Lichgates (Grimoire Saga #1)

Chapter 2: Braeden

Moments before Kara headed down the cliff into Ourea, a gray flame burst to life over the bare skin of a young man's palm in the darkness of a long-abandoned cave not far from the Grimoire.

Braeden Drakonin stared at his olive-toned hand, illuminated as it was by the fire. His skin was a lie, nothing but a false appearance he borrowed to blend in with those who had adopted him. His natural form would terrify children and earn him an execution for treason, so he hid his true face from the world. He grimaced. His so-called family back in the kingdom of Hillside would forget every ounce of good he'd ever done if they found out what he really was.

The fire crackled, suspended in the air above his skin. It burned, fueled by his magic and made stronger by his rage and frustration. It cast its dim glow on the brown rock around him. He stared into the tunnel's shadows, eyes narrowing as his resolve settled.

Above him, the sun no doubt shone on what was a brilliant summer day. But the dark cave reminded him of his purpose: get the Grimoire and finally escape this life of lying. The book would solve everything, and he'd already done everything but kill to get it. And the longer his search wore on, the more inclined he became to murder.

Braeden ran his thick hands over a cavern wall he'd found deep in the tunnels of some unknown mountain in Ourea. The yakona's short black hair stuck to his skin, which was covered in sweat from the four days he had spent on this hunt. He was close.

The blaze flickered in the dark cave, casting its light across the glossy wall to give him a better view. Its white stone blocks were perfectly aligned without a single crack in the ancient mortar, and the fortification stretched across the cavern in an unnatural line blocking off half of the cave. Its edges met the curved slope of the organic cave walls, the design bending to fill every possible gap in the rock with a white brick. Engraved into the center of the wall with thin, silver lines was a large symbol: a four-leaf clover the size of his head, made of four crescent moons looped through each other.

This was it.

Finally, after twelve years of dead leads and the growing worry it no longer existed, he had found the Grimoire. It waited somewhere behind this wall for its new master. It waited for him.

He'd grown up listening to the legends of the Vagabond, as had every yakona child for the last thousand years. Most children daydreamed of finding the priceless treasures hidden in the Vagabond's abandoned village; Braeden, however, had only ever dreamed of becoming a vagabond himself to escape having been raised to kill. He was a prince and Heir to the Stele: an evil kingdom filled with yakona who preferred torture to diplomatic negotiation. Becoming a vagabond was the only escape from such a life. Though he'd escaped the Stele as a child twelve years ago-living another life while his kingdom thought he was dead-his luck wouldn't last much longer. He needed to find the Grimoire before his father learned the truth.

Braeden stepped back, examining the cavern as he looked for a door. A sunken tower had fallen across two of the four entrances to the cave, but only the worn stone blocks scattered on the floor remained. Aside from the collapsed spire, the cavern was completely bare. The solid white wall didn't have a trace of a hinge or a handle.

His stomach twisted into a knot as a slow realization washed over him. There was no door.

Dread shot through him. "No. There has to be a way in. There has to be something."

He ran his hands along the Grimoire's clover symbol, hunting for a clue, but his search turned up nothing.

"No." His voice shook as he smacked the wall with his palms. The stacked bricks shuddered, and the gray fire in his hand fizzled out. The room plunged into darkness. He pulled on his hair and repeated the word over and over, his voice growing louder as panic bubbled in his gut.