Nicholas

Power surged within Nicholas, a potent chaos forever his promising mayhem, threatening an infinite destruction. He desired to give in, to give Power everything she wanted. Shatter bones. Burn forests. Dry the oceans. Hide the sun. Break the world. Make every beating heart beg him not to take tomorrow and all the days after. This energy, this need, could not be holed up forever, but he was taught to temper the beast. Let her out when necessary, then tighten the noose and don’t let go or she’d take him, too.

The Dread Peaks sat before him, overrun by beasts of another plane. An unholy plane, the humans called it. He did not believe in the folly of humans, their foolish morals, and wrathful religions. However, he believed in repaying debts. Calix Fearworn declared war against Faerie years ago and Nicholas would eagerly engage.

Lockehold, the shadowed disciples’ citadel of horror, held more than the path forward. Tonight, he had a job to do and he couldn’t wait to let go. The fae and mortal armies stood at his back. They shared a breath when he held out his hand. The eternal flame burning upon his center spread from his fingertips. Mortals called magic the Sight, something gifted from their mundane gods. Nicholas saw it as nature, as natural as rivers and mountains and the beating heart within his chest.

Fuchsia flames lurched from his hand through the sea of monsters and the battle for Lockehold began. The siege lasted hours. He long lost track of the bugs he crushed. Prey wailed. Bodies dropped. Limbs shattered. Gore and death always followed power and he couldn’t get enough. Those were the hardest times to strangle the destructive need for all he wanted was to unleash.

But as he gazed upon the remnants of his mission, a shadowed disciple now barely more than blood and ash at his feet, his power diminished, ceasing the turbulent air and rampant flames that charred the ruined room. The air sparked with life, flames flickered in and out of existence. They settled atop his skin, then withered into lines of smoke. His eyes opened, the fierce hue of pink dimmed.

Around him, his kin watched. They clutched daggers and swords, tips pointed at him, for none knew when one like him—a shade—would lose themselves entirely. When Power took hold and wouldn’t let go, they had to be ready to strike that down, if they could.

“The generals will be pleased,” Nicholas said while digging through the remnants of the shadowed disciples’ robes. He tracked the bastard for nearly two months. His mission was about what the disciple carried, a book of weathered pages stitched together by glistening spion silk.

The half dozen fae around him eased the hands from their weapons, now aware that Nicholas was himself. Snow filtered in through the collapsed ceiling at the edge of the room. Corpses lay strewn about, crushed by debris or splattered against walls. Their stench carried over the heavy musk of the citadel. Nicholas loved the scent of a good slaughtering and the taste of copper on his tongue. He knew little more than that over the last decade, always yearning for a fight, for fun and games, anything to ease the pressure of energy gnawing at his core. Anything to prevent a change that all said was inevitable.

“Our sources were correct. A general of Fearworn’s shadowed disciples carrying a book of monsters,” Duke said. The mortal mentor, forced on him by his father’s orders, surged forward.

“May I, sir?” Duke asked. Nicholas dropped the book into his grasp, smirking when the mentor flipped through the pages and his expression sank. “What language is this?”

“Not one a dense mortal would know.” He snatched the book. “This is the ancient tongue of High Fae.”

Which Fearworn knew, as a High Fae himself… and a shade, same as Nicholas.

The greedy gazes Nicholas received during childhood changed when Calix Fearworn fell to the storm within him. When he threatened to recreate the Collision that opened gateways between the realms of Faerie and Terra. Fearworn yearned for a sinister power, to unleash monsters from another world and seek all realms that may be after, even if that meant destroying their realms in the process.

Though others wanted the power Nicholas had, they also came to fear it, to expect him to fall to Fearworn’s corruption as shades were cursed to self-destruct, one way or the other. Truthfully, he considered following Fearworn’s path more times than he could count.

