Storm of Prophecy: Book 1, Dark Awakening

S
torm
of
Prophecy

Book I

Dark Awakening

Michael von Werner

To the Readers,

this book was written for

you and you alone.

Storm of Prophecy

Book I Dark Awakening

Book II Pillar of Light

Book III
* Flames of Retribution *

Book IV * Tides of Chaos *

Book V * Captive Souls *

Book VI
* Edge of Fate *

* Imminent *

Pronunciation Key

PLACES

Ryga righ
‡ guh

Gadrale gad
‡ drail

Kairaus kare
‡ oss

Vanir von
‡ ear

PEOPLE

Vincent Faren fare
‡ en

Treyfon tray
‡ fawn

Gautrek gaw
‡ trek

Chapter
I

V
incent was feeling tired but instantly snapped awake the moment he thought he heard a slight swishing sound against stone. There was no one there in the hallway and so he ignored it. His mind was playing tricks on him again. He assumed the certainty of having heard nothing.

Unable to stand the itching sensation any longer, Vincent reached his right hand back behind his neck and scratched himself under where his thick black hair cut off. A faint scraping sound ensued when his fingernails moved against his skin. There was another itch just below it on his upper back, and so he sent his hand down well under his dark blue cloak and tan leather shirt to reach it, having to bend his head forward to have it out of the way.

When he did, his eyes came to rest on his black boots atop the interlocked gray stone blocks, which lay below his dark leather pants. After scratching, he folded his arms again and resumed standing in a firmly dedicated, solitary stance, a statue once more. Inexplicable itches often resulted from holding still for too long, and long hours of standing guard duty required him to do just that.

All around him stood the cold gray stone walls of Gadrale Keep’s most inner sanctum: the stretch of hallway leading to The Crafters’ Vault. It was a storage area for complex and exquisitely constructed items of great magic power. Laying deep within the stone recesses, it was like a locked chest buried under tons of dirt and rock. Vincent often felt as though he had a mountain of stone resting above him.

At this bottom floor, five stories below ground level, nothing stirred save for him. Behind where he stood, hidden from his view, was the golden disc-shaped door. The hall leading out lay ahead in his vision. Large stone slabs made up the walls going outward, each carefully cut, each flat and long, showing only a lengthy rectangle on the sides.

The air was cool and damp on the skin of his face and hands. Despite the excellent design of the fortress, moisture still accumulated on the rock surface at this depth. Because of this, mold had invaded the dark recesses and plastered itself in various places along the wall. The area smelt like stagnant rainwater had been forever trapped in a frigid, empty stone coffin. A single bright orb with sunlight essence trapped inside was affixed to the ceiling in the middle of the hall and provided the only source of illumination in the otherwise dismal alcove.

Imperceptibly, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His appearance and overall posture did not change, but doing this allowed him to remain fluid should he need to respond. It was one of the things he was taught to do when he was trained for guard duty. Most guards, like he, had mastered the fine art of making this change less visible. Vincent doubted that anyone would have noticed him doing it even if they had watched.

No matter the intense tedium that he was faced with during his duties, Vincent would not trade his hard earned position at the mage academy in Gadrale for anything. It had been his ambition since childhood to become a wizard who served here, and he still considered it an honor despite his low status and the little regard his particular gift engendered. Being assigned to guard a magically locked and secure vault door, which already had powerful spells protecting it, was perhaps a sign of this, but he didn’t care. He reasoned that anyone with enough power to break in would be better met with direct resistance than none. They could disarm the spells, if they were exceptional, but they couldn’t disarm Vincent without a fight.

He heard the swishing sound again, perked up his attention and looked carefully at the hall intersection, ultimately dismissing it once more. His nerves were a little on edge because of what had been happening lately in the city just north of the keep and in the area around it.

People had been going missing and had never returned. Only a few, the crumpled, broken bone remains of children, had turned up. The bones had bite marks on them that were consistent with that of a dragon or a wyvern, so the deaths were all written off as that: no more than a feral winged beast consuming the unwary as they traveled alone foolishly into the wilderness.