Ash, Dragon Heart Series Book 1

A red comet traced the sky, attracting the attention of those who were not resting in their beds that night. Old Gwei was one of them. Putting her hand to her wrinkled, parchment-colored forehead, she leaned more heavily on her staff and tried to quicken the pace of her feeble feet. At the moment when the fiery messenger of the Gods cast its shadow on the beautiful Myristal, Gwel knew what was coming. Events that would follow would shake the Abyss in which the Demons dwelled, the Kingdom of Feira, the home of the humans, and even the Seventh Heaven, forcing the Jasper Emperor to recall his duties. The Red Comet was a message from Fate herself, who stands above all the Gods, immortals and mortals. She had made her move, sliding the first pawn across the board with a firm, unwavering hand. This was enough for the world to burn down according to the predictions. Gwel walked down the street, watching the crimson fade into the inky blackness of the night. “I hear you, my Queen,” she whispered through her chapped lips and grinned, revealing her crooked teeth. “I hear you.” The comet disappeared and Mirystal, as if mocking it, lit up the meadow with a silver glow again. It tried to get rid of the crimson glow that, like blood, left a coppery taste on the tongue. That night marked the beginning of a chain of events that would forever change the world. Chapter 1 292. A.D. Age of the Drunken Monk, Middle Kingdom G wel let out a sigh of relief when she saw a column of thick, black smoke rise from the woods behind the hill. Her eyes were barely working, but her sense of smell was sharper than ever. The wind carried the smell of burnt bodies and wood, as well as the song of well-fed steel, drunk on warm blood. A normal person would feel his blood run cold and run back from whence they came, but not Gwel. With confidence in her step, she followed the comet’s trail, wondering what fate had in store for her. Her Queen had made it clear that she had chosen her, her priestess, for a very special task. As it usually was with these kinds of stories, she didn’t know the details. Fate, unlike the Gods, was silent in her omniscience. Bare feet covered with scabs kept sinking into mud, but Gwel pushed on. As long as she had her trusty staff, carved from the Enchanted Tree, she could go on. The staff was nothing special in its appearance and price, but any Ternite would turn green with envy if they knew how powerful it was. The grass rustled under her feet, speaking to Gwel in a language she had learned so long ago that she’d sometimes confuse it with that of the humans. The clouds moved across the sky with such grace that they’d put any aristocrat to shame. They spoke to her about Fate, and she listened. At night, when the messenger visited their lands under the inky cover of the heavens, a heated battle took place. A caravan of dozen of travelers stumbled upon the Order of the Clawed Wing, the members of which were mostly necromancers and evil spellcasters. They were beardless youths, enjoying their own strength and a sense of omnipotence, and those who wanted to sell their tender, young bodies to the demons. It’s because of such scum that the people of the Thirteen Kingdoms hated all those who had anything to do with magic, the so-called Ternites. Gwel followed the path that divided the forest into two and stopped at the edge of the clearing. Clouds always liked to embellish their stories ― they were too high up so couldn’t see the details. What they described as a battle, was a m******e. Torn bodies of the caravan guards lay scattered across the forest floor, now the color of wet vitriol. All of the young men who had picked up the sword, hoping, no, longing for fame and adventure, never thinking of their mothers who cried by the windows, wondering when their sons would come home. Gwel spat. More than nobles and kings, she hated those who thought they were strong enough to struggle outside the city’s walls. Stepping over the body of a guard whose swollen tongue could be seen through his ripped throat, the old priestess approached the scorched stagecoach. It was there, in the bowels of a once beautiful wagon that the pulse of terna was felt. “Move over, corpse,” Gwel said and pushed away a tall, handsome man that was blocking the entrance. A rain of dozen arrows tore through his leather armor and sent him flying few feet to the side. The first rule of the inhabitants of an unnamed planet was that one should never stand on the way of an old woman dressed in rags as you never knew just what kind of magic they wielded or who they talked to in their enchanted groves. Gwel sighed when she realized that trying to climb into the wagon would make her old bones c***k and ache. Peeking in she saw that the attackers didn’t shy away from vandalizing everything that was on their way. And while the stagecoach still resembled a stagecoach from the outside, its interior was that of an oven ― char, and nothing but. Judging by the number of arrows that had lodged themselves into the coach, the attackers must’ve attacked from all sides. It was a tasteless and dishonorable tactic but an efficient one. “I’m too old for this, my Queen,” Gwel whispered, observing the looted and destroyed chests and boxes. Straightening her back, she hit the ground with her staff and moved her lips in silent prayer. She spoke in a language that only a few could understand and only if they had tamed the wildest of magics. A moment later, the fallen beams inside the coach began to shake, the sooth from them crumbled and the broken wheels repaired themselves. Tatters rose from the ground and reunited in the air, forming beautiful tapestries and cloths. Shreds of glass rattled as they merged back into vials and a couple of vases. “And who do we have here...?”