Prologue: The Pyromancer

When killing kings and sparking wars, Archivous preferred to wait till nightfall—but late afternoon could work in a pinch.

The archdemon stalked down the cobblestone street, invisible to the riffraff around him. Yes—he had caused the death of at least a dozen kings in his long and nefarious career. And the wars? He had stopped counting: they were so pathetically easy to spark. Aggressive leaders, resource scarcity, what have you: it usually didn’t take much to bathe swords in blood.

Today’s war, however, was proving stubborn.

Archivous prowled around the edge of a crowded marketplace, keeping to the long shadows cast by the setting Sun. He passed straight through carts and wagons in his way. They posed no obstacle—they existed only on the physical plane, while he inhabited the unseen plane.

Emotions swirled around him, flowing to his senses from each mortal he passed. There were the usual ones: stress, desire, hunger, boredom. But today, bubbling under the surface, he felt apprehension. People were lingering in the streets a little longer than usual, despite the setting Sun. Whispers flew that the king was about to issue a fateful decree. He smirked. Today’s news would be far more fateful than any of them anticipated.

One strand of emotion stood out from the rest: blazing ambition, focused to a keen point and tipped with fury. It emanated from the figure that Archivous was shadowing, a tall human in a scarlet cloak. The human had nearly reached the end of the market, two dozen yards ahead.

Confound it, that pyromancer was fast. Archivous opened his wings and launched into the air, flapping heavily, like an enormous vulture bat with horns. A screech of pain escaped his fangs as his full wingspan was scorched by the sunlight. (The Sun’s ray—to Archivous’s perpetual annoyance—fully inhabited both the physical and the unseen plane.) As soon as Archivous caught up to the human, he snapped his wings closed and retreated to the shadows.

“You’d think I could get a little cloud cover,” Archivous grumbled to himself. “It’s not like I’m at the climax of a seven-decade masterpiece of geopolitical calamity or anything.”

Archivous’s protégé left the busy streets behind and began threading his way between large stone manors. Once away from the crowds, the human moved low to the ground at a near run, never pausing as he wound through the maze of narrow streets.

“No need to go so fast,” Archivous growled, bending his will upon the human’s thoughts. “There’s nothing to lose by striking after nightfall.”

He knew an echo of his suggestion reached the man’s mind. But the human only glanced at the position of the Sun in the sky and redoubled his pace.

Archivous rolled his eyes. Curse these mortals and their inconveniently correct superstitions.

After a few minutes, they passed into the shade of the palace acropolis. At last.

The human accelerated toward the last house in his way. Thrill radiated from the man’s heart as he leapt fifteen feet into the air, clearing the wall easily. Traces of fire flashed in his wake.

The manor’s roof adjoined the rocky hill that supported the palace. Up this slope the man climbed, moving with speed beyond any normal ability. His scabbard rapped against the rocks as he sprang from ledge to ledge.

Archivous took to the air again, keeping to the hill’s shadow. He breathed deeply, drinking in the man’s intoxicating emotions.

A clarion voice interrupted his sadistic glee. “You have no place here, demon.”

Archivous pivoted in midair, smirk vanishing as he glared at the luminous being hovering a short distance away. An angel. Just his luck.

“Don’t you have anything less irritating to do?” Archivous griped.

The angel kept a wary distance, her shimmering wings beating the air rhythmically. She looked young—perhaps only a century or two. Her sash held only a scroll, not a sword. Well, that was fortunate at least. He lacked both the time and patience today for a scuffle.

Generated by the author via Midjourney.

“The Sun has not yet set,” the angel said. “You have no right to claim until then!”

“But I can still tempt,” Archivous said. “Can’t I?”

The angel, ignoring his question, pointed at the man ascending the cliff. “What mischief is he about?”

“Why don’t you tag along and see?” Archivous goaded. As annoying as that would be, it would be much preferable to the angel going to find help. The last thing he needed today was to fight off an angelic patrol in daylight.

