”

  Mardikel grinned and reached out his hand. “No matter the outcome, always friends?”

  “Always,” Michael said, as they gripped forearms.

  Vafar flew across the river and landed in front of them, shooting Michael a scowl of contempt. “You play on a khimara, or you’re disqualified.”

  “Only the commander can disqualify me,” Michael said.

  A strong breeze swept across the river and several khimari pawed the ground. Shakar whinnied.

  Vafar glanced towards the palace, his eyes searching wild
ly, then he turned back to Michael. “The commander is not here, and I am in charge of this competition.”

  “Shakar can hold her own, as can I.”

  Vafar’s nostrils flared and he stepped up to Michael and spoke low so that only he could hear. “If you don’t step down, I will personally immobilize you the moment you leave the ground, and you will be the first Malak to fall. And then the commander will see you for what you really are.”

  Michael stared back at him, surprised by the hostility. “Challenge accepted,” he said, coldly. “And where is the commander?”

  Without responding, Vafar turned away.

  The breeze picked up, and the branches of the forest trees swayed violently.

  “Something’s not right,” Michael muttered, staring at the trees. “Where is the commander?” he shouted after Vafar.

  When the Centaur ignored him, Michael reached for the reins.

  Mardikel grabbed his arm. “You can’t abandon the competition we’ve been training for because of an aberrant weather pattern.”

  “Stay here if you want,” Michael said. “I know you’ve worked hard for this, but if Vafar won’t tell me where the commander is, I’m going to go find him.”

  Michael flew Shakar across the river and alighted near Vafar just as he was about to give the signal for the competition to begin. With his hand on the hilt of his sword, the Centaur stepped forward and Michael’s unease increased under the cold gaze.

  “Go line up to play your little fighting game―the both of you,” he added, as Mardikel pulled up beside Michael.

  Michael never took his eyes from the Centaur. “Where is the commander?”

  Vafar leaned forward. “Fight or forfeit!”

  “Michael, please,” Mardikel said.

  Michael’s body tensed. “Then I forfeit!”

  Ignoring Mardikel’s protests, Michael signaled Shakar to take flight. He flew towards the White Mountain, anxiously scanning both land and sky for any sign of the commander. As he neared the Sea of Glass, he had Shakar swoop down into the trees, and she alighted near the top of the tiers. Wishing to scry the sea for the commander, he urged the pegasus to fly down to the terrace, but she refused to descend lower. He gave the reins a gentle tug, but Shakar rose up on her hind legs in protest.

  “Whoa, whoa,” Michael said soothingly. “I’ll go alone then.”

  He dismounted and descended the deep recess. He’d just reached the terrace when far above, Shakar snorted and bucked violently. As he glanced up at her, a cold wind swept across the Sea of Glass, and he stared in alarm as his breath came in vapors.

  A vast shadow fell over the forest as though the light filtering through the trees overhead had been swallowed up in darkness. He heard the slow beating of wings and could just make out the forms of several massive creatures circling above.

  His heart hammered a ceaseless staccato.

  It was never dark in Shamayim.

  13

  On the far bank, the chilling wind moved across the sea. The liquid glass froze, snapping as it raced towards him.

  Michael forsook the stairs, and raced to the nearest limb. All along the banks, the ice reached for the roots of the trees, creeping up their trunks. Limb by limb, he scaled the trees of the ravine, attempting to outrun the spreading ice.

  The winged creatures flying above spoke, and the ground rumbled violently as their deep voices thundered in unison: “Cursed shall you be, an abomination, a raiment of those that are slain; thrust through with a sword, cast into the abyss, a carcass trodden under foot!”

  Michael gripped the closest limb as the tree shook beneath him. The rumbling dissipated, but the quake ruptured the ice, and a large fissure snaked its way across the sea.

  Shards flew into the air as the sea erupted in a shower of shattered ice. Varied images reflected in the shards flashed before him―the earth couple lying asleep in each other’s arms as they drifted on a giant water lily, the Prince writing a great tome in blood, a hand reaching for the Ko’akh, a crimson moon rising, and a man with haunted eyes, beaten beyond recognition.

  Then the last rain of shards fell back onto the sea. As quickly as it had come, the darkness lifted. Light streamed through the forest, and Shakar settled instantly.

  Michael glanced at the sky, but saw nothing.

