Prisoner of the Elements: Book 1 of the War of the Elements Series Read online

  PRISONER

  OF THE

  ELEMENTS

  ZIAN SCHAFER

  Prisoner of the Elements by Zian Schafer

  Published by Zian Schafer

  Visit the author’s website at www.zianschafer.com

  Copyright © 2022 Zian Schafer

  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 permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to outside events, locales, or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover by Hazel Lockwood.

  Map by Zian Schafer.

  Interior designs by Hazel Lockwood.

  Editing by Christopher Beattie

  Typesetting by Nathan Grice

  ISBN: 978-0-473-61942-8

  Printed in U.S.A

  First Edition

  TRIGGERS AND WARNING

  Note: This book is not suitable for persons under the age of 18.

  WARNING: This book contains sexually explicit scenes, adult languages, and violence. It may be considered offensive or disturbing to some readers. It is intended for sale to adults only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by underage readers.

  Triggers:

  Violence, adult language, gore, abuse, derogatory language, sex, blood, mental illness, self-harm (hitting objects and scratching/ picking skin), reference to sexual assault and rape, thoughts of suicide.

  This is for me.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Glossary of Terms

  Keeper of the Elements

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Lasciare ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate.

  “All hope abandon, ye who enter here.”

  The Inscription on the Gates of Hell

  ― The Divine Comedy, by Dante Alighieri

  The sacrificial bell’s toll reverberates down my spine.

  A child this time.

  Tucked between a mass of bodies and against the temple wall, I can see the boy standing as clear as day on the platform. He can’t be more than ten years of age.

  He’s what the Empire would consider a ‘forgettable.’

  I’ve heard him crying, mourning his long-departed parents, during my midnight escapes from home. During the day, I’ve seen him begging alone on the streets of the market square, in a ripped tunic two sizes too small for him. Peeking between the rips of the unwashed fabric was his stained, prematurely-leathered skin. Poverty gifted him a layer of grime to paint that skin: the poorest protection from the cold. I know it well. I’ve worn the same varnish for twenty-three years. At least that’s what my parents think.

  He’s the perfect candidate for a sacrifice; no one will remember him. No one will cry for him once his flailing heart falls still, once the strands of his life are prematurely ripped apart. No one will mourn him. He will be forgotten, like the rest of them. Except by me. I’ll remember his thin hair and watering eyes. Just like I’ll remember every one of the hundreds whom I’ve seen on the altar before him.

  My gift lurches through me as I spot the scrape on his arm. I dig in my heels, steadying my hand stealthily against the wall, trying to ignore the animalistic need to run up to him and to help him. It’s like dangling meat in front of a starved dog.

  But I can’t help him.

  I can’t allow myself to help him.

  I can only watch him suffer, too scared and alone up there to even cry for his life. I must watch his suffering as I have watched the suffering of every tired, forgotten body dragged by every reluctant pair of feet that reaches that altar.

  I must keep my gift hidden or I will put Ma and Pa in more risk than they’re already facing.

  Stay covered and stay hidden, Althea. Mother’s order rings in my head.

  I tug my brittle sleeve down to make sure my marks stay hidden under the safety of the fabric. A sudden panic grips my heart, and my eyes dart about to make sure that no-one has seen my weakness or noticed me pulling at my clothing. It would only take one person to panic, to point and shout, to scream their deluded assumption that I might be harboring a new type of plague.

  No eyes are cast my way.

  They are all fixed upon him. The boy on the platform.

  The beast deep within my core threatens to suffocate me. It wants to unleash itself upon Audor, a desire that grows more with each passing day. A beast that doesn’t feel like it belongs to me. Yet another secret under lock and key from any eyes that may pry.

  I am pushed aside with surprising abruptness and a woman drenched in jewels arrogantly takes my spot by the wall, forcing me to drop back into the press. I can’t see her arm from here, but I know it will be branded with a ‘C’. No mortal would be able to afford what she is wearing, nor would a mortal dare to shove others aside with such confidence. She must be a Cintis.

  The woman wears a deep scowl. We all do. None of us want to be here, but we could be the next one slaughtered if we don't attend. Those with the misfortune to arrive first are marched into the temple until it fills to the brim. Everyone else stands outside to bear the weather. They’d rather have hail batter their skin than watch the carnage that will unfold inside.

  The young boy stands in front of the obsidian altar, which is raised above the marble floor. The story of the Sun is carved in a dance of gold and rubies on the sides. His cleaned toes curl with dread on the golden platform; his azure eyes pinning themselves to the floor.

  The Priest prefers sacrificing the young, saying it’s because they are at their most pure and untouched: a clay that the Anzeth could mold as they please.

