I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the HEIRS OF THE
PROMISE by Langdon Franz Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!
Author: Langdon Franz
Release Date: November 13, 2023
Publisher: Atmosphere Press
Formats: Paperback, eBook
Pages: 522
Find it: Goodreads, https://books2read.com/HEIRS-OF-THE-PROMISE
Description:
For two hundred years, Kilal has dutifully carved intricate runes into
his wrist every forty-eight hours to maintain his Immortality. But now, faced
with the disappearance of his daughter in the Ashen Lands, the presumed death
of his wife, and the imminent threat of his sworn enemies breaching the
Sunlight Domain, Kilal's sanity teeters on the edge.
Haunted by hallucinations and tormented by whispers in the dark, Kilal embarks
on a desperate quest. He must assemble a band of warriors to thwart the
encroaching Ash Fallen invasion, while also confronting the Heirs of the
Promise, a mysterious group that has infiltrated his land and corrupted his
fellow Arbiters.
Amidst the chaos, Kilal's need for the Carving of Immortality intensifies. He
must rise above his crumbling mental state and combat the encroaching madness,
for his daughter's fate hangs in the balance. With time running out, Kilal must
defy his own limitations, uncover the truth, and find the strength to reunite
his family.
In a world where Immortality comes at a bloody cost, Kilal must navigate a
treacherous landscape of loss, enemies, and corruption against a backdrop of
impending doom, where every decision carries weight and the search for
salvation becomes a race against time.
Praise for HEIRS OF THE PROMISE:
“Langdon Franz crafts an epic story that
traverses individual challenge and bigger-picture social and political
transformation in a world under siege.”- Midwest
Book Review
“The
book is full of fast-paced storytelling, compelling characters,
interesting magic and lore, and intense
fighting sequences. Franz should give himself a pat on the back. Heirs of the Promise is one heck of a
start to a fantasy series.”- Independent Book Review
“The world that Franz creates is immersive and precarious, with every decision carrying immense weight, as Kilal fights for his sanity and loved ones while racing against time to unravel the truth. This gripping and adrenaline-fueled read will keep readers on the edge of their seats.”- BookView Review
Kilal pressed the knife into his wrist, grasping for Immortality. A rusted porcelain sink caught the blood dripping from the open wound as he dragged the sharp blade through his flesh. With a precision gained by decades of practice, Kilal carved a tight circle, two inches in diameter. Next came a straight line from the top of the circle to the bottom. Each end protruded exactly one centimeter past the perimeter.
Every detail had to be perfect. Even a hair’s width of inaccuracy would render the Carving obsolete.
Cutting a second path from left to right, the two lines intersected perfectly in the middle of the circle. Kilal paused and wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
Bloody business can’t keep their air conditioning running or something?
He returned the tip of the knife to his flesh and carved four more lines, enclosing the circle in a diamond. The pounding bass reverberating through the walls was barely more than a buzz. His focus seemed to do a better job than the walls at keeping the music at an acceptable level.
Kilal swapped the carving knife for a smaller blade suited for minute details. With a steady hand and careful attention to detail, he etched a tiny rune, no more than an inch long, in each of the four quarters of the circle. Breath held, Kilal moved the blade through his skin with an efficiency any Arbiter would envy.
Finished, he ran his wrist beneath water from the cracked and rusty faucet and examined the raw, open flesh representing the Carving of Immortality. Satisfied with his work, Kilal walked to the door of the restroom and jiggled the lock. It was secure. It would take more than what an average human was capable of to break through the door. He checked again anyway.
The door vibrated to the rhythm of the bass blasting behind it. Kilal clenched his teeth. His target just had to frequent a bloody club, didn’t he?
Confident the door would halt any would-be visitors, Kilal strode into a stall and locked it. Taking a seat on the toilet, he chided himself for being so sloppy. How had he allowed himself to get stuck in a club full of humans hostile towards Arbiters with no active Carvings to defend himself?
“Bloody idiot,” he muttered. “Get yourself together!”
Kilal pulled out a third blade—more a pick than a blade—and pierced the center of the Carving. Feet pressed against the stall legs, he locked his knees straight and shoved himself back against the toilet tank. He took a deep breath and rotated the pick one-hundred and eighty degrees clockwise.
