#teoterra

[ramonaphoenix]

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Chapter I

Prologue [ x ]

Ten Years Later

The sun was high in the sky, a horridly hot, blazing thing that made sweat gather upon his brow and drip down between his shoulder blades. But that didn’t matter; his skin wouldn’t blister, only tan. Before him stood a man twice his size with a sword that could cleave him in half, and a smile that promised blood. Turning the xiphos in his hands, he raised the blade before him. He licked his lips, tasting iron and salt, and grinned.

The man lunged, and the crowd around them cheered.

He ducked, turning, leg sliding out to catch the man by the ankles. A quick jerk sent him tumbling forward, and he turned, watching him fall. He wasted no time, lunging forward, the blade poised for the base of his neck, where the spine was weak. A yell surged free as he dove, knees hitting the other’s back, pinning him down, as he brought it down quickly-

“Do you yield?” He asked, panting, as the crowed fell silent. When he received no answer, he let the tip of the blade ghost along the back of his neck, beneath the shock of red hair.

“… I yield.” The man finally spoke into the dirt, pain lacing his words as the crowd roared to life.

A chant began, one of the title the boy had gained. “Songbird! Songbird! Songbird!” Over and over, and the boy let his head fall back, drinking it in. He let it go on for another minute before his lips opened, and he released a single, piercing battle cry that echoed around the small fighting pit, like an eagle crying out. The crowed seemed to grow louder with the sound.

“That’s enough, that’s enough! You’ve all work to be done, still!” A booming voice broke up the cheering, which quickly turned to lighthearted booing. The man on the ground groaned as he rolled over, staring up at the clear blue sky with obvious distaste. “Up, up, Durgin. Go clean that blood off of your face.”

“Mihai, you buzzkill,” Durgin grumbled as he pushed himself up, red hair falling into his face as he doubled over and groaned once more. “Matthias, next time, don’t go for my stomach. You know that’s my weakest point!” He complained, lip jutting out in a pout as he righted himself.

Matthias let out a laugh, shaking dark locks wet with sweat out of his face. “Then it wouldn’t be a fair fight, my friend!” He replied, gaze drifting towards the captain who approached with an amused grin. “Mihai, perfect timing. Care to spar?” A mischievous grin curled his lips as he slid the xiphos back into its sheath with a pleasant hiss.

“Afraid not, my friend,” Mihai replied, shaking his head. He’d recently gotten a haircut, Matthias noticed; the dirty blond strands that had been drifting to below his shoulders had been cut short, bangs falling upon his forehead despite the evidence of him styling them back, cut shorter on the sides. A common haircut among the warriors of Kashim. Still handsome, the cut did nothing to hide the high cheekbones or the vivid blue of his eyes. “I’m here on official business.”

“Official?” Matthias echoed, perplexed.

“Business?” Durgin added, sounding just as perplexed as Matthias.

Mihai nodded, holding out a rolled piece of parchment. “You’ve been summoned, Matthias. The Jor himself wishes to see you.”

The Jor, the reigning King of Kashim, was a man of fierce reputation. Florin the Fearful was what the people of Kashim called him due to his strategic movements during the War of the Songbirds. He had been known to cut down his enemies with little more than a glance and was a terror to face. Matthias would know.

After all, Florin had been the one to abduct him from his home in Cruimore ten years ago.

“Right…” Matthias drawled, taking the parchment and opening it with little grace, tearing the wax seal. The summons was true, it seemed. The message gave little away to what, exactly, this summons was to be. That annoyed him, but there was nothing the captive prince could do. Slowly folding the message up before holding it aloft in his hand, he made sure that Mihai and Durgin could both witness his next minor act of rebellion. Blue flames erupted from his palm, causing the parchment to turn to ash in a matter of seconds.

Mihai let out a soft chuckle beneath his breath. “You truly do have a death wish, don’t you?” Matthias only gave a wink in response. Clearing his throat, Mihai straightened his shoulders and jerked his chin. “Move it, I’m missing dinner with Emrie for this.”

“How is she, anyway?” Matthias asked as he grabbed his shirt, tugging the ivory piece of cloth over tanned, dirt streaked shoulders. “I heard that the pregnancy was taking a toll on her.”

“It is,” Mihai affirmed, lips set in a grim line. “She wakes with sickness each morning, and she complains of small contractions. She is nearing the end, at least.”

Matthias hummed, gaze sweeping the training courtyard as they slowly made their way through it. So many men and women, each with their own story. Some more similar to his own than he’d like to admit. “Will the Jor allow healers to tend to her when the time comes?” He asked casually, hands slipping into the pockets of his muddied trousers.

Mihai’s lack of a verbal answer let him know that it had already been discussed- and denied.

