Fantasy
Date Published: December 15th 2022
Weylyn, Olwen, and other members of the marginalized and subjugated group
known as the Tóráin are trying every day to gain equality and
freedom. Their enemies, which consist of vile human monarchs, their
soldiers, and a masked witch assassin known only as The Dove, continue to
tighten their grip around the necks of the Tóráin.
Leading The Resistance, Weylyn and Olwen endure many trials that test them
physically and mentally, relying on their loved ones to keep them from
losing hope. They both wish to see a time of equality and peace, but to
achieve that requires more than what they have. Desperation leads The
Resistance to find new allies all across the continent of Kosavros with the
goal of finally defeating their oppressive overseers.
Their fight for freedom and respect leads Weylyn and Olwen down paths that
open their eyes to new dangers, both involving themselves and the rest of
the world. However, they do not waiver. For the Tóráin are
known for their resilience, and they have already endured much. What comes
next will be hard, but they’re ready to fight for their lives.
Together.
Prologue
Weylyn
Cloque, Fleuris | November 1789
I tried to ignore the hateful screams coming from the crowd. The insults
were shouted in both the common language and Fleuran, with someone even
yelling a curse in the old language priests used. Things had already been
thrown onto the stage by people who hoped to strike the lycan that was tied
up for all to see. I kept my hood high so that I could remain as hidden as
possible. I tried to slouch to hide my height while being sure to avoid eye
contact with those around me. I had always been proud to be a lycan, and the
lack of horns or colored skin was doing wonders for me right now. My satyr
friends — as well as the sprites I knew — would have a much
harder time blending in with the crowd today than I would. That was if
anyone had taken the risk to come. Uncle Benen had refused to allow Brina
and me to leave the house, but I snuck out the window late last night and
hid in an alley until afternoon came. I could have gone to Ossian’s
house, but the satyr would have just tried to keep me inside like Uncle
Benen had. I couldn’t stay away. I couldn’t hide. I needed to be
here for him. Even if the smartest and safest thing for the
Tóráin in the city was to stay inside, I had to be where I
was. Deep down, I knew all of the Tóráin felt the same way. We
couldn’t abandon him now, not when he needed us the most.
Tears started to fill my eyes as I watched the soldiers bark out
instructions to the witches, the women casting spells to torment the brave
lycan they had restrained. I was mad at myself for doing so, but I looked
away. I looked up, blinking away the water from my eyes as I stared at the
looming image of the Sainte Mère Cathedral. I inspected the spires
and the stained-glass window high above us as I tried to gather myself. The
gothic church’s shadow stretched over nearly the entirety of Dame
Square, swallowing the crowd in darkness despite the sun shining brightly in
the afternoon sky. After taking a deep breath, I forced myself to look back
down at the stage. The image I saw would give every single
Tórán who had braved the crowds today a great pain in their
heart. The lycan before me meant a lot to our community. He was always
empowering those who were deemed devils simply because they were different.
We all knew we were hated, but that lycan made us feel like we were worth
something. He made me who I am today, and now I had to watch someone take
him from me. Today, they were executing the most important person in my
life: my father.
The pain I felt was not
only the anticipation of loss, but also the knowledge that I could do
nothing to stop it. All I could do was stand there, at the front of the
crowd, and stare up at my father. He was tied up to two poles and spread
uncomfortably. The witches had forced him into his feral shape, no doubt to
make him appear to be the monster they would portray him to be. Humans
continued to throw food at him, some even threw stones. No one stopped them.
The officers and witches weren’t focused on the wrong doings of humans
today. Their eyes were fixed on our kind. ‘Diables’, they called
us. Beings from another world that many would see eradicated if it were up
to them. Today was about sending a certain message to our kind, while
sending a completely different one to their own. We were to be humbled and
defeated, while humans would be propped up and celebrated. A story would be
told on that stage, and none of my kind were supposed to enjoy it. I stared
at my father’s face, hoping he would look up and lock eyes with me.
For a moment it seemed like it would happen, but I was shoved from behind
and forced to turn around.
“I knew I smelled a
stray chien. You salauds aren’t allowed to mingle with us up here.
Back of the crowd, Diable.”
I looked back over my
shoulder at my father to catch him looking right at me. I refused to show
weakness. “I’m staying right where I am.”
One of the young men who
had confronted me raised a fire poker in the air, but he never got around to
actually hitting me with it. A slender hand attached to a lean arm grasped
his wrist and he grew red in the face.
“Rosey!” he whined. “What are you doing? He started
it!”
Rosalie — my very
best friend and one of the few people I knew I could trust outside of my
father — was a human. Not even a witch. She was just a regular,
wonderful, human. Her parents had helped mine for years since I was a pup.