The Carving flashed white, and the seizure hit him with the force of a War Plague.
Kilal shook. His body tightened, and his muscles spasmed. The stall vibrated with him. His legs kept him strained against the porcelain. The stall door knocked and rattled, the lock’s rhythmic metallic pinging mimicking the bass still beating outside the bathroom. The convulsions lasted for what felt like an eternity, but eventually, it was over.
Breathing ragged, eyes half open, Kilal flipped himself over. His knees hit the floor just as the nausea reigned. Bitter bile spewed from his mouth and into the toilet, his already empty stomach twisting like a wrung cloth. Kilal spit, trying futilely to clear the acidic taste from his tongue.
Finished, he flushed the toilet and stumbled out of the stall, back to the sink. He splashed water over his face.
Hunching to fit his large frame into the view of the mirror, Kilal glared at the man staring at him. Pale, clammy skin. Dull, sunken eyes. Oily, dark hair brushing his shoulders. His beard was so thick and unruly, he couldn’t remember the last time a razor had kissed his cheeks.
“Bloodshed and Oaths, you look like an Ash Fallen,” Kilal said. “Or a man allergic to soap and water.”
He ran his left wrist under the faucet again, washing the blood from his skin. When the water ran clear, Kilal stared at the smooth, unblemished skin—as if a blade had never touched him.
He again pulled out the first knife and pressed it against his forefinger. Time to test the Carving. Any good Arbiter worth their oath would. Gritting his teeth, Kilal sliced his finger off with one swift motion. It dropped and rolled into the sink. The finger didn’t even reach the drain before white lightning crackled around the severed joint.
It wasn’t enough to endure the sharp, throbbing pain of the Carving ritual. He also had to endure the excruciating agony that came with the healing. Instantly regrowing bone, muscles, tendons, skin, and organs was worse than the injury itself. Nerves searing, fibers and flesh regenerated and stitched back together.
Simultaneously numb and oversensitive, Kilal flexed the new finger. The one in the sink disintegrated into a pile of ash.
Immortality was his. For the next forty-eight hours, at least. Then he’d have the joy of Carving everything all over again.
One down, two more to go.
Kilal pressed the blade into his flesh again to work on the Carving of Gravitational Control.
When finished, Kilal returned to the stall. He drove his pick into the center of the Carving and activated it, just as he’d done before, though he wasn’t able to flip himself around in time to vomit. Fortunately, there wasn’t much left in his stomach. He only spilled a small amount of acidic spit onto his shirt. Unfortunately, any amount of bile still tasted terrible.
Kilal stumbled back to the sink and hovered over it for a moment. He took a few deep breaths before splashing water onto his face and into his mouth, trying to clear the vile tang.
Eyes closed, Kilal pictured the Carving of Gravitational Control as a knob. He ‘grabbed’ it and twisted it to the right, increasing gravity’s effect on him. When dirty bathroom tiles groaned beneath his increased weight, he mentally returned the knob to normal.
Carvings one and two completed, he began his third and final, the Carving of Deific Strength.
The overhead light flickered. Kilal froze. It flickered again. His chest tightened and his breath caught in his throat. The third time the light flickered, ash began falling from the ceiling.
Kilal wrenched the knife from his wrist. It slipped from his fingers and clattered on the floor. He pinched his eyes shut and pressed the heels of his hands into his cheeks until it hurt.
It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. You’re not there anymore. You escaped. It’s just your bloody mind playing tricks on you.
“You abandoned your daughter.”
He opened his eyes and searched for whoever spoke. The hairs on his neck stood on end when his gaze settled on the reflection in the mirror.
“Shut up!” he snapped.
His reflection sneered. “You left her there.”
Kilal gripped the edge of the sink, squeezing until it cracked. He held the reflection’s stare, glare for glare. “I didn’t have a choice.”
The reflection rolled its eyes. “That’s right. Because you must save this floating rock you call home.”
Ash built up around him, covering the sink, the floor, his shoulders.
“Bloodshed and Oaths, you know that’s the truth!” Kilal cursed. “I swore to protect this world. I can’t abandon it. For anything.”
A nasty smile worked its way onto his reflection’s face. “What sort of father leaves his daughter in that place?”
