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  Light Wings Epic Vol. 1

  Mark A. Alvarez II

  Copyright © 2021 Mark A. Alvarez II

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  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below.

  ISBN: 978-1-953865-10-6 (Paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-953865-11-3 (eBook)

  ISBN: 978-1-953865-12-0 (Hardback)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2021902676

  Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

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  For my teachers, who taught me the value of believing in one’s self. Missy, Pam, Samantha, Sara, and Aurora, this one’s for you . . .

  Prologue

  Today was a day of tragedy, though most did not know it.

  Now, it was a dark and cloudless night. Not one sound broke throughout the grand white city of Moz, situated within the valley of a vast mountain range, sparkling like a diamond. Not a single ray of light could shed an ounce of joy upon the city, for it was already condemned by the haze that shrouded it. The mist hovered in the silence of the night, stagnant with the suffering of the land that lay below it. All the while, the people of Moz rested, unaware that all they held most dear teetered on the brink of ruin.

  “Oh,” Ara sighed as she sat alone in a muddled study at the base of a broad window. Her face flushed as her eyes scanned over a piece of parchment. Her irises, like embers, were so round and passionate, glistening almost red as she eagerly inspected the letter her beloved had left for her. But in that moment, as she realized what had happened, her eyes began to quiver, becoming trapped within garnet walls of fear. After everything they had faced, Stello had abandoned her, leaving their family broken.

  Dearest Ara,

  Not long ago, I started feeling it again. Do you remember? The strengthening cold and bitter skies were only signs of its return. I can never forget the pain of Frailty’s War. I bear this burden of recalling the horror, and still, it pains me to know even you hold that, my dear.

  Unfortunately, I must tell you that soon we will not be safe. The fog has begun to grow thick, and wrath-filled winds blow from the north where Pinea lies, building their empire with envy and hatred toward our sovereign nation. Though we won our place of power here in Moz, I can only say it came at a grave price, one that will plague our world if the bonds of our sins are not destroyed. It is critical that we protect what good is left in this world and amend the wrongs of the past.

  I fear the worst for our family and would never forgive myself if I waited for its return. Thus, it is here in a place of faith that I tell you I must leave Moz to seek out its source, and see to it that this force is driven to where it can no longer threaten us. But at all costs, please, remain in Moz and wait.

  With utmost importance, take care of sweet Lucia so that she grows into a bold and passionate maiden whose prayers are determined enough to protect and preserve us. I do promise to make it back to you someday. My love shall be with you both. Always.

  Stello Sanoon

  Ara grasped her blouse. This deepening wound tore at her chest as though she knew, this whole time, that it would be here that her heart would break.

  “Lady Ara,” called her loyal maid, Amelia, so struck with concern that the wrinkles in her forehead seemed to suddenly age her ten years. In her eyes was a clinging intuition.

  Ara sensed her concern as if the maid already knew, but spoke anyway. “He’s gone.”

  “The master?” asked the maid.

  “Stello.”

  “My lady,” Amelia said with grief before bringing her eyes back to Ara.

  There was a lull as they both thought. The maid’s stare grew distant as Ara let out a faint whimper, breaking the still silence.

  Finally, Amelia asked, “May I ask why the master left?”

  Ara’s insides shuddered. “He fears of . . . ” She hesitated, looking at the letter, fully dazed and unable to grasp the idea of its true meaning. It was as if something hid beneath his words, something he was not telling her. Memories flashed through her mind. Her chest tightened. It couldn’t still be out there.

  It was her prayers that had saved them. It was her strength, her power that had defeated it in the first place. Could it still exist somewhere, outside the reach of man? “He fears of its return.” She felt the warmth of her tears beneath her eyes once more while the maid’s face paled, her own fears apparent in this revelation. The war was supposed to be over. Amelia wanted to release tears of her own. But still she held an unchanging sternness of stone, something unbreakable. She had to show a strong sense of obligation and duty, no matter the adversity. She had to be strong for the lady, even though she could not be strong for herself.

  “Lady Ara, I’m terribly sorry . . . Lucia—” Her concern for the child shone within the sparkles of her green eyes as she uttered her name. “Should I go to her?”

  Ara looked up at her, her amber eyes still wet with tears. Despite the circumstances, she released a slight smile remembering her daughter in that moment. “Yes, please. Thank you.”

  Amelia bowed before leaving Ara alone in the reticence of her fractured thoughts.

  Ara looked down from the window and upon the rigid streets below, focusing on the mist rising over the horizon. She lay a hand upon the cold glass and wondered what her dear Stello had been thinking. Why would he place this burden on himself, when it was her power that had weakened the evil? Shouldn’t this have been her burden to bear?

  She grimaced and bit her lip, as if trying to make it bleed. Her woe turned to anger, causing her pain to tighten as the emotions converged. The thought of raising their daughter and carrying their province alone felt like a mightier burden than whatever quest Stello was chasing. She gave out an indignant roar, slamming her palm against the window. “Stello, why have you done this?! Must you leave us alone? I can’t do this without you . . . how can I?”

