EXCERPT OF SKIES OF MADNESS

Amelia Nathron bent down to plant a soft kiss on her baby’s forehead, brushing his dark brown curls aside. He was turning two next week, but it seemed like only yesterday that he had come into this world. Memories of pain, fever and being bedridden for a month afterward drifted in her mind before she brushed them away. One look at him and there was no doubt in her mind that he had been worth every second.

Keiron chose that moment to giggle, clapping his hands together and pointing at her. His foot bumped the smooth wooden ball he had been playing with, and it rolled away from him.

Amelia laughed with him. Her heart filled with a profound love that made her feel like her body was too small a frame to contain it. When she was younger and wanted to have a baby more than anything, Amelia had never imagined that she would come to love him as fiercely as she did. She was a witch, able to manipulate magic, but there was a mightier magic to her devotion of Keiron that was beyond anything that she had ever known.

Her son by now had noticed that the ball was no longer there. He caught sight of it rolling to a rest against the far wall and began to cry. His hands reached out for it.

“It’s alright, Keiron,” she said as she stood to pick it up.

The ball wobbled and began drifting back toward the baby—against the incline of the floor. It rolled back into Keiron’s outstretched hands, and he giggled again. The sound was like music, but Amelia stared at her tiny child in alarm.

Her baby boy had just used magic.

Amelia knew very well that it was a rarity for a witch or mage to manifest their magic before they were in their teenage years. But her baby boy, just beginning to walk, had just used telekinesis for the first time.

She kissed her son again. “What will you become, little one?”

†        †        †

Nysana Merethyl stared down at the small pile of rags that served as her bed. It seemed even more pitiful in the moonlight punctuated by the odor of a sewer tunnel that lay nearby. She blew out a deep breath, and her tired features made her look much older than her eight years.

Scrounging for food, begging when a passerby seemed the least bit kind and doing her best to stay out of any gang fights took a lot out of her. At the end of the day all she had were these rags and the soon-to-be rags on her back.

I wish Mama and Da were here, she thought, wiping away a tear from her face. Pain lanced through her heart, and four months had done nothing to dull the ache.

The sound of quiet footsteps brought her out of her self-pity as she spun to face a man in a long overcoat. His features were kind, his face shaved, and his fine clothes told the story of a nobleman. There was nothing physically threatening about this man, but Nysana knew better than to trust anyone.

“Hello, little girl.” The man gave her a friendly smile. “You look cold and hungry. How would you like to come with me and get something to eat?”

Nysana struggled against the urge to say yes. After a moment, she made herself shake her head.

“Come on, you must be starving.” He was close now, uncomfortably close. “I have far more than I need for the evening. Let me share my food with you, and you can sleep by a roaring fire.”

Squeezing her icy fists shut, her resolve wavered.

“Come along,” he said in a firm tone. “Come with me, and I’ll take care of you.”

Nysana pressed her lips together. Something about the man made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. “No thank you, sir. I don’t want to.”

“Why are you being so stubborn?” The noble’s voice turned dangerous. “Come here. Now.”

“Or what?”

His hand moved before she could even blink. The sound of the slap seemed to come after she was already on the ground, her face stinging like being stuck by a thousand needles.

“Fine. You want to do it here. You got it.”

Nysana tried to crawl away, but he was right there, choking her. “Please sir, don’t.”

“Shut your mouth, you little whore.” He tore at her shirt and yanked off her thin coat, tossing it into a muddy puddle.

Nysana swam in a sea of fear as he pulled down his pants. She had seen and heard orphan girls get raped by disgusting men just like this, then tossed away like garbage. The memories twisted her fear into anger. Before she could stop herself, she punched him in the gut. She knew she wasn’t strong and was shocked when he doubled over in pain.

She tried to run, but he reached out to grab her greasy hair and slammed her into the brick wall. Her eyes swam with tears, and pain spiked through her skull.

“You’ll pay for that, wench.” His hot breath stank of strong ale and cheap cigars.

An odd sensation tingled inside her like waking up after a full night’s rest to the smell of a hot breakfast. The memory of her parents lying in a pool of their own blood mingled with the rapes, murders, thefts and beatings she had witnessed since their death.

Nysana screamed. Something mighty and invisible threw the man back against the far wall. She was on him in an instant, her fists hitting every inch of him she could reach. She raised her arm back, and her whole body felt like it was on fire. Her fist missed his face as he tried to turn away and struck his windpipe. A sickening pop made her halt her attacks.

The rapist clutched his throat, gagging. His eyes went wide in terror and pain as he dropped to one knee. He pulled a silver dagger from his waist.

Nysana reacted before she realized she was going to, landing a kick on the man’s jaw before he could raise the blade. His head struck the edge of the metal sewer pipe hard enough to make the tunnel echo. One last gurgling sound escaped his lips before his face struck the ground.

Her rage was replaced with shock and fear as she waited for half a minute for him to move. She rolled him over and saw that not even his chest was moving. She looked down the alley, hoping no one saw. Her heart sank when she saw another man standing ten feet away.

I’m going to be hanged.

The stranger stopped in front of her and clapped once with a smile of delight. “That was spectacular.”

“Please sir I—what?”

He gestured at the dead man. “I was going to save you, but you are no damsel in distress, are you?” He leaned forward. “You’re a warrior.”

“I . . . I am?” She felt caught between the urge to run and wanting to stay to hear more of this man’s twisted approval. “I didn’t mean to kill him.”

“Of that I’m certain, little fighter.” He knelt in front of her and held out his hand. “Jadrien Arthor. I would very much like to offer you a chance to fight for your future.”

Nysana hesitated for a moment before she shook his hand. “What would I be doing?”

“I didn’t mean fighting metaphorically. It—”

“I don’t know what that means,” she interrupted.

“Hush.” He paused until he was sure she was listening, his expression stern. “The fighting would be literal. I would train for you to fight others in the Gladiok.”

Nysana’s eyes bulged. “But I’m just a little girl.”

“For now.” Jadrien straightened. “You got lucky tonight, but I can teach you how to win every fight. Do you want to be a fighter?”

She hesitated.

“Do you want to be fearless?”

Nysana nodded.

“Then follow me.”

With a gulp and quick prayer to Othriel, Nysana shuffled after him. “What sort of future will I be fighting for?”

Jadrien grinned. “That, my dear, is entirely up to you.”