A prophecy was given to the Realm of Valeera, but only one kingdom took heed to it and set forth a law that would divide the people into two groups. The Fair and the Strange. One group possessed a promise from the gods while the other is doomed for...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Eron savored the feeling of his fiery sooth dominating his body.
Almost like sex, he thought with a pleased grin. How his muscles ached as his mystical blood boiled beneath his skin. How chills of joy and pleasure crawled up his spine and entered the slight wooziness forming in his head. He always gasped every time he'd release the fire from the palms of his hands, ready to strike, to devour, to kill.
A familiar sting burned his flickering red eyes while he concentrated on the ring of fire he formed around his personal courtyard. Sizzling embers fought against the evening wind chorusing in his ears and promising to bring a storm later tonight.
He smiled like a king witness to victory over a battle. He cocked his head back and gave a vicious howl to the sky, a great greeting to the god of his power, Holy Dawnis. He cherished moments like this, when his sooth was a cure to clear his mind and be at peace. Ending it aggravated him.
"Eron!" a familiar voice shouted through the licking flames.
He groaned. What did the old man want? But quickly, he answered his own question and remembered he had to stop this stolen moment to release his sooth to prepare for the holy night's festivities.
With years of training his sooth, he sucked in a few gulps of air, closed his eyes, clenched his fists, and summoned his flames. Like a stream being sucked dry by a river, the flames whipped harshly against the air until the last drop reentered his body. Whatever was left behind sizzled and sparked away into the wind.
"Eron, gods sakes!" the old man shouted.
Once he finished renewing his strength, he wiped away the globes of sweat beading on his forehead and cut his eyes to his most loyal and trustworthy manservant.
"I know, Tarkel! I'm coming!"
"I don't have all day," the 58-year-old grumbled and shuffled back inside.
Eron sighed and stole a minute to feel the cool wind against his reddening hot skin until his ivory complexion returned. He stared at the palace looming over his chambers within a sharp-tipped tower. The stone railing around his courtyard had long crumbled and deteriorated from years of Eron flaring flames at it. He never sought anyone to fix it, comforted by the knowledge of having control over his own space.
For a moment, he wondered how he'd gotten to this pathetic point in his life and why hadn't the greater aspects of his desires come yet. He grabbed the shirt he threw to the side and entered the tower. He descended the dimly lit staircase and entered the short hallway leading to his sitting room, study, and bedchambers.
He glanced at his timepiece for the hundredth time since doing his final inspections of the royal grounds. That skin-defected girl had not arrived with the information concerning the Purple Thief's family. Either she had failed and was afraid to approach him, or she had told Grisonce in hopes of figuring out a way to relieve her of an imminent death. It didn't matter to him. One way or another, he would get what he wanted, and she would suffer.
