Chapter 1: Prologue: Golden Lotus

PROLOGUE

Golden Lotus

I

Ryen could do nothing but watch as the woman in golden robes killed his mother.

Opposite him, on the other side of the campfire, his mother floated in the air, her feet dangling just above the ground, her eyes closed. The golden-robed woman stood in front of her, watching her impassively. Already he could see his mother’s skin growing paler and her face growing gaunt as the golden dot on her forehead—on the same spot the golden-robed woman had tapped moments ago—became increasingly clearer, growing from an indistinct, yellowish blotch into a brilliant golden circle, resembling a drop of molten gold.

Covering his mother’s body was a multitude of vein-like golden lines. Like roots, they had grown out from the golden dot on his mother’s forehead, at first barely discernible golden streaks but now vivid golden veins. They pulsed with a faint, golden light, and with each pulse, their glow brightened, whereas his mother’s body grew paler. His mother’s hair, which had once been a sandy blond like his own, was now a dull white, robbed of its color.

Ryen knew what was about to happen next. His mother wasn’t the first of the golden-robed woman’s victims. All around the campsite were shriveled husks—corpses of people who had been part of his parents’ caravan. They had all died the same way, with the golden-robed woman gazing down at them with cold, unfeeling eyes as the golden dot on their forehead stole their vitality, using it as nourishment.

This time was no different.

The golden lines stopped pulsing. They started dimming, and the moment they completely lost their glow, becoming nothing but faint golden streaks on his mother’s skin, just like they had been when they first appeared, golden petals surfaced from the circle on his mother’s forehead, unfolding. Where there used to be a golden circle was now a blooming golden lotus, rapidly absorbing his mother’s vitality as it grew bigger and brighter.

Ryen stared blankly at the gray, dried-up corpse that had once been his mother and the disgustingly dazzling golden lotus that now adorned its forehead, teeming with his mother’s stolen vitality. He didn’t bother screaming or crying out—the golden-robed woman had used the same unseen force she was using to hold him down to seal his lips shut, along with those of everyone else in the camp shortly after she suddenly appeared in their camp, right before she started killing everyone here one by one.

Ryen only watched and waited, for he knew what would happen next.

The golden-robed woman stepped forward and gently plucked the lotus. His mother fell to the ground, whatever force that had been holding her in the air gone. Ryen kept staring at his mother’s shriveled, ashen body, crumpled on the floor like a broken doll until his head turned, forcing his gaze away from his mother, making him look directly at the golden-robed woman. It wasn’t him who was moving his body, but the same invisible force that held him in place, now controlling him as if he were a puppet. The golden lotus was nowhere in sight.

Ryen didn’t know what the woman did with the flowers she created, and that was the least of his concerns at the moment, because now that his mother was dead, there was nobody still alive in the campsite besides him and the woman. And that could only mean he was next.

Perhaps the worst part was that they had done nothing to deserve this. His parents were mundane merchants, mere traders, and they never got involved with the affairs of magicals—of cultivators. He had heard of things like this happening before, however: wicked magicals slaughtering mundanes without a second thought, sacrificing them in terrible rituals. He had never thought it’d happen to him—not in Myrthyr, which was supposed to be under the protection of a righteous sect.

The golden-robed woman made her way over to him before coming to a stop in front of him. She was hauntingly beautiful, with long, dark hair that cascaded down to her waist. Her skin was pale like porcelain, and her face was full of sharp but graceful lines. Had she not just murdered his parents, Ryen would have been itching to a desire to draw her, to translate her perfect, exotic beauty into lines of charcoal on paper.

She reached forward and brushed her fingers against his cheeks, and he shivered under her cold touch—the same touch that had spelled the doom of everyone he held dear. She then said something in a strange, unfamiliar language before smiling tenderly, as if she hadn’t reduced his mother to a shriveled corpse just moments ago. This was his first time hearing her speak, and her voice was just like she looked, beautiful yet chilling, much like a dirge.

The woman started speaking again, still in the language of magicals. Mid-speech, however, she froze, her eyes narrowing. She let her hand fall and glared at something behind him. Ryen couldn’t turn around to see what had provoked that reaction, but he could hear the rustling of leaves followed by footsteps. Frowning, the woman took a few steps backward.

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Words came from somewhere behind him. The new speaker sounded young and male and seemed to be speaking in the same language as the woman. The Heavenly Tongue, Ryen believed it was called.

The woman’s frown deepened, and she barked something, her graceful veneer gone, replaced by anxiousness and wariness. The force holding Ryen in place disappeared, and he fell forward, but before he reached the ground, an invisible force pushed against his chest, forcing him back into a standing position.

Disoriented, Ryen looked at the golden-robed woman, who was still glaring at the same spot. Whoever had arrived was now beside him. Before he could turn around to see who it was that had put someone as terrifying as the golden-robed woman on edge, a voice sounded next to his ears in flawless Myrthyran.

“Close your eyes.”

Without thinking, Ryen obliged.

Ryen then heard the woman’s voice, then the voice of the person next to him. An eerie silence followed that brief exchange. Something had just happened, Ryen knew, but he didn’t dare open his eyes; instead, he only shut them tighter. The weight on his shoulder disappeared.

“You can open your eyes now.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Ryen did as he was told. Right in front of him was a boy, his face taking up almost all of his field of vision. Light gray eyes stared straight into his own, complemented by blond hair so pale it was almost white. Ryen found himself unable to look away. He had seen gray eyes before, but never seen ones so light they were nearly white, much like the boy’s hair.

Ryen’s concentration lapsed as he felt a tingling sensation wash over him, and what remained of his strength deserted him, his thoughts slowing to a feeble crawl and his eyelids growing heavy. He found himself having to make a conscious effort to keep his eyes open.

“You’re safe,” the boy said, his voice barely a whisper, muffled, as if he were on the other side of the clearing instead of less than a hand’s breadth away. “Don’t resist it. Rest. You need it.”

“I…”  Ryen opened and closed his mouth. No sound came out; it was as if he had forgotten how to speak even though he could finally do so now.

“Let it go,” the white-cloaked boy said again, his voice even fainter, even lighter—like his white-blond hair, like his white-gray eyes. “Sleep.”

Ryen felt as if he were underwater, his senses quickly growing dull and muddled, distant. Darkness bloomed around the edges of his vision.

Who are you? What just happened? Where … is … the …

Light finally gave way to darkness, and his words were left unsaid.

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