Prologue
•The∙Wastelands∙of∙Kore •

She stood amongst the fallen with her blood tipped spear grasped tightly in her hand.

In the blackness, tortured souls screamed and rose into the night. She stood silent as the warm wind caught the loose and wild strands of her black hair. They moved like snakes, twisting and turning, snapping viciously at the air. Aysá remained unblinking, even as one by one the raindrops fell from the darkness around her, washing her and cleansing her of her sins.

The skies above her roared and the rain came down harder, cutting tracks through the blood that coated her arms. Lightning tore the clouds apart and ignited the air. For a split second, the carnage below was illuminated for all the heavens to see. The bodies of men and women alike lay twisted and ravaged by war. Arrows punctured armour and shield, and swords lay discarded in the mud. She remained unmoving, save for her molten eyes that shifted slowly across the decimated landscape.

A soldier approached her, lone and solemn. His boots squelched through the thick mud. "Arman has arrived, my Queen. His banner is yours." He bowed his head and made his way down the track towards the encampment where Aysá's prisoner stood bound by chains. She turned, only to catch a glimpse of him before he was engulfed by the shadows. Aysá glanced back at the corpse littered fields below and then made her way down the hillside.

The bodies became fewer on the walk back to her tent. The silence of the dead gave way to the moans of the dying. She looked down at the few that clung to life but she did not stop. Those that wore her sigil, deep crimson with a black, two headed phoenix, looked up at her as she passed, with fearsome pride burning in their eyes. They knew their sacrifice had ensured their victory.

There were whispers as she moved through the camp. Eyes followed her but she remained focused on Arman. The mutterings of her name grew louder and louder as it swept through the remaining soldiers like a wave. Over and over they called to her, their weapons raised high above their heads in victorious salute. The chanting of her name had grown into an almighty roar by the time she neared her tent. Swords crashed against shields and clenched fists beat against armoured chests. They pounded like a heartbeat. Throbbing and pulsing. The living remembered the eternal dead and brought their spirits back to life with their passion.

The two guards that stood in front of her makeshift quarters snapped to attention as she approached then moved quickly to peel back the swaths of red fabric that covered the entrance. She handed off her spear to one of them and stepped inside without as much as a word or a nod.

Arman stood waiting for her in the centre of the tent. His bare feet were clad in heavy iron shackles and his wrists bound by the same. The blue of his tunic was sullied with blood. Dirt and grime covered him, staining the exposed parts of his body. He stood before her defeated.

"My Queen," he muttered, his head bowed, his words laced with shame and regret. He had underestimated Aysá and the men that followed her into battle, and now he was paying the price. The new queen said nothing, even as she stepped past him to a table that lay bare, save for a jug of water, a pewter bowl and a tray with two silver goblets. "I owe you my life, my Queen. My colours, my sword, my shield, they’re yours." Her silence unnerved him to the point where he was forced to look up at her. Aysá looked back at him, her face expressionless. "I am yours." He emphasised.

She took the jug from the table and poured its contents into the bowl. Arman watched her curiously through the locks of his knotted hair. She was a difficult woman to understand; silent for the most part, calculating and cruel, devoted and passionate. Her fire made him both loath and admire her in equal measure.

Once the bowl was filled, Aysá brought it before him and set it down on the table along with a goblet filled with sweet wine. She took her place opposite him in a chair beautifully carved with dragons and demons. "Drink," she said, motioning towards the goblet with a wave of her clawed hand. "You look like you could do with it." Arman stared at her, somewhat surprised by her gesture. "It's not poisoned." She assured him, yet she was met with silence. "Oh come now, Arman. You pledge what's left of your life to me, you swear your sword and your shield to me, yet you cannot accept a simple drink?" Arman edged closer to the table, his shackles rattling with each shuffling footstep. "Sit. Rest your bones," she encouraged. “Clean the blood from your hands and drink with me. For Cethyn, for the Throne and for the Fallen."