  The bell chimes again, the same noise heard throughout the Empire every month for the past seventy-five years.

  The Priest of Audor walks through the oak doors leading from the prayer room. A loose, crimson robe drapes his slender frame, and a cloth of gold hangs across his shoulders and chest, trailing along the floor behind him. A gold circle is painted onto his wrinkled forehead, making his red eyes appear to sink further into his hooded sockets. But they are not sunken nearly deep enough to hide his animosity over the failed attempts to appease the gods.

  Terror suffuses the boy’s features.

 
A loud crack rips through the air from outside. None of us flinch at the sound anymore. We all know the noise is from the Cintis using their fire to whip mortals into submission.

  The boy moves his right arm from behind the cover of the cloth, and I can see the red band which every citizen of Audor bears. Above the red line, the letter ‘M’ is seared into the boy’s skin. Mortal, a lesser being compared to the fire-wielding Cintis. The branding makes it easier for the Cintis to know who they can abuse without consequence.

  My fingers brush over my branding, tracing the scars of the letter ‘N.’ I lost control of my gift and removed a line. Now I have to hide my wrist for the rest of my life. All the gift can do is heal and save people, but despite that, I’ll be hunted and killed for it.

  Because people hate what they don’t understand.

  The Priest raises his chin at the sight of the boy, causing his hairless head to reflect the glistening light of the altar. The same pattern of the Sun that borders the walls and floors of the temple is tattooed from the top of his head, down his skull and goes on under his robe.

  A parade of acolytes shuffles behind him, all of them sporting the same robe, but theirs are in full black. Some wear crimson cloth across themselves instead: a show of their rank within the temple.

  During the ceremonies, the acolytes wear black veils that cover their eyes, splitting down across the bridge of their nose to look like claws. Under the headpiece, they all share the same baldness of head, and the same sun tattoos in the center of their head, with flames radiating outwards.

  In the late hours of the night, Evander and I would snigger at the thought of the Priest and acolytes without their veils.

  “The skinhead and his ducklings,” he would laugh. Evander always said that Audor has two suns, the one in the sky and the reflection from the Priest’s head. His father, the King’s Royal General, would never approve of such a statement; it would be blasphemous on their family's name.

  The Priest walks up to stand next to the boy, while the acolytes circle the altar at the bottom of the platform. They look to the sky and raise their arms into the air, entranced by the red Sun through the open ceiling directly above — making the altar gleam with misguided innocence. Some days the Sun gives a golden glow, while others the Sun burns red or purple. It's always red on the days of the sacrifice.

  Shadows cross their faces from the hoops that float above the altar toward the sky, an array of gold rings in different sizes with the language of the gods inscribed into them. As a child, I always thought that it looked like a halo, but now I know there is nothing holy about this place.

  Footsteps echo down the hallways as soldiers wearing pitch-black armor emerge, their blood-red capes dangling between their legs. Engraved on each soldiers’ chest piece is a half sun pierced by a flaming sword, the symbol of Audor, which represents the King’s power to control the Sun across the sky from dawn to dusk.

  Behind the soldiers, Queen Mellonia walks in, her heels clicking along the marble, and a crown of flames atop her red hair. Haughty, with her sharp cheekbones and upturned nose, she refuses to give her people a second glance as she saunters over to her throne behind the altar. A black silk gown hugs her slender frame, exposing her protruding shoulder through the lace trim. An onyx belt in the shape of a spine wraps around her waist as beads of black gems bleed to the floor. Her soft black opal earrings and rose blush forms a stark contrast against her ghoulish features and smoldering eyes.

  As she moves to sit, she waves a dismissive hand in the air and says, “The King wishes he could pay tribute in person, and he gives his assurance to you that he’s present through the eyes of the Sun.”

  She doesn’t even turn to look at us as she speaks, adjusting her dress against the chair.

  Seated next to the Queen, Prince Auberon’s halo of fire dances above his hair. The resemblance to his mother begins and ends at the precise shade of his curling locks, which frame his contrastingly soft features. His black eyes search the crowd, looking anywhere but at the boy. They meet mine for the briefest second before moving on. My gift pulsates, wanting to get near him. How do his eyes always find me during these dark moments? Like the blazing red Sun high above, his eyes sear against my skin and make my power burn. Is it an omen, or the effect of his onyx stare?

  He wears his signature sword, with its ruby hilt and blade made of obsidian, which was forged in the fires of Mount Polis. He once brought it to the blacksmith’s forge that Pa and I work at. We handled the sword like a newborn baby as Pa taught me how to sharpen such a blade.