Kilal growled and slammed his fist into the mirror, shattering it into a hundred pieces. Blood dripped from his knuckles for only a second before white electricity crackled around his fist. The sting accompanying the healing was barely more than a whisper compared to the tightness in his chest and burning in his stomach.
“She’s dead,” a cacophony of voices said from the broken shards. “That’s why you left her there.”
“She’s not dead!” Kilal pressed his eyes shut and leaned over the sink, leveraging the full weight of his two-hundred-seventy-pound frame on it.
The porcelain ripped from its enclosure connecting it to the wall.
“Kill yourself.”
“I’ll go back for her. I’ll go back for her. I’ll go back for her,” Kilal repeated, rocking in place. He would. He would!
The knob of the bathroom door rattled and twisted.
“Hey! Who’s in there? Open up. Other people need to piss, too!”
Kilal ignored the would-be visitor, hoping the lock would continue to do its job. His breathing was all he concentrated on.
The tightness in his chest eased, and the hairs on his neck lowered. His grip loosened on the half-dangling sink. Kilal opened his eyes. The ash was gone, and his reflection in the mirror shards scattered around him no longer taunted him.
“Twice in two days,” he said, rubbing his face.
Kilal waited for the banging on the door to go away before he retrieved his knife from the floor and returned to his third and final Carving. Though no sooner had he started, the knob rattled again. He ignored it. He guided the knife with keen precision.
Someone pounded on the door again, more urgently than before.
“Get the point and move on,” Kilal growled.
He sighed when the door slammed open. It crashed against the wall, and music, fast and rhythmic, flooded the restroom.
A large bald man strode in. His white t-shirt stuck to his sweat-soaked skin, and he wore pants he shouldn’t have been able to squeeze into. The newcomer stopped dead at the sight of Kilal, wrist dripping blood and knife in hand. Two other men, dressed similarly, stopped in their tracks as well, one bumping into the bald man. He had a jaw pointy enough to pierce skin, while the other’s chin was so flabby he barely had a neck. Three sets of eyes moved as one to Kilal’s wrist.
Baldy sneered. “Didn’t you see the sign, freak?” he yelled, though his voice barely rose above the beats bumping into the bathroom. “Your kind isn’t welcome here!”
“Looks like we caught him before he could finish.” No-Neck grinned.
Baldy scrunched his face and pinched his nose. “What’s that smell?”
Kilal gritted his teeth. Forgive me for not consistently caring for my hygiene while I was held captive and tortured in the Ashen Lands.
The three stepped further into the room, and Pointy-Chin shut the door. The pulsing thrum of the music dampened. The vibration gently wavered through the floor, and the heavy beat could still be counted, but the relative ‘silence’ in comparison was a blessing.
Baldy cracked his knuckles, but it was his voice that grated on Kilal’s nerves. “We oughta teach him what happens to his kind when they go places they aren’t wanted.”
“Come on, Drig.” Pointy-Chin grabbed Baldy’s arm. “We don’t know if he’s one of those Arbiters who can use more than one Carving. What if he already has one in him?”
“You should really listen to your friend,” Kilal said. He returned his knife to the sheath on his belt. The last thing he needed was to accidentally kill the fool.
Baldy smiled. “You can’t hurt us. Your oath will only let you hurt Arbiters and Ash Fallen. Not innocent folk like us.” He shook his arm free of Pointy-Chin and stepped forward.
Kilal sighed, shaking his head. “Technically, you’re right. I can’t hurt you.” Baldy’s smile widened. “That is,” Kilal continued, “unless I consider you a threat. In which case, I’m free to defend myself. So, what do you think? Should I consider you a threat?”
Baldy faltered and looked at his friends. They gave quick shakes of their heads.
Unfortunately, Baldy was made of dumber stock than most. “Nah.” He turned back to Kilal. “I don’t believe you. Never heard of such a thing. You’re just trying to save yourself.”
Bloodshed and Oaths. This bloody idiot is going to make me hurt him.
He unsheathed his carving knife and brandished it at them. “Get out. Now.”
Baldy looked from the blade to Kilal, then his friends. He didn’t make any gesture to leave. Kilal growled. He didn’t have time to deal with fools. He didn’t want to hurt them, but what other choice did he have?
