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On Saturday, I used Midjourney to craft this image of Saffa in mavka form, wearing Rostam and wielding Starfang, in the aftermath of her demolishing one of Bratgon’s tanks.

After three hours, I spent another hour doing touch ups and altering her hair color. I think it turned out amazing! The final image is followed by the original from Midjourney.

The biggest changes are to Saffa’s hair, armor, sword, and the general temperature of the photo. I gave Saffa a tail and little horns too.

In the book, when a mavka, she has klingon like ridges and bone spikes on her forehead, but Midjourney didn’t want to make those, so I punted on making her 100% accurate. And technically she has a braid tucked in her armor during this scene in the book, but I wanted to showcase her hair color of freedom.

I’m pleased to share the prologue for my second book. Please enjoy!

The following text is (c) 2024, Digital Ruby, LLC and may not be reproduced without written consent. Please email [email protected] for questions. Rated MA for mature audiences only.

Year 19256, Yava

Midnight went as a blizzard howled, carrying a woman’s wail on the wind, mingling with thunderclaps. A substantial black wall, riddled with cannons and covered with white runes, rose between a narrow gap in the mountains. Thousands of years ago, the barbarians built this wall with fimbul^[1], using the ground bones of morozko^[2] mixed with their icy black blood for mortar. It guarded Svathora, the sacred mountain. At its peak, a shrine carved from fimbul loomed. Ice drakes, and their riders covered in thick furs, flew, battered by the storm, charged with protecting those within at all costs.

Torches flickered, lighting a grand chamber with its smooth, black surfaces as Svala lay on a stone slab, legs spread, her torso braced up on rocks, her screams slicing out into the night air. A rain symbol, mark of clan Kryludi, covered her chest. Ziva, the clan’s pale, blonde nurse with her hair in a netting, stood between Svala’s feet. A healer held Svala’s hand, chanting, “Guartratam.” Radmir, a watchman^[3] in leather armor, stood by a rumbling furnace adorned with runes, its small door open. Crimson flames hissed inside, steam spewing from the opening.

A majestic statue, made of fimbul with ruby highlights, gleamed at the shrine’s rear: a mavka^[4], with three forked tails and large, razored wings, fucked a mountain of a man while they kissed. A bronze plaque below read: In honor of Zarvek, our first Warlord, and his union with Demvora, Savior of Drenaglen.

“One more,” Ziva said.

Svala’s eyes forcibly shut as her body tensed, her cries carrying outside.

Thalor, Warlord of Drenaglen, clad in fine furs, stood at his wife’s other side, silent as she squeezed his hand like a vise.

Ziva tugged, pulling an emerging baby girl out. Infant cries mingled with Svala’s. A silver knife flashed in the nurse’s hand, cutting the cord. Fluids splattered on the slab as she held the babe aloft. “A wondrous girl. What’s her name?”

“Syla!” Svala reached for the baby.

Ziva ignored Svala’s cries, carrying the child to the furnace. She turned the newborn girl over, inspecting every part as the watchman’s sharp eyes observed.

Like all babies in Drenaglen, if the girl possessed any infirmities … if she appeared sickly … disfigured or blemished … small or weak … the furnace awaited.

Radmir nodded. “She is flawless.” To reveal the infant’s magic ability and verify compatibility with clan Kryludi, he grasped a branding rod and held it in the furnace. After taking it out, the end glowed, and he held it on the baby’s chest.

The infant bawled, eyes reddening, pools of tears running down her cheeks.

He released and set the rod aside.

Svala whimpered, dripping with sweat, muscles taut with exertion. Thalor bowed his head, muttering an inaudible prayer.

Hand over his mouth, Radmir gasped. “She bears the mark of wind … of clan Vitrovi.”

“What?” Thalor, eyes wide, took a step toward the furnace, but his wife’s death grip halted his progress. She seized, her limbs jerking like electrocution. “Heal. My. Wife,” Thalor ordered the healer.

Her chants quickened.

Ziva set the baby girl in a bassinet. She hurried to Svala’s feet again, hands held near a crowning head.

Svala screamed, mashing her head and back against the rocks.

The healer braced Svala’s head. “I don’t know what’s wrong … This spell should work.”

Thalor’s face paled, worry creasing his forehead. “Try something else! Anything else!”

The woman rubbed her hands on Svala’s belly. “Artumembre.”

Svala’s wails sundered the air.

“Svala …” Thalor, eyes wet, rubbed her cheek. “My One. Stay with me.”

Her tormented eyes found his. “Thalor, my love …”

The nurse pulled an emerging baby boy out—he screamed like his mother. A deluge of fluids splashed stone. She sliced the cord.

“A whimsical boy, my Queen. His name?”

“Dragan!” Svala’s eyes shut, body convulsing as matter gushed from her entrance.

Ziva strode to the furnace, where she held the babe for inspection. On his lower back, a transparent patch of flesh exposed his vertebrae and spinal cord. With a stern headshake, Radmir pointed at the furnace.

Brows tight at him, Ziva’s eyes shone a luminous green. “He’s flawless.”

Fear crawled Radmir’s face. “Who are you?”

Ziva stared. “Your mistress.”