The man reached the top of the cliff and placed his back to the thirty-foot walls of the palace. From his belt, he unhooked a grappling spike and began twirling it, his other hand holding coils of rope for quick deployment. With a flick of his wrist, he launched the spike upward. It arced through the air, slipping into a crenelation at the top of the wall and sticking fast.

“Masterful, isn’t he?” Archivous said, flying close to the human and sizing him up like a work of art. “I’ve been grooming him for this mission for years. He’s served me well as a spy, thief, saboteur. And now, finally, an assassin.”

“Assassin!?” the angel cried. “Who is his target?”

Archivous smirked. “Who do you think, quill brain?”

The angel gazed at the man, likely straining to pick up an echo of his thoughts. Her eyes widened. “No!”

“Quite yes,” Archivous said, smirking as he saw the panic in her face.

The angel glanced at the reddening sky. “If the king dies before sunset, his soul is ours to claim!”

“Take him,” Archivous spat. “I couldn’t care less for that self-righteous sprig of a soul.” It was a lie: Archivous would love to drag that stubborn monarch to the Void—maybe throw him into a particularly agonizing pit in return for all the trouble the king had caused him the last decade. But the archdemon had an even more savory prize in his sights.

“Besides,” Archivous said, gesturing to the man already twenty feet up the rope, “After today, Durrin’s soul is mine forever.”

For a moment the angel wavered, and Archivous worried she’d bolt to find help. But instead, she flew up to whisper into Durrin’s mind.

“Think!” she pleaded. “Think about what you are doing!”

Archivous rolled his eyes. “Do you think he can hear you? He has ignored your comrades for years now. He hears only me.”

Archivous flew so close his horns would have impaled the human’s head, had they not been immaterial. “The battlement is clear. Now is your chance.”

Durrin vaulted over the crenellated balustrade, landing in a crouch. His eyes roved over the palace complex: a landscape of towers, roofs, and courtyards. Then he ran down the walkway, doubled over. His sword hissed from its sheath. Fire flickered along its edge.

“I could appear, and stop him,” the angel warned.

“You would risk that?” Archivous said, holding her gaze to show he wasn’t intimidated in the slightest. “You know the ancient law. Step through the curtain of sight, and I won’t be far behind.”

“The Sun still reigns in the sky,” the angel said. “I would wield its power.”

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“So?” Archivous scoffed. “Even were it high noon, do you think you could stop me?” His voice grew. “Are you an archangel? You carry not even a sword. Do you know who I am?”

“You are an outcast,” the angel said.

Archivous roared, spreading his wings to their full thirty feet of webbed expanse. “I am Archivous! I have crushed armies and conquered kingdoms! I have slaughtered souls and scattered stars! None are mightier than I!”

Generated by the author via Midjourney.

The angel stood her ground. “There is the Eldest.”

Archivous snapped his wings closed. “The Eldest will never come.”

“Think what you will,” the angel said. “But if I can’t stop the pyromancer, at least I can warn the king.” She dove through the stones beneath her, disappearing.

Archivous chuckled to himself. “Go ahead. It won’t help.”

* * * * *

Yavenya—the angel—twisted and turned, darting through the palace as fast as her wings could propel her. Tapestries whizzed by, scarcely more than blurs. No mortal door impeded her; she passed through each with ease.

The assassin. Durrin. She had never seen him in this city before, but just now she had glimpsed his soul: a shard hard as steel, fueled by unremitting ambition, and armed with terrible pyromantic power. His soul terrified her.

She came to a pair of guards. Both were korriks: a short, stocky race, with reptilian features and scaly hide instead of skin. Their clawed hands and martial spirit made them a natural choice for militaries across the world.

Generated by the author via Midjourney

“Danger!” Yavenya cried, projecting the idea toward their minds. “An assassin! The king is in peril!”

