The Dark Mage

Prologue The skeletal fingers of intertwining cedar and hemlock branches blocked the midday sun. In the gloomy twilight near their exposed roots, Ren’wyn tucked her legs beneath her skirt. Eerie and untamed, the Dark Forest always beckoned her; its dim silhouettes were etched into her earliest memories. A shivering breeze rustled old oak leaves in the quiet. The scent of decay deepened as her pupils dilated fully, blotting out her gray irises with black. Breathing deeply, she leaned into a hemlock trunk and relaxed. Unearthly darkness swirled at the bases of the trees. Bending to her indrawn breath, shadows crept up the surrounding trunks, black tendrils grazing rough bark. They whispered an indecipherable language, calling her toward the Void, the realm of the dead. Misty shadow-wisps touched her bare feet like fingers of ice, encouraging her to retreat into her woolen cloak. The grip of death lightened into a caress across her cheekbones, its touch like the blackened fingers of a corpse. The shadows brushed her cheeks and dark blonde hair, slipping silently over her shoulders to embrace her. Today, she needed the comfort of the power dwelling in her veins and of this place where she had first grasped the depths of her magic. Echoes of memory reverberated through the haze of the Void, the voices of those lost in death. It had been eleven years since she first heard the dead on her tenth birthday—eleven years drawn to the quiet finality of life’s end, the darkness beneath her bedframe, and the claim of winter’s chill in every fiber of her being. Perhaps her grandfather’s voice danced with the others, whispering within the rasp of dried fern boughs behind her. Perhaps her mother felt the magic shared in their blood as Ren’wyn drew shades from the hollows of tree roots to keep her company in her misery. Slowly, she twined smoky shadow through her fingers, feeling its cold, dark hum. Frost bloomed on her nails. Shades of the dead lurked and shifted behind tree trunks. Ren’wyn could talk to them, call them forward if she wished. These were the remnants of those who had died with their dreams and desires unfulfilled. In the past, she had helped some settle debts or accomplish tasks, laying their wandering shadows to rest. Where they went then, she didn’t know—and didn’t think anyone did. Only the Dark Forest offered a safe retreat for magic anymore. Her father’s ancestors had spent their lives reminding tenants to stay away from the reaches of the ancient branches. Dark magic was all the reason Lord Vair ever gave, and people made the sign against evil and asked no questions. The houses at the skirts of the estate had wards painted on the walls facing the forest—walls without windows or doors so as not to witness the darkness—but Ren’wyn loved every inch of heavy shade and cool breeze. Even the wards, visible from the cavity within her favorite hemlock, made her feel safe, not scared. She could relax and breathe and reach out toward death, and even her magic seemed to enjoy this place of peace and isolation. Beyond the shadows lay true fear. Out in the bright sunshine, hate and ignorance curdled people’s perception of those born with power. Ren’wyn knew too well the poisonous influence of her father’s prejudice bleeding into his tenants, the long arm of the imperial regiments that hunted and murdered anyone with magic, and the ageless terror of those capable of interacting with death and the dying. Even though she knew no magical group escaped the Ashkren empire’s persecution—not druids, wights, oracles, berserkers, empaths, or dark mages—her kind had always borne the brunt of the distrust. No one saw the beauty of darkness and final ends. So she kept to herself. Alone in the woods, Ren’wyn smiled. The Void could wreak havoc on the living, but it also rose up to settle the lost. When Ren’wyn touched the power offered to her, it caressed back, gifting her, grounding her, and leading her to right wrongs and heal hurts. As she wove shadows and death in her fingers, she was finally fully alive. Three familiar shades waited in the distance, their presence like the quiet strain of a melancholy lullaby. Remembering her training, she closed her eyes and visualized them in her mind, reaching out with her spirit—arms stretching forward along with her will. Their answering approach was electrifying, the Void humming with satisfying energy. She already knew who waited when she opened her eyes. The hooded, cloaked figures of her two brothers and sister stood wreathed in black mist, pale skin visible below shadowed eyes. Her siblings always appeared this way, faces barely visible and hands tucked into long, flowing sleeves. Her brother Aiden stood in front, Moira on his left, dark blonde curls peeking from her hood, and Daren stood to his right. Aiden spoke most often, his voice a harsh whisper, a summons to those who wielded the Void’s power. Without training and an alert mind, the intense call of the Void could easily overwhelm an inexperienced mage. Ren’wyn still felt it every time she immersed herself in magic: an ache of ice against her bones, a soft encouragement to sleep without fear of waking, an errant tug of a ghostly hand made solid. “You are here often these days, sister,” Aiden stated, darkness seeping from his robe like eternal night. “Your heart is troubled. We would share your burden.” Troubled indeed. Sorrow stalled Ren’wyn’s breath. Today, her father, Lord Vair, had announced her betrothal to Erst, the young neighboring lord. Erst had dogged her as a child, taking note of which dolls to destroy, which pets to kick, and which talents Ren’wyn took pride in so he could tear her down.