His gazed softened. “Yes, mistress.”

The nurse ran her hand along the blemish, leaving discolored flesh and a scar in her wake before lifting her chin at the watchman, her eyes blue once more.

He lowered his arm, blinking out of a daze. “He’s flawless.”

“Get help!” Thalor roared.

The healer fled the chamber.

As before, Radmir grasped the branding rod, holding it in the furnace. After removing it, he pressed the searing end on the newborn’s chest. The child sobbed, his eyes swelling. Upon release, a mountain adorned his chest.

The watchman cast his rod down—it rattled around on the floor as his jaw hung open. He shook his head, shut the furnace door, and turned a crank on its side. The hissing fires within waned. “He bears the mark of stone … of clan Zemlani.”

“Thalor!” With her final breath, Svala’s pale skin darkened to cobalt as ice covered her, the blizzard outside dissipating.

Thalor, hugging his beloved, wept, his cries piercing in the chamber.

Ziva set the boy next to the girl in the bassinet. The infants screamed, arms and legs wiggling, their chests seared from the branding. She placed a palm on each babe’s bosom.

They calmed.

As she lifted her hands, her eyes found Thalor. A tear fell from her eye, then she wrapped the babes in thick blankets. Bassinet in hand, she strode to Svala’s corpse, opening her mouth. A bulb of white light rose from Svala’s mouth into hers. She found Radmir, whispering in his ear, “Leave us. Tell everyone Thalor wishes to be alone until morning. And lock the door.”

“Yes, mistress.” He left, pressing a notch on his way out. A stone door boomed shut.

She shuffled to Thalor’s side. “May I comfort you, warlord?”

His cries continued.

“Warlord!”

Lamented groans spat from Thalor as he retched, resting his forehead on Svala’s icy stomach. “Leave me Ziva, so I may mourn my One alone.” His body shook as he choked in his throat.

“I hate seeing you like this.” Her voice dropped as she rested her other hand on the furs of his back. “Please let me help. Let me touch.”

His cries stuttered as he stood, towering over her, cocking his head down at her. “You’ve been our clan’s most trusted nurse for years.” He ran a hand along his eyes. “What magic have you hidden all this time?”

“May I show you?”

He wavered with sorrow as if the slightest breeze might topple him. “Yes.”

And she took his hand; her gaze remained upbeat. “Enough sadness. You and Svala brought two wonderful humans into the world. This is cause for celebration.”

His tears ceased abruptly as his legs and arms shook, trepidation marking his visage. But he couldn’t move, as if he’d become a statue. “By Navia’s abyss … your touch … you’re a mavka, aren’t you? Let go!”

“I am. But relax, because I’m not here to claim you or devour your soul.”

The warlord groaned, his ripped arms vibrating. “Who. Are. You?”

A glint of green light shone in her eyes. “Stop fighting me, silly. I’m known as The Trickster. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

Thalor scrunched his forehead. “Where are your wings and tail? How are you hiding yourself?”

“It’s a complicated process called cloaking.” She rubbed his hand. “Everything’s fine.”

Thalor’s posture relaxed, his smile broadening. “I’ve heard of you. Your presence honors my clan.”

“Isn’t this so much better than tears?”

He laughed. “I suppose it is, though it’s strange laughing with my wife having just died.”

She dragged her hand up his arm to his shoulder. It wandered to his cheek. “I’m sorry for your loss, Thalor. And you’re well learned.” The bassinet left her hand, hovering to the side.

Thalor’s eyes closed briefly as he let out a moan. “You saved my son. How can I repay you?”

She tapped her foot, fingers rapping along her chin. “Mm … how about making me warlord?”

His forehead ridged with sternness. “Not possible.”

“Why not?” She dragged her finger along his neck.

A grin of pleasure spread across Thalor’s lips. “That’s … what is this?”

“Feeling a little distracted? Come on, what do you say? We can announce it in the morning.” The Trickster giggled.

Thalor grabbed her hand, guiding it away. “Our tradition forbids a woman … ah, you’re joking.” He backed away, releasing his hold. “You can read minds? Read … desire?”

“I’ve never invaded your mind, if that’s what you’re asking. I have known your emotions. This is one ability we can’t shut off.”

He placed a palm on his forehead. “Then you know my heart.”

“A heart of honor. You never once acted on your desire for me. Never once made me feel uncomfortable. You remained faithful to Svala. We spoke often about your devotion to her.”

“Perhaps you should go. Let me mourn my lost wife alone.”

“If you wish me to leave, command me.”

He pondered. “No.”

“Happy to hear it. May I touch again?”

“Your skin is pure happiness. Yes.”

She inched forward, her hands extended, the bassinet following. “I knew you liked it.”

He swallowed and reached for her hands—their palms met, fingers locking. A lengthy sigh of bliss escaped him. “I knew mavki could induce pleasure, but this is …”

“Hm?” she inquired.

He breathed in a daze.

“Oh, Thalor, you’ve lost your words.” The Trickster grinned. “Guess I better tone it down a little. Now, I have four things to ask of you.”

Thalor’s head twitched. “Name them.”

“First, your outcast^[5] children must stay with you.”

