Death spares no one, but it could be said that it decided to make Darcy Harriet one of it's experimental exceptions.
He woke up in a totally unfamiliar cabin. It was small and kind of cozy, although there was something that was bothering him. He didn't know where he was, how he had gotten there or what happened.
He nervously analyzed every nook and cranny. It seemed that no one lived there, although he doubted of being able to get there by himselft.
Darcy reached that conclusion when he saw that there was nothing, absolutely nothing on the shelves or walls. Probably if he went to the kitchen wouldn't find any clue or light hint of someone living in the cabin either.
So how had he gotten there?
He decided not to think about it any more than necessary and got up. Darcy didn't even remember what clothes he was wearing the last time he was conscious, but he was sure of something, it wasn't the same one he was wearing.
Someone had put him a shirt, wide, white and with some ornaments and black leather pants, to his surprise everything fit him like a glove. As if the person who arranged all the clothes for him knew exactly how tall each part of his body was, as if he knew him intimately, almost like lovers.
He took a deep breath and blew it out with torturous slowness.
On the nightstand by the head of the bed were cotton socks and a crimson bow. Someone left him some leather boots on the ground, perfect for long endless journeys, just like the one he was about to start, even though he didn't know it.
Once put on, he took the ribbon, which merged with his orange hair, and pulled into a low ponytail, it fell down his sharp collarbone to his chest. He didn't recall getting a ponytail in his life, but he had very long hair now and didn't even know if that was his usual hairstyle.
He knew where he lived, he also remembered what his life was like and who his father was, but not what had happened months ago.
Darcy got up and chewed nervously on his cheek. It was time to go.
Once in the kitchen he discovered that a small note was waiting to be read.
The calligraphy used was pretty and screamed elegance in each of its sinuous curves, it was written in bloodish red.
‘Good morning Darcy Harriet, I hope you were able to rest, because this horrible world full of suffering and death is what awaits you. Your first contract will be in Barden Sul, a wealthy family died cruelly burned except for their son and your mission is to help Isabela Kahronte communicate one last time with the deceased.
An uninhabited house will be provided for the necessary time, see you '
He raised his eyebrows.
By turning the note he discovered an adress written, he assumed that it was of the house mentioned in it.
Whoever wrote that note was external to the family, that gave him a very bad feeling, someone to whom he was not even capable of putting a face knew of his existence, he even knew his first and last name and he was not famous.
His father did, but he did not. In fact, his father always took care to keep him anonymous as much as possible, although she failed to enroll him in a good academy where most made fun of him.
Darcy's eyes hit the green cover of his favorite book "Birds Don't Cry."
As his hand slid across the deck, a sense of deja vu pierced every inch of his skin, from the fingers of his feet to the top of his head.
Darcy thought books told two stories, the one that the writer embodied in words and the intangible, the one that told the story of the owner of it throi¡ugh stains, wrinkles ...
That book had been much loved and showed it through the good looks of it.
Obviously he would take it. Whoever brought it to the cabin wanted him to treasure it.
He took the cloak over one of the chairs in the kitchen and walked out of that hut that he would keep in his memories, or at least try.
Barden Sul was a remote village near the mountains that the war had not reached. Being so small, its habitants had devised an escape plan in case the destruction machines appeared, although they had never tried to start it.
It was a place where the magic density exceeded that of most of the world, that was because they had important Lycoris Radiata plantations and also it had a great facility to grow there.
In part that allowed them to endure the cruelty of war. To save their skin they trafficked with those who wanted to kill ordinary people, but as long as it worked it didn't matter. A little, they just needed a little more time. People wouldn't keep quiet and fight back, they had to if they didn't want the planet to be hell (although for many it already was).
There was a rule that every magic manipulator knew about the world. Magic was not created from 0, it was impossible. In fact magic was in the air, as if it were an extension of it, the only thing that made magic manipulators different from those who could not was that their magic vials (attached to their veins) were ultra developed.
Another thing was that no one could specialize in everything, at least it had not been proven so far. For example, Darcy Harriet dominated necromancy, Aloys Heraldson, enemy king on that chessboard, controlled all kinds of liquids. Everything, even the blood, which was why he was so feared.
Although the world has thousands of secrets to tell, the story of Darcy Harriet must continue.
As the note said, he headed to Barden Sul. Only there was a slight mishap: the house where he was to stay wasn't empty as it was supposed to.