  The Priest turns to the Queen and Prince, bowing before launching into the same speech he makes every month: “This is a necessary sacrifice from the people living in the Empire of the Rising Sun; the Empire that controls the flames that rage beneath the earth. Today is a day to remember the First Treaty that ended the War of the Elements. May their sacrifices appease the Anzeth, the council of nine gods, and make the realm whole once more.”

  The boy winces at his words, tears streaming silently down his sallow cheeks. His death will be meaningless because the gods aren’t listening. Thousands have been murdered in their name already, but earthquakes, plagues, and famine still pollute the realm.

  The Anzeth don’t want the life of a mere mortal.

  They want to annihilate Zephryine.

  In the distance, the sound of thunder shakes the walls of the temple, and the taste of unease clings to the back of my throat. The boy sways on his feet, shifting his weight from side to side, and avoiding the Priest’s gaze.

  The only thing he can hope for is a quick death.

  The boy’s hair is braided into three long rows that trail down his back, to symbolize the three Empires of Zephryine. That’s what the acolytes told us during our religious lessons as children. A thick, white cloth wraps around the boy, revealing boney arms tattered with cuts and bruises, as he sways on his feet. The image of purity and debatable perfection washes away as the boy’s throat wrinkles under the thick, brown collar buckled there. A gold chain hooked at the back of the collar connects to spikes in the floor. Rumor has it that the collar is made from a scale shed from the dragon of Audor, Niran, who sleeps under the Palace.

  My stomach churns and bile rises up in my throat as the Priest pulls out the sacrificial dagger.

  I made that dagger.

  I stayed up late into the night designing a weapon which I thought would be used for mere decoration.

  I sharpened the weapon that will now take an innocent’s life.

  The guilt is suffocating.

  It’s also one of Pa’s finest works. I made the dagger, and he embellished it. The heads of two gold dragons that look like Niran rest at the top of the hilt, with their tails wrapping around the handle. At the middle of the crossguard sits a golden sun with the emblem of the Empire engraved into it. Flames have been chiseled into the onyx blade, with dried blood stuck in its grooves.

  I long to lean on Ma or Pa, to feel their comforting embrace as we watch the life drain from the sacrifice’s body. This is the only time that I’m grateful for Ma and Pa’s back-breaking jobs. They’re no longer required to attend the sacrifices.

  At the Priest’s movement, the acolytes that were circling the raised altar disperse into the crowds.

  Let the sacrifice begin.

  A shiver licks my spine as the Priest stalks towards the boy, going up to stand behind him. I hate when the sacrifices are standing as the Priest takes their last breath. You can see everything when they are standing. The Priest only seems to do it when he’s feeling especially desperate. He thinks making us watch every single twitch of terror that crosses their face as they die will make the Anzeth happier, joyous in the knowledge that the people of Audor would do anything to be in their good graces.

  Behind them the Queen looks bored. She picks at her long, talon-like nails. Ma said the King has made her watch every single
sacrifice, and that she kept count of every single soul lost in the War. I guess years of counting death has made her inured to the cries of mourning and the spilling of blood.

  The way her finger taps on the chair has my heartbeat hammering against my chest. I stare at the dip in one of the steps, trying to erase the Queen’s boredom from my mind. I can’t show emotion. Showing emotions means that I will be noticed. My family has already lost far too much to afford such a slip.

  Prince Auberon, at least, has a shred more dignity. He stares at the back of the Priest's head as he always does, as though watching the perpetrator is easier than watching the victim. There are rumors that he visits the families of those who lost someone to a sacrifice, and that he even gives them coin.

  It is an empty gesture, in my eyes. He may have been born just before the first crack appeared in the earth, but he is as complicit as his parents are for doing nothing to stop the aftermath.

  People shift their weight anxiously through the deafening silence in the temple.

  The Cintis fae, many of whom fought in the War of the Elements, stand with grim faces and slouched shoulders. Their actions helped to cause this, forcing us to gather to witness another murder in the name of calming the raging gods. Despite their willingness, their lack of hesitation, to throw mortal children into the heart of the war two centuries prior, their eyes now glisten with self-pity for witnessing yet another bloody slaughter.

  I turn my head and my eyes lock with those of Evander. He stands tall next to General Fornous, whose hand is on the hilt of his blade, as if daring anyone to speak up against the horrors. Evander's eyes show no sign of warmth or comfort, only disdain towards the Priest for his histrionics.

  “The almighty Anzeth. Take this offering, and every soul before, to make Audor whole again. We are your loyal servants; ask and you shall receive. On behalf of the entirety of Zephryine, we ask for your forgiveness for the war,” The Priest’s voice thunders through the temple the same way I imagine our gods’ voices would. I wonder if all nine of them would laugh, seeing our deplorable sacrifices and knowing nothing will come of it.