“With my beloved gone, they are my last connection to her … it will be so.” He moaned in ecstasy. “So you’re here to seduce me … after my beloved has fallen?”

“Not just that. I knew Svala would die of Frostphage, so I came to your clan to watch over you both, and eventually, your newborn twins. Dragan is a potential consort.”

“Her death. Your consort. How do you know all these things?”

“A bit of magic. Some mischief.”

“Explain potential.”

“Some Dragan’s are called, but only one true Dragan is chosen. Your son will endure three tests. If he passes, he’s my One.”

“You only bond with one soul?”

“Correct.”

“What tests?”

“One of devotion. Another of dignity. Last, discernment. Call it the three D’s. For demon—that’s me.” A few strands of The Trickster’s golden hair uncoiled from her hair netting, tickling the back of Thalor’s neck.

He grunted, pulling her firmly into his bosom, gazing down with eyes darkening like a coming storm. “Is this all a game to you, Trickster?”

“Well then. I love games. Don’t you?”

A harsh growl escaped him as his head shook. “When one … bathes in morozko cruelty, games are often deadly. You sure make it hard to have a … conversation.”

Her golden strands, barely visible in the dim light, gently wrapped around his wrists, removing his arms from around her as she floated up from the floor, chest gliding against his, her hands wrapping around his neck, their eyes level now. “You lot need to make more time for the fun kind, ones that don’t involve throwing infants into furnaces and branding them. Trust me, it’ll help bolster your nation.”

He grinned with wonder. “Your … bubbling enthusiasm is unusual.”

“Hope it rubs off on you. Hold out your palms.”

He complied.

She circled an index finger on each of his hands. “How’s that?”

A lengthy moan left him. “What?”

Her mouth angled sharply. “My next ask is for Syla and Dragan to partake in probation.”

He growled, his hands clutching her waist, pushing down, but finding no success to lower her to the ground. “As outcasts, it’s forbidden. Whatever you’re trying, it ends here.”

“I’m trying to comfort you. Shall I go?”

Thalor lowered his head. “No, Trickster. But I can’t honor this request.”

She used a single finger to pry his hands off before interlocking her fingers with him slowly. “What about now?”

“I’ve never felt”—his eyes fluttered—“such peace.”

“Isn’t it nice? Just go with it.”

“Go … with what?”

The Trickster chuckled. “Outcasts, remember? You are warlord. I’m guessing you can make it happen. For your Trickster.”

His eyes rolled up. “Very well.”

“Thanks for accommodating. They’re so quiet when they sleep.”

He beamed at his newborn children in the floating bassinet. “Yes, they are precious. And you’ve healed their branding.” He met her eyes. “Do you have a name … other than Ziva or The Trickster, I mean?”

“Can you keep my name a secret?”

Thalor’s face tightened with determination. “I’ll guard it with my life.”

“It’s Alonka.”

“Alonka … it’s a beautiful name, one fit for a mavka. What else do you require?”

“Swear on your soul to never reveal me or my name, nor my interest in Dragan, nor my other alias, Lona, nor my identical twin sister, Puck. When you see us, years from now, pretend we’ve never met.”

Thalor shrugged, his face covered with indifference. “Why not? I swear on my soul.”

“Aren’t you an easygoing warlord? Fourth, and I think you’ll love this one, would you honor your late wife and me by becoming my honorary consort?”

“So you do wish to claim me.” He grunted, eyes squinting. “It appears I’ve no choice.”

“Again, I don’t want to claim you or your soul or force you against your will. Here’s my proposal: from midnight to sunrise, for one day a year for the rest of your life, on this anniversary, starting tonight, we are lovers. It’ll be our”—she leaned to his ear—“shared secret.”

“But my One.” He shook his head at Svala’s icy corpse. “I cannot dishonor her.”

Alonka turned his gaze back to her with a finger, tugging on his lip. “You are most honorable, Thalor. But I already know you want this. Remember my ability? Now what would Svala want?”

A quiet breath breezed from his lips. “She always wanted my happiness. Why are you doing this?”

“Your faithfulness to your wife. I know you won’t seek another. You’re a worthy man, a worthy, honorary consort. But the real answer? I want you. And you want me. With Svala’s blessing, we’ll be just like the statue over there.”

He glanced at the statue. “It’s flattering … to say the least.” He shook his head slowly. “But it’s too much, too soon. I should mourn my lost wife. Please cease your touching and give my sorrow back.” Thalor’s face contorted, waging war against The Trickster’s wandering hands.

Her fingers locked around his back as she leaned, her lips caressing his, voice dropping to a simmering whisper. “I need your honesty, not your honor.”

“It feels like a betrayal.” His arms pushed against her but fell limp. “My wife … my One just died.”

“I’ll ask again. What would she want for you? What do you want?”

“I dare not say.”

“You should dare. Want to command me? I’ll do anything you ask.”

“Alonka … please.”

Her brows rose in succession. “Please what, Thalor?”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

Need softened his gaze. “Stop.”

The Trickster’s tongue parted her lips, brushing against his. “You’ll get your sorrow back after the sun comes up. For now, let’s celebrate Svala’s life.” The bassinet floated away and set itself elsewhere. “Shall I let my hair down?” It suddenly sparkled.