  Still shaking from the ordeal, he remounted and flew to the palace. Even if he couldn’t find the commander, the least he could do was alert King Elyon to the fact that something was dreadfully amiss.

  He left Shakar at the gatehouse, and raced through the royal gardens and across the courtyard. But after bounding up the palace steps, he halted.

  Who was he to enter the presence of King Elyon―without being summoned? Perhaps it would be better to find the commander, and have him warn the King. He turned from the throne room doors, but as he made his descent, he paused, heart hammering.

  On the ledge above him, stone ground against stone.

  He turned around hesitantly.

  The four ill-hewn creatures sprang to life, stone transforming into flesh, fur, feathers, and talons. Michael stumbled back in alarm. The Cheyoth towered over him, wings outstretched, sucking warmth and light from the courtyard as though absorbing it into their beings. Four pairs of glowing yellow eyes stared down at him, their voices thundering as one: “Lamentation shall be upon you; fire shall devour you; you shall be brought down to the abyss, and shall die the death of those that are slain!”

  The massive creatures resumed their crouched positions of stone, and light from the palace shone through the courtyard once more. Staring up in shock, Michael knew it was they he had overhead in the colonnade, and who froze the Sea of Glass.

  All hesitation now terrorized out of him, he rushed back up the steps and thrust open the throne room doors.

  The royal dais lay empty.

  Michael’s heart sank. Elohim was in Ayden.

  The vast, white hall felt ominous. The Seraphim stared at him from the gallery. Michael paced the first level of the dais, pondering the consequences of being found in the throne room when King Elyon returned.

  Why have you come?

  Michael whirled, but saw no one. The voice was soft, breathy, its tone eerie in its inflection. He scanned the court above. Isel traipsed around the gallery, her graceful frame disappearing and reappearing behind the columns. Her wings draped her body like a long, gold cloak, and from behind a cowl, she speared him with large violet eyes.

  Isel spoke again, her lips never moving. You should not be here, all alone.

  Fear of breaching protocol outweighed his fear of the Cheyoth, and Michael resigned himself to wait in the courtyard. But as he turned from the dais, a voice sounded again.

  Will you not heed the warning of the Cheyoth?

  Rather than accusatory, the voice now sounded distressed, frightened. He hesitated, mulling over the words of the stone creatures: An abomination, a thrust of the sword. Were the Cheyoth warning against swordcraft? Were Gavriel’s objections valid after all?

  Michael tensed, recalling the incident with Gavriel and the fruit. Vafar could no longer eat the fruit of Shamayim’s trees; none of the Centaurs could.

  Michael tore down the dais steps, desperate to find the commander before Vafar could perform the abomination, whatever it may be.

  You will be the downfall of us all!

  The icy words sent a shiver of fear through him, as he suddenly realized he’d been hearing two different voices―one warning him to leave, the other pleading with him to stay.

  He glanced up at the gallery again, but this time his gaze fell on a Seraph with rubescent-golden hair whose eyes implored him in angst.

  Will you not defend the truth?

  Michael hesitated, his heart thudding.

  The throne room doors opened, and a wave of relief flooded over him as the commander strode in.

  14

  Michael tore across the floor. “Commander! I think the Cen…” He trailed off as Vafar and the rest of t
he Centaurs followed behind him.

  The commander stared at Michael in surprise. “Why are you here?”

  “I need to speak with you,” Michael said, lowering his voice. “Alone. It’s a matter of urgency.”

  “There is no time, Lieutenant,” the commander said.

  The Centaurs parted, as Mardikel and the other Malakim, all mounted on khimari, entered the throne room, followed by four Ophanim. An intake of breath echoed from the court as Isel descended from the gallery and joined them.

  “Suffice it to say,” the commander said, “as I’ve just explained to the others, Shamayim is deteriorating. Elyon’s obsession with Time hinders his ability to maintain this world, our world. As such, he is no longer fit to rule. In the best interest of all, I must take control of Shamayim, until such a time as King Elyon is competent to once again sit upon its throne.”