The walk to the throne room was quiet; Mihai had told him all those years ago, when they had just been boys, that the walls had ears and eyes. The only safe place to ever speak of anything of importance was outside of the city- a luxury two boys from separate kingdoms, both stolen from their homes, did not have. Instead, they created a way to speak without words- hand signals, each one meaning a word. They perfected it during their studies, making sure to keep it out of sight of the Master of Words.

No one knew, and that was exactly how they liked it.

The halls were long and pristine, onyx stone carved and polished to a gleaming, smooth perfection. The first time he’d seen the palace, he thought it had been carved from the night itself. The entire exterior was a deep, endless black, with golden trimming and ivory marble columns. The interior gleamed, the onyx intertwined with gold flecks and splashes of rich, deep sapphire, like the cosmos themselves had been pulled from the sky and spread across. Even the floors were a rich black tone.

But the true masterpiece was the throne room.

The doors were huge, carved from ivory and inlaid with gold. Beyond that sat the throne room, a space easily the size of the amphitheater in the Lower Districts. The ceiling stretched high above in a dome, with a great chandelier of sapphires, emeralds, and diamonds dripping down. The steps leading up to the throne were gilded gold, polished daily. The floor was black marble, and the walls were ivory marble. The throne was a giant, terrifying thing, easily spanning the height of two grown men, and came up to a deadly thin point. Carved from onyx, it held the faces of the Five Gods- the Father, the Mother, the Sinner, the Healer, and Maiden Death at the very top, directly over the Jor’s head.

The Jor was a terrifying sight, too. Pale hair that swept long and flowed free, reaching the small of his back, frame a face that seemed to be carved from marble. A strong jawline that held a deep scar on the right side, high cheekbones, an elegant nose and brow, and eyes the color of a stormy sky. He was a tall man, breaching six feet easily, and a mountain of pure muscle beneath armor of bone and black. He bore no crown, for why would a man that was known far and wide require such a thing?

Matthias lowered himself to a knee and bowed his head low, though his gaze strayed from the Jor to the pair that stood either side him. A smile curled his lips at the sight. To the Jor’s right stood his trusted Spymaster, a woman with hair cropped short and skin that rivaled the onyx of the walls. Her eyes were a vivid sky blue with a starburst of brown in her left, and her lips were always painted a shade that rivaled fresh blood. She wore no jewelry aside from a single ring on her left thumb, a simple silver thing. Her clothing was perfect, as always, a rich maroon gown that rose high upon her neck and fell in layers to the floor. Her name was Zoya Kathiu, from the kingdom of Kaalee Ret to the Southeast of Teoterra. She was a terror in and of herself; a master of poisons and the art of the blade, she could take down an entire kingdom with little trouble.

To the left stood Luca, the Jor’s son. He took after his mother in temperament and moral, but his father in his looks. Long hair the color of starlight fell to his waist in an intricate braid that was tossed carelessly over one shoulder. His eyes were a light blue that turned stormy when he was angry, and his lips were a rosy pink. His skin was a shade darker than his father’s, holding a healthy glow to it due to being outside with the soldiers. He wore armor of silver and bone, standing tall and proud. His belt held the broadsword, Sineater, a weapon forged of blood and bone and tears- or so they say. He was a year older than Matthias himself, the oldest of Florin’s three children, and the most mischievous.

“Rise.” Florin spoke, deep voice echoing within the room dramatically. Matthias managed to keep his snort in as he and Mihai rose to their feet in near unison, both standing at parade rest. Florin studied them for a long moment, disgust evident as his gaze swept over Matthias. ‘Good’, he thought to himself, ‘let him be disgusted.’ “There’s whispers of an uprising within the border towns. Have you heard of this act of defiance?” The question startled the prince, and he found himself staring at the Jor in confusion for a solid minute before finding his voice. Did he suspect that Matthias was part of this uprising- or the sole cause?

“I’m afraid I haven’t heard anything of this uprising, your highness.” He answered carefully, brows furrowing as the Jor rose from his throne, onyx and bone armor shining in the sunlight that filtered through the stained glass on the peak of the ceiling, directly over the throne. “I assume you’ve summoned myself and Mihai for a reason pertaining to these… Whispers?” Temper, temper; he could feel Mihai tensing up beside him. But Matthias wasn’t worried- no, the Jor saw him as a weapon, and wouldn’t dare harm a finely crafted tool that could turn a battle to their favor far too easily.

Florin hummed, hands loose at his sides, as he slowly made his way down the ten steps that created the dais upon which his throne sat. High enough to be above all the court, but not too high to become and easy, open target. “I do,” he agreed, thin lips curling into a cruel little smile. “I wish for you to take,” he paused, a finger pressing to his lips. Matthias reigned in the urge to curl his lip at the sight of the black, pointed nail which resided on that finger. “I wish for you to take ten of your best men, along with Mihai here, and squash any signs of rebellion that you find.”