Unless…
He held his open hand up and ran the knife across his palm, parting flesh. Blood dripped, and the sting barely registered before white energy crackled around the wound, re-knitting the skin.
The trio paled.
Again, Kilal pointed the blade at Baldy, then at the door. “Get. Out.” Baldy wheeled on his friends, shoving them aside as he made for the door—“Wait!” Kilal thundered. His voice bounced off the tiles. The men froze. “Your shirt, Drig. Give it to me.”
Bloody idiot. He looked down at his own vomit-stained shirt. What would you do if Drig wasn’t as large as he is? Walk through the club smelling of death and bile? Good thinking.
Drig didn’t argue. He ripped the fabric over his head and threw it at Kilal before charging out the door, his friends on his heels.
Kilal caught the sweaty shirt and groaned. The thing stunk as if it had been dipped in a gallon of cologne. He placed it aside and re-secured the door before returning to his third and final Carving.
When he’d completed the process, Kilal did his best to clean himself up at the sink one last time. He pulled on Drig’s shirt and was pleased when a glance into a mirror shard proved he didn’t look entirely ridiculous in the small, damp fabric.
Feeling almost like a new man, his three Carvings refueling him with energy and confidence, Kilal exited the bathroom. He ignored the flickering light and the crunch of glass beneath his boots. When he stepped out, he winced. The music assailed him as he headed down the short hall with chipped and peeling black walls.
The hall deposited Kilal into an enormous square room three stories high. Over a hundred bodies, by Kilal’s estimation, writhed about on the floor under the probing lights, dancing to the rhythm of the booming bass. Or at least, that’s what he assumed they were doing. When had the flailing of limbs and grinding against each other become ‘dance’?
Kilal cut across the floor and made his way to the spiraling staircase on the other side of the room. Cologne, perfume, and body odor mingled into a single collage of stink, making Kilal almost as nauseous as activating a Carving.
His wide, muscled frame shoved aside anyone not keen enough to get out of his way on their own, and he quickly freed himself from the knotted mass of moving flesh. He ascended the steps, taking three at a time, and strode onto the third-floor balcony overlooking the club. The clock on a nearby wall flashed bright red numbers. 11:21 p.m.
Just in time. His target supposedly frequented the place every evening at 11:30 p.m. sharp.
Kilal moved to a table at the edge of the balcony. He took a seat and waited.
A young woman approached him, carrying a notebook and a smile. She knelt beside him and placed a hand on his thigh, a brow raised. “What can I get for you, handsome?”
The girl either had extremely poor taste in men or was looking for a good tip. Either way, a hundred years ago, Kilal would’ve reciprocated the flirtatious attitude. Now?
He gently removed her hand from his leg, never taking his gaze from the dance floor beneath them. “Water.”
She didn’t answer or bother to write his order down. She just stood, turned on her heels, and stormed away. Kilal didn’t expect to receive his water any time soon.
He scooted his chair up against the guardrail and rested his arms on it as he scanned the mass of bodies below. The club’s name flashed in bright neon colors on the wall across from him.
Forget Everything.
Pressure spiked behind his eyes. The room seemed to warp, the walls bending, flexing outward. What immense power! Frantically, Kilal looked for the source. He found him, stepping through the revolving glass doors and into the club.
Jayden. His target.
Only a few times in Kilal’s two hundred years of life had he felt power like that, and it confirmed his decision to hunt Jayden down. Now, he only had to convince the man to help him save the world.
Jayden, chest puffed out, sauntered from the entrance to the dance floor, smiling and pointing at people like he owned the place. He wore a green V-neck t-shirt; the cutout dipping nearly beneath his flat, hairless chest, and his yellow pants were so tight, Kilal wasn’t sure if his legs hadn’t been painted instead. Although, the six inches or so of skin showing above ankle-high white socks confirmed the man was, indeed, wearing pants. Black leather shoes rounded out his abysmal clothing decisions.
For such a provocative outfit, Kilal would’ve assumed Jayden had a reason to wear them, but he didn’t look like he’d done an honest day’s work in his life. The only thing he had going for him was a neatly trimmed haircut over bushy brown eyebrows.