The defeated warrior did as commanded and sat opposite the new Queen. The chains made it difficult for him to reach for the glass but he took hold of it none the less. Aysá smiled, causing the white of her teeth to gleam against the ruby red of her lips. She reached forward, plucking her own glass of wine from the tray. She raised it slightly and announced with a hint of sadness. "Cethyn." Arman did the same, his sadness echoing hers. As he took a sip of his wine, the chains that encircled his wrists, rattled. Aysá stared at her defeated foe. He looked broken and battered, a fading shadow. He looked almost perfect.

The Queen sat up and rested the chalice on the arm of her chair. "We are no different, Arman, you and I. We are both broken and defeated; both bound by chains." Arman scoffed and shook his head, causing Aysá to lean forward, her golden eyes shimmering in the candlelight. "We're both slaves to a higher power. We're both destined to be greater than what we are right now, right this second. We have a fire, a passion, a rage that when unleashed, will be all consuming and unstoppable."

Arman looked across at her. He could see the excitement etched onto her face. He could see the fire in her eyes. She captivated him but he refused to let it show. He leaned forward as she did, his bound hands resting on the table. "The only one person in this tent bound by chains is me." He held his bloody wrists aloft, proving his point.

Aysá took a sip of her drink. She paused to savour its sweet, rich taste, and then stood. She shrugged her armoured shoulders and moved to his side of the table. She leaned against it and looked down at him. "Metaphorically speaking of course." Arman huffed and sat back in his chair to get a better look at her. She sat there, her skin as blood smeared and muddy as his. Her black, webbed armour was scratched and dented; each nick and blemish held a meaning and an air of perfection.

One by one, the candles that lit the room began to fade, their light consumed by the demons that inhabited the shadows. "Let me tell you a story…" she whispered, then, she too was engulfed by the darkness.

Chapter One
•Palace∙of∙Nisha•City∙of∙Kharon•
•Eleven∙Months∙Previous•

“Ina ishta sea natin, Aysá. Los calinta ventu ina beraap.”

From the shadows, disembodied voices rippled through the air. Their ancient tongue called to Aysá through the silence of her dreams. “Ventu shan ilia nos gamanda. Hastin eta ventu hastin. Shan sian mana.” They whispered their prophecies of loyalty and betrayal, of war and death. They spoke of the heavens descending, of the blood that would stain the ground and the fate that would befall them all. “Shan sian mana.”

Aysá awoke with a start, and fine beads of sweat glistening on her brow. The silk sheets in which she slept were damp and pooled around her waist, exposing her bare chest to the heat of Kharon’s night air. She inhaled deeply and turned to the window. She stared at the glow rising from the molten rivers that snaked through the blackness beyond the castle walls, hoping to find some comfort. She swore she could still hear the whispers of prophecy. “Hastin eta ventu hastin. Shan sian mana.”  Their haunting melody made her heart pound against her chest and her breath burn in her lungs. She curled her fists defiantly, her long black nails tearing through the silk. “I am the mistress of my destiny,” she cursed into the night. “I am!” The ground beneath her growled and the rivers pulsed with waves of liquid fire.  

Just past the ornate wooden door, approaching footsteps echoed in the flame lit corridor. They moved quickly and stopped just outside the entrance to her room. A swift succession of raps against the thick timber caused the door to rattle. “M’lady!” a panicked voice called, then another barrage of knocking. “M’lady!” Aysá looked with narrowed eyes towards the darkened, stone archway. There could only be one reason why someone would be disturbing her at such a late hour. A brief sense of panic flickered in her chest. She hurried from her bed; her half naked body wrapped in thin sheets, and wrenched the door open. A servant stood waiting, his chest heaving with breathlessness. He stumbled over his words as he tried to speak. Aysá glowered at him, her annoyance at his inability to deliver a message growing by the second. He stuttered and stumbled before nervously staring up at her. “It’s the King, M’lady. He’s calling for you. The paion are saying he has little time.” He bowed his head and backed away from her. The servant need not speak another word for Aysá had turned quickly, grabbed a robe that lay over a chair and hurried towards the King’s bed chamber.

By the time she had arrived, word had spread that Cethyn’s final moments were near. Flickering candlelight illuminated twelve men huddled together in deep conversation. She knew them to be King Cethyn’s most trusted advisors, trust she believed to be misplaced. As she passed, their whispers fell silent. Some eyed her wearily, others bowed their heads respectfully, but there were few, in their cowls of deepest purple that refused to even acknowledge her. She paid them little attention as she passed them and opened the heavy door that lead to the King’s chamber.

