The price of sin - chapter one

Power. All that everyone craves. To be the one to master the art of using the ancient star and channel it into beauty.

On the brink of war a desperate father decided to teach his only daughter to harness that magic and help him beat his enemies once and for all. He broke all the sacred rules in a hope to harness control. He learned to regret it later.

The power gives but it takes as much. For if you harness death, the price is unfathomable. As the little girl raised her hands and unleashed her newly learned power upon the incoming armies, as their bodies dropped to the ground one by one, their faces forever carved into their last expression, the debt was paid immediately. A rain of black birds, the carriers of truth. Their wings flopped as they fell beside the fallen soldiers. Before the day of the tragedy they were known as bystanders of the Power but ever since that day they became the exchange for power, the value of life and death, serving only the person who had complete control of their lives. A cruel joke on a girl who had saved a chick raven a long time ago. She had learned that day the price for power and she never forgot it.

Chapter one

Count the birds you mother tells you

One for sorrow, two for mirth

Three for death and four for birth

Five and six do not belong

And seven is a secret never to be told

Eight for lies and nine for sins

Ten for the bird you should never have seen

The darkest hour is upon us when you see a storm of black

The gates of Elyndor approached fast, the banners with the five snakes intertwined on a marble-like surface moved alongside the wind. Deianara was home at last, the word bittersweet on her tongue. She had not yet had time to wonder why the return was causing her this turmoil.

She was met in proper order, soldiers everywhere, trumpets and glorious cheers from carefully selected by-standers. A whole cavalry or horses, nobles and their children stood in two columns, making a path for her to follow. She glided up the curved marble steps, pacing slowly and taking in the admirable gazes on the crowd, taking note of every word shouted in her direction. She was adored, beloved and admired. At least by these people. For now it was enough.

As she approached the great opening at the end of the vast staircase her eyes finally landed on the people waiting for her, dressed in their best attire, standing still and tall was her flesh and blood.

“Deianara Vandeleur! Crown princess of Elyndor and heir to the throne!” the announcer yelled, his voice carrying far and silencing the cries of the crowd.

“My daughter, at last you are home.” her father spoke, opening his arms as if ready for embrace, yet Deianara knew better than to show affection in front of an audience.

“Father,” she said, her voice sharp as her knees buckled in a little bow. “Brother,” her voice a little softer as she met her younger brother’s gaze. He grinned at her. He looked the part of a charming young prince, with his messy black curls falling nearly over his forehead. Everything from his regal style to his posture screamed spoiled prince with no care for the world. His long black velvet coat was adorned with golden embroidery of flowers and snakes, a gold chain hung around his neck, with the same snake symbol in the middle.

“Come, we have much to discuss.” Her father gestured towards the heavy wooden doors behind them.

“Oh, will you let her catch a break, she hasn’t even stepped inside and you already wish to put her to work.” Sylvan groaned, pushing his hair out of his face.

Their father simply smiled down at his son and nudged Deianara to come along. She snuck a little grin at her brother as she followed. Their footsteps were lost in the chaos of the castle inside. Servants, merchants, soldiers and noble family members were walking, talking and laughing creating that natural unimportant buzz. As they stepped inside the main hall a sense of warmth and familiarity struck her. Everything finally felt right, perfect despite the imperfections. The towering ceilings were supported by ornate columns, and the walls were covered with intricate tapestries depicting battles and creatures that one would only hear of in the books. The scent of woodsmoke, that came from the roaring fire in the massive stone fireplace, filled her nostrils and Deianara finally felt home. She followed her father through another set of doors, beautifully decorated with gold embroidering, and walked into a smaller room, right beside the throne hall. It was much simpler here, a more private retreat, a place to discuss matters that some ears were never destined to hear. As the door closed behind them, Deianara caught a glimpse of two guards positioning themselves outside. It has never hurt anyone to be careful.

Her father, the king, positioned himself at the end of a massive wooden table and as he took his place, he gestured to Deianara to sit beside him. She obeyed, tucking her long velvet cloak-like coat underneath. She placed both hands on the table and her fingers drummed on the wooden surface.

