Page 1 of The Phoenix

Prologue

I will never allow the weight of the past to crush the present.

—Ohngel’s whispered promise to the Cambion who lay dying

Wales, AD 849, Three Hundred and Ninety-seven Years After the Karmic Schism

After shifting the angle and speed of his descent, Ohngel landed outside the familiar cavern, his thick-soled boots leaving footprints in the dirt. Striding through the entrance, he snapped his fiery razor-tipped wings in tight.

Moisture from weeping calcite-draped walls cooled his exposed flesh. Bats, annoyed by his intrusion, shrieked as they swept from their roosts. In the belly of the home where the Cambion from Wales had lived for centuries, the OneCreator’s assassin drew a deep breath. The stench of guano, fetid air, and death-tinged soil was heavy in the air. His keen-edged crystalline gaze roamed the dark womb of the interior until it found its target.

The old one was dying.

Sired by a king’s daughter and a warlock, the ancient man-but-not-man lay atop an elevated wood bed on a mattress stuffed with corn husks. His shrunken body barely created a lump beneath the coarse woolen blanket tucked under his chin.

Imitating the old male’s condition, the nearby fire strained to live. Ohngel raised a finger in its direction, igniting it, engendering a blaze to warm weary, fragile bones.

The winged assassin whispered, “I should have come sooner, my aged friend, but where I reside, time is fluid. Centuries are contained in a grain of sand on a beach, a drop of water in an ocean, a particle of oxygen in the air.”

He gazed at the warlock’s wrinkled forehead, sunken jowls, puckered hands folded on his stomach, and white hair to his waist. His breathing faltered in jagged spurts. The Cambion no longer resembled the mighty Aeternal upon whose shoulders rested the weight of three realms. Ohngel crouched beside the mage who had striven to protect so many.

The old one’s lids fluttered. When they opened, the corners of his lips twitched upward into an exhausted smile. Air labored from his lungs, his words a struggle. “I waited, Prophet.”

Ohngel grasped a gnarled hand. “I am honored to be here.”

The Cambion’s chest heaved with each gasp, fighting for enough breath to speak. “I completed my tasks—the writing of The Path, the revelation of the Prophecy, the formation of the Scion Firebrands, and the establishment of Custodes Templii.” Interrupting his list of accomplishments, a rattling cough stole his words. “Our plans are in motion.”

Ohngel shook his head, wiping away the cobwebs of the past. “Warlock, you have never let me down. Without reason, you trusted me.”

A small spark lit the Cambion’s eyes. “I am a good judge of character. Yours is honorable.”

The assassin’s feathers ruffled along his spine. “Most disagree.”

“They may do so, though it does not change the fact of it.”

“I have been a slow learner, friend.” Ohngel’s wings swooshed, flicking out only to refold onto his back, eventually melting into his flesh.

“The Tortoise and the Hare is a treasured fable.” The old male wheezed until his visitor rested a soothing hand on his chest. “What I have done, Prophet, will it be enough?”

Ohngel’s thoughts sifted through past events. Dissatisfied with the schemes in the OneCreator’s court where idle immortals frittered away eternity, he had sought the most powerful mage on Earth. Asking much while explaining little, he had requested the warlock gather others of power to create three realms—Scath for Aeternals, Darque for wildings, and Earth for humans. In this way, the Blood Coven protected their own while freeing mankind to multiply, develop strengths, and build defenses.

The Cambion’s lids closed as he slipped into a light sleep, his snores echoing in the cavern. His eyes slid open once again. “Tell a selfish old man, does the Evermore exist?”

As the OneCreator’s assassin, Ohngel’s job was to deal punishment or death to violators of law. Others determined an Aeternal’s final destination, probably with a roll of the dice. Angor or the Evermore? Snake eyes or seven?

For the Cambion, he would intervene. “I have never visited, though I know of it. To this place I shall accompany you when you are ready.”

“Will I rejoin my kind there? Without them these many years, I have been lonely. I miss starlit nights by campfire where the young tell tall tales of exploits.” The dying warlock paused, succumbing to a fit of coughing. He continued with ragged breaths punctuating his words. “I miss the toddlers who fall asleep in the laps of loving kin, the dancing girls who cast sultry smiles lit by flame-light.” He closed his eyes, fighting to continue. “And the caring friends who warm each other’s spirits with a mere touch.”

“All will be to your satisfaction, old one.”

“I have no argument with my role, Prophet. I simply remember the boy I was who once dreamed of a mate, children, a future.”

Ohngel allowed heat to move through his palm to his friend’s chest, hoping to ease the pain. “The realms are your progeny. Your legacy will be the survival of mankind and the salvation of your Aeternals’ souls.”

Words nearly died amid a raspy wheeze. “Knowing my offspring, Seraphine and Quind, would perhaps have been enough. But it was not to be.”

“No. It was not. For that I weep with you.” He spoke truth. Within Ohngel was empathy for his dying friend. An emotion he rarely felt.

---