  Michael’s relief dissipated. “The Cheyoth spoke of an abomination, they said—”

  “Elyon’s neglect is the abomination,” the commander interjected. “He lied to us. He’s not eternal. He only claims to be so that he can rule over us. His affinity for the mud-race proves it. What are they but stewards, glorified gardeners? Yet he befriends them, socializes with them. If he desired companionship, need he look further than the Malakim, conjured from mist, forged in flame?” The commander stepped forward. “Michael,” he added softly. “You must trust me.”

  Paralyzed with uncertainty, Michael glanced at Mardikel, who seemed bewildered by his hesitation. Clawing for wisdom, Michael tried to quell his fear as his frantic thoughts formed but one question: What is truth?

  Abruptly, his confusion waned.

  “Shamayim’s not deteriorating,” he said. “It’s warning us.”

  The commander’s eyes narrowed. “You would be wise to remain loyal to me, Lieutenant.”

  Michael fought to keep his voice steady. “Please, Commander, do not join them.”

  “Fool! It is not I who join them; it is they who join me!”

  Dread raked through Michael as his gaze scanned his comrades. His body trembled with the growing fear that everything he held dear was about to be ripped away in one fell swoop.

  “Listen to me,” he said, his voice desperate. “We vowed loyalty to Elohim.” His gaze rested on Mardikel, and his heart threatened to explode. “Please trust me on this.”

  But his comrade merely stared back at him in hurt disbelief.

  Raising his arms, Lucifer stepped forward. “In the throne room of the Most High, I will exalt myself above his court. I will ascend upon the mountain of Shamayim. I will sit on the throne of Elyon, and I will be SpiritMaster!”

  The commander advanced towards the throne, but Michael drew his sword.

  “I cannot let you usurp the throne,” Michael said, blocking Lucifer’s path to the dais. Though he realized the futility of immobilizing everyone in the room, if he could immobilize the commander, perhaps the others would come to their senses.

  “This is not a game, Lieutenant!” the commander said, drawing the Ko’akh. “This blade can kill you.”

  Michael hesitated. He would have thought the commander lying, but could see in his eyes that he believed his words were true. “Then I shall defend the truth to my death.”

  Michael lunged for the commander’s chest. Their swords clashed, and the Seraphim erupted in incessant cries of “Elohim!”

  Lucifer’s block threw Michael back, and he fell against the bottom tier of the dais. He scrambled to his feet, dumbfounded by the strength the commander possessed.

  Lucifer approached him, sword raised. “I have tasted knowledge,” he said. “And it truly is power.”

  The implication of his words brought on a fresh wave of fear. Steeling himself, Michael attacked again. But he was soon on the defensive, and the commander’s advance forced him up several dais steps. He felt the flames of the second tier at his back.

  The palace doors crashed open, and Gavriel and the rest of the host swarmed the throne room. For a moment, everyone froze, then the hall erupted in mayhem. Those with swords assailed those without, and while most were instantly immobilized, a few managed to wrestle their attackers to the ground.

  Using the momentary distraction to his advantage, Michael aimed a horizontal blow intended to slice through the commander’s torso. But Lucifer side-stepped and parried with such ferocity that Michael’s blade snapped at the hilt.

  Michael stared in shocked dismay at the jagged remains of his sword.

  The commander laughed. “Soon I shall eat from the gold tree that lies beyond the veil, and then I too shall be a creator…and the sovereign ruler of Shamayim.”

  He raised his sword just as violent sparks erupted from the second tier.

  A blinding light flashed across the throne room, and Elohim burst through the stones of fire. Flames engulfed the lower half of King Elyon’s form, shrouding his son and spirit from view, and his upper body shone as burnished bronze. “Lucifer!”

  Those immobilized were instantly restored, and Gavriel and the other three lieutenants rushed onto the first level of the dais and bowed. In shock and shame, Michael dropped his broken hilt. Backing down the steps, he bowed with the others.

  Lucifer stared at the King in defiance. “I know the secret of this sword. It has slain a spirit-lord. And it shall slay you!”

  The commander lunged, but King Elyon raised his hand and the Ko’akh flew from Lucifer’s grasp.

  The walls of the throne room quaked as the King spoke. “From the day I created you, you were honored above all others; you, who passed over the stones of fire, who walked in Ayden. Yet you have lifted your heart in arrogance, and corrupted your wisdom for the sake of power! Once you were perfect in all your ways, but now darkness is found within you.”