“So, I assume the communications went well.” Her father finally spoke. His voice was regal now, full of authority, nothing like the loving father before. He was here as her king and she as his subject who had to report.

Deianara Vandeleur posed as an occasional royal ambassador to the other kingdoms, sent to communicate important matters on his majesty’s behalf, when the information seemed too important to be handled by others. Her father was not a trustworthy man. He was filled with mistrust, greed and lacked what people called empathy. Deianara was raised in this notion, to control, to never give up the sacred power the royalty held. Power that was only granted to the worthy, to the divine royals, those who ruled the realms in Astreluis, gifted by the Fondaye himself.

“Depends on what you call successful. Oacenth Whitewell has your loyalty, I do not understand why even question it. I bring heavier news, father. The rebellion is brewing ever so strongly. Oacenth has received reports from all over. They are coming and they are coming for your head. They need to be dealt with.” Her voice was calm, yet Deianara pressed her fingers into the table harder and harder, her knuckles turning white.

“Enough, I am bored to death to repeat myself. I shall not have this talk again. The rebels want us to fear them, want us to retaliate. I shall not fall for those treacherous lies.” her father's voice cut through the air. Deianara took in a sharp breath and for the second the world stilled, she could not breath, could not move. Then, just as quickly as this sensation came - it stopped.

“Do not use your powers on me.” Deianara growled. If anyone else had taken that tone with her father they probably would have lost their head already, but he simply gave a stern look. “Fine, be foolish for all I care. But if you want my opinion, you have grown lazy. You are misjudging the situation and their abilities. Tenebrians are starving and angry. You have shown them leniency for years but there will come a time when you will regret that.”

Her father looked her up and down. A hint of disappointment, but Deianara shrugged it off.

“I do not wish to continue to bring terror and death upon them.”

Deianara had to stop herself from bursting into laughter. Her father has grown weak over the past few years. This was not the same man who had raised her. She did not see the man who taught her to take control, to know when to be ruthless, to show no mercy. Her teaching had always been clear - to be feared, not loved. How did her father become such a slob when it came to ruling when years ago he went above and beyond to break the sacred rules just to get Tenebria under his control.

“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “One day you will see that I am right. There is another matter worth discussing today. Reyna Vaelen.” Reyna Vaelen was the last survivor of once the great house of Vaelen, the rulers of Tenebria. She was kept alive as a courtesy, an act of mercy when Venkalth Vandeleur overtook Tenebria and proclaimed to be the king. She was barely a girl back then, too young to understand the tragedy she had suffered. She remained there as a servant of the True Ruler, to conduct his word, to preach his teachings. She was nothing but a pawn in Deianara’s fathers eyes.

Her father raised one brow. “What of her?” He had never given the girl much though as he had groomed her to be exactly what he wanted. He believed he had molded her way of thought, of the way she saw what was right for her country and was convinced she was truly loyal to him. Deianara had always been sceptical of his decision to keep her alive, because nothing was more dangerous than a beacon of hope and that was exactly what Reyna Vaelen was - an idea that the royal house of Tenebria had an heir, a choice to become free once again.

“She has put in a request. To move her ceremony before her coming of age.” Deianara answered coldly. The sacred ceremony was a practice of one worthy of the Power of Fondaye to receive the right to possess a power granted as a gift from the god. The day of a royal child coming of age was the day the ceremony was held in the Sacred Temple. There, in a ritual that Deianara thought to be pompous, one shall receive the gift of Power. Unique to each, the Power manifested itself differently in each person. Some, as her father, received a great power of total control over anyone, the ability to stop if not time, then everything surrounding him. Others gained the ability to heal and some to simply grow flowers. While nobody was entirely sure how that power was chosen, Deianara believed that the god somehow knew the person's need and desire, therefore granting exactly that.

“Why would she want that? She is merely a year from coming of age, is she not?” Venkalth looked genuinely puzzled. Deianara scoffed.