Thalor pushed his fingers into The Trickster’s thick updo. “It’s golden silk like I never imagined.”

The backs of her hands caressed his cheeks. “How about it, Thalor? Want to see the real me?”

“Show me.”

Alonka’s hair netting dissolved, her silken-blonde tresses glowing as they dropped to the floor. Majestic, white-feathered wings spread from her back, a long, shiny, silver tail emerging from her sacrum like a moccasin slithering out of its den. Slowly, she ran a finger along his bulging bicep. “Still want your sorrow back?”

A lustful hiss tore from Thalor. “You’re divine.” His hands shook near her hair as if fighting a force. “Alonka. Will you read my mind?”

“Of course.” She shut her eyes. “Oh, Thalor.”

“You’re not offended?”

“Not at all.” Eyes opening, her face morphed into Svala’s appearance. “Did I get her right?”

He nodded. “Svala … Alonka, your magic is remarkable.”

Alonka’s tongue traversed Thalor’s lips. “All for you. Think of your wife while you let go—I don’t mind.” She pressed her breasts into his chest, her wings wrapping around him. “I’ll do all the things—just like Svala did.”

“Svala …”

“Yes, Milord?”

“… am I dishonoring you?” A tear slipped from his eye.

The Trickster pressed her lips together while wiping his sorrow away. “No, Thalor, for Svala wanted this for you in case of her death.”

“She did?”

“Yes. She knew my true nature. You have her permission to let go of your inhibitions for one day a year. Don’t deny your mistress on this special day, for she desires to please you … hungers for you … for your ki … for her honorary … consort. All because you didn’t act on your desire for so many years.”

Alonka’s gown undid itself, falling off at a tantalizingly slow pace, leaving her bare. She placed one hand on her hip. “What do you think?”

Wide-eyed, furs bulging at his groin, he gaped. “By the titans of Navia.”

Like molten garnets, her eyes gleamed, her voice a demonic murmur laced with Svala’s voice. “Want help with your furs?”

The dark storm consumed his eyes, his hungry growl echoing in the shrine. “Banish them.”

She snapped her fingers.

Poof.

“What doest thou want?”

With hands wrapped around her ass, he pulled her close as can be, eyes glued to her chest. “I want you against the statue.”

Tongue tracing her lips, her eyes wandered to his chiseled arms as she wrapped her legs around him. The pair floated. “Before sunup, warlord, you’ll have me on every surface in this chamber—including the ceiling.”

***

Thalor, clad in his furs, buttoned up Alonka’s nursing gown from behind as the babies stirred in the bassinet. Upon completion, he held her around her chest. He gave a heavy yawn.

“Get enough ki?”

“Plenty.”

“I was thinking … what if we did this more than once a year? You need to feed^[6] and won’t have a proper consort for decades.”

She spun to face him and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Fallen for me so soon, have you?”

“As you said, Svala would want this for me.”

“I like you Thalor, but let’s not get too attached. You must maintain the pretense of loneliness to keep our secret. Can you do that?”

He stroked her blonde mane. “I swear on my soul.”

Alonka twisted her hand, a four-leaf clover amulet fading into existence. She put it around Thalor’s neck. “It only works once a year, I’m afraid. So, on this anniversary, every year, come alone to this shrine after midnight. Hold this, and think Alonka, Alonka, Alonka. It’ll summon me. You must never take it off, or the enchantment will break.”

He rubbed it. “You give these to all your lovers?”

“It’s a unique artifact, just for you.” She touched his cheek. “You’re magnificent, you know that? Svala was a lucky woman.”

“It was like being with her again—your hair was a wonderful addition.” He emitted a content sigh. “You mentioned earlier about wanting to be warlord.”

Alonka laughed. “My touching did a number on you.”

“Do you wish me to give the order?”

“No, seriously, I don’t want it.” Alonka poked his forehead. “There. Feeling more yourself?”

Thalor’s head shook rapidly. “What just happened?”

“You got mesmerized by my special touch. How about considering Syla as warlord?”

“Dragan is my heir—he’ll inherit the mantle. Such is our ways.”

Alonka clicked her tongue. “You could break tradition, warlord.”

“I’m too old to change. And the other clans would revolt.”

“They might.” She rubbed his cheeks. “But you’re in your prime.”

“Your generosity is only outweighed by your beauty, Trickster. If I may impose, do you have any advice on how to care for the babies? Without their mother, I’m lost. There are, of course, people who can help me, but I had hoped to care for them with Svala. Will you …”

Alonka ran her hand down his arm. “Oh, Thalor. Your people can teach you how to feed them, change them, and hold them. But I don’t want you moping around, so I’ll stay with you for the first two months.”

“I accept. Thank you for showing such generosity this night.”

“You deserve it. Now I have to go, but I’ll return in the evening.” A forlorn sigh escaped Alonka’s lips. “I must return your sorrow.”

“Yes, it is time.”

She kissed him gently.

His face soured as he clutched the amulet, falling to his knees. He gazed up at The Trickster, squinting in pain. “Svala?”

“She loved you, Thalor. More than you know.” A bright flash of silver light enveloped the chamber, leaving a smoky scent and a glittery four-leaf clover on the floor.

