Page 1 of Heart's Flame

Prologue

The clash of steel rang out into the darkness, eclipsing the peals of thunder overhead. Bursts of fiery magic lit up the clearing as much as the lightning, revealing the fallen forms of soldiers spread across the slick grass.

The shrouded man moved quickly, skirting the edge of the battlefield and keeping out of sight of the two warriors still left upon it.

Morovian the Mage and Marcellus the Null.

Stopping to catch his breath behind the jagged edge of a boulder, the shrouded man looked on. Relentlessly they fought, equally matched with their swords while the blasts of magic from Morovian’s hand broke over Marcellus’s skin like rain water. Nulls were immune to magic. They were also stronger and healed faster than humans. Still, Marcellus had more than one weeping gash from Morovian’s sword.

Lunging and parrying, swinging their blades with brutal strength the battle raged on. The shrouded man whispered a few words in the language of his magic, changing his sight to witness not only their physical forms, but their auras as well. That particular talent had never been the strongest of his, but this night, light and color burst into existence around the two warriors—Marcellus, a golden hue with ribbons of brown and green streaked through, and Morovian, shining silver clouded with the deep blue-green of the sea. Yet every time they came together, physical bodies clashing in contest, their auras caressed, melding into a vivid scarlett with ripples of blue and gold—so bright it was nearly painful.

“Flamma de corde,” the shrouded man whispered.Heart’s flame.

Thunder cracked, startling the shrouded man and breaking his sight spell. Darkness filled his vision again. Blinking his eyes, the warriors came back into focus. Their swords were pressed together, blood and dirt coated faces both twisted into a snarl, then Marcellus’s hand moved. He gripped a small knife from the side of his belt, and with a quickness his tired body shouldn’t have been able to pull off, brought it down hard, cutting into Morovian’s face and continuing on to lodge in the top of his chest.

Morovian screamed, pushing backward. Even as blood poured from his skin, he lashed out with his sword, catching Marcellus across his abdomen. Blood and other—meatier things—spilled down Marcellus’s front. He gasped, shock and pain registering on his pale face.

They both fell to the ground.

The shrouded man ran to them, his heart in his throat. “Please live,” he chanted under his breath, skidding to a stop over Morovian. He dropped to his knees, eyes widening as he took in the extent of the damage up close. Morovian was covered in wounds, all still leaking. It was a wonder he’d had any strength to fight at all. Behind the shrouded man, Marcellus grunted in pain.

Taking Morovian’s face between his hands, the shrouded man gave him a gentle shake. “Morovian, wake up! You must listen to me!”

“Who are you?” Morovian’s voice was thready and weak, but he opened the eye not coated in blood. Pain lanced through the shrouded man’s heart, but there was no time for that now.

“A friend. Now you must listen.”

Voices rang out through the surrounding trees to the south. More mages were coming. He certainly could not be here when that happened.

He strengthened his grip on Morovian’s face, staring into his eyes. “There’s no time. Remember Marcellus. You must remember what he is to you!”

Morovian’s black eyes squinted at him and then fluttered closed. Unconscious.

Frantic now, the shrouded man wiped his hand over the smear of blood on Morovian’s face before leaning over and doing the same to Marcellus. With a bit of each of their blood in his hand, he cupped his palms together and quickly said the words of a spell. The blood heated, coming alive on his skin and mixing together before vanishing with a puff of smoke. That wasn’t how he’d wanted this to go, but the sound of the approaching mages left him little choice.

Pulling a small gemstone from his pocket, he held it against his lips and whispered a spell, anchoring it into the stone. He tucked the stone into the pocket of a nearby Null, dead from a stab wound through the heart. As the shimmering visage of Marcellus settled over the dead man, glamouring his outward appearance for any that set eyes on him, the shrouded man prayed, “Fates, forgive me, but let the spell hold.”

He climbed to his feet, reaching down and hoisting a still bleeding—though not as freely—Marcellus up onto his shoulders and ran for the cover of shadow in the forest and hills to the north.

1

SIX MONTHS LATER

Vian noticed him as soon as the man walked into the tavern. Cold wind and rain snaked through the opening of the door with the man’s arrival, making the low hanging metal bowl lamps sway lazily on their chains above the boisterous heads of the crowd. Golden fireglow caught on the pale blond of the man’s hair before shadow reclaimed it again as he moved into the tavern and headed for the bar.

Pale blond hair...the same as—

“Well, if it isn’t Morovian the Scarred, Slayer of the Nulls,” a loud voice called from beside Vian’s table.

He sighed and twisted a scowl onto his face. “Depends. Who’s asking?”

The speaker dropped into the chair across from him, its rickety wooden legs creaking under their weight. Vian pulled his eyes away from the blond man and turned them toward the newcomer—wide shoulders, shaggy auburn hair, and a smile that could seduce many a creature, and had.

Coren's smile now was lopsided.

Vian shook his head. “I ought to kick your ass for dragging me out during the rains.”

Grabbing the pitcher of ale from the table, Coren took several large gulps without bothering to pour it into a cup. “What’s this? Afraid to get a little mud on your boots?”

---