“Do you not see, father? She wants power and she wants it now. Combine this and the rebels becoming more active and bold - you have a reason.” Deianara pressed her hands into the table as if the pressure to the wood would persuade her father that the danger was real.

“You have grown to be paranoid. She is a young girl who is impatient. That is all. But, nevertheless, I shall have a talk with her and the request is denied, of course. She shall have to wait.”

Deianara rubbed her forehead. Her father seemed to be losing common sense every time they spoke. She needed him to see, to fear, to acknowledge the danger she knew was real. If only she could make him understand. Her eyes shot up to her father’s face. His bloodshot eyes, his heavy eyelids stood out on his incredibly pale face. His raven black hair was untamed underneath his golden crown. Deianara wondered how her father could look so tired when he was losing grip on his control of the kingdom because of his decisions to not act. How does one have the dignity to be tired whilst doing nothing. He was the king, the face of his realm, yet he allowed himself to look weak, unmanaged.

“Father, we are leaving as the sun goes down, I suggest you manage whatever mess you have on your face right now. We have to look presentable for the Celebration.” Deianara tried and failed to make her voice sound sympathetic. Venkalth looked at her with sadness in his eyes, Deianara thought it to be disappointment. What Deianara failed to see was that her father was not disappointed with her.

“Yes, yes,” he muttered, his hand running along his face, the expression vanishing from his face. “I didn’t get much sleep. Do not fret. Run along, get ready.”Deianara didn’t respond as she rose to her feet. She took in the sight of her father, slouched in his chair, looking so weak, desperate and pathetic. She could not believe that the man before her eyes was the same man who had raised her to be the person she was now. Who put the blade in her hand at the age of five, who taught her to survive, to channel anger into power, to never give up. This was not the same man who pressured her into learning all the languages of each kingdom, to know each custom of their enemies, to be cunning and always be vigilant. He once himself was so glorious and now all Deianara saw was a shell of man. She was certain that she was not the only one to recognise the truth - the king was no more.

For six years she had watched him decay in his own mind. She wondered sometimes if it was the death of his wife that softened him. If that were true she couldn’t fathom feeling sorry for him as since her mother had died she found herself to be sharper, even more vigilant than before. She turned all of her parents' teachings into reality, vowing to herself to never be beaten, a silent promise to her mother. Her father was disgracing his wife's memory.

She walked out of the conference room and out into the great hall. She felt frustration take over every cell of her body. She needed to convince her father to retaliate, to act and fast. The future of the crown lied on him realising that danger was at their doorstep.

Deianara felt tension rising up in her chest, she needed to let it out so desperately. So, she ventured towards the only place she felt safe to express her anger in. the fighting room. After dodging people in the narrow corridors that led to the royal private fighting room, she found herself standing before the entrance. A slight push and she was inside. The room was poorly lit - a courtesy of her and Sylvan’s training masters. One should always be prepared to fight even if they cannot see. Let that be your advantage. The cold teachings of the masters echoed inside her mind.

In the dim light she saw a figure wielding a sword, fighting with air. Sylvan was in the middle, creating various manoeuvres with his sword. He lost his long coat and was not only in his white tunic and pants. He looked up at his sister with yet another grin, his loose curls obstructing his green eyes.

“Sister!” he exclaimed. “Care to join?” Deianara felt his gaze travel her up and down, taking in her tense posture and clenched jaw. “You do look like you need to throw a few punches.” He commented lightly.

Deianara moved forward, her eyes quickly adjusting to the lack of natural lighting. She approached the cabinet filled with weapons. She glanced at her brother's sword and then back to the variety of choice. She hastily picked up a silver blade, thin and light. It made a swooshing sound as she sliced the air. The blade felt so effortless in her hand, as if she was born with one. She took a few steps forward and raised the arm holding the weapon, pointing it at her brother. She grinned, showing most of her front teeth.

“Bring it on, little brother.”