Squash, as in kill. Mihai grimaced, but nodded. “Of course, your highness. Is there anything else you would require of us?” He asked, head tilting to the side, feigning innocence and loyalty. Matthias had to cover the chuckle that rose with a cough.

“That will be all. Dismissed,” with that, the man turned on his heel and retreated- not to his throne, but past it, to the dark doorway that lead to his own personal chambers beyond, and Gods know what else. Matthias couldn’t remember what horrors lay beyond, only the ever-consuming darkness. It still made his skin crawl regardless. Dropping down in a low bow at the waist, the pair held their position until Florin was out of eyesight, and then a moment longer before raising.

Luca had climbed down the stairs, while Zoya had simply vanished into thin air. Mihai turned, slowly, looking for the Spymaster as if she could be hidden within the shadows. Then again, she just might. The thought made Matthias suddenly question every single thing he’d ever done when he thought he was alone.

“He’ll want you to take off first light,” the petit prince spoke, voice softer, more melodic compared to his terror of a father. He took after his late mother in so many ways, Matthias noted with a tinge of melancholy. “You’ll need to prepare for the journey tonight. Your horses should be being tended to currently…” Trailing off, Luca fidgeted with his sleeves, an old habit he’d had since he was but a boy, apparently. Mihai had pointed it out.

“What aren’t you telling us?” Mihai pressed, watching as the prince shifted, armor clinking. Armor that had been styled after his fathers, silver and black and just as horrid. Matthias crossed his arms over his chest and waited, watching as Luca looked around the room before stepping even closer- close enough that, if he wanted, he could reach up and tuck some of that long, white blond hair behind a delicate ear.

Luca worried his lip before meeting Mihai’s stare. “Father intends to use this as a show of force- not just for here, but against the other nations. Against Cruimore.”

The sound of his home country made Matthias pause, brows furrowing. Against his home? Why? Sapphire hues studied Luca carefully, reading his every movement, looking for the telltale show of lying- but he found nothing. A cold chill crept along his skin as he let the words sink in. “Why against Cruimore?”

“Because your sister has ascended to the throne.”

“My sister?” Matthias echoed, disbelief painting his tone. “How? Father was on the throne, not Thea. Thea wouldn’t take the throne unless…” Unless something had happened to his father. Unless something had caused him to abdicate the throne. Unless something had…

He didn’t realize he was running until he burst through the throne room doors and was halfway down the hallway when Mihai managed to catch up- but didn’t stop him. He ran beside him, a hand on the pommel of his blade. Their footsteps echoed like war drums, a staccato against the silence of the palace. No servants were in their paths, no noblemen or women, no courtesans. Empty. They turned, racing down the stairs, taking them three at a time, towards the courtyard.

He couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t, could he? He wasn’t. There was no way- they would have sent word, right? Why wouldn’t they have sent word?

‘They think you dead, little prince.’ A viscous voice hissed at him from within his mind. No. They couldn’t. He was alive! He was here, breathing, alive!

They swept across the courtyard, barely slowing to leave the gates, before Matthias turned and slowed his steps, speed walking through the crowds of the Upper Market. “Kaith will know.” He hissed, hand curling into a fist before uncurling and curling once more. He could feel his nails bite into his skin, the sting a reminder that he was alive. Mihai didn’t answer, instead using his bulk to slide in front of him and clear a path. For that, he was grateful. Broad shouldered and taller, with a severe jawline and a dangerous glint in his eyes, Mihai made for a terrifying sight that made crowds part like waves around a rock.

The Upper Market was always busy, especially on sunny, warm days. Shopfronts were lined with the finest of dresses, made from silk or velveteen with lace appliques. Others held pastries and decorative cakes, the smell of sweets wafting into the street, covering the smell of sea with their sugar. The cobblestone was clean, no cracks, nothing that could cause you to stub your toe or trip when drunk. Speaking of, there were no taverns, not up here. No, those were below.

The Low District was their destination. Or, more accurately, the Barnacle, a port-side tavern that was popular with sailors and held the most information. Where Kaith resided. It was obvious when one passed from the Upper to the Low; the cobblestone gave way to dirt roads, the shops were no longer white and pristine, and the smell of sea salt crept into every pore and crevice, sinking into your clothes, your skin, your hair. The shops and houses here took the brunt of the sea’s wrath, the high waves and torrential downpours. Their walls weren’t of the pretty wood and stone, but of brick and rock, made to weather the sea.

Matthias began to jog, speed slowly picking up as he picked his way down the empty alleyways, startling fat rats and skinny cats. He didn’t care; he could hear the roar of the sea, the laughter of drunk men, the calls of women to lure men into their brothels and enjoy themselves. None of that mattered.

Not when Kaith slipped out of the shadows directly into their path, causing both Matthias and Mihai to nearly slip in the mud. Kaith stood still, dressed head to toe in black, their dark hair tied back in a loose braid. “You’re in a rush,” they noted, brow raising as they studied them.

