What Blooms From Death (What Blooms From Death, #1)

by S.M. Gaither

But the day I watched the future King of Light murder my father was the first day Death’s shadows took my form, wrapping me in a merciless embrace, turning me into a vessel of lethal darkness.

“For seven years, we have been trying to finish him off.” She dug her staff deeper into my chest. “We have kept him confined to his forest—kept him and his magic from wreaking more havoc here, at least. Who are you to have woken him up? To have freed him? To have led him here, so close to Erebos?”

“All I know is that I am not the one who stabbed the king that night. But there are several members of the Light Keepers who would have liked for me to do precisely that.” I speared a chunk of burned wood, shattering it into smaller flecks of ash and embers. “I didn’t see who actually wielded the blade against him. The blightdust powder that exploded on the veranda made it impossible to make out what was happening until it was too late to do anything about it.”

“It’s even more jarring, I suppose, because no one speaks of the dead very often in Elarith,” he explained. “We rarely even hold funerals. Our ‘graveyards’ consist of simple books listing the names of the deceased, whose ashes are piled into a collective urn. Anything more than that is considered grotesque.”

“It’s very old magic,” Kaelen confirmed, “put in place by powerful beings back when this city first became what it is today. I’m a descendant of those beings—the only one left after all this time. I’ve been tending to the flames and the wraiths here since I was ten years old.”

“Typically, only the ones with Shadowblood in their veins can survive in this realm these days.

“The people of Erebos are survivors,” he told me, his voice low, as if he didn’t want any of those people to overhear. “But the magic—the fire—that once protected them fades more and more by the day. Many other cities like ours have already fallen. And their citizens have been…erased.”

“I am not forcing anything. But the citizens of Erebos grow desperate, and I am bound as their leader to toss them a bit of hope every now and then.” He motioned to the trail of my blood.

“Rivenholt?” “That’s the name of this kingdom.”

“The world of the dead doesn’t have kingdoms; I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“This palace was once the center of a thriving, living empire,” he said, “one that lived in peaceful tandem with the empires of the Above. And the beings you’ve encountered over the past days are not dead. They’re cursed. A curse our mother hoped we might someday break, which is why we were sent to the Above over twenty-five years ago.”

“Welcome back to your true world, Nova.”

“Bastian is dead,” I whispered. “He died when we were just infants.” “…I didn’t die that night,” he said, after a long pause. “Though I came close, I’m told. Our adoptive parents and Orin ended up sending me back here, in hopes that the magic around this palace would help bring me to full health once more. Somewhat ironically, since they’d originally sent us to the Above to protect us from being overwhelmed by the very same magic.”

“But it’s where you were born. Where we both were born into royalty. And you came into this world with the mark of the Vaelora in your palm…the last hope of this lost world that’s been decaying for centuries now.”

“This is how it used to be, for several millennia: Two worlds. One in the above, one here in the below. Soltaris and Noctaris, respectively—both of them fueled by the magic of the Aetherstone that rests between them. In the beginning, they existed in tandem, the Stone granting life and power to both. But over time, its magic failed to the point that only one world could be sustained. Bitter and bloody wars were fought over which world would live and which would die, until finally, the two most powerful magic users from each side stepped forward and made a deal.”

“One that involved a ritualistic, periodic shifting of the Aetherstone’s magic, so that it concentrated on one world for a set period of time before shifting to the other. In every generation, a being known as a Vaelora was born within each world, and eventually, they were destined to meet and wield their powers together to turn the stone. Aequinoctium—or Equinox Day—it was called, when this turning took place.”

because at some point in the past, the agreement was broken. The Stone didn’t turn toward Noctaris when it should have, and the Light Keepers and their minions have been working for centuries to keep the magic shining over their world, alone, and to scrub the Above of all knowledge of this world that lies below it. It’s a…complicated story.”

“But you were always meant to come back here. You were a princess here before you were adopted by the King and Queen of Eldris—two rare, Above-world allies to our cause. Your true crown has been kept safe, deep inside this palace, ever since you left.”