“Goodbye … my other One.” Thalor scooted to Svala’s corpse on the slab, weeping once more.

The shrine’s stone door ground open, revealing dawn’s rays. As a gust blew, scattering the glitter, a throng of people ran in.

***

Year 19261, Yava

Alonka stayed with Thalor for five years. As she continued to act as clan nurse, she observed young Dragan, pondering whether he could be her Dragan. Her One. Some six hundred years ago, she had bonded with Dragan for the first time—he’d been an eccentric wizard from Galacere—sparking a fifty-year partnership full of passion and adventure. They had spent decades designing Hex, a six-sided cosmic reality die, as a way for her to find his soul in his next life. On his deathbed, they wept together as she promised to always find him. Then she decapitated him before molding twelve of his ribs into the die’s shell.

It had taken three centuries to find six compatible, lucky relics for the faces. Many friends had helped her, sacrificing much in the search. She had a hunch his name would always be Dragan, so while hunting for artifacts, she had bonded with two other Dragan’s, but not finding that connection she had with her first Dragan. This time, they weren’t her One.

Three hundred years ago, she had finished the die, discovering she could ask it any question, give it any command, and it would do its best to comply, though the results were sometimes counterproductive. When she, for the first time, had asked it to find her first Dragan’s soul, the top face showed four words: Dragan, devotion, dignity, discernment. These words defined her first Dragan perfectly. Excited to find him, she had rolled it again, but all sides remained blank. They remained so through countless attempts until she realized she must come up with a grueling test to match each adjective. Once she did that and rolled the die, two hundred eighty years ago, the top side showed Dragan, Yava, fifty-nine percent, a date seventeen years in the past, the number twenty-one, and a precise location on Yava: Mistveil’s mighty fortress wall, one used to defend it against Wyrmguard, its sworn enemy. She realized the date was a birth date, the number an age for bonding.

A year later, she had found him again as an eighteen-year-old shaman in Mistveil, conscripted into service to defend the wall for life. After he had passed her tests, they had bonded on his twenty-first birthday. Then she took him away from his servitude to better places. They shared wonderful adventures throughout Yava and other realms for decades—but old age had caught up with him again. Alas, Zelene, her trusted, albeit prudish mavka friend, couldn’t stop aging or bring back a mavka’s consort^[7], even with her resurrection ability. On his seventy-fifth birthday, tears flowed again as he pleaded with her to take his life. After she wept, she kissed him, devouring all his ki, leaving a gray corpse in her wake. She endured years of sorrow after.

Repeated rolls of Hex for two centuries to find her true love showed nothing, so she searched for willing Dragan’s. Whenever she had revealed her mavka self, they fled in fear. Until fifty years ago. She found a Dragan who had passed the first two tests, but not the test of discernment—yet she had bonded with him, anyway. Many casual flings and shallow relationships had preceded the bonding, making her desperate for something real. Unfortunately, their relationship had degraded quickly. After three years, that Dragan left her—her first divorce, if you can call it that. Only death could sever the bond and allow her to take another, but she wasn’t willing to slay him or exert her power to force him to stay by her side. Four tough decades followed, his death bringing her relief more than anything.

Last year, she had rolled the die, asking it to find her true love. Its top face showed the familiar Dragan, Yava, twenty-one, along with a date: 19256. The place was Varhold, Drenaglen, with a forty-two percent chance. With all other sides blank, she and Puck, her simulacrum conjured in her greatest hour of need, hoped for the best, knowing there’d be a fifty-eight percent chance he wouldn’t be the one.

As a freedom fighter in King Ishethra’s inner circle, Alonka stood on the front line in Navia’s proxy war against the Hells. Fighting devils with their endless schemes, propaganda, and tyrannical brutality required her at full strength, hence the need for a consort. Lacking a consort was hard, but having a bad consort was the worst. Ishethra had asked she take whatever measures to ensure she found her true Dragan, never settling for anything less ever again. When Ishethra, a prior demon lord of Navia’s Underworld, asked anything, she complied. Nightwind’s king never made demands, though this seemed implied with her asks.

The twins had minimal contact with other children from clan Kryludi or any of the other three clans. Each birthday remained bereft of friends. How sad. What brief contact they had resulted in shame and shunning at Thalor keeping his outcast children at home. No clan chieftain had ever done such a thing, even for their own. Despite Alonka’s pleading, Thalor wouldn’t relent on their status as outcasts, his stubbornness contrasting with Alonka’s playfulness.

Young Dragan and Syla played together every spare moment, their bond unbreakable.

So it was, on the twins’ fifth birthday, in Varhold, capital of Drenaglen, a snowy city marked by clan Kryludi’s monstrous fimbul stronghold, Thalor and Alonka sat in Syla’s quaint bedroom. Animal skins adorned the walls, floating light spheres meandered, and Syla lay on a bed topped by soft furs.

Alonka, still posing as Ziva to everyone else, sat in a creaky rocking chair, holding a sleepy Dragan over her shoulder. Normally, someone else would put him to bed, but she’d be leaving in the morning for good, so she made an exception.