                Arman was already there, clad in simple robes of black cotton. He knelt dutifully at the side of the dying King, his lips moving silently in prayer. From the shadows, Aysá could see that Cethyn’s face was pale and gaunt, his eyes sunken and sorrowful. He had become a shell, a husk from which all life had been nearly drained. The fading king heard Aysá’s approach and his head rolled weakly to the side. His grey eyes fell upon her. She bowed her head respectfully and ventured closer only when he beckoned her to do so with a wave of his frail hand. Aysá knelt beside him, opposite Arman, though neither glanced at the other. Her focus remained on the King.

                “My King,” She whispered. Arman looked across at her, and while his face was weary, his eyes screamed his mistrust. Aysá ignored him, even as his stare burned into her. Cethyn, in his weakened state was oblivious to the tensions between the two and faint smile crossed his withered face. He tried to speak but his breath was heavy and laboured. Weakly he raised his hand and cupped Aysá’s face, his thumb grazing gently across her crimson cheek. “I’m ready” he murmured, his voice cracked and horse. Aysá nodded and stood. She turned to summon the twelve that waited in the darkened corridor, but the King caught her wrist. He stared up at her, his eyes pleading and desperate. His lips moved but his words became lost. Aysá smiled reassuringly and slipped out of his grasp.

                The timber door creaked open and once more the whispers fell silent. Aysá eyed the twelve with the same distrust that Arman had for her, but she pushed her feelings to one side for the sake of duty. “He’s ready for you”. Her voice was flat and void of feeling. She moved aside and extended her arm, inviting them into the chamber. They moved in single file until they stood gathered at the foot of Cethyn’s bed.  Eleven of the twelve stood unmoving, while the last sat behind a candle lit table, a length of yellowed parchment unrolled before him. He took the quill that sat ready in a pot of black ink, and waited for the King to begin his address.

                The King looked up at them and then struggled to prop himself up. “My Lords,” he croaked. “Until…until today I have failed to name a successor, but now, as the hour of my death approaches, one must be named.” Gasping coughs ripped through him, forcing what little air there was, out of his lungs. Aysá knelt beside him and lifted a goblet of water to his dry lips. The coughing subsided enough for him to take a sip, quenching, if only for a moment, the burning in his throat. “I have two children, legitimately born to me of the Queen. My first born; a daughter, with eyes of molten gold and a spirit akin to the fiercest fire. And a son, born with the strength of ten men and a will of hell forged steel. Both are wise and fair, worthy of the throne.” The eyes of the twelve shifted between Aysá and Arman. Aysá lovingly pressed her lips to her father’s cold hand, while Arman sat waiting. “However, only one may sit upon it.” Cethyn looked to each of his children and continued. “Aysá, my daughter, serve your brother as you have served me.”  She bowed her head; unable to look at either one of them. She passed it off as respectful obedience but inside she was seething. “My lords…bear witness” he continued, “that I, Cethyn of House Oskari, ruler and protector of Kharon; declare my only true-born son, Arman, heir to the throne.”

                There was no ripple of applause or offers of congratulations to the young prince. Cethyn’s advisors stood in silence, watching sadly as the ailing King fought to breathe. Gradually, the twelve filtered out of the chamber, leaving Cethyn with his two children. “Arman,” he whispered. The young prince looked to him, his warm, strong hand curled around that of the King. “Ruling Kharon is not easy. I have shed blood for this crown, as have you, but you must be fair and obedient. Show respect and it will be returned to you. Keep the peace with Aracelia that we have fought so hard to achieve.” Arman nodded and clenched his father’s hand tightly.

                Cethyn suddenly went stiff within his grasp and his body began to violently shake. Both Aysá and Arman jumped back from the bed as a seizure ripped through him.  Arman quickly clutched his father’s shoulders and fought to hold him still. Suffocating gasps tumbled from Cethyn’s lips and his writhing eyes rolled back into his skull. The seizure continued with unrivalled ferocity. “Go get someone!” Arman barked at his sister, but she stood there, unmoving. “Now, Aysá!” She looked between her father and his heir, hatred brewing in her stomach, but she did not move. She watched intently with hate filled eyes as thick, white foam bubbled at the corners of her father’s lips and as his fingers clawed desperately at Arman’s arms. Cethyn went limp and dropped unmoving onto the bed.  