“Luminor has a counterpart—Grimnor,” Bastian continued, stopping before the doors and running his fingers along the swirling designs etched into them. “Both swords were made by the same divine hand. Both once belonged to the first Vaelora of their respective worlds. The swords channel all sorts of magic, but the most important facet of their power is their ability to guide the Aetherstone on the Equinox—though accounts differ as to precisely how they help control its power.”

“Calista was the last Vaelora born into Noctaris until Nova came along hundreds of years later. Her counterpart was Lorien Blackvale, one of the most powerful wielders of Light magic to ever walk in Soltaris. Some say Lorien was more than a human, even, and was in fact the offspring of a mortal and a god. His heart was human enough, however—because it fell in love with Calista. “Prior to these two, the Vaelora were always celibate beings. They were bound only to their duty, both by tradition and by the magical pact put in place between the first Vaelora and the old gods themselves. They were raised with strict objectives: Make it to adulthood without bonding to anyone else, master their magic, and be prepared to work with their counterpart to carry out the Equinoctial Turning through the use of magic and their respective swords. After the Turning, the expectation was sacrifice.”

“Another duty of Luminor and Grimnor,” said Bastian. “Once the Vaelora ritualistically impaled themselves upon the blades, the magic they carried would leave their bodies and eventually find its way into the souls of the next pair of them to be born, and thus the cycle continued.”

“Lorien was the first to suggest they abandon the traditional Turning. He claimed he wanted to seek a way to bring balance back to both worlds once more—but truthfully, it was an attempt to avoid death and keep Calista alive for his own selfish desires.”

“And Calista pretended to go along with this plan,” Thalia said, “because she didn’t want to turn the Aetherstone’s magic either. Her reluctance had nothing to do with any love for Lorien, though—even though she led him to believe that was the case.”

“She loved that mortal, magicless king so much that she refused to turn the Aetherstone’s power to Noctaris because it would mean the end of their relationship.”

“A death-like slumber would overtake every living thing in those worlds,” Bastian said. “A…hibernation, of sorts. Some of the souls in it were preserved and would revive as soon as the magic shifted and the time to reawaken came; others would perish in the time between; and a chosen few were believed to be immediately transferred into the opposite world, to be given an opportunity to live in it as well…it’s an interesting thing to study, really, if you wanted to—”

“when Lorien discovered Calista’s love for the mortal king, he tried to murder her in a fit of jealous rage. She was badly wounded, but she escaped and fled to this palace. Here, she poured the last of her magic out, creating a protective ward around this area. She died soon after.

“The Vaelora were always granted longer lifespans, as were the ones who served them and their cause—the ones I believe you know as the Aetherkin.”

“Lorien’s longevity is believed to have far surpassed any of them, however,” said Bastian, placing a hand on Thalia’s arm and giving it a little squeeze, “thanks to an ability he stole from Calista during the attempted murder. Luminor bled magic from her when it pierced her body; a corruption of the sacrifice the blade was meant to perform after the Turning. Her ability to possess other beings and objects ended up settling in Lorien, among other magical talents. And, coupled with his own magic, this allegedly makes him able to possess other people with a lasting hold.

“We believe he’s been jumping from one body to the next for centuries, avoiding death. And his servants continue as well, doing all they can to aid him in his quest to rise the Above higher while our Below is crushed further down.”

“He built them in an attempt to recover Calista’s body, and to do what he could to save her world—but his efforts were ultimately hindered by the politics of needing to marry and produce an heir for his kingdom, and said efforts eroded even further after his death. Over time, the true story of their love and the paths it created was twisted and rewritten by his enemies.”

Because when you were born, your magic initially caused more harm than good—it was simply too much to contain within this small section of our world. It was drawing in all manner of wraiths and shades, and far worse creatures, who essentially lost their minds trying to feed off it. So, Orin took you Above, vowing to keep you safe until your magic stabilized enough to come back here to reclaim your sword and crown.”

“Phantom is a vaehound. Like the vaekin, his kind are born of the energy of this world, and the first of their species was personally shaped by a Vaelora’s hand and infused with their magic. They don’t live and die in a natural way; their energy is more fluid, capable of something like reincarnation—much like the magic of the Vaelora themselves. Which is why you were able to keep him from dying, I suspect, even without your fully-realized powers. And why he regained even more of his form once he returned to this world. Because even though he’s able to find form and power in both worlds, this world is his true home.” Her voice softened a bit as she added, “You two sort of have that in common.”