We grew up together, and despite my clear edge in strength, she was always
rescuing me from ignorant assholes. The teen harassing me dropped his weapon
and used his other hand to reach for Rosalie’s shoulder.
“Don’t call
me Rosey, “ she said as she grabbed his outstretched hand and twisted
his fingers roughly. “And I highly doubt Weylyn started anything.
Leave us alone or your father will find out just how much of a petit con
you’ve been.”
The boy’s face
scrunched up before he left through the crowd, massaging his injured hand.
His friends followed him, prompting Rosalie to let out a deep sigh before
fixing her dress. She grabbed a hold of my arm, laced her fingers through
mine, and looked up at my father. The two of us stood there, trying to send
him our strength for what felt like hours until trumpets sounded. Up the
steps came King Louis, soaking in all the praise the majority of the crowd
was giving him. He eventually waved at them to quiet down so he could speak,
and I knew that what came next would make my blood boil.
“Gens de
Cloque!” King Louis shouted with a pompous grin on his face. “I
have been a just king, have I not? I have been a gracious, and bountiful
king, have I not? Under my rule, all have prospered! Yet we still
have…ordures…that want to see that lovely life tarnished. This monstre
murdered ten officers. Dix protecteurs! For that heinous crime, the only
plausible sentence is death! But first, we will make an example out of
him!”
The crowd roared. The
group of witches and officers stood ready now, surrounding the stage as
torturers began whipping my father. He kept his fur covered head held high,
defiant despite his pain. The people whipping him moved on to more forms of
torture, dragging on the inevitable much to the enjoyment of the crowd. They
cut at his ears, pulled his teeth, removed his fingertips, and even branded
him with the royal sigil of Fleuris. Not once did my father cry out in pain.
Not once did he give them the satisfaction they wanted. What they were doing
to him had brought tears to my eyes yet again, but I also felt a sense of
pride in seeing the strength my father was showing. The torturers looked at
the king with lost expressions on their faces, prompting King Louis to rise
from his chair and draw the saber at his waist. He began carving his
prisoner. He sliced at his arms, and then his legs, then his back, and then
his chest. All that and yet, still, there were no cries out for mercy or
even a grunt from the pain. Now visibly angry, King Louis grabbed my father
by the snout and shouted at him.
“Why must you defy
me? You’re dead, Diable, there’s nothing to fight for anymore!
Scream like I know you want to! Show everyone the lâche we know you to
be!”
His face was bloodied and
swollen, but at that moment I knew that he was looking at me. Our eyes
finally locked, and I squeezed Rosalie’s hand. I took a small step
forward, but Rosalie held me back. I looked down to see her crying as she
shook her head. Bringing my attention back to my father, I found my eyes to
be drowning in tears so much that it was hard to see. It all felt so
hopeless…until he howled. Right in the face of the bastard that had
committed so many wrongs to him and his kind, my father howled to the sky.
Howls broke out from the crowd, followed by screeches and whistles from the
harpies and other creatures who had come. King Louis was beside himself from
this display. He drew his pistol from its holder, placed the barrel between
my father’s eyes, and fired.
The world around me evaporated into nothing until all I could see was my
father’s body limp on the stage, held up only by the ropes around his
wrists and ankles. My eyes were locked on the horrid sight until Rosalie
began pulling me through the crowd as more whistles, and screeches, and
howls flooded the city. I barely paid attention to the chaos that was
erupting as Rosalie and I pushed our way through the crowd. We eventually
escaped the large mass and slipped into an alley.
“We need to get clear of here. My house is close enough, and
we’ll be safe there.” Rosalie tried to pull me, but I stood my
ground.
“My father is…he’s…” Rosalie came forward
and put her hands on my face. The contact had me snapping to attention.
“Uncle Benen. Ossian. Darby. They…I have to tell them what
happened.”
“Yes. But not right now. Right now, we need to get you off the
streets.” The general noise of a boisterous crowd turned into loud
screams and gunshots. “Weylyn!”
I nodded furiously. “Yes. Right. Okay. Your house first
then.”
The two of us ran off into the city, but the sounds of the riot that had
broken out in Dame Square followed us for some time. I barely saw what was
in front of me, Rosalie holding my hand and guiding me most of the way. I
couldn’t shake the image of my father, torn apart, with a bullet wound
leaking from his head. I still couldn’t believe it. My father was
dead.
About the Author
Marc R. Micciola lives in Ontario Canada with his two dogs Ace and Rielly.
He tries to get to the gym when he can in the week, and when he isn’t there,
he’s working on his next project. Writing is a big part of Marc R.
Micciola’s life, but things such as hockey, video games, and spending time
with friends and family are also passions of his. Despite being a fantasy
author, Marc R. Micciola prides himself on his ability to create a great mix
of realism and fantasy, blending the two together in just the right amounts
to provide worlds you can escape to while also having real characters that
are relatable.
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