Thalor sat on the bed, tucking Syla in, having favored her soon as the children talked. Dragan, annoyingly playful, refused to listen to any speeches about him becoming warlord on his twenty-first birthday. He wanted to play, play, play, and Alonka was happy to be his friend, indulging him with her magic tricks, much to Thalor’s frustration—the exploding playing cards were Dragan’s favorite. Syla, ever doting on her father, gained his favor with her serious demeanor and willingness to listen to his tales about Drenaglen’s history, its plight with the frost giants, and many male traditions, for hours.

“How I wish you had been born a man, Syla.” Thalor kissed her forehead. “What a warlord you would make.”

Syla gazed up with inquisitive eyes. “Why are warlords always men?”

“Beyond tradition? The morozkos, with their unyielding cruelty, require a man’s touch, one of discipline. And wrath. One without coddling or compassion.”

“Drake piss.” Alonka stood. “It can be done with compassion. Better, even.”

“Al—Ziva. Please don’t encourage her.”

“Someone has to. It should be you.” Dragan snored. “Looks like he’s conked out.” Alonka carried Dragan to Syla’s bedside. “Syla, I bless you with the sweetest dreams in all the realms.” Some nights, she gave this blessing to Syla and Dragan, receiving smiles of pure happiness—it warmed her dark mavka heart. She left, shutting the door quietly behind.

Syla waved. “I love Ziva. Will she stay with us forever?”

Thalor breathed through his teeth. “No.”

Syla scrunched up her face. “Why did you call her Alziva?”

“A slip of the tongue—your lonely father is getting on in years.”

“Why won’t you remarry?”

“Svala was my One. I will never take another.”

“I know she wouldn’t mind if you did.”

“Perhaps not. Did you enjoy your birthday, Syla?”

She shrugged, giving a sad, child sigh. “Nobody cared, except you and Ziva. Why must we be outcasts?”

Thalor huffed.

“Tradition. I know. But you kept us, breaking tradition. Why can’t you do both?”

“I walk a narrow beam as it is. If I fall off, our nation may devolve into civil war. Not an option with the morozko threat. Go to sleep.”

“Okay, Father.” She rolled over, covering herself with a thin fur, sleep taking her swiftly.

Thalor placed a hand on her back. “Sleep well, firstborn daughter.” He slid off the bed and sat in a chair by the bedside, eyes closed, lost in his thoughts.

Alonka returned, shutting the door quietly behind.

Thalor’s eyes opened. “It’s time, isn’t it?”

Alonka sauntered over, sat in his lap, and wrapped an arm around his neck. “So adept at reading me. Ishethra has asked me to perform a most arduous task—one that will take years. Please tell the children I’m sorry for leaving like this, but I’m fighting urgently for freedom.”

“You’re nothing like Demvora. Why are you kind?”

“Zelene is kind. I’m just a freedom fighter.”

“You’ve been generous to me. And I’ve seen how you’ve treated the children. My advisers. You carry yourself with immense grace. Not once have I seen you utter an insult or complaint, nor harm anyone.”

“All mavki have a piece of Demvora’s dark heart in us—and you should’ve seen me in my younger years.”

“What a sight it would’ve been … the same sight I see now?”

“I birthed in the Underworld as a sixteen-year-old, not hugely different in appearance from what you see now. But wow, was I spunky—and confused. Centuries have polished my rough edges. A little.”

He stood, cradling her. “As time’s gone by, I’ve steeled myself for your departure. I’ll treasure our time till my dying breath. Mavka, thanks for brightening our stronghold. I’ll give the children your message.”

“Thank you.” She winked, smiling in her feline way. “We’ll still see each other once a year. Remember the amulet?” She reached up into his furs. “How about I take you to my lair for a tour and some fun?”

Like a starved man gazing at succulent meats, he gazed upon her. “You have a lair? In Navia?”

“Sure do. And I think you’ll like it. Shall we go?” She waved her arm at Syla. “Your people can watch over them. I’ll return you before sunrise.”

“One more adventure with The Trickster. Off we go.”

“Sleep well, future warlord,” Alonka told Syla—she grinned at a frowning Thalor, his head cocked, brows shifty. “What?”

As Thalor grunted with indignation, the pair disappeared into a swirling portal of silver fire. The floating lights dissolved, leaving a solitary candle on a nightstand to light the room.

***

Yamuba, naked and wailing, curled up on a rainy cobblestone back alley, her skin smoldering, her breaths ragged. Two stabbing pains ran down her shoulder blades, a retched, painful pulse in her sacrum. She had been abducted from her apartment earlier in the day by masked marauders. They had appeared in her bedroom from shadowy portals, binding her with frigid dark ropes, interrupting her readings about the Dread War. They had taken her to one of their chapels. There, they had thrust earmuffs and goggles on her before stabbing her backside with knives, ending their butchery by chucking her in a vat of shadowy acid. “To you, Daz, receive our divine offering,” they had intoned, a typical declaration when slaying a criminal—all the Crameian sects worshiped Daz, God of Death.

Only after the most exquisite torment, after her skin had bubbled, after most of her hair and all her nails had fallen away, her blood boiling … only after she had experienced an all-consuming-searing sensation followed by a deep freeze, had she been yanked from the vat with a metal hook, earmuffs and goggles torn away, her clothing left behind as strands in the acid.

