Okay, here, this is an old draft to the prologue of a novel I'm working on. If anyone steals this...I'm going to laugh, since it really is draft material and not worth anyone's effort to be stealing yet. Also, I have things logged for copyright, so the concepts within are gonna stay mine.
Prologue
Chapters 1-5
Chapters 6-10
Chapters 11-15
Chapters 16-20
Chapters 21-25
Knight of the Princess
Prologue
Dreams, Nightmares, and Starlight
There was no moon, no stars, nothing to punctuate the black in any semblance of light. She could not see anything above or below, and as far as she knew, she was standing on the same darkness that surrounded her.
She could see the darkness moving. A storm gathering over the horizon, it veiled the lands in a complete and perfect black. It was not such that the sky was itself only shadow, but that something was there, something with a life of its own. It caused all to fade away, a canopy over life with no sunlight to reach anything below.
Then a change. A burst of white flame explodes before her, startling and swift. If one could explain it, it could only be...
The darkness was surprised as well.
It did not recede or lift yet it flinched away from the fire and the wonderful glow it produced. A candle lit amidst the veil of deep nothing.
It does not last.
The flame dances strong for a moment, then begins to recede as if whatever is fueling it is slowly running out. The shadowy presence begins to move in on it like the approaching twilight before the night, or the darkness consuming a dying star. It fades slowly, both growing smaller and moving away from her...
And she knows.
She must find this fire. This light. She must reach it, touch it, embrace it.
Soon.
Astra startled awake.
Candlelight greeted her.
Her eyes burned with fatigue and the pain of adjustment from the absolute dark of slumber to the harsh visible waking world. The young woman blinked in rapid succession to quell the stabbing irritation of sudden wakefulness. She shivered, realizing her clothes clung to her sweat-soaked body. Although this dream was not a nightmare, it did cause a cold fear to creep along her skin.
A hand clasped hers. She turned to meet the gaze of a dark eyed young man. Blue eyes—eyes she had once mistaken for a dark brown. Had the vision not disturbed her so, she would have been forced to hide the haze his touch always brought to her senses.
Instead, she asked, “What is it, Cyrus?”
Withdrawing his hand, Cyrus Lighleir knelt before Astra’s bed. She noted that he was already fully dressed in the blue coat that he wore over a chainmail hauberk, causing her senses to clear and attempt to broaden in search of danger. “We need to leave, now. Some are in search of you...in large groups amidst the streets.” His voice was serene in pitch but sharp, precise in tone.
Her knight. Her bodyguard. A man who had once intended to be a historical scholar but, for her sake, taken on a completely different life path. He was also Astra’s company for this trip, a trip she had fought for. A trip she had to make in secret or else risk kidnapping or assassination.
Because she was a princess.
Right now, however, she was a spy. A spy with orders from a superior—even if she did not know who that superior was. But she knew the mission, knew the parameters of the assignment. She went over the briefing in her head every night.
The dream.
The candlelight.
Cyrus was her partner in this. Of course, this was also deemed by law: Astra’s father, King Virel of Aerowlyn, had knighted Cyrus into the country’s order Heithai Valis; a royal guard, one for each member of the royal family. He was required to follow her everywhere she went outside of the palace. But beyond that, beyond his duty, she had wanted him to be with her for this.
He could see things.
He could see candles.
He could see a person’s star.
A star’s light reached out to others. To be known. To exist. So when Cyrus says, “Some are in search of you”, he has seen stars turn toward her. He has seen their intention to reach her.
It would help her find the fire. The light in her dream.
She climbed out of bed and made her way to the possessions she had brought along on the trip. She did not rush—clear thinking would be faster than a panic. Cyrus moved to stand by the window, his hand resting on the blade that hung at his waist.
A blade, curved, single-edged. But a special blade, given to him from the same superiors that had her on this mission. A holy weapon, originally believed to be wielded by an angel in mortal guise. The sigil on it marked it as the Aleraynic, Blade of the Dawn. He was knighted as the representation for the Heithai Valis Aleray, Knight of the Dawn.
He could see stars. To protect Astra from them, he could unveil the harsh morning light.
Astra had changed within moments, stuffing the sweat-stained clothing into a saddlebag, having taken on a simple green travel dress that suggested “soldier’s wife” instead of “noble”. She threw the saddlebag over her shoulder and took her last possession—a cloth-wrapped length that could be held as a walking stick—before turning to her guardian. “Ready,” she affirmed.
Cyrus had already shouldered his own travel pack and he handed her a cloak. “Put this on with the hood up. I know that it will look suspicious in this summer weather, however suspicious is better than obvious, as it would be with your hair exposed.”
