Heir of the Underground

Prologue

Night engulfed the city, lulling its inhabitants into a slumber of blissful oblivion. In sleep, their minds wandered far from the reality of the world, fleeing from the truth of what had happened in the palace of their beloved High King. And, in being asleep, nobody noticed the shadowed figure which now crept through the streets with a special bundle hugged tightly to his chest.

He had a job to do, and he would let nothing get in his way.

The shadowed figure weaved through the alleyways, selecting paths that he knew would be abandoned. He was under strict orders, told to go unseen, unheard. So he moved swiftly, deftly, like a leaf in the wind, and chose his course of direction wisely. Failure was not an option. He would get away with his crime, no matter the cost.

As the figure continued to travel, he took a moment to gaze down at the creature in his hands, daring to gaze upon the abomination that his High King had cast out.

He had expected to see something horrific, a creature so clearly inhuman that killing it would almost be merciful—a euthanasia.

But when he looked down, he found that the child was not as abnormal as he was told to believe. The creature, while conceived in bad circumstances, did not possess the attributes of its monstrous father. In fact, it looked quite human, like any newborn girl. It hardly appeared half-Fey at all.

The girl was small, with skin like cream and hair the color of midnight. She had eyes of amber—the color of honey, an orange, leaves in the fall. They were wide, but filled with a sense of familiarity. He noted her small, slightly upturned nose too, and her face which was as round as the very moon which now hid behind the clouds.

Yes—the child looked normal. Well, not entirely normal, but not strange enough to stand out either. The only thing which could ever give her away appeared to be the points of her ears. They were tiny, but certain to grow.

The figure reached up and touched his own ears. He felt the scars, the places where his points were supposed to be, though they were long since gone, cut away to hide his identity from the world. No one was supposed to know the truth about who he was to the High King. Nobody was to know that he was a weapon of war, that he was destined to live a life of hushed servitude and murder. Meanwhile, the child in his arms had to meet an immediate death.

But could he do it?

He came to a halt, suddenly unable to move forward. Guilt had spread to his legs and given him cold feet.

How could he kill an innocent child? She wasn't to blame for her parentage. He understood that better than anyone. So how could he possibly go through with it?

And at the same time, how could he not?

The child didn't have any parents; she was unwanted, undesired. If she remained alive, she would simply be left to her own devices and surely die of starvation or hypothermia.

Saving her seemed impossible, yet the Fey felt unwilling to give up. Something in his gut told him to keep the child alive. He wished that he didn't feel that pull, but he couldn't brush it away, and he couldn't ignore it either.

The child had to live. He was certain of it.

He knew that the High King would be angry if he learned the truth, and he knew that if the darker part of his consciousness found out, an internal battle would be waged. Yet, he took the risk anyway, and quickly devised a plan.

He'd have to cut the tips of the baby's ears off and cauterize the wounds. The action was barbaric, and he hated that it had been done to himself, yet he knew that it was the only way to keep the child's true identity hidden, just as it had kept his hidden for almost a century. Then he'd leave the child on the steps of somewhere safe, where she'd be cared for—the church, perhaps.

He would make sure that the child would live a free life, one not of immediate death nor one of servitude like himself, but one where the child could be a part of human society and live amongst her own kind.

The Fey knelt down, balancing the child out before him. He withdrew a knife and held it to the baby's ears, making the slices quick. Then he used his magic to heal the wounds and soothe the child's pain. When she finally calmed down, he took a moment to examine what he had done.

The ears were slightly scarred, but otherwise, the baby now looked entirely average, completely human and inconspicuous. It seemed that he would get away with his act of betrayal after all. The child would live.

Now all that was left was to deliver her to the church.

Just as before, the Fey weaved through the alleys of the city, blending in with the shadows the second he heard any questionable noise. Finally, he happened upon the church, and stopped at the front steps, carved of fine marble. Taking a deep breath, he knelt down and delicately placed the child on the uppermost step, making sure to bundle the blanket around her tightly.

He gave the child one last look before preparing to stand back up. Yet, he hesitated.

A name—what of a name for the child?

He had heard a certain name, one being uttered by the poor mother of the child, from whom the baby was ripped from. Aurelia, the child had been called.

Aurelia.

But how to ensure that her name was kept?

An idea struck him suddenly, like a block to the back of the head: a way to name her and make her the key to his freedom.

The Fey wrestled with the idea for a moment before giving in. It was worth attempting.

Gingerly, he pressed a hand to the baby's chest, and expelled a fragment of his consciousness. It was a simple process. All it meant was that the tiniest piece of his soul would remain with the child—enough of it that, if the day ever came, perhaps the child would have the ability to break his chains, to free him from the darker presence within himself. And enough of it too that the memory of the child's name would remain with her. That deep down, the child would know her name, and whoever looked at the child would know it too.

When the process was complete, the Fey stood up and stepped away from the steps.

His gaze met with the child's, her amber eyes clashing with his eyes of black—his eyes of something different.

And not just because of the human in the child. No—there was something more to the Fey himself, something dark and ominous, that made him different.

He wasn't entirely him.

But for this night he was. The darkness within had slumbered as it did on every full moon of the month. And now, it would never know about the child.

No one would know.

The Fey spun on his heel, beginning his trek back to the palace, back to the place that was both his home and his prison.

Once he was a safe distance away, he released his hold over the child, letting her cries loose. Surely she would awaken someone, and surely that person would take the child in. She would be saved, thanks to him. And perhaps one day, she could repay the favor and save him too.