Support my main contracted novel and winner of Writing Prompts #26 - The Legendary Mage!
Desolate Mage: A Legend Reborn!
https://www.webnovel.com/book/12013957905760805/Desolate-Mage%3A-A-Legend-Reborn!
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[Paris, Hall of Memorial, Restricted Area]
In this place where even the highest of nobles could not enter; there kneeled a woman dressed completely in black.
This was the area where only the Royal family and their kin could be interred; and only their family could enter to pay respects. The solemn building was constructed in the form of 3 concentric rings – the largest outermost ring for warriors, soldiers or other meritorious commoners; the middle ring for the peerage and nobility; and the core of the great hall for royalty.
The entire compound was built on a hill in the east of the city and covered from weather and rain; yet with side-windows on the ceiling to allow the radiant rays of the rising sun to shine in.
However, despite it being the heyday of noon at this time, the sun refused to shine.
The skies were cloudy and dark, threatening to release a heavy downpour and drench the people's moods even further with rain. Just like on each of the past 6 days since King Philip's passing. It seemed even nature mourned the passing of the beloved King Philip VI, ruler and heir to the house of Valois.
On that day, those demons emerged in the centre of the palace - without anyone detecting the portal until it was too late. The divine hero and founder of the Kingdom of Gallia, Charlemagne, had arrived to drive off the demons – but not before the irreversible damage was done. The hero was now residing in the palace; to stand guard against the possibility of the demons return.
At this time, the woman was veiled; but her holy and ephemeral beauty could not be hidden. Right now, tears were running down her face; tugging at the heart strings of the 2 semi-divine level knights at her side; one an impassive blonde, square jawed woman; the other a short black haired westerner with fervency in his eyes.
For the first 6 days they had stood vigil, they had been unmoved. But slowly, the Queen's devotion, sincerity and wisdom had shone through like a ray of light in these dark times - a leader these two rival faction representatives began to feel they could unite under.
And slightly to the side, her personal maid stood in wait, a pretty and young girl with a teardrop-shaped face, brunette hair and gentle eyes – the 14 year old graduate of the assassins camp; Vivian.
"My beloved Philip; why couldn't it have been me…?" The woman in black lamented. "Why did it happen when I was away to my family…? Why were we not taken together; to be together even in deaths embrace…?" She began to sob, despite her clear struggle to maintain her dignity as the Queen of France.
"Your Majesty…" The man began to speak, to comfort her; only to be cut off abruptly.
"No more!" Queen Elisabeth rose to her feet, but did not look his way – her eyes continued to be fixed on her late husband's memorial tablet and coffin.
"I am not deserving of any comfort; no! For failing my husband as his loyal wife, for failing to accompany him at his time of greatest need; I shall not be comforted! No more! I shall not rest until I have seen the end of those cursed demons; and the wiping out of their entire race!" The regal woman's words resounded clearly in their quiet surroundings, ringing in her protectors ears - and in their hearts.
Immediately, the two knights, both Dukes in their own right and influential members of the Loyalist and Nobles factions previously only loyal to King Philip, were visibly moved.
They had accompanied the Queen here for the entire 7 days; 7 days where she had been kneeling, refusing water, food or rest. And yet despite being obviously worse for wear, to the two knights, she exuded the greatest charisma and courage; ultimately winning them over.
The two protectors - also highly placed eyes and ears for their factions - fell to their knees before the woman, previously Queen only in name, now Queen also in their hearts.
"Your Majesty..." Moved by raw emotions, the normally stoic Corrine forced out her words. "As we have served His Majesty the King, so now shall we serve you. To our deaths, to the deaths of our enemies! Long live the Queen!"
"Long live the Queen!" She was echoed by the passionate man beside her, Gregori.
"Duke Corrine, Duke Gregori! You musn't! I, I am not worthy of your obeisance." Queen Elisabeth, clearly moved by their show of support, urged them to rise to their feet.
As the two knights arose, she bowed deeply to them, drawing gasps from the two - never has a ruler bowed to her subjects! "Though I am but a shadow of my husband's greatness, with you both by my side, mayhaps we will make it through these harrowing times."
She smiled a gentle, vulnerable smile, eyes brimming with sincerity and gratitude.
"Yes, my Queen! I swear to be your shield!" Corrine, the leader of the Nobles faction vowed.
"And I, your Majesty, shall be your sword." Gregori too swore on behalf of the Militant faction.
And so, the now-uncontested ruler of France stood with head held high, ready to lead the nation to greater heights - and to vengeance against their foes.
In the distance, hidden behind the pillars and suppressing their aura, two robed figures cursed silently.
* * * * *
About an hour later, Queen Elisabeth was seated in her own room - one located in a Britannian family manor previously far from the palace, but now converted to be the temporary seat of power.
She sat still as Vivian carefully removed her veil and makeup, a beatific smile plastered on her face.