“I need to know.” Matthias panted out, hands on his knees.

“Know… What?” Kaith pressed, words no more than a whisper.

“I don’t have time for games, Kaith!” He exclaimed, straightening up and leaning close. “I need to know what you know about Vatis.” Kaith’s dark eyes gave nothing away; endless pools of obsidian that could swallow a man whole and make him beg for mercy. He didn’t look away. “What happened to my father.”

Kaith didn’t answer, not right away. Instead, they looked around, gaze sweeping for peeping eyes and listening ears. The Shadow of Istis, that’s what they were called. And the Shadow could see things in the Shadows that others could not. “Come,” they spoke finally, turning on their heel to make their way towards the docks. “Malekai will tell you.”

Malekai, their… Boss? Keeper? Lover? Matthias wasn’t sure what the relationship was between the Shadow and the Pirate. But if Malekai had information, then he would gladly go to the ship. Even if it meant forfeiting secrets he was not fond of giving. That’s what Malekai and Kaith traded in; secrets.

Everyone in Istis had a closet full of skeletons, and a chest full of secrets.

“Lead the way,” Mihai spoke for Matthias. Kaith nodded and turned, braid swinging with the movement. For as long as Matthias had known Kaith, he had never figured them out. They were masculine, but feminine. Strong angles and soft curves. Long hair and longer knives. Their clothing gave nothing away- he would know, he’d stared. And stared. And could never see beyond the baggy pants and loose tops covered with a heavy leather jacket. Within those layers were weapons of all kinds hidden: stilettoes, daggers, switchblades, Rettan smoke bombs, Eastern Isles poisons. Dangerous, in so many ways.

The port was busy, sailors calling here and there, merchants making last ditch efforts for sales, wives kissing their husband’s goodbye and husbands waving their wives off, gone to sea for another few months. And at the very end, flanked by two of Florin’s Royal Navy ships, sat the Crimson Grace.

It was quite a sight, something that could take anyone’s breath away. Its black sails were furled, hiding the crimson bird that decorated them, anchors dropped, but despite that, it was still marvelous. The entire ship was doused in a color far too close to fresh blood, with black and gold trim work. The figurehead was of a woman, her arms outstretched towards the horizon, her hair a deep ebony and skin a vivid gold. Her dress was crimson, just as the rest of the ship.  

Kaith wasted no time in leading them on board, not needing an introduction. The crew knew them well, stepping aside for the Shadow and their companions. They opened the door to the Captain’s Quarters after knocking once, sliding in and gesturing. Inside lay all sorts of treasures; a large map of the seas upon one wall, a mahogany desk with golden trinkets and another map and ships and other strange wooden figures stationed atop.

And leaning against that desk was the captain himself, Malekai the Malicious.

When Matthias first met him, he wasn’t sure what to expect. Some old, weathered sailor with scars and missing teeth and maybe a missing limb or two. Instead, he was met with a handsome, young face that vaguely reminded him of a wolf, or perhaps a fox. Golden blond hair that fell to his shoulders in gentle waves, mischievous blue eyes, and a kind smile. Nothing compared to what he had been expecting.

That had been four years ago.

Malekai hadn’t changed much in that time; he still fancied extravagant suits tailored to his figure and pure red wine and remained as mischievous as ever. Except for now- now, that mischief lacked from his gaze, the corners of his lips were turned down in a deep frown, and he wore a loose, white shirt that was unbuttoned clear to his sternum and high waisted, black leather trousers. The shirt revealed a tattoo of a sun over his heart.

“Malekai.” Mihai greeted, and a beat later, Matthias spoke up.

“What do you know?”

Malekai eased himself from the desk and gestured to the two chairs that were situated before it. “Sit.” It wasn’t a suggestion. Slowly, the pair lowered themselves into the plush seats, sinking down. “There’s really no easy way for me to say this…” He began, hands gripping the edge of the desk. Matthias noted how his knuckles whitened, how his jaw clenched. He leaned forward in his seat, gaze locked on the pirate.

“Tell. Me.” He managed to grind out, heart hammering in his chest, blood pounding in his ears.

Malekai sighed, slowly crouching down before Matthias. “There have been whispers on the winds and lips of traveling merchants from the North. Whispers that… There has been a change.”

“A change.”

Nodding, the pirate studied his hands, the scars that crossed his knuckles. “There is no easy way to say this,” he repeated, looking up from his hands to the captive prince before him, “your father was killed in an attempt to overthrow the royal family. Your older sister has taken the throne and crown, and has been declared Queen of Cruimore, with your mother as the Queen Regent.”

A moment passed where it felt as if the world dropped out from beneath Matthias, as if the ocean had suddenly swelled up and crashed over him, leaving him to float with no sign of surfacing. “What?”