                Aysá looked to her brother, “My Prince?” she questioned. 

Arman didn’t bother to look back at her; “My King.” he corrected and began to pray. 

                A twisted sense of accomplishment washed over her as she turned and walked away, a devilish smile tugging at her lips.               

•Gates∙of∙Kharon•
•Present∙Day•

“Citizens of Kharon!”

                As soon as Aysá spoke, the thousands that had gathered to greet her at the Gates of Kharon fell silent. They looked up at her on the battlements, their eyes ablaze with passion and pride. Winds rolled down from the mountains that encircled the city and brought her sigil alive. The crimson banners adorned with her phoenix, moved like fire above the crowds, dancing against a backdrop of ashen skies.

                 “Some say I deserted Kharon and the Crown. Some say I betrayed you and turned traitor. I say I stand before you a free woman in a free city. Unafraid and unyielding. The traitors are those that sold us to the city of Aracelia, like whores for gold, for silver, for peace. Those traitors stand among us, praying that the shadows will hide their secrets, but we are the shadows and we will not hide them.” The crowd roared in approval. Aysá lifted her hands and gestured towards a gallows style contraption that hung from the ramparts. The crowds turned to see eleven men, Cethyn’s most trusted advisors, stripped bare and bruised, being lead onto the walls above them. “These men,” she continued “made prisoners of us all. Our blood paid for their riches. Now their blood will pay for our justice.”

                The masses surged forward, trying to get as close to the wall and their new Queen as possible. Armoured guards stood fast, and held them back with their shields. “Their words and actions betrayed us all. These men, these unholy few, along with those that dared to call themselves “King”, condemned us. But we are rising. And I promise you that the blue skies of paradise will turn black at our command. The rivers and oceans will boil and run red with blood of our enemies. I promise you that Angels will burn to ash and Aracelia will fall to its knees. I swear all this to you, by the blood that flows through my veins. I swear it!”

                As she spoke, each man had his neck tied with a noose. Some shook with nothing but fear, others stood unmoving. One sobbed quietly to himself, his tears trickling down his face and into his blood stained beard. The chains that bound their ankles to each other cut into the stone as they were ushered closer to the edge. The crowds writhed below them; their blackened souls baying for blood.  

                “People of my beloved Kharon, I give you your vengeance. I give you your justice.”  Without word or warning, the most senior of Aysá’s guards shoved the youngest of Cethyn’s advisors, sending him tumbling from the edge. The men that stood either side of him were dragged from the high walls, their chains ensuring that no man was left behind. The desperate, gasping breathes of the eleven were drowned out by the horde that roared beneath them. Aysá looked on with satisfaction as they writhed and fought for their lives.

                From a darkened archway across the battlements, Arman watched the pitiful scene unfold. He shook his head and rubbed the tender, reddened flesh around the stump of his left hand. His sword hand. A small price, he thought, for keeping his head. He turned and looked to one of the soldiers that stood guard over him. “Take me to Kneph.” he said.  The young soldier looked uncertain as his eyes shifted to Queen Aysá, who stood before her cherished city. “Now.” Arman commanded. The guard nodded and escorted him down the stone spiral staircase and into the corridor that lead towards Mount Ista and the black heart of Kharon.

•Hran∙Prison•Mount∙Ista•

“Kneph?”

                Arman cautiously whispered into the darkness.  “Kneph, are you there?”  The hot, stone walls of Hran Prison echoed with the concern that crept into his voice. “Kneph?” Silence.  Arman looked at the guard, unconvinced that this was where they were holding the last of Cethyn’s council, but guard remained silent and unblinking, his stare focused on the shadows that danced along the flame lit walls. Arman sighed and edged closer to the bars that split the darkness from light. “Kneph. It’s Arman.”

                “The little lord prince!  The little lord prince!” Kneph sang from the endless abyss. Arman’s eyes strained to see him. “The little lord prince has come to play.” The old man continued to sing, his voice echoing in the darkness of his cell.