The music stopped, and everything went quiet, but the dancing continued. In fact, the bass still vibrated through the railing and floor. What was going—
Kilal shot to his feet, kicking the chair behind him, and turned about, hands up before him. Three individuals sat at his table. Arbiters. And one of them had created a sound pocket around them. Normally, he would’ve sensed the use of a Carving, but the sensation must have been drowned by the immense power emanating from Jayden.
Kilal eyed the strangers. The one sitting nearest was tall and lean, yet solid with muscle. He sported a black tank top with gray tattoos wrapped around his arms. Carving tattoos! Kilal didn’t know whether he should slap him for such foolishness or fear him. If he displayed his knowledge for all to see, surely the man was a threat to be respected, though the lopsided and arrogant grin stuck to his face said otherwise. Probably an Enlightened Arbiter, and a Fighter, at that. Kilal dismissed him without another thought.
The second person, sitting across from Tattoos, was a woman with short blonde hair. Nothing stood out about her. She hunched forward, shoulders folded in, and kept her arms beneath the table. She was trying to display a sheepish personality, which Kilal assumed worked against most people. He almost fell for it until he met her gaze.
He held her gaze just long enough to catch it before she flicked it away. An edge was behind them, a hardness only the most battle-experienced Arbiters obtained. Why had she chosen to partner up with a bloody idiot like Tattoos?
She was the one who’d thrown up the sound bubble. Buzzing in his ears indicated it was a Carving from the Mind branch. And the taste of copper identified the use of a second Carving, one from the Physical branch. A High Arbiter, and more specifically, a Bruiser. Was she prepared for a physical altercation?
Of course, he could’ve been completely wrong about his estimation of the two. The problem with sensing Carvings was how difficult it was to determine who was using them. For all Kilal really knew, he could have switched the two Arbiter’s classifications. It was also possible they were both Enlightened instead, each using only one Carving. But Kilal had learned to trust his instincts. After two hundred years of sensing, he found he was usually right with his predictions.
The third and final stranger held Kilal’s attention the longest. He wore a long black coat buttoned up to the neck. Matching leather gloves kept his hands concealed. Most ridiculous of all were the dark sunglasses concealing what Kilal knew lay behind them: eyes with veins as stark as the man’s skin.
Kilal picked up the chair he’d kicked over. He returned it to the table and sat, carefully putting a few feet between himself and Tattoos. The power he sensed from each of them boosted his confidence. As long as he didn’t allow Sunglasses to touch him, he’d walk away from the encounter unscathed. Regardless, an Arbiter always treated another with a healthy dose of respect and fear until they knew what Carvings were in play.
Kilal was the first to breach the silence. He leaned back and crossed his arms. “An Enlightened Arbiter, a High Arbiter, and an Inflictor entered a club. Every table within was theirs to choose from. Which one did they pick?”
They stiffened.
Tattoos sucked at something stuck between his teeth. “I don’t know. Which one?”
Kilal narrowed his eyes. “The wrong one.”
The lady leaned forward. She placed her arms on the table and straightened her spine. Good. She wasn’t trying to hide who she was anymore. “From where I’m sitting, I think we chose the right one. Few Primes remain unaffiliated with the Heirs of the Promise.”
Who? The title meant nothing to him.
“What do you want?” Kilal asked.
“To talk. I’m Issa. This is Iathu.” She nodded toward the Inflictor, who gave Kilal a small tilt of his head. “And he’s—”
“None of your business,” Tattoos said, picking at a dark object between two teeth with his tongue. “What are you doing introducing us like we’re all pals?” He leaned back against his chair, propping it up on its rear legs.
Issa’s eyes hardened. “That’s Caz.”
Kilal winced at Caz’s repulsive lip-smacking. “You gonna ask him to dance next?”
“Are you always this disrespectful to ladies?” Kilal asked.
Caz sneered and leaned forward. His chair slammed onto the floor, and he brought his face so close, the air reeked of stale smoke from his breath. “Ah, I’m sorry. Did I offend you?”
Kilal raised a brow. “Are you really bringing yourself this close to an Arbiter you don’t know and whose Carvings you aren’t aware of?”
Caz shrugged. “I ain’t worried.”