The korriks came alert, turning as if they had heard something, their emotions turning to confused alarm. But that was all. Like most mortals, the guards could only hear the faintest echo of her voice. She flew on.

As she flew, her supernatural hearing picked up a chilling sound, echoing through the stones above her: a shout of alarm, followed by a clash of metal and roar of fire. The assassin was fighting his way across the roof of the palace.

Yavenya burst into the throne room, a vast circular chamber. Massive pillars stretched fifty feet high, supporting a magnificent dome. The light of the setting Sun streamed through clerestory windows at the dome’s base.

The king sat on his throne, conversing with officials of various species. He was an avir—an elegant race, more delicately built than humans. His shoulder-length hair framed the crisp, angular features of his face.

At his side was a young avir girl, scarcely ten or eleven. She sat awkwardly in a chair much too big for her, her fingers tracing the embroidery of her dress as she watched the conversation intently.

“. . . angry when they hear the decree,” one of the king’s counselors was saying, as Yavenya flew across the spacious room.

“Most certainly,” the king replied, his tone grim. “But I would rather face riots at home than war on our—”

“Your Highness!” Yavenya cried. “Beware!”

The king looked up in alarm, eyes sweeping the room.

“Assassin! Fire! Sword!” she warned, pressing the mental images upon him.

“Your Highness?” a counselor murmured.

The king held up a hand, bidding silence. Listening. Listening to her. Yavenya’s heart leapt. Not for decades had she felt a soul so attuned to her voice. “A pyromancer comes!” she said. “He’s breached the walls!”

The king’s face drained of color, turning ashen white. It was a trait unique to avirs: the pigment of their skin responded dramatically to their emotions.

“We’re in danger,” the king said, rising from his throne. He looked at two of his guards. “Escort my daughter and counselors to the front gates.”

The guards saluted. “Yes, Your Highness.”

The young avir girl stood. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her face also growing pale.

“I’m not sure,” said the king. He wrapped her hands in his as he met her frightened gaze. “But remember, Adara: You are stronger than your fears. Now go!”

The king pushed his daughter toward the throne room doors. Adara paused for a moment, looking back one last time. Then the guards ushered her out with the king’s counselors.

“Flee!” Yavenya cried.

The king remained with three guards, all of whom were korriks. He signaled for them to follow as he strode toward a small door at the back of the throne room. “To the treasury,” he said. “It’s more secure than here.”

Yavenya’s heart surged.

“Too late,” a voice snarled.

Yavenya spun to see the archdemon step out of the wall like a fiendish mural come to life. He smirked at her, gesturing upward. “My triumph is at hand.”

A window on the roof exploded.

Glass showered down from the ceiling. A fireball came a moment later, engulfing the rear door in flames moments before the king reached it. Last came the pyromancer. Fifty feet he dropped, plummeting from his perch on the broken window sill, scarlet cloak billowing in his wake. Midway through his descent, he twisted in midair, fire erupting from his outstretched hands to slow his fall. He landed in a crouch before the main throne room doors.

Generated by the author via Midjourney

Straightening, the pyromancer drew his sword and pointed it at the king’s heart. “Today you taste the sword of Calamar, King Everborn.”

For a moment, all was silent, save the crackle of flames.

Then the guards shouted to each other and charged, spearpoints leveled.

The pyromancer showed no sign of alarm as the spears closed in. With a practiced motion, he twisted his sword in an intricate pattern above his head, then leveled it at his opponents. Lightning crackled along the blade’s length, popping and jumping before shooting outward. It coursed through all three guards, leaping from point to point on their bronze armor as their bodies convulsed. A thunderous crack split the air.

“No!” Yavenya cried, darting across the room.

Two of the guards dropped to the ground, the clatter of their weapons inaudible amid the echoes of the thunderclap. But the one closest to Yavenya only staggered. She took a measure of his pain into herself—all she could do in her incorporeal form. She screamed as his agony coursed through her. She’d nearly forgotten what it felt like. To be mortal. To face such consuming pain. She collapsed to her knees, gasping.

