In the Wake of the Wicked (The Veridian Empire, #1)

by V.B. Lacey

To those who have ever been told you aren’t enough, let them watch you fly.

“There is a poison in the fang of the serpent, in the mouth of the fly and in the sting of the scorpion; but the wicked man is saturated with it.” - Chanakya

The Decemvirate, a tournament that occurred every ten years among the six provinces of the Veridian Empire, was set to take place in two weeks at the capital of Veridia City.

They took the components that made up their essence, their purpose, and split the magic into six potent forms: light and dark, power over mind and power over nature, ability to change and move forward.

Each of the six provinces selected a single challenger to compete, and all of them traveled to the island city for an exhibition of their skills through various tasks. Based on their performance, the challengers were allowed to select which strand of magic their people received: the ability to create and bend light, to wield shadows, to cast illusions, to practice spellcrafting, to shift into an animal form, or to transport from one place to another.

It was an honor, of course. A privilege to represent your province and have the chance to bring home the strongest of magic to your people.

Each time someone fell to the curse, it was the same. They collapsed as if in a deep slumber, their blood-red eyes the only sign of the Somnivae Curse. Not dead. Asleep.

But I think my uncle and I both understood—we couldn’t stand aside and wait for something else to intervene. We made our own fate. And that made it all the more sweet when it bent to our will.

“Gentlemen,” my uncle stated evenly, drawing my attention back to the scene. “Challengers are protected under Veridian law until midnight on the start of the Decemvirate, which is not for another twenty-seven hours. Should word get back to the architects of your interference, you could be held in contempt of⁠—” “Of course, we had to go and pick a talker,” the one to the right said with a scratchy scoff. “Enough of this.” My jaw dropped as the man threw his cloak and lunged, transforming mid-air into a roaring snow leopard.

Ragnar’s lips moved soundlessly. The two men howled in agony, collapsing to the ground as everywhere the wolfsbane powder touched burned their flesh to ash.

My eyes were glued on the remaining man, and I almost didn’t hear Ragnar’s cry. “Rose!” A growl erupted behind me. I whirled to find myself face-to-face with the snow leopard, mouth ajar and teeth glinting. I bit down on the amaranth still clinging to my tongue and threw up my hands, muttering, “Aegesis nova!” The sensation of air being ripped from my lungs and pulled taut as a bowstring fell across my skin as the snow leopard leapt toward me. He instantly slammed into an invisible barrier, and I watched in both horror and morbid fascination as my spell took its effect. Chunks of flesh tore themselves from his shoulder, as if caught in the snare of his own sharp jaws. He yowled and collapsed to the ground, blood oozing from the wound as he struggled to find his footing.

“Uncle,” I breathed, the energy in my body dissipating as I rushed to his side. He lay crumpled on the leaves and dirt, motionless but still breathing. My eyes roved his body for signs of injury—had the last man attacked when I was distracted? But I could find no wound. His breaths were strong and even, his pulse thumping beneath my touch. No. No, no, no, no, no. A rustling in the grass made me whip my neck around, but all spells fled my mind as the injured snow leopard stalked toward me and my unconscious uncle. Before I could think, the air around me tightened. My lungs constricted—burning, aching, tugging. A spell.

But who was casting it? The beast reared up on its strong back legs, preparing to lash at me, when suddenly, it let out a strangled cry. I heard the snap of its neck and it fell to my side, dirt scattering beneath its weight. It was dead.

And in its place stood brown boots. Tight, black pants. A dark tunic and gray cloak. My eyes traveled the length of the stranger’s body to meet a sharp jawline shadowed by the hood of a cloak, glittering onyx eyes the only thing visible in the darkness as he stared down at me. “Watch ...

My hand covered my mouth as I gently lifted my uncle’s eyelids, already knowing what I would find. Eyes as red as blood My uncle was cursed.

It was the eve before the tournament. There was plenty of bloodshed to be found in these woods. Attacks always ran rampant this close to the Decemvirate.

The motives for violence were endless. Needless to say, tension was high, and morals were thrown out the window when magic came into play.

Bits of flesh and drying blood graced the tip of the brown leather, white fur sticking to the outside. I must have stepped too close to where the woman had incapacitated the snow leopard Shifter. I still didn’t know how she’d done that. I’d never seen a spell like it, and I wasn’t easily surprised.

The provinces needed the Decemvirate to replenish their magic, and the emperor desired it for the economic boost it brought him and Veridia City, but many who lived here resented the influx of people it brought. They didn’t want to compete for resources or dilute the power of the land. So the capital natives took to solving the problem the only way they knew how: attacking visiting entourages with fury.

I may not be able to do much good here, but I could stop this. I could fight under the shadow of night. I could try to guard the peace of my home, however unstable it may be.

The moon was bright tonight. Bright enough to light the way and leave shadows in our wake, and to make the Alchemist half of my blood writhe with anticipation.

Visitors came and went throughout the month of the Decemvirate. A rare few stayed for the entirety of the event. That was by design—a constant stream of new faces, new magic, and new coin, ready to empty their pockets on the goods of the capital.

Here in Veridia City, you could never be sure what magic one might possess. We were a conglomerate of magical blood; a rare few held mixed heritages like myself, while most inherited a single type from their parents.

One was playing with the fringes of his cloak, his fingers twitching at every sound. Alchemist, probably. Preparing to retrieve his stash of charms.

The final one lurked in the shadows of a tree, head tucked low. The darkness seemed to breathe with them, moving and swaying as if it had a mind of its own. Shadow Wielder.

Reaching into the inner lining of my cloak, I placed a pinch of blackthorn ash on my tongue. “Slentium,” I muttered, feeling the ...