Sighing, Astra wrapped the cloak around herself and drew the hood up to conceal the long, silvery-highlighted blond hair that was tied in a braid over her shoulders. It had not been silvery when she was younger, but ever since the dreams had started, silver glinted like veins of platinum through a miner’s cave. She wondered, sometimes, what other effects these dreamsights would come over her.
Dreamsights, considered a blessing of divinity in ancient times.
A possible curse to her personal health, it would seem.
The knight led her out into the hall of the inn they had stayed at for the past few days, dark eyes glancing about as they ventured to the stairs. The pair descended, footsteps echoing horribly loud to her ears as the wood floor creaked. Cyrus quickly placed the keys to their room on the desk, along with coin enough to pay for the time spent occupying it.
Yes, their room. Cyrus slept propped up against the wall, blade at the ready. He always insisted.
Sometimes, in the most carefree recesses of her mind, Astra wished she could manage the courage to ask him to join her under the covers.
But princesses cannot do that, of course. Especially when they are already betrothed. Or when their father is Virel Aerowlyn.
Because, if her father knew what she and Cyrus did when they dropped the titles—even though all was innocent and harmless—he would probably desire Cyrus’ head.
The horses were in the stables across the street. Cyrus led her to the door only to halt upon its threshold and hold out his hand to stop Astra. “Wait, they know we come.”
“How many of them are there?” Astra glanced back into the foyer of the inn, checking for other exits. There appeared to be none.
Cyrus glanced around, as if walls and doors were not present. “Two groups, at least. I count a group of at least seven in the stables and a group of five outside. Possibly others...but I can’t tell for sure at this distance.”
He could see people’s stars.
Of course, it is difficult to count the stars without getting lost or overwhelmed.
Sometimes, Astra wondered what her star looked like to him.
“I do not want to involve others. But if there are that many...” Astra’s voice trailed off. Although she could not see the stars of a person’s life force, she could intellectually surmise how many innocents were around and in harm’s way if a fight broke out.
Cyrus glanced back over his shoulder to her, brushing strands of coarse black hair out of his view. “Any kind of illusion you could make that could get them away from the horses?”
Like all people of Aerowlyn, Cyrus had some level of control over magic. Like philosophy, one only needs study a little to apply the basics. One also had to study more and have an innate talent or drive to even begin to touch the complexities. Cyrus, while trained in some physical enhancement abilities and spells that would help him offensively as a soldier, could not weave the subtle powers that she had studied in the solace of the palace. “Yes, but—“
The bolt from a crossbow pierced Cyrus’ right breast and sent him reeling. Astra cried out, grabbing her fallen guardian and pulling him further back into the inn.
The echo of frantic footsteps and the constant groan of wood indicated the princess’ difficulty in dragging her fallen companion into the building. The man who had shot him stepped out of the shadows along with the four others in his group.
“To think the Ascended fears them,” one said.
“Do not dare question His authority!” another warned. “If they are dangerous, we should not take them lightly.”
Reloading his crossbow, the shooter nodded. “Brothers, let us end this dreamer and her lover-knight. Then we need not have any fear involved.”
The five men followed their quarry in.
In their wildest dreams, they know only bliss.
These men are followers of the Ascended. An angel of dreams. Ascended to power by falling from grace.
He inhabits dreams and makes them real.
They form groups of followers everywhere. Men, women. Old, young. Children, somehow, are insusceptible to the Ascended’s call. But it is enough people to form churches. Here and there, known only to those whose dreams he touches.
After all, angel or not, he had turned away from the path of the other churches.
He is the Lord of Nightmares.
He has the power to remove your fear of those things which can only be tangible when reality is not. He has the power to likewise strike fear into those who embrace their dreams. Dreams, after all, can turn into nightmares.
In their wildest dreams, they know only bliss.
They are his followers. The Cult of Nightmares.
To dreams her wish no ill upon their night, they are merely known as the enemy.
In their wildest dreams, they know nothing.
They do not know that it is easier for one such as Astra to plant an illusion in the minds of those who want to see their enemy fall. They do not know that the bolt missed Cyrus, or that the two of them had escaped through a side window and managed to cross the street into the stables.
Astra knows they will be quite confused once the illusion dissipates in the enemy’s mind.
For those who can see dreams clearly know what they are capable of.
For a woman who has Dreamsight, she knows who she is.
She knows that, in her dreams, she is capable of throwing lightning from her hands. Unlike the enemy, she can see her dreams come to fruition.
