Spark of the Everflame (Kindred's Curse, #1)

by Penn Cole

It’s never the enemy who attacks outright who will strike your killing blow, he’d taught me. It’s the one who hides in the shadows and waits. The one who strikes when you’ve finally looked away. Those are the true predators to fear. I

Mortals could only bear brown eyes, another consequence of the Forging spell. Naturally, the Descended hoarded the more fanciful shades of the rainbow for themselves, just as they had with so many other beautiful things in Emarion. Each realm’s Descended had their own distinct eye color, with Lumnos Descended all sporting various shades of blue—although, with their strength

However, the prestigious Descended academy that Teller attended finished at eighteen, and the particularly bright would be invited to Sophos, Realm of Thought and Spark, to continue their learning well into their twenties.

“You know Descended can’t use their magic while they’re outside of their home realm,” Teller said.

All Descended were gifted with quick-healing abilities that rendered them immune to most illnesses and injuries. For grave conditions,

they could travel to Fortos, Realm of Force and Valor, for a visit to the powerful magical healers that served in the Emarion Army. As a result, the Descended rarely sought the aid of mortal healers.

There were, however, a few exceptions—children, whose healing powers developed at puberty with the rest of their magic, and a handful of rare poisons, the details of which I’d been forbidden from learning. My mother had even gone so far as to lock a...

anyone I knew, and for good reason. When Henri was an infant, his mother had fallen ill with a rare disease treatable only by an herb native to Montios. Since mortals were forbidden, his father had requested permission to visit the reclusive mountain realm. He’d even risked his position as royal courier to beg the King for diplomatic assistance. The request was denied without explanation, leaving Henri’s mother to a preventable death and Henri’s hatred forever engraved on his bones.

According to the old mortal religion, all life began as sparks from the Everflame that fell to the earth as glowing seeds. At death, those found worthy by the Old Gods would be placed among its burning branches, where their earthly bodies would turn to ash but their souls would remain forever warmed by the Undying Fire. Those found unworthy were doomed to an eternity in a cold hell encased in ice, far from the Everflame’s redeeming heat. Though some mortals still clung in secret to the ancient faith, all references to the Everflame and the Old Gods were now outlawed across the nine realms. I’d only ever seen them in the old mortal books my mother collected—the one law she’d always been happy to flagrantly disobey.

Teller had once mentioned something about the Descended’s abilities being tied to the soil of their realm of origin—or as they called it, their terremère.

Fortos, it works differently. The female Descended always get healing magic, while the male Descended get the power to kill—they can make your body decay right in front of their

idea of one’s gender determining their fate. “Why would that affect how the Crown passes down?” “Because it passes to the next most powerful Descended.” “So?” “So if only the men get the killing magic, they’ll always be the most powerful.”

“I can’t tell you his name. It’s one of the rules: never reveal the identity of any member, even to those we trust completely. It’s a group for mortals who refuse to accept the Descended as the rulers of Emarion. We fight back in whatever ways we can. We call ourselves the Guardians of the Everflame.”

gryvern.

“Suit yourself. But whatever you do or don’t do, sweetheart, do it for yourself. Don’t choose a mediocre life for a mediocre man. Go be exceptional. If he’s worth it, he won’t judge you. And if he’s really the one, he’ll come along for the ride.”