Kilal gave him a toothy smile. “You should be.”
Whatever Caz saw in his expression made him pause the sucking of his teeth. He leaned back again and crossed his arms. “Ain’t here to wipe the floor with you, anyway.”
“One moment.” Kilal pushed himself away from the table.
He stood and walked to the railing, scanning the dance floor. His head swiveled like a man in charge, but his gaze darted around frantically. The search didn’t last long.
A large circle of empty floor had formed around Jayden. The man flailed about, moving from girl to girl to recruit them as his dance partner. After so many rejections, the guy should have gotten the point, but Jayden wouldn’t be dismayed.
Kilal strode back to the table. Caz was rebuking Issa. “Can’t believe you’re gonna let him talk to us like that.”
Issa ignored him.
“Like I asked before,” Kilal said, “what do you want?”
Iathu didn’t move. His sunglasses remained firmly planted on Kilal and his right hand on the table. Kilal didn’t let that hand out of his sight.
“We’re representatives of the Heirs of the Promise,” Issa said.
Kilal shrugged. “That supposed to mean something to me?”
Caz guffawed.
Issa’s eyes widened. “You don’t know?” Kilal shook his head. “Bloodshed and Oaths, man! Where have you been?”
Kilal raised a brow. “I’ve been…busy. Have you not heard of me?”
Issa squinted and studied his face. Finally, she elbowed Iathu. “You know him?”
He gave a slight shake of his head. Caz slapped a knee and spit on the floor. “I knew I recognized you! I saw you earlier this week. You were the guy living in the alley between Westside Boulevard and East Street, right? Nice box house you got yourself.”
Interesting. It had been a long time since he’d been around Arbiters who didn’t know who he was. Should he be disappointed or relieved? Granted, he’d been missing for the last decade.
Kilal drummed his fingers on the table.
Issa, head cocked, stared at him. “The Heirs of the Promise is an organization operated by Arbiters. We run this city. All new Arbiters to Silent Haven must register themselves, their classification, and the Carvings they use.”
Kilal clenched his jaw so hard his grinding teeth could have competed with the throbbing beat outside the bubble. His fingers stilled.
Iathu inched his hand slowly across the table. Caz smiled and cracked his knuckles.
Kilal pointed at the Inflictor. “If you don’t put that hand under the table, I’ll rip it off before you can even think to cancel my Carvings.” Iathu’s lip curled up, showing white teeth. Kilal smirked. “There it is. Not as emotionless as you want to pretend. Now, put your hand away.”
Iathu didn’t budge. Kilal prepared his Carvings, picturing them as knobs in his mind, ready to ‘turn’ them and increase his strength and gravity at a moment’s notice. Issa nudged her partner. They shared a look, and whatever passed between them encouraged Iathu to finally put his arm beneath the table. The tension eased.
“You two are joking, right?” Caz asked. He gestured at Kilal. “He threatened us! And you’re just going to let him get away with that?” He turned to Issa and sneered. “I guess that’s what happens when a woman is in charge.”
Issa flinched but didn’t say anything.
Kilal, however, snapped his fingers in Caz’s face. He’d had enough of the insufferable, big-mouthed Arbiter. “Come here.” He beckoned with a finger as if calling a dog. Caz broke into a
wide grin and leaned in. When their faces were nearly touching, and Kilal had the pleasure of enjoying his foul, smoky breath again, he said, “You should really treat women better.”
A sleazy smile crept its way onto Caz’s face. “I do. When they know their place.”
“And what place is that?”
“As pretty little trophies meant to be conqu—”
Kilal slapped him. Caz’s head ricocheted off the table edge with a sickening crunch. He crashed to the floor, unconscious. With his foot, Kilal shoved him aside.
“Bloodshed and Oaths, thank you,” Issa said.
He stood and repositioned his chair, using the motion to mask looking for Jayden. When he spotted him, Kilal sat down again. He propped his elbows on the table and folded his hands beneath his chin. “Your organization is a mockery to all we stand for. Arbiters are a force of good. We were created to defend the Sunlight Domain and its people from the Ash Fallen. Not band together and lord over those we protect.”
