Shadow Touched

PROLOGUE

The village of Slybury was a small, insignificant place buried deep in the province of Moxbare. With barely 400 villagers, it was best known for having more goats than people.

Though unexceptional in almost every way, Slybury's topography was unique within the Kingdom of Athecca due to its strange cave system. The system itself was not what was unique—no, Athecca was littered with karst caves of various sizes, made of limestone and filled with stalagmites, stalactites and flowstones. What made Slybury's caves different was the belief that its long, flowing system could...talk.

Magics were nothing new to the Kingdom. Practitioners of the mystical arts had existed long before the Kingdom existed. But the Slybury caves were said to speak Ventusale, the language of the wind.

For this reason, the caves were held in high regard. So, on a day like any other in Slybury, when a local sheep herder was tending to his flock, it was nothing unusual for him to hear the whispers of the wind.

What was unusual was for him to understand them.

"Come to us." The wind whispered. "We can give you all you seek."

Unnerved yet amazed, the Shepherd found himself drawn to the voices. Their beauty and Allure—the special magics that belong to the Gods and the Gods alone—called to him, ensnaring him like a sailor to a siren's call.

Leaving his flock to graze in the tall grass, the Shepherd moved toward the tiniest cavern. Its mouth was too small for a grown man to walk through standing at full height; the man ducked, bowing his head as if in reverence.

Once within the cave, the wind picked up, encircling the Shepherd as though wrapping him in a lover's embrace. It wound its way around his tall, slim frame, pulling tight, pinning his hands to his sides. At his back, the wind gathered, forming two soft hands that gently pushed him forward, calling to him all the while.

The voice of the Ventusale was one and many, quiet and soft, powerful yet soothing.

The cave held no light. Not even a tiny bit seeped through its mouth. Yet, the Shepherd was unafraid. The wind assured him that he was safe and that no harm would befall him. It regaled him with tales of its power and might.

"We have been alone for too long," it told him.

"We need you," it cajoled. "You are our salvation."

The wind pushed him forward, guiding him across the uneven cave floor, keeping him safe from holes and small pools of slippery water. Despite the slightest niggling in the back of his mind—a tiny voice that forewarned of danger—the Shepherd continued forward. When the voice in his head tried to speak up, working in tandem with his quickening heartbeat and the tiny hairs along his arms that stood at full attention, the Ventusale grew louder, more urgent.

"Do not be afraid." It soothed. "We will give you all."

After what felt like minutes—or perhaps it was years—the Shepherd couldn't tell; the wind brought him to a halt.

Deep within the cave system now, the Shepherd stood on a shallow ledge that overlooked an iridescent pool, kaleidoscopic in colour. Lit from within, the water was bright and beautiful. It overwhelmed the senses, bringing the Shepherd to his knees.

The wind went quiet. Sliding from where it lay wrapped around the hypnotized man.

Weeping quietly at the beauty before him, the man watched the current flow into the pool, colliding with the liquid to create an eddy, spinning and twirling as though performing for him alone.

Enthralled, he watched, waiting for what he didn't know. Finally, the water calmed again, its colours brightening to a near-blinding light. The wind rose once more, forming the outline of a person. Man or woman, it was hard to distinguish, but it was human in form. With wondering eyes, the Shepherd waited. His breath hitched in his throat.

"Do you wish to know our secrets?" The Ventusale asked, its voice now one instead of many. Clear and clipped, stronger and more forthright than it had sounded before.

The Shepherd, overwhelmed, could barely find the words to respond, worried that his lowly Shepherd's voice would so offend the beauty and power of the Ventusale. "Yes," he breathed, his voice hushed and feathered. The form before him shifted briefly, its dotted lines hardening into the unmistakable shape of a man, his lips pulled into a soft smile.

"Good." The wind replied. "Close your eyes."

The Shepherd did. Had he waited a moment longer, he'd have noticed that the wind's smile did not reach its eyes. Too late, the wind inhaled and fell over the man, crushing the breath from his lungs and overpowering his very being. The shock of the violence broke the hold of the Ventusale. The Shepherd's eyes sprang open as a mirthless laugh filled the space. The sound rang through the cave, pulling the colour from the glittering pool, which was nothing as natural as water but something putrid and dark—the shadow of a broken soul.

~*~