Fearworn sought knowledge and power. This book proved that. One flip through the pages and he glimpsed decades of Fearworn’s curiosities for the unknown. Among Fearworn’s ranks, he would be encouraged to lean into the worst monster that lived within. However, even his desperation for a good time knew better than to risk throwing himself to madness. He would not be himself afterward, and he quite liked himself.

“I was taught this language before any other. It is a complicated tongue. Translating will take time, however, I am eager to determine how fucked Fearworn is now,” Nicholas added with a chuckle.

“The generals appreciate all the work you’ve put in, Lord Darkmoon,” Duke said. “We would not have won this battle without you.”

“Lord Darkmoon is my father, and save your piss poor pleasantries for one who cares.”

Duke bowed in the typical obedient manner.

Nicholas’ father, Lord Laurent Darkmoon, sought to maintain a relatively civil connection with humans for the time being. Nicholas wasn’t known for civility, so a mortal mentor followed to ensure he didn’t cause too much trouble by teaching him mortal ways.

Duke had been a constant annoyance. Laurent could have at least hired a fuckable annoyance. But Duke had the curse of all humans; age. Wrinkled skin and thin, graying hair that sprouted out of his ears, too. He always thought about tying the man down and ripping out all that affronted him, although there wouldn’t be much left of Duke afterward.

“We should hurry back to the generals,” Duke said. “They have likely sent scouts into the Deadlands by now. The generals will want to move, too, now that Lockehold has been taken. This book is no doubt going to be of great value to us. This war may be coming to an end at last.”

Nicholas couldn’t say he shared Duke’s excitement. If there was one mortal creation he found marvelous, it was war, and mortals were exceptionally prolific at it.

“Look at this,” Blair called.

Nicholas’ sister stepped into the light from a shadowed hallway. Her teeth, jagged as a predator, unsettled any unfortunate enough to gaze upon her. With limbs long as a willow branch, ocean eyes narrowed and cold, skin a pale blue, and hair black as midnight, she was vicious in both words and appearance.

She closed the distance between them in a couple of steps. Her blood-stained fingers snatched the book out of his grasp. “Well, well, won’t Father be pleased about his little pup performing so excellently at playing fetch?”

“Do not act as if you wouldn’t be swift to obey had he not given you the same orders,” he countered.

“Then aren’t I lucky to know he would never give me such orders. You’re his favorite leashed dog, after all.”

He hated that she wasn’t wrong. Blair came for war first, zealous for the slaughter, and of her own volition. He would have joined, but Laurent had plans. He did not have the same freedoms as she. He was more of a delegate than a warrior, meant to monitor and ensure Fearworn fell to the hands of a fae. Laurent wanted the mortals to be grateful. To show the capabilities of his lineage, but Nicholas couldn’t stop himself from running into the fray on the occasions when he thought he could get away with being disobedient.

Duke cleared his throat. “Shall we return, sir?”

“Oh, this one’s still here.” Blair clicked her tongue as if Duke’s presence offended her. It probably did. She said she preferred her men to be pretty and pathetic. Duke only fit one part of that criteria.

Ignoring her, Nicholas set off. His kin traversed the citadel at his back, searching for any potential survivors. The fae lunged at any sound. There was no life left in Lockehold. Even the structure withered, burnt, and broken. The mortal generals would be displeased. They had mentioned wanting to use the stronghold against Fearworn, but Nicholas wanted to unleash, needed to, really. He thought little of the consequences. Besides, he gained the book, and that would satiate any potential anger.

Approaching the military encampment, he cast the world in a blaze of pink light and announced, “Let us celebrate this victory till morning!”

The fae crowded around a supply cart, clutching the neck of liquor bottles. Blair skipped ahead to join them, linking arms with another woman. The group cheered and raised those bottles high. Arden stood with them, eyes more brilliant than polished rubies. The fair color of his skin made snow appear gray, and the white of his hair drifted over his shoulders as if a constant wind followed. After a long day of bloodshed, the white shade took on a soft red tone.