On the far side of the room, the king fought to open the blazing rear door, crying out in pain as the heat singed his arms.

The guard that Yavenya had helped, a korrik with a decorated crest on his helm, regained his footing. He touched the tip of his spear, causing it to come alight with a hard red glow. Then he charged, a battle cry roaring from his throat. “ELANDRIAAA!”

But the pyromancer was ready for him. Side-stepping the spear thrust, Durrin summoned a blast of fire with his free hand, causing the guard captain to recoil. Durrin darted forward, thrusting with his sword, but the korrik nearly impaled him with his spear. For a moment they danced in counterpointing thrusts of bronze and fire, as Durrin slowly gave ground.

Then Archivous, invisible to the combatants, stepped up behind the pyromancer. Yavenya trembled as she felt the demon pour confidence and fury into his protégé. Durrin snatched the shaft of the captain’s spear as it drove toward him, then twisted and unleashed a spinning mid-air kick into the korrik’s face.

The korrik captain staggered backward. Durrin wrenched the spear from the captain’s grip, then whirled it around and rammed the glowing tip into the captain’s breastplate. A flash of blue light shunted the spear aside, leaving the breastplate unharmed.

The captain reached for his short sword, but Durrin used the spear to knock the korrik’s feet out from under him. Stepping over him, Durrin drove the spear downward. The first blow was again deflected away from the korrik’s breastplate. The second blow sliced across the korrik’s cheek, shunted aside by a flash of blue light but still leaving a deep gash. The third blow punched through the side of the captain’s chainmail hauberk and buried itself a foot into the stone floor, leaving him pinned.

“No,” Yavenya whispered, rising to her feet. But there was nothing more she could do now, except be a witness.

The pyromancer strode forward.

The king stood at the back of the room, alone and unarmed. His hands were burned and his robes scorched from his attempts to escape out the burning door, but he stood tall. The fearful pallor of earlier had disappeared. Now his expression showed neither pain nor panic—only the hard bronze hue of resolve.

The assassin approached. “Walls and guards cannot save you from the sword of Calamar, Your Highness.”

The king raised a blistered hand, the palm outward. “In neither walls nor guards do I trust. I trust in the hosts of the Sun.”

The assassin closed the final feet between them. With a lightning-fast thrust, he drove the point of his sword into the king’s chest.

The king fell to his knees, his eyes growing wide as his breath escaped him.

“Then where are your angels now?” the pyromancer whispered as he pulled the sword free.

* * * * *

On the other side of the curtain of sight, Archivous grinned, triumphant, as he watched the regicide unfolding before him.

Beside him, the angel watched with wide, horrified eyes.

“This will spark war,” the angel said.

“Yes,” said Archivous, licking his fangs. “This death is but the first of thousands, maybe millions.” He gestured at Durrin. “And this man the next in a long line of my victims, stained forever with innocent blood.” Archivous laughed. “Try as you might, even with all the wisdom of the Hosts of the Sun, you can never control the choices of mortals!”

The angel pulled a scroll from her robe and rolled it open, pausing to wipe tears from her cheeks.

“We cannot, because we will not,” she said. She summoned a glowing quill and set it to the parchment, but paused to look at the demon. Her eyes glinted with determination. “But neither will you.”

Tears mingled with blood-red ink on the angel’s parchment. “You think you have won this day,” she said as she wrote. “You think this is a fateful day. An evil day. A day of fire, blood, and tears. But today is not the end of Durrin’s story. I am now the one who keeps his scroll. And his scroll is not yet sealed.”

This story has 58 chapters. Chapters are released every Tuesday and Thursday morning.

Want to listen to the audiobook (including custom background music) for each chapter? See my website.

See my Facebook, Instagram, or YouTube accounts for behind-the-scenes and author commentary on each chapter.