Not sure if I’ll be including this in the actual book, but here’s an excerpt I wrote of a monologue by Maddokar, the antagonist of The Victor’s Blade. Enjoy!
I am among the first-born. The strongest. The closest to our source. I am only four generations removed from the Great Ruler, Mordreth.
A hand reached through the darkness. Even in the dim, flickering light, the hand was still clearly etched in cracks and scars–as if it had split and healed and split open again, a dark affliction.
The power of our sires was unmatched, so my people thought. But our strength has only grown with time. Time to grow. Time to rage.
The cracked fingertips tapped against the smooth stone wall. The wounded palm slid thoughtfully across the stone’s carved surface.
They do not know, the Wraionai, because they do not understand. They refuse to take hold of the power we were born with. They fear it, because they are weak. And they are weak because they fear it. They unravel themselves.
Because of hesitation.
Black nails suddenly gleamed in the low light, lunging at the stone wall. The hand pulled away.
The strike had etched cracks into the solid rock.
Yes, hesitation is their fatal flaw. But my people fall to their own flaw, time and again–premature action. Panic and prideful overreach.
Rather than building their own strength, they spread themselves thin. They must infuse new generations with their power, reproduce like beasts as the other “races” of the world do. Ha! They flare their power out like beacons, but dim the original flame.
They know nothing.
The key to our race is waiting. Watching. Not quenching our essence by pouring it onto younger flames, but tending our own until it licks the sphere of heaven. And then, carefully, to let its warmth and heat spread—slow, controlled, careful. Only with proper respect can a flame neither burn out nor engulf the world.
Only with watching and waiting and THEN the timely action can we bring light to this darkened, foolish world.
The hand reached up, stroking a powerful jaw equally covered in cracked scars. “Fetch my General,” came the smooth baritone voice, echoing softly through the stone room.
A hooded servant bowed, then backed away with ceremonial reverence, never once turning their back to their liege.
The King of the Vádigóns lowered his hand. He clasped his wrists behind his back as he gazed into the crimson flame that lit his chamber. He nodded. “There is great work yet to be done.”
[Excerpt from The Victor’s Blade; all content subject to change.]
From Him, To Him