  Almost immediately as her hand pressed against the glass, the moonlight broke through the heavy clouds, blasting through the fog and into the window. A distant glimmer of light reflected off something lying on Stello’s desk. She walked over to it, following the light as it sparkled beneath the cover of a cloth. Wrapped in silk was a silver chain. At its base was something white—a divinely cut pendant. Attached was a small scroll with a message written in freshly laid ink, just like the letter: “For Lucia, when she is of age. Take care of this, for she will need it.”

  Ara stared, dazzled by the diamond’s beauty. From its side came tiny silver wings, angelically stylized with feathers on its ends—such perfection. She wrapped it in the silk and gripped the gift as she brought it to her chest. In that moment, her heart felt whole again, her pain forgotten and her grief absolved, lifted from her while the pendant left something better in its place: faith. Ara smiled, releasing a faint whisper into the moonlight. “Oh, Stello.”

  Chapter One:

  The Memento

  It had been seventeen years since the master of Moz left his province venturing forth into the farthest regions of Terestria in search of a redemption he would not find.

  The morning was cri
sp and splendent as the spring brought in what appeared to be an early summer. The sunlight radiated down toward the grand Sanoon Manor in the city’s northern district, drifting in softly through an immense stained glass window and into a sanctuary where, head bowed and beautiful, a girl of eighteen prayed within its brilliance. The girl was Lucia Sanoon, the sole heir and high maiden of Moz, daughter of the now-reigning Lady Ara who had taken the province after her husband, Master Stello, had undertaken a mission of peace to the north. This was her home, a mansion of white marble and glass. Pillars and engaged columns supported a vast basilica connecting the front of the manor to a balcony that was elevated by a wide staircase at its far end.

  Lucia stood proudly before the altar with her eyes closed. She was shrouded in layers of golden and white cloth that flowed elegantly over her slender body. The long, loose sleeves of her blouse dangled at her elbows as her arms rose out from them. Her hands met at her chest, clenching together as she prayed. Her hair fell past her shoulders to just above her waist like waves of wholesome honey smelling of a light rose perfume.

  No one could deny her charm, for she was the most beautiful maiden to ever grace the halls of Sanoon Manor. Her large eyes had been shaped with grace, narrowing at their corners like autumn almonds, and her lips were sculpted with such a serene purity that her smile brought joy to all who witnessed it. She was gently kissed by the heaven’s light, giving her fair complexion a soft olive tone, as it often showed on the brightest of days. There was innocence in the way she stood, something untainted and untouched, but still bold and as blessed as could be. And in her hair was a band, well crafted, yet so delicate that it seemed to hover like a halo over her head—dove white, with feathers shaped onto the silver lining of its exterior. She wore a short skirt high above her knee-length boots, decorated in the traditional Mozian style with cross-stitched gold lacing that complemented the bow tied at the back of her waist.

  She opened her eyes and looked at the window, fascinated by its spiraling colored panels with the familiar gold and violet as well as magenta and sky blue. Like always, this comforted her—bathing in the light. Lucia lowered her golden eyes as if to begin another prayer when she was startled by the call of her name.

  “Lucia!”

  She saw no one, but knew well to respond quickly. She rolled her eyes annoyed by this sudden intrusion on her thoughts. The tiresome expectations of her mother wore Lucia down sometimes. However, her mother had always told her that, like all things, even faith must be exercised. There was a reason for everything. Duty above all else. Lucia reached out to the altar toward a piece of parchment. With a quill, she scribbled something down before shouting, “Coming!”

  She grasped the sheet and hurried into a wide hallway, crossing a narrow bridge and making her way down a staircase leading to the lower levels of the mansion. The ceiling above her was covered with frescoes containing representations of the divine spirits and creators of the world—the forces of light and darkness. Simple yet mighty, these all-powerful elements of matter and spirit cultivated the existence of time and space, allowing life to thrive. With light came the heavens and all living things, while with darkness came the earth and the essence of mortality itself: death.

  These were their guardians, their creators, and were very much like gods—or so she thought. Inscribed in the ancient texts of the Sanoon library were tomes honoring the creation of the forces themselves, but nothing that described their purpose in creating the world Lucia lived in. That knowledge was thought to have long since been lost with time.

  She took the stairs to the front of her home, a cathedral within a garden of neatly trimmed hedges and marble statues. Lucia felt faint, fatigued by her anxiety. What could Mother want this time? The maiden quickened her step, worrying as she often did and bolting past her mother’s favorite mural, a mosaic depicting an alluring seraph emerging from golden light. At the tips of its feathered white wings, strips of bright opal cascaded like water flowing to the base of its frame.

  Waiting for her, dressed in gray as usual, was Amelia, her loyal and devoted maid whom she had known for as long as she could remember—always the same and as firm and frozen as the marble around them. For years, Amelia had been the most respected servant within the manor and had fulfilled her role as Lucia’s second mother, caretaker, and tutor. Amelia had also taken her place as Lady Ara’s right-hand advisor and best friend. Amelia’s wisdom was never to be mistaken. Lucia could not think of a moment when she had given her faulty advice.