Two men are blasted into a manger, crushing the wooden construction with the force and weight of convulsing, deadweight bodies. A third is merely glanced by the violet and white lances and falls to the floor in seizures as his nervous system is disconnected from his mind by random fluctuations of energy.
Four more are cut down by a blade of steel.
Stars can be read to find direction, to navigate north and south, east and west. It is believed by some that one can read the stars and see their fortunes told in them.
Cyrus reads a person like a navigator reads the sky. He reads their star.
The first man to draw a sword brings an overhead swing down on Cyrus.
The stars say to go right.
Cyrus throws himself to his right, spins a complete circle, and swings his blade. The weapon arcs down to cut the man at the knee and sends him face-first into the ground.
Two more men reach Cyrus at the same time, one with a curved blade, another with a dual-edged short sword.
Back.
Cyrus spins back around on the same pivot that brought down the first cultist, twisting out of the way of the sword and using the centrifugal force to bat aside the blade. The move, however, has put him back into the range of the cultist he injured. But it has also restricted the footwork of the two attacking men in the tight confines of the narrow stables.
The injured man swings a wild attack at Cyrus’ legs.
Up.
A whispered word and Cyrus leaps over the swing and flips mid-air, landing with such balance that could only have been achieved with supernatural assistance. The attack instead comes across the shins of the two standing attackers who stagger forward, howling in pain.
Cyrus faces the last of the cultists, who comes around from the other side of the firstly-injured attacker, jabbing at the knight with a short spear. Cyrus blocks one attack, then another, then a third.
Forward.
Cyrus steps forward as the cultist stabs again. The strike goes wide and cuts at Cyrus across his left flank, but the angle of the hit is deflected by the hauberk, the chainmail turning the spearpoint aside. Cyrus slashes parallel to the spear’s thrust and catches his attacker across the chest.
Quickly tossing his saddlebag to Astra, Cyrus then kicks weapons away from the injured men who—obviously bred for assassination and not active combat—are suffering the mind-numbing shock of pain from their injuries. He then goes to throw open the doors of the stables.
“Those who defy the Ascended shall endure never ending torment of dreams,” one cultist croaked.
Astra guided out both of their steeds and Cyrus made a check outside to be sure no backup arrived for the cultists. “My dreams of late are not nightmares,” Astra said. “Except, perhaps, to your master.”
“They will be,” the cultist said, attempting a threatening tone.
It was not a mocking smile that came to the princess’ lips. It was genuine. But it was also tinged with sadness. “Besides,” she said, “My dreams, even my nightmares...they are my only freedom. It is the day I do not look forward to.”
She climbed atop her mount, Cyrus already atop his and waiting by the door. As she trotted her horse out, the knight started loading his own one-handed crossbow.
The five men who had entered the inn were just now coming out, looking perplexed. The leader, the one with the crossbow, was too confused to even raise his weapon before Cyrus shot it out of his hands.
They looked up as if in a daze. They studied Cyrus for any signs of a wound. There were none.
“Your master may be the Lord of Nightmares,” Astra said, “But no matter what he says, his power cannot give you everything you need. My power can.”
Before the cultists could say or do anything, the pair rode off under the fading starlight. Morning was already approaching to guide their sight.
She did not tell them.
Nor did she tell Cyrus.
Sometimes, she could not even admit it to herself.
The only other dream she ever saw more than once beside the candlelight dream. This dream was a nightmare.
This dream was of despair.
This dream was of reality.
Dreams—and nightmares—can be real too.
Prologue, End
I'll show you how things change in the drafting process, though. This is the dream as it stands now:
Tiny candles.
It was a greater distance than the night sky, the lights piercing the endless black so far from reach. Nothing could be seen above nor below, and as far as could be told, existence itself stood on the same darkness that made up the surround.
Those lights did nothing amidst the darkness, flickered and wavered, only offset by the absolute black that made up this existence. They moved, acted, but failed to give off more than the knowledge of their presence; no shadows were cast, no shape was given. The darkness merely was, and the candles merely were.
Candles in a sky bereft of stars.
At once, unexpectedly, there was another. Seemingly, in the endless nothing and the faraway, unreachable lights, a greater candle, a brighter flame. A flare of bright, not a flicker of dim.
The darkness was surprised as well.
It did not recede or lift yet it flinched away from the fire and the wonderful glow it produced. A candle lit amidst the veil of deep nothing.
It does not last.
The flame dances strong for a moment and then begins to recede. Whatever is fueling it is slowly running out. The shadowy nothingness begins to move in on it like the approaching twilight before the night, or the darkness consuming a dying star. It fades slowly, both growing smaller and moving away from the center of existence…