For Donna and Toni.
You always believed in me … You always will.
Ashalea Kindaris
Ash-ah-lee-uh Kin-dah-riss
Destiny is a cruel mistress.
Leaps and Bounds
Ashalea
Death has a way of shrouding one in darkness. It dampens the soul, blanketing it like a heavy fog. It lingers in the air with a heady aroma; the stench of misery and decay reminiscent of lives lost. Death came and it conquered; it burnt hope from the hearts of men and elves alike, just as it did to the Academy itself.
The building was now a shadow of its former glory—the bottom an ashen husk, its peaks a glimmer of hope in the morning sun. The battle of Renlock Academy had been waged, but the war for Everosia was far from over. More would fall to the darkness. Many, many more.
Ashalea stood upon the ramparts of the Academy. Her long silver hair framed her face like the feathers of an arrow, and her nose crinkled as she considered the events that had led her to this moment.
From the day she was born, her life had held the promise of death and destruction. Everywhere she went, misery followed, clutching her hand with a vicelike grip. Her parents were the first to fall—her father was killed at the hands of his own son and her mother survived only long enough to give birth to Ashalea.
She had later perished from her wounds, and Ashalea’s life was placed in the loving care of two adoptive parents. It was a life well lived until her sixteenth birthday when the darkness murdered them in their sleep, having returned to finish what he had started—to end the royal line of the Moonglade Elves.
For Ashalea was no ordinary elf, but an heir to the Moonglade Meadows—one of the three Elvish provinces of Everosia. Of course, she hadn’t had the faintest idea about any of this at the time. All she had known three years ago was that she would avenge the death of her loved ones … or die trying.
But it seemed life had other plans. She sighed, her heart aching in earnest. So much death. So much innocent blood spilled. And it was all because of him. The darkness. The elf who called himself Crinos—who called himself her brother.
Her lips thinned into a bitter smile as she considered the irony of it all. As fate would have it, Ashalea had more than vengeance on her side. Only months ago, she had discovered she was a Guardian—one of five who were assigned to protect the Guardians of the Grove—Everosia’s inner sanctum and gateway to other dimensions.
Its current protectors were dying, and Ashalea and Wezlan had been tasked with finding the next in line to take their place, which had brought them Shara and Denavar—a new best friend and a new boyfriend, coincidentally. But there were still two left to find, and their quest had been waylaid at Renlock Academy, as they fought alongside elves, Onyxonites, and mages, to protect this sacred site.
They had come so close to completing a spell that would seal the darkness to Everosia, removing the darkness’s ability to conjure other portals and wreaking havoc with his otherworldly army. They had come so close to triumph.
The loss felt like a lump in her stomach. It left a bad taste that lingered in her mouth, and she knew she wasn’t the only one to chew on this frustration. The fledgling Guardians and their wise leader, Wezlan, all felt the blow to their egos. It was a festering wound that increased in ferocity, weeping pain and sadness in sickening waves. Looking upon the destruction below did little to encourage Ashalea. If anything, it rekindled her desire for vengeance—for her parents, for her royal bloodline, for Shara, and now for the mages of Renlock. The list was growing longer.
She watched men and women hauling the bodies of the fallen into two piles: one for the mages and elves, another for the ensemble of creatures from another realm. The darkness had not deigned to collect his dead. He cared only for himself. As their carcasses were thrown carelessly onto a pile, she grimaced at the sickening angles of their limbs, the fangs and forked tongues jutting from their mouths, open eyes wide and unseeing.
Images of the massacred children flashed before her eyes and bile rose in her throat. The brave boy who swore to protect his flock, the doll-faced girl, so angelic and innocent, covered in a scarlet sheet. She shook her head. Lingering on the dead would help no one. She was alive, and she would use that gift for good.
Her resolve turned to anger as she clenched her fists in silence, gritting her teeth, jaw clamped shut. Power has a way of snuffing out the good in people, and whatever flicker of light left in the darkness was buried deep within. The darkness … My brother. My kin. The master of malevolence.
She felt a presence approaching, and the calloused hands of a soldier slid over her body to take her fists and gently ease them open. The faint smell of peppermint filled her nose as a stubbled beard grazed her cheek and soft lips planted a kiss along her jaw. A menthol tingle caressed her nerves and fluttered through her system.
“The dead don’t wait for your forgiveness, Ashalea. It is time to return to the living.”
The elf had an uncanny knack for guessing her thoughts lately. She sighed, melting into his chest and resting her back against him. She crossed her arms, intertwining her fingers with his. Denavar was the one person who had brought her relief these past two days. The one person she could let all her walls down for. The fort was otherwise impenetrable of late.
“They’re dead because of us. They died in vain … because of us.”
“Nothing you could have done would have prevented this battle. The darkness was set on revenge with or without your presence here. His way of punishing Wezlan, I think.”
Ashalea turned to face Denavar, peering into his icy blue eyes. The breeze stirred his brown hair, and his chiselled arms curved around her body. Even with exhaustion lining his features, he was more handsome than ever. And he was hers. A smile crept across her face and confusion distorted his features.
“Is the joke on me?”
She chuckled, shaking her head. “Despite everything that’s happened, and all that is to come, you still manage to guide me out of the deepest storms. You make me want to be better, Denavar. You make me want to fight for what’s good in this world, to find a home.”
He stroked a hand through her hair and his eyes studied her every feature in admiration. “You are what’s good in this world. You are home. You are a warrior, fierce and wild as the sea.”
Ashalea wrapped her arms around him and squeezed for a long minute. She felt the fog lifting from her heart, and the worries retracted their claws. This man wanted to make something more of this life. And she wouldn’t let him down. Not today, not ever. The time for mourning was over. The dead don’t wait for your forgiveness.
Ashalea enjoyed a few moments of comfortable silence before pulling away from his embrace. She smirked at him. “That heart of yours is turning to mush, you know. People are going to suspect you’ve grown soft.”
He placed a hand over his heart, an expression of mock horror plastered on his face. “My reputation! My status as wooer of ladies and breaker of hearts! You’re making me a new man, Ashalea.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure they’ll just see me as your temporary squeeze. You never know, perhaps the ladies will be queuing out the door. People always want what they can’t have.”