  A beam of light shot from the King’s outstretched hand, and formed a black manacle that encircled the commander’s neck. “Lucifer Haylel, Day Star, you are hereby stripped of your rank, and condemned for treason.” King Elyon dipped the staff towards him. “Thus, I cast you to the ground as a profane thing, out of Shamayim, the mountain of Elohim!”

  Shrieks of horror pierced the air as the commander and his followers were sucked into the orb atop the staff, then fell as jagged streaks of light through the universe.

  Silence fell over the throne room. Michael rose with the others, numb with shock. The flames engulfing King Elyon’s form waned, and he took his place on the throne.

  “Michael, son of Elyon, lieutenant of the Malakim, come forth.”

  King Elyon’s voice seized what little strength Michael retained. His heart lurched with guilt, and he felt too weak to breathe. He should have foreseen the rebellion; he could have prevented it, had he listened to Gavriel, and heeded the warnings before now. Trembling, he stepped forward not daring to meet the King’s gaze, and ascended the steps as far as the second tier, halting before the stones of fire.

  King Elyon beckoned him closer.

  Without lifting his eyes, Michael forced himself forward, half expecting to be incinerated by the flames. Yet as he passed through the fire, a cooling sensation enveloped him.

  The King’s staff graced Michael’s shoulder. Two trionicle pendants appeared beside his original five. “I appoint you commander of the host of Shamayim.”

  For a moment, Michael was too dazed to comprehend the King’s words, but then a panic swept over him. He tried to speak, to scream, to explain that it was Gavriel who suspected, Gavriel who was next in rank, Gavriel who should be commander.

  It was not Gavriel who defended my father’s throne.

  Michael’s head jerked up, and he was surprised to see the Prince standing in front of him, now holding the Ko’akh. He sensed the Prince had not spoken aloud, and knew by the finality of his tone that he was not to refuse his elevated rank.

  Michael’s shoulders slumped, and his mind struggled to grasp all that just had transpired. Suddenly he realized the Prince was still standing before him, and that he wasn’t mer
ely holding the Ko’akh, but offering it to him.

  Michael’s heart froze. Lucifer’s words haunted him as he stared at the sword.

  Has that sword slain a spirit-lord?

  The Prince’s reply was quiet. Ay.

  Michael stared at the Ko’akh in horror. I do not want it.

  As you wish.

  The Prince stepped back beside the throne.

  Still dazed, Michael rejoined the remaining Seven on the first tier.

  King Elyon dismissed the host, but Michael stood motionless, until Gavriel prodded him, whispering, “You must lead us out.”

  Crestfallen, Michael led the host from the throne room. Save for a few hushed whispers, the Malakim trudged to the WoodHavens in silence. When they reached the common area, all eyes turned upon him, shock and confusion written on every face.

  They wanted answers, but he had none to give.

  Forging through their midst, Michael clambered up to the Seven’s bungalow. From the loft, seven hammocks mocked him. In a violent merge of rage and despair, he wrenched the ivy from the organic walls until the vines once belonging to the commander and Mardikel lay shredded on the floor. His breathing came in labored, shallow gasps.

  Gavriel’s voice sounded from the doorway, his tone caustic. “What made you change your mind?”

  Michael turned, confused. “Pardon?”

  “Why didn’t you join the insurrection?” Gavriel demanded.

  Without a word, Michael stormed from the bungalow.

  He needed time alone. Time to think.

  15

  Violent shrieks swelled around Lucifer as he fell. Down, down he plunged through a chasm of endless depth. The choking odor of sulfur and brimstone constricted his chest. Far below, a cauldron of crimson light summoned his spirit, a dark inferno seeking to engulf him in flame.

  Shooting forth red tendrils that snapped in the air, the fire crackled and hissed, reaching for him, calling him. Screams scorched his throat. His body pitched and contorted as he continued to fall. Ethereal skin caught fire, and layers of light peeled away, exposing the blackened vapors of his spirit within.

  It seemed he would fall for eternity, in darkness and flame, when suddenly he crashed against hard ground…and knew nothing.

  Light streamed from a sphere of plasma suspended in the sky. Lucifer blinked, disoriented. How much time had passed since he’d fallen, he knew not, but his ethereal body had evidently regenerated from whatever damage had been inflicted when he’d crashed into the sub-natural world.

