Page 1 of This Dark Descent
PART 1
In the beginning, the four Harbingers gifted magic to humanity.
Rach, the Armored Bull, gave physical enchantments for strength and speed.
Skylis, the Burning Light, granted behavior enchantments, to stoke fury and invoke docility.
Lyzairin, the Great Serpent, offered energy enchantments, creating light and heat,
and Aslir, the Bright Star, bestowed ethereal enchantments, so that humanity might always find its way home.
CHAPTER 1
MIKIRA
HORSES WILL SPEAKto you, if only you listen.
That was what Mikira’s father always told her. It was in the way they pricked their ears, in the swish of their tails through still air. It was even truer of enchanted horses, whose blood thrummed with magic, bestowing untold abilities. Whether it be speed or surefootedness, good luck or the uncanny ability to always find their way home, such horses were deeply in tune with the world around them.
It was those enchantments that Mikira relied on now. Dressed in all black, from her worn riding boots to the plain mask obscuring her face, she sat tall on Iri’s back as the stallion tossed his head, nickering impatiently. Enchanted for speed, the desire to run was as much a part of him as bone or blood, just as it was a part of Mikira.
The twisting maze of Veradell’s tunnels—tonight’s racecourse—stretched into dimly lit shadows ahead. The city’s underground passages would be narrow, the turns tight and easy to miss. Breathing deep, Mikira shut out the excited murmur of the crowd, the sharp scrape of hooves against stone as horses jostled for space at the starting line, and the ever-present reminder that she could not go home empty-handed tonight.
“Are you all ready to see some action?” called Jenest, the race’s owner and announcer. A slender, muscular woman with brown skin, she barelyapproached the riders’ shoulders, even standing on an empty gun crate in the middle of the tunnel. Still, you couldn’t miss her, dressed as she was in an ornate jacket covered in glass jewels and sequins—a mockery of the extravagant garments favored by the nobility—and a blue-and-white scaled mask emulating the Great Serpent, Lyzairin, one of the four Harbingers said to have brought magic to humanity.
People whooped and clapped as she dipped into a bow. “You know the rules!” Her deep voice resonated from her charmed loudspeaker. “All four types of enchantments are allowed, but no weapons! This isn’t the Illinir, and I won’t have blood spilled on my nice clean floors.”
A chuckle emanated through the crowd. The tunnel’s floor was nothing more than a swampy mixture of dirt and runoff from the canning factory above, a far cry from the flashing cameras and manicured tracks of the official races Mikira longed for. She hated being down here, but it was the only safe place to run such makeshift contests. With how tightly controlled magic was, enchanted races required a permit and a hefty tax to the city of Veradell. Jenest was risking prison by operating without one.
And by competing in them, so was Mikira.
“Twenty silver marks to the winner. First rider around the loop and back here wins the purse.” Jenest jingled a small pouch above her head, the real reason Mikira was here. “Take your marks, get ready, race!”
The horses bolted. Iri easily beat half into the first turn, their enchantments either not for speed or too weak to bestow any real advantage. Mikira forgot everything but the feel of the race as they barreled along the tunnel. Her body moved with Iri’s like a reflection, adrenaline rushing through her in a heady thrum, sharpening everything into stark focus.
As they leaned into the second turn, a rider wearing a green and brown half mask imitating the Harbinger Rach approached them. Something glinted, and Mikira barely dodged their blade. Freeing one of her own knives from her hip, she blocked the second swipe, then disarmed the rider with a twist of her wrist.
They rode well, their horse’s physical enchantments clearly stronger than the others. But it wasn’t enough—not against an enchant bred from the Rusel lines. Not against Mikira, whose father had once led Veradell’s racing elite.
Taking the final turn, they entered the straightaway where the race had begun, and Mikira let Iri go. The horse’s speed all but doubled as he careened down the last stretch and across the finish line.
A knot released in her chest at the crowd’s cheer as Iri trotted back toward Jenest. The woman seized Mikira’s pale hand, holding it up in triumph. “Nightflyer wins again!” she called to the whistles and shouts of the crowd. “I know, I know, you’re all shocked. Don’t you worry; I promise I’ll find our little flyer a worthy competitor soon.”
Mikira grinned at the applause. These people loved her, and she couldn’t deny that even without the need for money, she would compete just for the way they looked at her—like she could do anything.
Feeling a different kind of stare on the back of her neck, Mikira turned, catching the gaze of the Rach rider. She was tall, with curious hazel eyes and tawny skin. Mikira could turn her in for the knife, but that wasn’t the first time someone had pulled a weapon on her, and it wouldn’t be the last. The rider crooked the smallest of smiles before guiding her horse into the dispersing crowd.
Everyone would leave through the myriad of tunnel entrances, careful not to raise suspicion. The Anthir didn’t bat an eye when a noble house squeezed every last copper mark from one of their tenants or conscripted them into the Eternal War in neighboring Celair, but if the city guard came across an enchant racing ring without the requisite paperwork and taxes? Everyone involved would spend the rest of their lives in prison.
Her brother used to say that you could murder someone in broad daylight in Veradell, so long as you had the proper paperwork. Unless you came from a noble house—then you didn’t even need that.
Jenest held out the winning purse. “You know one of these days I’d like to meet the person behind the mask,” she said. “Grab a drink or two.”
Guilt panged through Mikira. She liked Jenest. Her upbeat, teasing attitude reminded her of her childhood friend, Talyana, who she hadn’t seen in years. But she was here for coin, not friendship, and no one could know who she was.
“Thanks for the race.” She took the purse and tucked it into her pocket, pointing Iri toward one of the exits. Small engraved arrows marked the way out for those who knew where to look for them, remnants from when the tunnels were used to transport gemstones. After most of the city’s mines dried up, the tunnels were forgotten.
Now the walls had become a mural of one-way messages, from peeling recruitment posters for the Eternal War to notes chalked onto the stone. Most were from Celairen refugees flooding in from the war being fought over their land, hoping lost friends and family would pass the same way, but others were last words left by Enderlish fleeing the kingdom’s military draft, both driven by the war to exchange places in the tunnels’ darkness.