“Your brother sent him to you, you know. There are a few wild packs of these dogs that roam close to Tarnath; he found your Phantom abandoned by one of them. A dangerous thing to take in, but…”

“The magic that you thought killed me when we were younger,” he explained, closing some of the space between us, “it wasn’t some random manifestation of my power—it was a defensive response. We were attacked that night. There was evidence of other magic used against us, according to both Orin and the King and Queen of Eldris. Evidence of Light magic. It nearly killed us both. My power protected you, according to the ones who witnessed it—but only just. It was a massive amount of power used against us.”

“I’ve barely eaten. Or slept. All I’ve really done is think about how badly I wanted to follow you into your room last night and make you forget everything outside of it. How badly I wanted to make you forget everything except me, to bury myself so deeply inside of you that my name would be the only thing left for you to gasp out. To fall asleep, still inside of you, and then wake up and do it all over again.”

“I’m tired of fighting with you, Nova. I want you. More than I should, more than makes sense, more than any godsdamn sword or kingdom or anything else.”

“I don’t care about winning.” His lips crashed against mine, pressing so completely they sealed away any chance of properly breathing. I was dizzy when he finally pulled away and whispered, “I concede defeat.”

“Do you even know how to beg, Light King?” I murmured against him. He laughed softly. “For you, I would manage it.”

“The letters on it are an ancient script; in our modern tongue it would be pronounced avelian. It’s an old Noctarisan word that means something like kindred spirits, or souls that are bound to one another.”

“There is nothing tragic about the fact that I met you here in this world,” he said, taking my face in his hands. “Or about the way I feel when I kiss you, or when your body curves next to mine when we sleep. Nothing I could possibly regret about the way I find calm in your chaos and solace in your shadows, and if we end up ripped apart and ruined, it will still have been worth it all.” He gripped me tighter and bowed his head against mine, as if in prayer. “And so no—no, I don’t consider us a tragedy. At all.”

“A murder that was long overdue. He never should have taken you in and gotten himself mixed up in this war. He was a king of the Above—why he agreed to help the Below, I’ll never understand. He paid the price for it, though. And your mother will, too, before I’m finished.”

“Calista should have been the last of the Shadow Vaelora. The ending I gave her should have made it impossible for her magic to be reborn.” He rolled his shoulders, as though shifting the weight of all those centuries upon them. “Then, twenty-five years ago, you were born, somehow. I knew it the moment it happened, because I felt it through the bond the two Vaelora always share—your first breath was like a knife twisting in my chest. And your magic…” His gaze trailed over me, a slow probing that made my skin crawl. “It was something to behold, even while we were in separate worlds.”

“Three years.” He circled me slowly, the movement casual yet predatory. “That’s how long it took me to regain my grip on my powers. For three years, my spirit resided in Luminor’s blade, healing and regenerating while kept under lock and key by the Keepers. Once I managed to fully regain my powers and consciousness, I found myself in need of a new body.”

“There isn’t enough magic to sustain both worlds, and there never will be again. But there is a chance at creating something greater—imagine the Above in all its current glory, but with all that remains of Noctaris’s power and magic added to it, as well.”

“The pleading is unnecessary. Because it will be a privilege to fuck you into a state of oblivion.”

And one after the other, those shards turned in mid-air and struck again, impaling Aleksander’s body, each strike sending a current of magic rippling through it until we were both swallowed up in a raging sea of cold light.

I didn’t regret any of it. Not for a second. We were not a tragedy. And as darkness slid over my vision, a thought struck—that even if we were, I would have lived that tragedy over and over and over, in a thousand different lifetimes, if it meant I had a chance to meet her again.

“I wish you could hear him begging me to spare your life.” He cocked his head to the side. “He really loved you, you know.” “He still does,” I whispered. “We are not past tense.”

Some things bloom brighter in the dark. Some things were not given a choice.

I would not be afraid any longer. Aleksander and I would not be a tragedy, because I was the one writing the story now, and this was not how it ended. I would get him back.