Before they could attack, I slammed my hands together, vibrations shooting up my arm from the rings I wore on my middle fingers. The charm held in the special henbane and amaranth infused rings thickened the air, and I embraced the familiar tightening in my chest as the incantation flowed from my tongue and burst from my hands. In an instant, all four were on their knees, clutching at their throats as the oxygen left their lungs.

With a gasping breath, the Alchemist reached for his pocket. “No, you don’t,” I growled, my body reacting instinctively. A long, dark brown tail wrapped around his wrist, yanking it to the ground with a snap. He recoiled and gave a half scream, half choke as my tail retracted and slunk back into the darkness behind me.

“You’re—one of them—” one of the Shifters said through pained breaths. “So you’ve heard of me.” I flashed a smi...

I was exhausted. It took longer and longer for me to come back from using so much magic, and I still hadn’t fully processed what had happened with the Shifter attack. I couldn’t believe my uncle was another victim of the Somnivae curse. It didn’t feel real.

While they froze in their distress, I couldn’t seem to stop moving. Acting. Going through the motions like a puppet on a string, handling things in the only way I knew how. Emotionless. Controlled. Hollow. I wouldn’t have been able to function otherwise.

Action. Purpose. Movement.

I’d been waiting to speak with the head architect for hours. And with the waiting came the despair I’d forced aside, the panic I’d strangled in the face of necessity. It was all creeping back in, like spiders crawling beneath my skin. This was going wrong. So horribly wrong. Nobody had woken from the Somnivae curse in twenty-seven years—the empire had all but lost hope the victims would ever be revived. My uncle…he was as good as gone.

Flowing beneath each worry was a single thought, like an undercurrent of darkness that seemed to follow me with every step I took. Once again, someone had been taken from me. And once again, I hadn’t been able to stop it.

This was Larken Everest? The head architect? She was…not what I expected. My thoughts must have shown on my features, for she gave a small smirk. “Before you ask: yes, I’m the youngest architect in two centuries. Yes, I’m a woman. And yes, I do, in fact, know what I’m doing.

I was lucky not to have met the same end. I owed my life to the hooded mystery man, who my thoughts had wandered to several times in the hours since. How had he known we were in trouble? He had to be an Alchemist, or at least part Alchemist, with the way he’d cast to kill that Shifter. But who was he? Why had he been there?

In an instant, the entire room was as dark as night, the only light coming from two flickering candles on Lark’s desk. A Shadow Wielder. I’d never met one before. The way her shadows moved…it was like they were breathing. A living extension of her. It was incredible.

“You may not know who I am, but I know you. Ragnar speaks very highly of you. An accomplished Alchemist from a young age, with a will and a bite as strong as his own.”

My mind reeled. It felt like I had walked into a different world, one I didn’t understand. How did Ragnar have connections in the palace? “What are you talking about?”

“What are you willing to do to save your uncle?”

“And what of curses in general? You’re an Alchemist, like your uncle. What can you tell me about that brand of magic?” I had an inkling she already knew anything I could possibly say, and this little test was purely to humor her. Even so, my curiosity won out over my annoyance—I wanted to know where this was heading. “Curses can be cast with the proper potion or charm, but they can also be consequences of other spells. Someone could unintentionally create a curse if they tried to cross boundaries of natural magic or used too much of their power in one go. There are common curses that most Alchemists know, but they can also be created for a specific purpose.”

“What if I told you I know who cast the curse?” I clenched the back of the chair in front of me. That was impossible. “You’re lying.” Her eyes shone with eager triumph. “I’m not. And your uncle knew, too. That is why he competed to become the Feywood challenger, so he could use it as a means to come to the capital and help put an end to it.

In the end, so much was at stake. Not just the magic of my people, but also the chance to save thousands of lives. To end this plight that had taken over my empire.

I was desperate. And perhaps a bit prideful. The image of me in the tournament, proving to those Drakorum bastards and everyone else that Feywood was not to be overlooked, breaking the curse and bringing back everyone who had suffered…it steeled something within me.

My heart pounded in my chest, its beat ringing through my ears. Fates, I didn’t know what I was doing, but I feared I was in too deep to stop now. “I’ll do it.” Those three little words hung heavy in the air, sealing my fate. I wasn’t even sure they’d come from my lips. Was I r...

Gritting my teeth, I leveled her with an irritated glare. “Get closer to who?” “You haven’t worked it out yet?” Her head cocked. “Branock Aris didn’t cast the Somnivae curse, Miss Wolff. It was his right-hand man. The most powerful Alchemist in the empire, and someone the Aris family trusted with their lives.” Shadows caressed my ankles, leaning in closer as if they wanted to hear her words, too. “I need you to steal the Grimoire of Emperor Theodore Gayl.”

Was I making a mistake? Had I jumped into this decision too rashly, too fueled by my own desperation and pride? Why would I ever think I, a simple Alchemist from Feywood, could go up against the emperor? Not to mention compete in this tournament with five other challengers who were far more prepared than I was.

“This burden should not fall to you, Rose.” Her voice and hand shook as she brought it up to cup my cheek. “Please. You don’t need to do this. Let them find someone else. Anyone else.” I covered my aunt’s hand with my own and squeezed. “Uncle Ragnar made his choice. He must have believed it was possible. He must have believed the chance to free the cursed was worth fighting for. This is so much bigger than me, Aunt Morgana. I can do this.”

Even if I only said it to comfort her, the admission gave me strength. Not just for the mission, but for the tournament, too.

Fear, uncertainty, anxieties…those would always be there, waiting to take over my mind. I had to push past them if I wanted t...