  He pulled himself up from the ground, vehement fury coursing through him. “Curse you!” he shouted at the sky. “Curse you, Elyon, and your throne!”

  He forced his rage under control, realizing the eyes of his troops were upon him as they rose to their feet. Their expressions of terror confirmed they too had seen the vision of their supposed fate as they’d fallen through Time. Lucifer shook off the memory of the abyss, and turned to address them.

  “Hear me,” he shouted. “That shall not be our destiny!”

  “Your plan failed,” Vafar said. “And now we are banished.”

  Lucifer stared into the Centaur’s haughty face. “A mere complication,” he said calmly. “I will rule Shamayim.”

  “You’re a fool,” Vafar spat at Lucifer’s feet. “I warned you to relinquish him!”

  With a jerk of his head, Vafar gestured for the Centaurs to follow him into a nearby forest.

  “Don’t turn your back on me!” Lucifer roared, but the general merely snorted.

  “Vafar is right,” Mardikel said, waving his hand through a large fern. “We’re banished, exiled to a sub-natural world. There’s nothing for us here.”

  Lucifer spun on him. “You dare call your king a fool?”

  Mardikel said nothing, but his eyes bled indignation.

  Lucifer clasped Mardikel on the shoulder. “You are hereby the commander of my host.”

  Mardikel stared in surprise, then sobered. “Only because Michael isn’t here.”

  “Michael betrayed us!” Lucifer said. “A betrayal I did not anticipate, but one which, in due time, I will rectify. As for you, decide here and now where your loyalty lies. If you desire to go sniveling back to Elyon, begging for pardon, by all means, take your leave!”

  Mardikel glared, but remained where he stood.

  Isel glided over to them. “You made a lot of promises, Haylel,” she said coyly. “Do you intend to keep them?”

  “I’m rather preoccupied at the moment,” Lucifer snapped, straightening his gold cloak.

  “What is that?” Mardikel asked, staring at something past them.

  Lucifer turned to see a small rip tear through the atmosphere as the luminous blade of a sword peeled back the sky. The departing Centaurs cried out as they were lifted off the ground, caught in an invisible whirlwind. Hurled through the air, they disappeared into the gaping hole.

  As quickly as it appeared, the rip sealed itself and vanished. A lingering odor of molten brimstone remained. Fear broke out amongst the Malakim, and the khimari reared up on their hind legs, hurling chunks of flaming sulfur into the air.

  “Calm the beasts!” Lucifer ordered.

  The Ophanim made a low call from deep within their throats. But no sooner had the khimari settled than Groblik yelped. A black manacle now encased his ankle. The sound of a clinking chain followed, and the Ophan was yanked underground. One by one, manacles shackled the other three, and they too disappeared beneath the earth.

  Panic spread amongst Lucifer’s ranks.

  “Elyon is annihilating us,” Mardikel shouted. “Do something!”

  Scanning the sky, they awaited another attack, but several moments passed without disturbance.

  A smile crept over Lucifer’s face. Eternal or not, Elyon was evidently fool enough to bind himself to the Laws of Time, which must have required a delay in their imprisonment. This made a future victory all the more feasible.

  Isel screamed.

  Lucifer whirled, but the Seraph was unharmed, save for her pouty expression at having discovered her wings had been clipped during their fall.

  Ignoring her, Lucifer turned back to Mardikel. “Order the troops to assemble.”

  A plan had begun to formulate, one that would tilt the advantage back in his favor. Revenge would be meticulous, cold. Elyon would regret the day he refused to surrender Shamayim.

  “This situation is but a momentary setback,” he said, when the host gathered before him. “We will retrieve Vafar and the others. We will defeat Elyon. And Shamayim will be ours.”

  The host mumbled amongst themselves, and Lucifer sensed he was losing their confidence.

  “As proof of my power,” he continued. “I shall claim lordship of this world, at which time, I expect your full allegiance.”

  Lucifer turned to Mardikel. “Keep them here,” he said quietly. “Do nothing until my return.”

  Mardikel’s brows furrowed. “Elyon gave lordship of this world to the earth-kind. What makes you believe you can steal it from them?”

  A smile flitted across Lucifer’s face. “So little faith,” he said. “I am not going to steal it. They will give it to me.”

  # # #

  Thank you for reading installment one of Prophecy of the Heir, which contains all seventeen installments in one volume.