They had hauled her through pristine streets of dense housing in the dead of night before discarding her. One had thrown a glass vial against the sidewalk near her, planting evidence in case someone passed by before she perished—littering, like all crimes in Crameia, would bring the death penalty. Shadows had taken her tormentors away, leaving her to the misery.

The sting of acid still meandered through her scarred, smoking flesh—the few patches that hadn’t lost all feeling, anyway. Her sense of taste and smell had fled, her tongue a misshapen mess with spots, a putrid burning lingering in her nostrils.

She had spent her life learning, wishing to become an educator, hoping to enact judicial reform. One of the three sects must’ve inflicted this punishment upon her for some inane reason to prevent her from trying—but they had no right because she followed the law perfectly.

Now, she wept, her breaths faint as each raindrop sizzled against her heated skin. Darkness crept in her vision, her consciousness wavering. Death would take her soon, a merciful release.

Bare feet sloshed on the wet cobblestone. An older man clad in a black cloak intoned, “Obimontrav.” Shadows flew from his hand, whirling around the glass pieces, disappearing, leaving no trace. He kneeled by her side, averting his eyes. His silver-haired visage bore responsibility’s burden; her executioner, the glass planted as evidence of her crime, the final nail in her coffin.

She gazed upon him, her vision clear despite her pain, nakedness, and pending doom. The cultists must’ve had a sense of humor to keep her eyes and ears pristine, so she might see and hear clearly while dying. As she ran her tongue along her teeth, a new, ravenous hunger burned inside her—she wanted to tear into his flesh, but she steeled herself for his killing strike.

He met her eyes, a tide of anger rising in his stony gaze. “Who did this?”

“I-I didn’t litter.”

“I’m not accusing you of that crime. Who did this”—he waved his hand over her head—“to you?”

“I … don—don’t know.”

Eyes tight, he sniffed. “By the Circles … it cannot be.” He placed a hand on his head, his eyes closed in concentration. “You want something, don’t you?”

This man could peer into her soul. Know her thoughts … her hunger. He must’ve mastered mind magic, a domain she also possessed. “Yes … How do you know?”

“I can sense it. Have you always hungered for human flesh?”

“No, it … it started just now.”

“What else should I know about you?”

Since birth, Yamuba could sense emotions, even read thoughts of people with weak minds, though Velmir remained invisible to her ability. “I wield mind’s domain, too.”

“Yes, I suppose you do. And you’ve grand power within—far more than you know. What’s your name?”

“Y-Yamuba.” Her tears gushed at his compliment, mixing with the rain’s pitter-patter on her face, falling to the street. She wanted a hug but couldn’t move her shaking arms.

“Be still, child.” He cushioned her arms, easing her shakes. “Lift your index finger at me and intone Morsligatus.”

Death’s domain, she didn’t wield. But she pointed her trembling finger, intoning the spell. An icy chill burgeoned in her chest, shooting to her finger as shadows ejected, swirling around the man briefly before vanishing. Yamuba gasped at the wonderful sensation.

He nodded with understanding. “It appears you’ve been granted death’s domain, along with this unnatural hunger for human flesh. Both must be unintended side-effects of your torture. May I take you in?”

She could refuse and leave this world or go with him. The latter enticed her, her kind heart darkening. Vengeance would be her new purpose, serving justice to those who had wronged her. To all wrongdoers. “Y-Yes, sir.”

“Do you have parents?”

Yamuba’s parents had abandoned her when she was five—she had spent her early years in orphanages before moving out on her own, earning meager coin through tutoring. “No, not anymore. They … abandoned me long ago.”

Lips pressed out, his head tilted, his intense, analytical gaze boring into her soul. “Then they are fools.”

“Who are you?”

“You may call me Architect … or Father.”

She would call him both. The first title identified him as Velmir Krovyist, sect Umvlen’s leader. Now that she possessed mind and death magic, she could join. “Velmir?”

“You’re supremely educated, no question. I’ll train you in your newfound magic, and someday, you’ll become sect Umvlen’s warden, a vigilante of justice, master of shadow, mistress of mind. Deliverer of wayward souls to our Lord Daz.”

As warden, she’d be second in command, wielding immense power. “Yes … mas—”

“Only Father or Architect, Yamuba. Call no one master, for your destiny is greatness.”

Her heart warmed with trust. “Father.”

“Drink this.” From his cloak, he retrieved a vial of bubbling yellow liquid and supported the back of her head while gingerly pouring the liquids down her throat.

Yellow. A healing potion. She gulped the fluid, coughed, and gagged, but she finished the cocktail, her vision blurring, sharpening, her agony dimming. “T-Thank … you.”

He cast off his cloak, leaving himself scantily clad, wrapping it around her, the wet leathery texture soothing against her mottled skin. With a grunt, he cradled her and stood. Along the sidewalk, his rhythmic steps and the rain’s pounding calmed her nerves. “Daughter of darkness, your transformation continues.”

***

Despite Velmir’s many attempts to heal Yamuba’s wounds, the scarring remained. He had theorized immense effort had gone into wounding her, lacing her body with an incurable curse.