  Amelia bowed her head as Lucia approached with graceful steps, her own anticipation building, making Lucia wary of what she was walking into. She carried a deep intuition but ignored it.

  “Good day, High Maiden. Your mother has requested to see you.”

  Lucia smiled and tipped her head forward in response. Her headband glistened beneath the light of the high windows. “Thank you, Amelia. Where is she?”

  Amelia chuckled before replying with a wide grin. “Your father’s study.”

  Lucia gave a puzzled look. “But that place has been locked for ages. I don’t think it’s been opened since Father left.” She shrugged, brushing her cheek to keep her hair from falling into her face. “I recall trying to get in as a child, but I never could manage to.”

  “Of course, but your mother does have the key.”

  “Right. Indeed, she does,” Lucia mumbled.

  Amelia tilted her head and crossed her arms as she stared at the maiden with suspicion. “Where were you?”

  “Ah . . . ” Lucia parted her lips, tossing back her hair and pointing a finger behind her. “The sanctuary. I was writing.”

  “Another song, I hope. Your hymns always prove to be the holiest, bringing about the most bountiful of harvests.” Amelia smiled again and bowed before patting Lucia’s shoulder. “Well take care. Your mother is waiting for you. If you need me, I’ll be tending to the garden.”

  “Goodbye, Amelia.” Lucia widened her lips before waving and bowing her head. She rushed back to the stairs and took the flight leading to the manor’s west wing.

  ***

  The study was guarded by two pompous, ruby-colored doors each with its own golden handle. Lucia gave a small push. The rush of stagnant air caught in her hair as her eyes searched inside. She crept into a neatly shelved room. Canvases adorned the walls sheltered with secrets. The colors were so heated and vibrant, displaying a variety of landscapes within each frame. As she moved forward, she noticed how each painting waned becoming so different than the one before it. The style of each subsequent painting became gloomier and darker until, at the edge of the study, a frame was filled with only black and white strokes—incomplete, as if the artist never returned to finish it.

  The shelves held many books, scrolls, and parchments all covered in dust and worn by years of lying dormant. As Lucia continued on, the temperature seemingly dropped. A chill enveloped her, coiling about and bringing her goosebumps. Her nerves shook in this place. It was as if the room was haunted by a ghost she could not see, someone or something she did not know.

  She closed her eyes and released a slow breath, trying to control her emotions. She did not like how she could sense the world changing around her within the fabric of time itself. It was incredibly intoxicating as reality shifted. She could feel her future itself now heading toward a different path.

  Since childhood, Lucia had presented an unmistakable intuition so significant that it frightened those who knew her. Her nightmares mirrored disasters that would strike the everyday lives of her people, such as storms and droughts or even riots that would break out within Southern Moz from time to time. Her mother called it a “gift of the light,” a reward for her unbreakable faith granted only to the chosen. Lucia’s judgment was pristine—a blessing and, at times, a curse.

  Now, it was as if she knew too much. She sensed something looming—a calm before the storm. This premonition held something so
grim in its feeling. Lifeless and cold, so cruel and hateful.It was terrifying. Lucia had felt it as soon as she made her way into the study. It moved into her heart as if it was coming home to stay. Things from here on out, she realized in that moment, would never be the same.

  Across the study, her mother stood waiting, staring out the window with her fingers pressed against the glass. She turned to her daughter, her face glowing with excitement. But her eyes reflected a distinct distance within them. The lady’s gown was crimson, her favorite color, and fit loosely over her wrists. Her hands clenched something shimmering. “Lucy, aren’t they lovely?” She perked up as she looked at the paintings around them.

  Lucia smiled, her eyes focusing again on her mother’s hands. Within them was a ball of silver silk cloth. It was odd. Her eyes drew to it immediately, almost as if it was the cause of the commotion happening in her mind. Lucia shook it off. “Absolutely,” she responded politely, covering up her sudden chill and trying to ease it asleep. She simpered, hoping it would distract her mother from her sudden tension.

  “Lucia . . . ” Ara paused, moving her gaze to the canvases surrounding them. She breathed a sigh before saying, “This place has been locked for seventeen years.”

  “I know,” Lucia said, looking around. “This was Father’s study.”

  “Yes.” Ara sighed again at the memory. “Seventeen years ago on this day, your father left us. It was a dismal day for our family. I know growing up without your father has been especially tough on you, but he knew the day would come when you would learn to rule. You have grown since then. You are now of age.”

  “I suppose I have,” Lucia said, looking away from her mother’s mulling gaze. She felt a slight bit sarcastic. All of this sounded so familiar. She had only been eighteen for half a year, but why was she here? Why was she now hearing the story she’d heard over and over before, here in the depths of a study that had lain in silence for so long? Why must she be here where he lived then?