Just then, a man's voice was heard from behind the curtains.
"Well done, my beloved sister. You have always been the consummate ensnarer of hearts." A man as close to perfect looking as was humanly possible stepped out. Lucavi, leader of the Britannian shrine knights - and Elisabeth's brother.
She maintained the exact same smile. "Except yours, brother dearest."
Expression unchanging, he stepped over and stood behind her as Vivian continued undressing her. He averted his eyes, before continuing.
"The plan is ready on my side. Make sure all your variables are dealt with." He fixed a stern gaze on the back of her head, instead of meeting her eyes in the mirror.
She was quiet for awhile as Vivian - Lucavi's pet assassin - showed a deftness in her hands that would make one believe she had been a maid all her life. Then she spoke.
"I'll clean up the mess you've made, my worthless little brother."
Then she turned around to face him full on, until he turned away in shame at his big sister's shamelessness.
"As I always have."
* * * * *
Sam yawned.
It was now late afternoon. The 7-car long caravan troupe had trundled along the paved roads, which soon turned to well-worn dirt tracks.
The journey was quiet; without any signs of other travellers - which made sense, given the tense times. Only those who truly had no choice would take to the roads at a time like this; or fools.
Paulos belonged to the former - he had been on a regular run between Pari and Lyon - picking up the local specialties from the Occitanes region around Pari; namely the sparkling wine first introduced by the Abbaye de Saint-Hilaire.
Now the man in his late forties, with greying hair at his fringes, was eager to return home to his wife and young child. His brows were already wrinkled from delaying the journey for 3 weeks now. As he whistled and tried to keep a smile on his worrried face, all he could think about was to get home - quick.
Normally one would thank the heavens for a quiet journey. However, according to the guards whispered conversations, it was too quiet - evidence that even the animals were spooked by someone. Or something.
As the sunlight turned slightly orange nearing evening, a frantic rider gallopped in on horseback from the north, sweat dripping down his brow and face contorted.
He rushed in so quickly that his horse almost rammed a cargo-laden carriage; he barely managed to rein in the shying horse in time. Yet he did not even pause after that, instead he hurriedly dismounted and scrambled over to Paulos' position at the head of the caravan.
The tall and gangly man ran over to Paulos' side, bounded up the steps in a single jump, and nearly banged his face onto Paulos' drawing a look of ire from the caravan leader. The gangly scout ignored his look, immediately beginning to whisper his report.
As the 10-odd guards and 6 mercenaries began to surround them in curiosity; they were alarmed when they saw Paulos begin to frown. As he listened to the presumably bad news, his look of irritation changed first to consternation, then to fear, then to determination.
"Men! Gather! Quick!" He did not even wait for the scout to pull back; almost knocking him down the steps of the carriage when he raised his arms to call out to his guards.
The guards and mercenaries made haste to group near him.
"Orcs." At his one word, troubled chatter began among the numerous caravan workers, traders and other members. Even the guards looked disturbed.
"Orcs and Wargs, a hunting group. They have our scent... And headed straight for us." Paulos continued with a heavy heart.
"Ho-how many of them? This is bad!" A pot bellied guard asked.
"Y-yeah! And since when do they come so far south?!" Another man with a crew cut interjected.
Before the crowd could descend into chaos, Paulos raised his hands to still their clamour.
"30 to 40 of them, likely a minimum of level 6-7 - led by a jet-black orc a full head and shoulders taller than the largest orc..." Paulos announced gravely.
This caused a greater commotion; as the crowd began to murmur the infamous orcs name: Shadowmane the Ruthless; said to be a level 12 Elite totemic warrior.
"We'll never escape...! The only way to survive Shadowmane is if he targets someone else! We're, we're all dead men!" Some of the people in the crowd began to blabber in fear, before they were shushed and muffled by their companions.
"Men. Defensive positions." He surveyed his band of 15, 16 able-bodied men, the highest only level 8 - Khadir.
"Within the hour will be a battle for our lives."
* * * * *
As the guards and mercenaries rallied the non-combatants and arranged the carriages in a circle, Sam looked on with curiosity.
She, together with Albert, the horses and the other non-combatants were huddled together in the centre, hopefully sheltered from the coming carnage. Yet the palpable fear and countless people on their hands and knees and petitioning their various gods indicated one thing - none of them were expecting to come out of this alive.
Except Sam and the black-haired man.
"Level 12? So weak...?" Sam asked, before she was silenced by countless death stares from the nerve-wracked people around her.
She cracked her knuckles as Snowie preened herself and yawned.
(What a relaxing journey...) She yawned too, infected by the felines cat-yawn.
Looks like she would be exercising soon.
* * * * * FEEDBACK ON COVER * * * * *
Which cover do you prefer? Old one or New one? Caucasian Sam or Asian Sam?
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I'm targeting to commission a new cover at 500k views; custom made from scratch