Ascended (War of the Covens 3)

How many years had he been here? He was too weak to have even grown into madness. Perhaps madness would have been more entertaining than just sitting here recounting the last few hundred years over and over and over …

And then there were the stories he heard filtering down from above this hole he was stuck in. With the gods out of reach, the war was growing more aggressive.

A lot of bellowing and cursing alerted Kirios to people coming down into the caverns they called a prison.

“I wasn’t trying to escape!” a voice cried in outrage. Grunting and shuffling followed, before Kirios watched, wide-eyed, as a young magik was brought toward his cell by two others.

They frowned at one another. “Are we sure we should put him in here with that creature?”

“There are no other cells available. Anyway, look at him. He cannot even move.”

“Hmm, fine.”

And with that, the magik was thrown into the cell with the force of their powers and bound by the spell that kept Kirios from touching the space between his cell and the exit. Not that he could move.

The magik grunted and watched them warily as they left. He said not a word for what seemed like forever before looking at Kirios with a strange smile on his face.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to see you, my son.”

Kirios shook his head, not understanding. Then the magik sighed, his eyes full of sadness. “What a mess they have made of you.” He shuffled closer so that he sat by Kirios’s side.

“Who are you?” Kirios croaked, proud of himself for remembering how to make his mouth form words.

“Around here, they just call me the Prophet.”

He raised an eyebrow in question, and the Prophet grinned.

“I am a seer.”

Kirios almost choked. This magik was a Cassandrian?

Cassandrians were prophets, magiks who Athena, wisest of the gods, had favored at birth. There were few of them, and as the war had grown steadily more aggressive, they were fought over fiercely as prizes. Just as the Cassandrians were being killed and fought over, so were the Asclepians—magiks who were descendants of a witch who’d once been healed by Asclepius. His powers of healing and bringing those souls lost to the Underworld back from the dead had worked its way into the magik’s blood and passed down through her bloodline, all through Gaia’s will.

So rare were Cassandrians and Asclepians, Kirios had never met either before.

“I am a Midnight,” the Prophet told him with a bitter twist to his lips. “Unlike you, I was not lucky enough to be born without the trace. You are among a rare few yourself now. And in four hundred years’ time, you will be the only supernatural who is not bound to the trace.”

Kirios shook his head, confused, unsure of what the Prophet was trying to explain.

“I can manipulate the trace, however. The gods tell me from their mountain that I am the only one who can. I dare not ask why they’ve blessed me with that gift. I’m just grateful that they have.”

“Manipulate? How?”

“I can hide thoughts, feelings, intentions. I can hide other supernaturals intentions as well. It is the reason I’ve escaped numerous times, and why I am now sharing your cell.”

The hours with the Prophet melted by as he told Kirios of all that was happening above. Many battles had been fought, much blood shed. The race of Asclepians was all but gone, and the few who were left had hidden themselves away so no one knew who they were. Soon, the Prophet whispered sadly, there would be none left.

“How long have I been down here?” Kirios asked.

The Prophet remained silent for so long, Kirios was unsure he would answer.

“Sixty years, my friend. Sixty years.”

A noise of distress escaped his mouth before he could control his response, and he sensed the Prophet’s sympathy. “I am sorry.”

Kirios shook his head, blinking back tears of defeat. It wasn’t his fault, he told the Prophet silently.

“It isn’t your fault,” the Prophet replied. “Not your fault.”

Kirios squeezed his eyes shut in agony. “If not my own, then whose?”

“No one’s. We are all at the mercy of the will of the gods.”

When perhaps a few days passed, the Prophet turned to him, his eyes bright from sleep deprivation. “I must tell you the reason why I arranged to be in prison with you.”

Kirios grunted. So the madman had deliberately gotten himself thrown in prison.

“I’ve had visions of you, Kirios. I am here to save you.”

“Why?” Kirios frowned. What was so special about him?

Tears glistened in the young seer’s eyes. “Oh, Kirios. This awful war … it’s going to haunt our world for centuries.”

The hopelessness of it threatened unsuccessfully to end a life that couldn’t be ended. “Centuries?” he gasped.

“For centuries. At the end of the second millennium anno Domini, Gaia will set in motion events that will lead to the end of this war.”