“And so, the destined day is nearly upon us. I was beginning to doubt mother’s wisdom when it came to the oracle’s words, but recent events have clearly proven the crazed bitch right.” Meganira laughed to herself at the absurdity of it all. Sixteen years ago, on her youngest sister’s birthday, shooting stars filled the sky and her mother sacrificed her favorite lover to Nxyea for a boon and a glimpse into the future.

  The oracle had told her: “Two days after the full moon of Thagelion, sixteen years hence, you will find a boon for your house in the form of a boy on the road from Greenport to Eliaran. Take this boy! Raise him in your house and the Helana will know centuries of fortune! The goddess is pleased with this most exquisite offering you have given her!”

  Meganira remembered the raucous laughter from the old crone before she morphed into a woman more beautiful than any Helana had ever seen. Her wrinkly skin and greying hair rejuvenated before their eyes, and the woman who had been an old sack of wrinkly skin looked no older than her twenty-year-old brother. Truly, her mother’s lover must have been a most auspicious offering. Rarely was the oracle so specific in her visions and it had been centuries since the oracle was granted rejuvenation. It almost seemed as if the goddess had been toying with the Helana’s up until this point.

  “Such callous words sister, please keep them to yourself. Even in these wilds the Matriarch has ears.” Metanira replied from her little bench across from her sister. They were resting in Meganira’s command tent, hidden in some trees beside the road where their “boon” was destined to be in two days.

  “You worry too much, sister! When we take this man-thing back to our mother there shall be plenty of praise for both of us,” said Meganira in an ominous tone. Her lips curled into a wicked smile, and she eyed her younger sister. “Perhaps if its handsome, I’ll let you break it in for Mythiara before we return to Nokros! It’ll be our little secret.” She laughed, her rich voice filling the tent the two shared. Metanira did not look amused.

  “If mother discovers we’ve tampered with the goddess’s blessing to our family, she’ll cut us open and let the vultures pick out our innards for time unending,” replied Metanira seriously.

  She was right of course. To foul up this mission with sixteen years of foresight would be a grave error indeed, the punishment for such a failure would be brutal.

  “Oh, don’t be so serious sister I’m only joking!” Meganira patted her right thigh with one hand and raised the other in a consolatory gesture. “Of course, when we capture the boy, he will be riding with you on the way home. I trust you are up to the task?”

  Metanira nodded her head. Her sister meant to cast the responsibilities of any mishaps on her, and of course reap the benefits of any successes. Such was her role as the eldest daughter of the highest family in Nxyea. “I hope Mythiara appreciates her gift. Surely mother will bestow it upon her favorite child.” Metanira smiled as the words left her mouth. The shifting of favor from their mother’s eldest daughter to her youngest was a sore subject to Meganira, and she held utter disdain for anyone that brought it up. She was forbidden from striking out against her siblings for speaking on such a subject, bearing the consequences of breaking said rule on her back from multiple savage whippings. Their mother was most intolerable indeed when it came to the goddess’s favored child.

  “We’ll see,” replied Meganira curtly. “I pray the stupid girl will know what do with such a boon when the time comes. Mother has spoiled her soft and rotten.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Metanira. “But perhaps this poor boy we’re about to capture will remedy that. I suspect Mythiara will be forced to take him as a consort, and from there quickly bare our family children, hopefully strong children.”

  “Strong daughters, you mean. Alekos and this new one will be men enough for our family.” Meganira spat the words, her disdain for what the goddess called “the inferior sex” written clear upon her face. “Besides, mother will take on another lover soon enough, no matter how deeply she loved that dandy.”

  Metanira shook her head, her sister was being particularly blasphemous this evening. “That ‘dandy’ was enough to grant mother a clear glance sixteen years into the future and rejuvenate the oracle. He was very clearly favored by the goddess. He may even be keeping her company in the gap now.”

  Meganira shook her head. All this talk about valuable men made her sick to her stomach. How could such creatures possibly hold value to the goddess? She found it quite vexing, though she was more jealous of her youngest sister who seemed to have life handed to her.

  “Go back to your tent, I tire of your presence,” ordered Meganira, her voice rife with annoyance. “Check if your troops are ready for the ambush, then check again. As you said, we cannot afford to mess this up.” Metanira nodded and rose to her feet, pulling her cloak over her black chest plate and exiting her sister’s tent. Meganira sighed and began to strip from her armor. These next few years would be interesting indeed for the Helenas. And she wasn’t certain she would live to see the end of the inevitable intrigue to come.

