Soul of the Crow: An Epic Dark Fantasy (Reapers of Veltuur Book 1)

nightmarish daydream clears, I realize the inflection of the voice isn’t harsh like most of the people of the Ghamayan Mountains. This voice is soft and lilting, less like a deadly roar and more like the purr of a kitten.
A lady with sun-kissed skin as golden as baked baklava steps into view. A single tress of charcoal hair hangs from a torn piece of fabric tied around the top of her head, holding her hair back. The hairstyle leaves her runes completely visible, the magenta spilling from her skin like petals dancing in the wind, and I can’t help but stare at the small blank sections above her eyebrows. Unlike me, she has not earned the markings of grief yet. I think I would be jealous, if I wasn’t relieved that she hadn’t experience that kind of pain yet.
“Hmm?” I ask, my thoughts soaring back to me like they were coming from the faraway Ghamayan Mountains themselves. “Oh, sorry. I was soaring—I mean thinking.”
She clucks her tongue, a smile breaking through like the sun rising beyond the horizon. Before retrieving a comb, she turns me back around and resumes brushing the long length of my hair. “I told you that you were getting lost in that void in your mind again.”
I look over my shoulder, duck my head away from her combing, and fail at restraining the goofy grin that’s reckless to meet hers.
“All and sundry know my mind is anything but a void. You should hear the endless cycle of thoughts that I have to deal with; they just go on and on and on. It’s, like, can’t a guy get some peace and quiet from himself?”
She laughs again, a chuckle that threatens to bloom in a patch of warmth over my face and chest. “Then your mind wants what your feet do not.”
“And what’s that?”
“To venture,” she says at last.
Our eyes meet in the mirror’s reflection, but only for a fraction of a second before she casts her gaze back to the ground.
For her to have such intimate familiarity with me is the catalyst that sets fire to my cheeks, and I am grateful she’s staring at the intricate tiling instead of at me. It’s moments like these that make me want to reach for her, to cup her face into my hand, to raise her gaze so I can see her eyes again.
But if I’ve never reached for her before, I certainly don’t now. Our futures are set, and pretending otherwise will only make things harder.
“No one knows me like you do, Hayliel,” I say hopelessly.
She has a name that should’ve belonged to one of the Divine Altúyur themselves, so full of virtue and compassion.
Bowing her head, Hayliel smiles knowingly.
After a few more strokes through my hair, making sure the length of it cooperates by leaning in the right direction, she sets the comb on the table beside all of the other grooming supplies and begins working through each of them. She takes only a few seconds powdering my hair with whatever minerals and oils she usually uses to keep it smooth and in place. When we’re both satisfied, she moves on to the stubble on my chin—and by stubble, I really mean something that more closely resembles the soft, nearly invisible layer of fur that covers a peach. I used to protest, but both she and my father insist a clean shave is a daily necessity.
“There,” she says with a blush of her own, as one finger checks the smoothness along my jawline. “Your father will approve, I hope.”
At this, I groan. “As long as I do everything that a future king is supposed to do—which I won’t because I was never meant to be a king, and therefore I will surely disappoint him today, like I have all days—but yeah. I’m sure everything will go great.”
“You will make a truly magnificent king, my prince,” she says reassuringly.
I acquiesce with a roll of my eyes. “Did you know he has me meeting with foreign dignitaries today, reviewing matters of the state, and selecting our next charitable event—”
“Don’t forget the costume-fitting for your blessing ceremony during the festival.”
Another unavoidable noise escapes me, and I slouch deeper into my chair, wishing it would eat me like the melting sands of Marágros. Of course, how could I forget the festival. On top of the usual grooming affairs of a future monarch, we are also in the final two days of preparation for the Festival of Wings. Every person in Oakfall eagerly awaits this ten-day celebration like a giddy child every year, and under normal circumstances, it’s an event I quite enjoy as well. The costumes, the food, the performances, the decorations—did I mention the food? The Festival of Wings is a time for the people of Oakfall—as well as some of the other kingdoms—to come together to honor and showcase their steadfast devotion to the Divine Altúyur, the beautiful and magnificent deities of flight—the quetzal, the macaw, the lorikeet, the peacock, the sungem, the dove, the owl, and the aracari, the bird for which I am named—who rule the realms and grant us their blessings.
But this year, I just don’t feel right celebrating. Not when I’m still in mourning.
“What’s the matter? I thought you’d be excited. There’s nothing you look forward to more than the Festival of Wings.” Almost as soon as the words come out, Hayliel’s hands fly up to her mouth. “Oh, shame become me. I am being insensitive.”
“It’s all right,” I offer quietly, and before she can apologize again, and before I let myself think more about the reasons why the festival isn’t worth celebrating this year, I swing down from the chair and flash her a dubious smile. “Time to make myself presentable.”
Without another word from either of us, I make my way to the carved walnut wardrobe. The simple camicia doesn’t do much for warmth on its own, and I shiver when I pull back the double doors. It’s normally Hayliel’s job to dress