Page 3 of The Path of Blood and Betrayals

“Finally,” he mutters, lifting his sword. It glistens with wet blood and I inhale, accepting my fate.

The sword rams into my stomach, a sickening, slicing pain that vibrates out, a horribly agony as I gasp. Blood dribbles from my mouth and the magic I once felt, evaporates. Gone on the wind, like the ash around us, I mourn the loss.

That hurts more than the wound. A piece of my soul is gone.

He leans close, breath as acidic as the fire consuming my village.

“You’ll never be able tostopher.”

Laughing, more blood bubbles from my lips, dripping down my chin.

“Neither will you.”

He hears my threat, and steps back, light eyes wide. Then he’s gone, racing against the flames, looking for the one who can truly stopher. I just hope I gave them enough time to flee.

Closing my eyes, I wait forSetito take me home, thinking of my child in my arms and my husband at my side.

Chapter 1

Kaden Moorgate, Heir to the shadowlands

The bodies are burning.

Charred flesh and singed hair billow up from the large pyres lining the black obsidian bridge. Bodies wither and scream as anguish coats the air.

It’s my childhood lullaby.

The sounds of those impaled, being cooked over flames is normal in the Shadowlands. My kingdom,my father’skingdom, is known to be ruthless, worshiping the fire GodBeland his creation, using fire in all ways possible. Including torture.

For years, the Humans have sought to claim the Shadowlands, hoping to catch us off guard. They crave our power, our people. But every time they strike, they fail.

Dusting off my shoulders, I barely pay their screams any heed. They deserved their fate.

Today, they attacked us right at dawn. They hoped to steal a few people and flee. Unfortunately, they did not expect General Oslo to have me on the front lines.

With sure strikes, I sliced those cowards with my sword, pushing them back with my fellow Dark Fae.

It was only luck that the last man I killed had a crumpled letter inhis palm. It was an intercepted missive, a letter sent by the Lone Human King Griffin, to my father, King Zelos the Wretched.

Sworn enemies do not exchange parchments. Whatever it was, it’s important.

That’s why I’m here, being reduced to an errand boy, as I run the note to my father, shadows dancing behind me, feeding off my aggravation.

I know the sight I make—a dark shape shrouded by magic, the red haze of my land obscuring the surroundings. I’m as much a monster as my enemies see me as.

The guards stationed at the palace step aside, keeping their eyes down. It’s best not to test me right now.

Calling on my magic—magic only I possess—I pull open the black doors and take off to the throne room. We don’t know how or why, since magic is not known to our continent, but it’s given me an advantage on the battlefield.

Battle still surges in my body and I have to fight the urge to return to the front as I hurry. It’s what I was trained to do—be the beast that destroys our enemies. But no, here I must be.

At the entrance of the throne room are twin onyx doors, etched with grotesque faces and a blood-soaked land shaped by my ancestors. Their fangs, long and wicked are carved into the stone, gleaming under the torches above.

It’s a battle from long ago. One forgotten to history.

Yet, it’s a reminder— of how we’ve always had to fight to survive.

Even now, centuries after The Great War of Neevea ended, we are still battling a foe that will not stop. The Humans, greedy and weak, steal my people away because all Dark Fae can do the one thing the Humans cannot - our blood can heal any ailment, any wound.