“Those days are long behind us. Those values are archaic. They may have worked five hundred years ago, but if you haven’t noticed, there aren’t many of us left. We can’t be the lone wolves we used to be. Things need to change.”
Kilal smashed a fist on the table. “What I noticed is an army of Ash Fallen on the other side of the Veil, preparing to sweep through our world again!”
“On the other side of—” Issa frowned. “Where did you say you’ve been again?”
Kilal cursed himself. He didn’t want anyone to know what had happened to him, let alone a corrupt group of Arbiters.
“You think the Heirs are the first to do this?” he said, trying to direct the conversation away from his slip-up. “Rally Arbiters together, claiming unity, peace, and a better future? You’re all bloody fools! The ones in charge are gathering all the knowledge of Carvings you’ve each earned, and when they have enough, they’ll turn on you, using your own powers against you.”
Issa sat back and placed her hands under the table. The taste of copper flooded his mouth—she was activating her Physical Carving!
“Three cities,” Issa said. “Silent Haven. New Cita. Vitrol. That’s all that’s left of humanity. We can’t keep going on like this. It’s time for something new. Join us. It’s the only option.”
“Where are the Keepers of the Oath? Why have they allowed the Heirs to move into the city?” Issa and Iathu shared another glance. What did they know? Kilal growled, “Where are the Keepers?”
“Will you return with us and register yourself, your status, and your Carvings?”
Kilal leaned in slowly. “I would welcome the embrace of a Pestilence Plague before I gave into your demands.”
Issa closed her eyes and slumped her head. After taking a deep breath, she stood, and Iathu followed. “You have twenty-four hours to leave the city. This time tomorrow, if you haven’t left, you will be black-marked. The first Arbiter to kill you will be handsomely rewarded.”
Kilal shot to his feet and shoved the table aside. His hands shook, and the veins in his neck strained against his skin. “You threaten me with my own people? Tell your masters this: their
time is short. They should use what remains of it to flee somewhere I won’t find them. Elsewise, I won’t be trapped in this city with them—they’ll be trapped in this city with me.”
To her credit, Issa didn’t even flinch. She just gave a sad shake of her head and walked to the unconscious Caz. With little effort, she hauled him up and threw him over her shoulder. She paused before leaving and glanced at Kilal. “If you change your mind, come to our headquarters. Head to the center of the city and look for…Well, you won’t miss it.”
Issa headed for the back door of the club, Iathu trailing behind her.
Despite their absence, thankfully, the noise-dampening bubble remained intact for Kilal to brood in. Fingers and glares were thrown his way, but he ignored them and stepped over to the balcony again, chewing on his lower lip.
I could’ve handled that better. What was I thinking? An empty threat, and for what? If only an army of Ash Fallen weren’t looming on the other side of the Veil. He sighed. One problem at a time.
Everything had changed while he was gone. The Heirs of the Promise. The Keepers. What had that look between Issa and Iathu meant when he mentioned the Keepers?
If anything happened to them, I’ll—
Jayden!
Kilal whipped his head around, but the poorly dressed man was nowhere to be seen. Jayden was gone.
Excerpt originally posted on Langdon’s blog
Langdon
Franz lives in Raleigh, North Carolina with his wife, two teenage daughters,
two dogs and two cats. In 2022, he finished his Masters in Creative Writing and
has been hard at work creating his own book series ever since. When he isn’t
writing, he is designing board games with his wife or playing one. Langdon has
a passion for all things fantasy as well as creating fantastical worlds others
can enjoy.
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1/15/2024 |
IG Post |
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1/16/2024 |
Excerpt |
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1/17/2024 |
Excerpt/IG Post |
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1/18/2024 |
Excerpt/IG Post |
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1/19/2024 |
Excerpt/IG Post |
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1/20/2024 |
Excerpt/IG Post |
Week Two:
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1/21/2024 |
IG Review |
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1/22/2024 |
Review |
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1/23/2024 |
IG Review |
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1/24/2024 |
Review |
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1/25/2024 |
IG Review |
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1/26/2024 |
Review/IG Post |
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1/27/2024 |
IG Review/TikTok Post |
Week Three:
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1/28/2024 |
IG Review/LFL Drop Pic/TikTok Post |
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1/29/2024 |
Review/IG Post |
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