He did not wait for another invitation as he lunged forward. He moved swiftly as he narrowed the space between them. Deianara waited for him, still, unmoving. When he was within reach she finally moved, dodging his first blow and shielding the next one. After blocking the next few, she finally began attacking herself. Her legs moved to a beat of her heart as their swords crossed each other in a beautiful and dangerous dance of death. As the sword lunged for her neck, she ducked backwards, avoiding the blade by mere inches. She grinned up at her brother and attacked again, this time more strategically. She moved as if space didn’t matter to her, as if she was the air in that room, as she was the bringer of death. With a few skilled moves, she managed to twist her brother's arm and his sword fell to the ground with a loud clash. She hit him hard in the knee, forcing him to kneel and the next thing her brother knew was the blade at his throat.

“You lose.” she breathed.

“Not yet.” Sylvan grinned once more and Deianara felt a surge of power radiate through her as she flew backwards and landed on her back, the blade flowing out of her hand.

“What. The. Demon.” Deianara exclaimed as slight pain shot through her back. She groaned as she rose to her feet slowly and shot a deranged look at her brother, who now too was standing, his hands crossed on his chest. The bastard was laughing. “No powers in combat, you know the rules.”

“Damn the rules.” he simply shrugged. “In real life you never know what might hit you, who has the Power and who doesn’t.”

“We do know who does and who doesn’t.” Deianara rubbed her lower back and limped forward. “And you seem to rely too much on yours these days.” she scolded.

“Why not? I have it, it is mine. Why not use it to my advantage?” his eyes followed his sisters every move, not trusting her to not attack him. “Why don’t you?”

Deianara, half turned to pick up the sword she dropped, froze. Slowly her head turned to face her brother, whose expression remained amused.

“What, sister? It is not that uncommon of a question, for someone who got their Power earlier than the rest of us, you surely don’t use it often.”

“You learning how to fight with a real weapon is a lesson you need to know. You cannot always rely on your Power, dear brother.” Deianara snarled as she grimaced while picking up the blade. “This is just as important and you know it.”

“You didn’t answer me. I know how to fight. I am good and you know it, stop being such a defensive person for once. Why don’t you use your power more often?” he pushed, his stance still on high alert.

Deianara raised her arms in frustration, her brows furrowed. “Do you want me to kill you or something?” She exclaimed. “Just a small death with my brother has, nothing more.” she continued to mutter under her breath. Sylvan chuckled. “Laugh all you want.”

“I know you have enough control to not kill me.” He took a precautionary step backwards, his eyes still filled with boyish amusement. Deianara placed her sword on the table with a clack and stared at her younger brother. He was only four years younger than her, yet she has never been so bold and brash, even at his age. Perhaps, it was the way men matured, which never was.

“Are you afraid, sister?” Sylvan stepped back again, this time his voice filled with less amusement as before. This was a genuine question, one he has brought up many times before. “Do you think the price is not worth it?”

Deianara observed her brother, anger, sadness, she did not know what emotion rose inside her chest. All she remembered was her pupils dilating as she focused on her brother. She could hear it, could feel his heart beating. One second - several beats, the next - nothing. His heart stopped. Sylvan couldn’t even cry in pain as his knees slammed into the ground. His eyelids grew heavy, eyes closing. He couldn’t even manage to take his last breath.

Then Deianara breathed in, and there it was, the heartbeat again. Sylvan coughed hard as his hand stopped his fall. Deianara blinked and in that moment she felt pure terror, she was provoked and had nearly killed her brother. But then Sylvan roared with laughter. It was coarse and came out in between his vicious coughing. All the sympathy vanished in Deianara’s mind.

“Happy?” She asked.

Sylvan rose to his feet, his face red from all the coughing and laughter he could not contain. He tried and failed to speak several times, but couldn’t contain his laughter once again as he doubled over. Deianara watched him with a disappointed expression of a mother. She crossed her arms and waited.

“See, now that, just, I can't. Brilliant.” Sylvan managed to get out the words through the fit of laughter. Deianara rolled her eyes.

“Go, get a bath, you stink. We are leaving soon.” She turned on her heel and walked out as the sound of her brother still roaring with laughter following her.