Chapter 1

Raziel

My fangs elongate to pierce through the throbbing vein that pulses along the underside of the caesin, its elongated body providing an adequate enough blood flow for a meal. The thick scales along the aquatic creature usually would protect it from a predator, but even in the water, it was no match for me.

Still, the scaly creature squirms in my hands as I drain it. I have to be careful not to pierce it with my claws as I hold it or I will waste some of its blood. Or maybe I'll draw a better meal into my home with its scent. I thought I heard a likar prowling by earlier, its screams amplified on the throbbing winds, but I'm in no mood to hunt.

So, the caesin will have to do for now. It was an easy catch since it leaped up from the spring in my cave. Maybe one of these days, the species will actually evolve and learn to stay in the water. It would actually save one or two of them, but when they jump in the air, it's too tempting to swipe it out of the air.

"Be smarter," I murmur outloud to the dead creature.

I drop its limp body back into the water, which pulls it back down into the depths. The spring is connected to the massive river that flows under our cavernous tunnels, and I know its carcass will disappear down there; its useless meat that I tossed back will feed another beast.

Sinking back onto the mossy floor, the plants pulse beneath me. Their magic sparks against my skin, and I absorb it, though it does nothing for me. I've let myself grow weaker than I care for, but I no longer find a thrill in the hunt, even with the enhanced creatures in this place.

The spring bubbles at my feet, soft colors glowing among its current, and the edges of it shrink and grow, alternating between nearly closing up and opening up so far that it takes up the entire main space.

I remember when we first found these caverns—this wildspont, as we learned they are called. I was amazed with the magic here. Protheka alone made me feel alive with the magic in my veins, but here, in the center of intense magic, it felt like I was thrumming with so much strength that my skin would split open.

That was when I was first Made, though. Back when everything was new, and this world shocked me to my core in comparison to Earth.

Even as a human, which I was when I was brought to Protheka, I could feel how even the air on this planet was different. It was more than the animals, more than the lack of buildings or other species. The very earth and wind had something that my home planet didn't.

 But the day that my master bit me, filling me to the brim with her venom as I drank from her, my mind nearly shattered at the pure power that flows through my veins. It was too much for a young boy to comprehend.

I sigh. I am no longer a young boy, no longer newly Made. In fact, I'm ancient at this point. known as an Elder among the vrakken. Laughing beneath my breath, I shake my head. They look to me for wisdom when I am just like them—trying to survive as our food dwindles in this underground place where we fled.

Only, I barely care enough to.

If vrakken could die of natural causes, I would have a long time ago. But no matter how many times I push myself to the brink of thirst, I only lose weight and my mind. After my body kicks in, draining all the animals I can get my hands on, I am brought back to my normal self, only to find I'm still bored.

It's hard to live, even in a place where the very air pulsates with magic, when there is no end to it.

The back of my throat still burns, and I know that within a matter of days I will have to hunt down that likar or I'm going to black out and cause too much destruction in an attempt to feed myself. I doubt the Council has much patience with me anymore.

The moss feels nice under my legs as it vibrates, and I lay all the way back, staring up at the quartz croppings above me. They throb with the magic in the air, colors dancing through them, and I often suspect my magic feeds them, too. Their colors shift with my mood, alternating between two: black and blue. Hunger and boredom.

I miss the days when I would lie here and stare up at them with wonderment. But now I just let my eyes fall shut, finding the black of the back of my eyelids as fascinating as the cave brimming with life around me. Not even my totems, my spoils, my enchanted decorations that pointlessly sit on the shelves, entertain me.

I wish to fall asleep—or into the restful state that passes time by for me—but the stiffness of my limbs won't allow it. My wings ache terribly, and I need to spread them. With their massive wingspan, though, I can't do so in my cave.

There are few spots in these underground caverns where I can truly stretch out my wings. The tunnels aren't constricting, but they curve and bend too much to allow me the freedom.

There are some places where I could. We carved them out beneath the surface, big areas that drill into the center of the mountains we hide below, making them hollow, though the dark elves would never know that.

They think their precious gods are down here. Idiots.

To reach the massive clearings where those of us able to fly stretch our wings, I'd have to go to the center of the cavernous compound. Going there would mean to be around other vrakken, and I loathe that.

The other creatures down here are varying shades of annoying and disgusting to me. Some are new, and while I miss the days that I felt the excitement they do, I still find it annoying to be subjected to them.

But others have been around for a century or two. They know the magic of the wildspont, and yet, they are still entertained by how they can manipulate the environment as if it is a unique skill.

And the ones with wings. I groan out loud. I'm tired of the cocky behavior of the rare ones with wings. When I was first Made, we all had wings. The First had been blessed with wings when she was transformed by our god, Akeldama, and all those she Made did, too.

But I've seen as the generations have gone on, it is more and more rare. And those with wings tend to think they are overly important. As if they aren't stuck underground like the rest of us.

I think I'd prefer their pompous behavior to the way they fawn over me when I do make an appearance, though. They all know that I'm one of the oldest, and it makes them freak out.

I hate the way they ask me questions, peppering me with requests, and what's worse is the way the women drape themselves across me. If I feel the need to take one to my bed, I'll ask, but I don't need every unmated vrakken jumping into my cave.

Sex used to be the only thing I could enjoy. That euphoric feeling would bring me back to life as I started to go numb, but now even that has grown quite boring.

Feeding is the only thing that brings me back to life, and that is only because I let myself fall into a state of disrepair before eating. It's the literal feeling of coming back from the brink of death.

It reminds me a lot of when I was Made.

And that was the most alive I have ever felt, waking up no longer human. Too bad that I didn't recognize at the time that I had signed myself up for a pointless, neverending existence.

Someone raps against the door at the front of my cave, and I sigh again. I'm not going to answer it. I don't have it in me today to deal with anyone. Maybe in a few weeks.

That's the only upside to living with a bunch of immortal beings. Our concept of time is so skewed that no one is overly persistent. There's no reason to be.

So, it surprises me when they knock again. And again. And again. Until they are full on hammering on the door and I realize that I have to answer it or we'll stay like this for days. Akeldama help me, for these vrakken don't seem to run out of energy these days.

I peel myself up off the floor, stalking across the room angrily. I don't even have a good reason to be annoyed because what am I going to go back to? Lying on the floor and griping to myself? But dammit, I want that option.

I swing the door open with a low growl. "What?'

The vrakken on the other side is young. The circles around his eyes are only gray, but they'll darken with age. He doesn't have wings, and his skin is still pale, not an icy white. I'd say he was one of the last we Made, a few hundred years ago.

"The Council has sent me to summon you, sir. They are expecting your presence."

I snort. "Give them my deepest apologies." It comes out like a sneer, but I can't be bothered to care as I go to slam the door in his face.

But the pesky thing catches it. I snarl, getting ready to lunge at him and maybe scare him a bit when he says something that actually stops me. It catches my attention, an unusual feeling.

"Brinda asked for you specifically." He licks his dry lips, and I notice what a pale shade of pink they are. He must be dying of thirst, especially as he keeps gazing at my mouth longingly. I know my lips are bright red with fresh blood. "She said to promise you it's something interesting."

I grit my teeth, but I have to admit I'm curious. Because it is Brinda, who knows me very well, and the idea of anything remotely interesting happening around here, I agree to go.

"Fine." I tell him. And maybe I am growing annoyingly soft in my old age, but I stalk to the spring and swipe a caesin from the water. Thrusting it into his hands, I snarl, "But feed yourself before we go. Your stare is irritating me."