  Laranthel rode beside two men, both instructors for the academy at Eliaran. They wore blue cloaks and blue caps with a silver circlet framing that lined their edges. One of the men wore an eagle feather at the front of his hat. He was the older of the two and had a long grey beard to hide the wrinkled skin of his leathery face. The other man looked to be in his thirties, he had a stern face and the muscular build of an old soldier. The three of them were the only people from Greenport travelling to Eliaran, a rare thing to occur but not all too uncommon.

  The fact a war was going on didn’t help. Laranthel felt bad that he was going to school instead of to the front, but he was sure the training he would undergo at the academy would make up for his late arrival to the fighting. The two older men accompanying Laranthel didn’t seem keen on talking, so they rode mostly in silence. The three of them had set out early in the morning and were still travelling as the sun began to set.

  “We should make camp here shortly,” said the older man in a low hollow voice. The younger man nodded, and they continued on.

  “Let’s pass this forest first, it should only take another hour.” It was the younger man, he peered around the forest, scanning for movement. “It’ll be safer that way.”

  “There won’t be any trouble this far south. But I suppose we’re better off safe than sorry. Let’s continue.” The old man pulled his pack tight to his back and spurred his horse to ride faster.

  They moved ahead in silence, hearing nothing but the cries of bugs and birds as they trotted along the dirt path to Eliaran. Suddenly, Laranthel heard a sharp whistling noise and found himself thrown against his horse’s neck as it began to buck around in pain. It whinnied and began to rush forwards.

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  “What in the hells,” cried the younger man as a barrage of bolts whizzed by. He clutched his reins and tried to spur his horse into action but was stopped by a well-placed crossbow bolt to his neck. He let out a few guttural sounds from his punctured throat before falling from his horse. The creature began to run off, dragging along its rider.

  “Flee boy, flee! You must leave this place!” called the old man as he dismounted his horse and began to conjure some magic into his hands.

  He turned toward the tree line where the crossbow bolts had come from and let lose a powerful arc of lighting. The purple bolt struck a tree, lighting it on fire, and sending it crashing down onto the forest floor. From his horse, Laranthel could see, illuminated by the firelight, dark silhouettes crouched in the foliage, preparing to fire more bolts at him and the old man.

  Before he could get his horse fully under control, another volley of bolts was loosed towards Laranthel, striking his horse and sending it into a frenzy. It panicked and bucked Laranthel from his saddle, sending him and the equipment not tied to his saddle hurdling into the grass. Laranthel landed on his side and quickly crawled over to his pack, searching for his sword. Luckily, it was still where he had placed it; resting in its sheath tied to his bag. He drew the blade and began crawling forward, towards the tree line ahead of him.

  A few yards to his right, the old man was still throwing spells at the attackers hidden in the trees. Lightning bolts and beams of energy sprang forth from his hands, bombarding the tree line in fire and light. Their assailants were probably cursing their luck, they had run into a magician out in the countryside. If it weren’t so dark, the old man might have handily dealt with their foes, but in the dark they could hide from the old mages vicious assault.

  Fear gripped Laranthel. This is it, he thought. His story would end out here in the forest, killed by raiders or bandits he couldn’t even see. He gritted his teeth and continued to move forward, rising to a crouch as he made his way forward, praying to all the gods above he would make it into the forest and lose his pursuers. Behind him, a bolt finally struck the mage, ending the barrage of magic energy that was being hurled into the forest.

  “Fly boy! Fly!” The old man called as he tried to stay on his feet. He righted himself and conjured one last blast of lighting into his right hand. He raised it towards one of the silhouettes that began to emerge from the flaming tree line and let loose a bolt of lightning that struck the shadowy figure, arcing from them to four other silhouettes, frying them all to a crisp. Another volley of bolts came whistling from the other side of the path, striking the old magician in his back and sending him to the ground, convulsing in pain.

  Laranthel rose from his crouch and broke into a sprint, dropping his pack and pushing his body to its limits as he made for the trees ahead of him. Before he could reach his destination, he felt a shoulder slam into his side, sending him tumbling to the ground tangled up in a black leather clad figure. Laranthel kicked the attacker off himself and scrambled up from the ground, sword in hand. He took a defensive position and began to scan his surroundings. All around him were similarly clothed figures, all wearing black hoods and masks. Ahead of him, beneath their hood and mask, Laranthel could see the eyes and nose of his assailant. It was a Night Child! Their rust red eyes stared back at Laranthel, full of contempt.