She eventually grew to love her new appearance.

With Velmir’s tutoring, she became a katana swinging, revolver shooting, mind manipulating, shadow hurling inquisitor, hunting down vagrants without mercy. The three sects learned to speak her name with reverence.

As for her newfound hunger? All members of sect Umvlen partook of criminals, but only Yamuba needed to eat human flesh, for it fueled her newfound death magic. At her request, Velmir filed her teeth to fangs, making her eating more efficient. Delectable criminal meals satisfied her cannibal cravings. Velmir counseled her to feast only once a week—this would keep her satiated, ensuring she never became a monster, gorging without restraint. Law and order must be respected, even for a dark judicator.

For justice, however, Velmir unleashed her one time, believing her abductors belonged to sect Grozav. Yamuba interrupted a private meeting, binding six acolytes with her shadows, riddling them will holes from her revolvers before taking their heads with her katanas, even as they pleaded innocence. For hours, she gorged to the point of sickness.

The fiesta ignited her hunger; she wanted to consume without reason. Only her trust in Velmir and his patient counsel staved off her urges.

After six years, she turned twenty-four. Velmir anointed her warden, Umvlen’s youngest ever, in a grand ceremony. For dessert, they ate frosted brains.

Seven more years passed, ending at her thirty-first year, while she enacted justice under Velmir’s vision, the one person on Yava she respected and cared about—her beloved father.

1. Fimbul, a precious black ore, powered Drenaglen’s machinery and magic devices. Its durability also made it excellent for fortifications. Various runes allowed numerous magical effects. ↑

2. Morozkos, or frost giants, stand tall as the trees. They ruled Galadon and their neighboring penal colony, Arcturus. ↑

3. A watchman presided over all Drenaglen births. ↑

4. Mavka, sometimes termed succubus. Species Navian. A winged, tail swinging demoness, possessing potent magical and physical abilities. ↑

5. Drenaglen infants whose marks didn’t match their clans became outcasts, raised in orphanages on neutral territory. They didn’t participate in clan rituals. ↑

6. A mavka can’t regenerate ki by sleeping or eating. She must feed on living beings instead—if she doesn’t, she gets sick and weak. Having a loving consort ensures her mental and physical well-being. ↑

7. A mavka can bond with a mortal, claiming them as consort, gaining a permanent mental bond and command over their soul. The mortal promises to share their ki willingly whenever the mavka wishes to feed, while gaining unique abilities matching the mavka’s magic. The mavka may also feed on other mortals. ↑

Free download directly from Amazon of Fury, Bane War Vol. I. Offer lasts from October 11-15.

On February, 24th, 2022, russia invaded Ukraine without provocation. But too often people forget, russia annexed Crimea in February-March of 2014. Russia’s war against Ukraine has lasted ten years, with no signs of ending. Daily, they murder civilians and kidnap children.

Why?

Putin would have you believe it’s to have a buffer zone against NATO, or to denazify Ukraine. But russia itself acts as the Nazis of old, stealing Ukrainian children and indocrinating them to their culture.

When you peel the veil of propaganda away, it’s clear russia wants Ukraine’s land and vast resources. Vladamir Putin has mad dreams of being like Peter the Great, who also loved his brutal wars. Putin is nothing more than a thug, a broken old man who has ruined millions of lives. He and his associates will pay the price.

Notice the small scrollbar on Wikipedia’s entry for russia war crimes in Ukraine. Those are just the officially documented ones.

As for Bane War, this series takes place on Yava and other realms. Ukraine’s colors and symbols appear in each book. Three pillars define my series.

Badass heroines. I hate stereotypes and how women have historically been treated. So I’ve thrown all this away for my series. If you want “traditional” roles for women and men, please look elsewhere.

Freedom. These women, the badass heroines, have partners who fight at their sides against impossible odds against the tyrannical forces of “light.”

Deception. Propaganda is a running theme. How blatant, outlandish lies can be accepted, or at least instill apathy and confusion.

Bane War is DESR (dark epic science romantasy) with adult themes and visceral descriptions of love and war. If you’re looking for flawed, chaotic individuals who bamboozle order, you’ll find yourself at home.

If the books can provide inspiration and entertainment, maybe even educate about propaganda, then I’ve accomplished something worthwhile.

Book one, Fury, stars Saffa Nightwind, a 23-year-old battlemage who’s discovering her true nature while grappling with stunning revelations.

Book two, Games of Blood and Shadow, stars Dragan, a young barbarian who doesn’t want to be Warlord of Drenaglen, yet somehow can’t escape his destiny no matter how hard he tries. Alonka and Puck, twin mavka tricksters desperate to find their true love’s soul, co-star.

Thanks for visiting. May freedom’s wing carry you.

Browse Bane War Books on Amazon.

I put Warlord on pre-order in Amazon yesterday, only to discover a search of Warlord ranked my book beyond the 100th position. For an exact title match. Now I’m starting to understand why books on Amazon have longer titles. Without it, you get lost in the shuffle, especially if you’re an indie author.

So today, I’ve renamed Warlord to Games of Blood and Shadow. This title has an added bonus of describing the book perfectly.

Here’s the new cover!