Excerpt from "A Kiss of Ashen Twilight" by Rae Lori

Prologue
Wallachia, a region within the Balkan Mountains—1461

Decay.

The smell was enough to rot the heart of the noblest man. The idea of death is never the same as laying one’s eyes upon its evidence. Jacinus Aurelius Archane had heard victorious stories of his father and uncle in war. His heart swelled and his pulse raced at the elaborate narratives and near deaths in fighting the enemies that dared to take their freedom.

It was nothing like the scene that lay before him.

Massive green valleys of large mountains surrounded them, reminding him of home among the rolling hills of the Highland mountains. His heightened senses picked up the sharp taste and smell of salt water from the other side of the castle where the steep hillside led down to the Arges River. A passage led along the back end of the castle allowing them entrance under the soldiers’ eyes.

The castle was situated on the steep hill of the nearest mountain filled with the piercing cries of soldiers battling and falling over the stone walls to their deaths. In the distance, metal clashed against metal in a chorus of sword battles. Vicious grunts and various bodies falling to the ground thudded into the air soon after. It was then something else caught his eye. His gaze veered down to the display in the middle of the road; men and women impaled upon stakes erupting from the ground. The scent of blood and decay turned Jace’s stomach and sent shocks of pain straight to his heart. This was how the enemies were taken care of. Those who dared to defy the prince within the city and those who sided with the enemy would suffer just one of his many forms of torture.

“Our people aren’t among those poor souls.” Came a voice from behind him.

Jace turned to face the tall, pale figure draped in blue robes. Daoine Oberon. It was upon his proposal that they came to these lands and it was his ability to shape-shift into a large eagle, allowing them right of entry from Scotland—across the Celtic and the Mediterranean seas—to the Balkans. Now Jace stood with Daoine in his human form. Jace’s father and uncle stood on either side of him, dressed in full plaids and armor. Their swords remained at their sides and he didn’t have to look at their faces to feel the shock at what stood before them.

“The monster that caused these atrocities,” Jace said, gritting his teeth and gripping the hilt of his sword tighter. “Is he the same that holds our people? Draining them to their death?”

“Yes, Jacinus,” Daoine’s soft voice was calm. “It is he.”

Jace focused his gaze up toward the castle surrounded by soldiers battling in chainmail armor. The prince’s soldiers. The Son of the Dragon. His enhanced vision focused on the small emblems on the shiny silver armor of the Wallachian soldiers. A dragon, with its wings extended, hung on the sculpted relief of a cross. His very name meant son of the dragon, a title symbolizing the continuity of his father’s legacy over their round of knights within The Order. Another war of freedom was fought as the Wallachians engaged in a war with Ottomans. The Ottoman Empire’s flag, bright red with the yellow crest of a moon and star in the middle, clashed with that of Wallachia’s, a yellow flag with a black raven atop a green juniper branch holding a silver and gold cross in its beak.

Jace wasn’t here to choose sides. Like Daoine told them, they were here to free their own people from the prince’s tortuous hold. He just hoped it wasn’t too late.

“We will end this now!” The words left Jace’s mouth moments before he sprinted up to the massive, steep hill of greenery toward the Wallachian castle of stone.

His father’s voice trailed behind him, calling him. Time was running out for him to stop and discuss their plans.

Although he only lived forty-two years—nineteen of which he spent as a Nightwalker—Jace still held the appearance of a man of twenty-five years. Jace knew the vagaries of being hunted simply because of what he was. He saw the torture devices left within the beautiful, peaceful lands of the Highlands where ‘others’ like him were caught, torn apart, then put on display to any other immortals that walked the lands. The mortals did the same to their own suspected of being immortals. If it wasn’t for Daoine, they wouldn’t have known this injustice. Now that they had finally arrived, it was time to put an end to all the torture and deaths.

Instinct told Jace to jump. The powers that he obtained were many and despite the past two decades, he still hadn’t gotten to know all that he was capable of. He took a breath and leaped into the air. The wind flapped against his belted plaids, armor and thin trews. He didn’t wait for his uncle and father to catch up before he disappeared into the castle. He made sure to keep out of sight from the bloodshed within. With their arrival, both sides would wonder about their purpose on their grounds. He followed the side of the large castle to keep out of sight. A particular scent, copper and rotted meat, suddenly filled the air. He couldn’t quite decipher what but something told him to follow.

The long brick castle stretched out through corridors and small rooms situated on the sides. Jace made sure to duck behind a wall just in case he heard oncoming footsteps. Across the back courtyard he spotted a high watchtower where the scent grew stronger. He stepped into the open area, stopping once he heard the clash of swords behind him. His father and uncle’s grunts and yells filled the air amidst the sound of metal upon metal.

“Jace!” His father’s coarse, deep voice filtered through the air.

He battled within himself to turn and join them but a shadowy figure flew by the watchtower window, catching his eye. Silently he promised himself he’d return and aid his family. Now the small opportunity to stop this massacre was open—but not for long.