  “Come on,” breathed Laranthel through a clenched jaw. They circled each other, Laranthel poised to intercept any attack with his rapier and the shadowy figure ready to strike with their saber.

  The hooded figure lurched forward and Laranthel quickly stabbed at the villain before they could move passed the tip of his blade. The figure backed away, holding their sword out to defend from any further attacks. Laranthel stepped forward and prodded the figure, looking for any openings, a mistake he could exploit to go on the offensive. He had the longer blade and the advantage in reach, he wouldn’t have to move passed his enemies sword to strike. They circled each other, and Laranthel found himself surprised when none of the shadowy figure’s allies stepped forward to help them.

  It doesn’t matter, thought Laranthel, his mind growing frantic. If I can take but one with me, gods above if you let me have but one! He lurched forward in a feint, trying to bait his opponent into overcommitting to an attack. The figure did, slashing downward with their shorter sword giving Laranthel an opportunity to swiftly step forward and skewer their wrist.

  The figure let out a pained groan and dropped their saber. Laranthel quickly stepped forward and put his sword through the disarmed figure’s chest, pulling the blade out just as fast. The figure wheezed and collapsed backwards, clutching at the wound. A wicked laugh rang out from somewhere in the darkness and soon all the shadows began to join in. Laranthel turned and turned, readying himself to intercept an attack from any angle, anxiously anticipating another attacker. No one came forward to slay him, they just stood around laughing as their comrade bleed out in the dirt.

  “Calm yourself boy, we are not going to hurt you,” called a voice from the darkness. It was rich, full, and elegant. Spoken in a familiar language. “But you will be coming with us. Any further resistance will be dealt with swiftly.” Moments later a woman emerged from the shadows with an appearance that matched the beautiful voice. Her face was like a statue, sharp and sculpted, long straight white hair flowing down her shoulders. She smiled at Laranthel, her amethyst eyes examining his figure, his character.

  “Do as she says boy, or this will be a painful night for you indeed.” Another woman stepped forward; her appearance similar of the first. Her face was slightly rounder, fuller, and her white hair tied into a ponytail that ran down her back.

  The two black armor-clad women slowly approached Laranthel, hands on their weapons, ready to subdue him if he resisted. Laranthel backed away from the women, intimidated. These were Nyxeans, women from a matriarchal society that despised men, kept them as an underclass that lived to serve them. Laranthel shuddered at the thought being captured and made a slave but feared death even more. His hands tightened and untightened around his sword, the fear in him mounting. “I don’t believe you,” he hollered, backing away from the approaching women. “Stay back!”

  “Oh, sweet boy,” sang the first woman. “Look at him Metanira! Isn’t he so cute, so sweet looking?” She laughed, still approaching.

  “He is! Mythiara is a lucky girl indeed, Meganira,” cooed the second woman softly. She followed behind the first woman, Meganira, drawing her own sword. “Put the blade down boy, that one likes to flay men. Come quietly and I’ll make sure she spares a sweet thing like you.”

  Laranthel’s mind whirled, searching for a way out. His heart threatened to beat out of his chest and his body started to jitter. He peered around the firelit clearing, hoping, praying for a way out, but only found the jeering faces of the two cruel looking women, and their masked comrades. Laranthel sighed, stretched out his arms and let out a laugh. This is madness, he thought, then let his sword fall to the ground.

  “Do what you will,” said Laranthel defiantly. He let his arms fall to his side and looked Meganira in the eye as she approached.

  “Oh, and look, It’s a brave thing! What fortune!” Meganira cackled, and her allies began to laugh as well. Even Metanira broke a smile. “Follow my sister boy, her name is Metanira, but you will call her and any women you see from now on mistress. Understood?”

  Laranthel nodded sheepishly, acquiescing to her command, and approaching Metanira. The woman placed her hand on Laranthel’s back and led him into the forest.

  “You don’t know how lucky you are child,” muttered Metanira lowly. “It is a rare thing indeed for a deserter to find mercy from us sisters but know that your days will be filled with struggle from her on out. You belong to House Helana from now on, don’t ever forget that.”

  Laranthel continued forward, led by Metanira’s hand. He did his best to fight back tears, his life had taken an unexpected turn for the worse. How could this happen, he thought. He lowered his head in sadness, feeling like a hole tore open within his chest.

  “Come now,” teased Meganira from ahead of Laranthel. “The journey is long and treacherous.” She laughed and continued forwards, leading Laranthel deeper into the dark forest.

  Laranthel shuddered as he considered the horrors that awaited him in the Land of Night, wondering if surrendering was the right choice.