                Arman chuckled awkwardly at the use of the childhood nickname. A name he’d not been called since the passing of the Queen. “The little lord Prince, yes. But I’ve not come to play.”

                “Everybody plays, doesn’t matter if they want to or not. Everybody plays. We pick a side and we play our part. We play our part.”

                Arman moved closer to the cell, his fingers curling around the hot iron bars. He ignored the burn that moved through his hand and peered into the shadows. He saw nothing. “Kneph, is it true?” He asked, confused yet hopeful that the rumours were nothing but a lie. After a few seconds, the silence was replaced by giggling. Arman frowned, his voice more stern as he repeated his question. “Is it true?”

                 Kneph’s giggling intensified. “Truth and lies are one in the same. One in the same. I lie, you lie, and we all lie together. Fact is fiction. Fiction is fact and a table is just a table. I have a table. It’s small and rickety. He does its job well, my beloved table. Would you like to meet him?”

                The prince, in his frustration, shook the iron gate that separated him from the old man. “Did you kill King Cethyn?” he shouted. “Did you murder my father?!” From the darkness, Kneph flew at him in a swirl of purple robes. His bony fingers gripped the hand of the prince tightly, so much so that the old man’s knuckles turned white

                “The king?” the old man questioned. His eyes darted from right to left as he fought to silence the maddening voices inside his head. “The King!” he exclaimed, “He’s dead. Dead! Oh how the Princes and Angels of Aracelia weep for him. I feel their tears upon my cheeks as I sleep and their grief in my heart when I wake. Oh how they mourn him, my King.” Kneph looked up at Arman, his white eyes clouded with sorrow. “They mourn him, just as we do. He was taken too soon. Too soon.”

                Arman stared down at him, his face a mixture of sadness and regret. He looked into Kneph’s eyes and repeated his question again, his tone softening. “Did you kill my father?”

                The old man shook his head. Glassy tears crept to the corners of his eyes as his madness gave way to clarity. “I swear, My King. His highness did not die by my hand. I swear on the sacred book of Tyr”

                “He lies” Aysá’s sweet voice broke though the calm silence that had settled in the warm air.

                Arman, so caught up in Kneph’s words, failed to hear her approach. He stared at Kneph as his face changed. The old man’s eyes lit up with a smile. He giggled wildly; a sure sign that his insanity had returned. He released Arman’s hand and span away from the door, vanishing into the dark. The Prince stared at the empty space where Kneph once stood.

                “I found messages in his chambers. Instructions to be specific. All from Aracelia. I discovered them long before we went to war. I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen. The Council had your ear and they drowned me out every chance they got. The Angels of Aracelia condemned our father to death, Arman, and Kneph, in his blind loyalty, served as his executioner.” Aysá looked and sounded full of regret.  “I tried to tell you, to warn you.” 

                Arman turned to face her, noting that the guard that once stood watch over him had disappeared, no doubt dismissed by the Queen. Their new found privacy was unexpected but welcomed. “I should have…”  He began.

                “Listened? Yes, you should have.” she cut him off and continued quickly, leaving him with little time to think. “Now our City has to prepare for battle so soon after fighting a war that should never have been fought in the first place. Your weakness has cost us, dearly, but now OUR strength will lead us to victory. You heard them out there; they want justice just as much as I do, and just as much as you should want it.”

                Kneph giggled and sang from the darkness. “Winners and losers. Winners and losers. Blood is blood and death is death. Victory and defeat are one in the same. Don’t you agree, your Highness?”

                Arman glanced over his shoulder, his thoughts lingering on the madman’s lilt before looking back at his sister. “Justice.” He reassured, and stepped past her.  The rattle of iron bars made him pause. He turned to see Kneph’s face pressed tightly against the hot metal.

                “Be warned, Little Prince, Lady Justice has many faces and not all of them are pretty.”

                “Come, Brother. We have much to prepare for.” Aysá ignored the madman and ushered Arman towards the passageway.

                “Shan sian mana! Shan sian mana!” Kneph screeched after them. “Shan sian mana!” He laughed wildly and slipped back into the darkness, repeating the same ancient words over and over again.