Forgotten fates, p.1

Forgotten Fates, page 1

 part  #1 of  Forbidden Realms Series


Forgotten Fates

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Forgotten Fates


  Part one


  SJ Doran

  -a Forbidden Realms novel-


  Forgotten Fates: part one of two

  copyright © 2019 sj doran

  ebooks are not transferable. all rights are reserved. no part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission, with the exception of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. the unauthorised reproduction of copyrighted works is illegal. no part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission.

  this is a work of fiction. the names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual events, locale, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  ebook isbn: 978-1-989330-00-5

  paperback isbn: 978-1-989330-01-2

  Forgotten fates

  part one

  A King cursed to forget,

  A Queen condemned to remember.

  Warlock Queen, Amara the Deathless spends her time chasing power and running from her past.

  The Demon Prince of Lust, recently crowned King of the Hells spends his days running from responsibilities and denying his power.

  Bound together by contract, they each defend the others throne, while leaving chaos and destruction in their paths.

  But history begins to unravel when a mythical sword becomes unearthed, its power of divine justice foretold to be the harbinger of the apocalypse.

  The secrets Amara carries hold the key to the demon king's forgotten past. While deep in the ruins of his mind, Cassius carries the power to save Amara's future.

  Will their curse be broken in time?




  Forgotten fates



  the sack of Ghata'n


  enter the demon


  the sword of justice


  summoned WHAT?


  vendetta of the deities


  this was unexpected


  there's no place like home


  sounds a lot like 'not my problem'


  the thing about allies


  oops, did I do that?


  right back to where we started


  no one's slave


  it was boredom you saw


  poison me sweetly


  points were made


  what did we learn here today?


  help sometimes come from the least expected places


  it's still my turn


  just make up my mind for me


  always, with the power plays


  someone? anyone?


  what good is a prophecy


  I hereby accept your apology


  unless you have a virgin or two to sacrifice


  you only think you know me


  there is freedom to be had


  you say nirvana like it's a bad thing


  shepherd to the fallen


  someone has to do it


  upping the ante


  of all the bothersome timing


  dance, puppet


  wasn't salvation promised?


  and he DOES half half a mind, at least


  because it's the most fun


  who you calling fodder


  'eye' see your stakes, and raise them


  no one said it was going to be easy


  it was a matter of distraction


  though we really don't want to


  dig up and turn over


  oh, you heard about that?


  again with the leaving behind?


  well that was a completely wrong turn


  all that fuss


  my kingdom for a map


  entire list of grievances


  blessed are the lusty


  fine, let's try a different way


  granting the gods strength


  might leave a mark


  and the monsters, they were beautiful


  impressive, in spite of


  where'd you learn to do that?


  what's a little prophecy among friends


  in my defense, I thought it was real


  splendid cuppa tea


  and if you go chasing rabbits


  is there a demon of pestilence?

  Back Matter


  ~One hundred twenty years ago, in the maze of the Malsheem, ninth layer of the Hells~

  Heavy iron bound her, the reinforced chains siphoning her magic while keeping her tethered to the wall, never to reach that open door. Locked within for a time without end while the denizens of Hell entered her prison at their leisure. Amara had first-hand experience with all the cruelty the Hells were capable of.

  With a heavy grunt, she adjusted her position upon the filth-covered rocks; the effort causing the chains to rattle as she diligently pulled her legs beneath her. The sharp pain had not yet eased. She couldn’t reach to check her injuries, but the sticky wetness against her thighs told her she was bleeding still.

  A tall form crossed the dim light, casting a shadow over the threshold of that taunting doorway, followed by a man. Demon.

  She had hoped for a short reprieve, time to heal. That was the problem with hope, it made one weak when the inevitable disappointment struck. She straightened her back best she could, set her shoulders, and finally lifted her head in defiance of her fate. A dark familiar gaze met her eyes, and her mouth fell open. Her dead heart gave a singular, painful squeeze.


  The figure said nothing as he leaned further into the doorway, assessing her, his dark eyes cold and calculating.

  No, not my Cassius. The sin-eater.

  Her Cassius died in this very
cell three hundred years earlier, all that remained of him was a shell of his former self. The sin-eater. No soul, no memory.

  No love...

  “This is the warlock you spoke of, Azadiel? This female looks too frail to be capable of wielding such great powers.” Yet even as he dismissed her, he moved closer, allowing her clear view of him, while he scrutinized her.

  As expected from the creature carrying the title of Prince of Lust, heir to the throne of hell, the sin-eater was everything exquisite, a fantasy come to life. His form tall, muscular with strong shoulders that framed a broad chest and lean waist. But that’s where the resemblance to her demon ended.

  She missed running her fingers through the soft wavy strands of his dark brown hair, had spent hours mesmerized by the streaks of copper and bronze which ran through their length. Her Cassius had refused to sleek back his hair according to his father’s wishes, knowing how much she loved it.

  This demon who wore his face had it combed back in a severe style that caused his hair to appear almost black while adding a harsh angle to his beautiful features.

  And his eyes, those were wrong too. Her Cassius had possessed eyes of molten gold and heated crimson within a pool of black, like smoldering embers concealing a devastating fire.

  The eyes of the sin-eater standing before her lacked that simmering glow. Instead, his gaze was pitch black, reminding her of unlit coal. Cold. Hard. Awaiting the spark of a flame which had been extinguished three hundred years ago.

  The longer she stared, the more she realized he looked nothing like the demon who had stolen her heart, her Cassius, to whom she had vowed eternal love and devotion. Instead, he appeared a copy of the man who had murdered her husband, the being who had ripped out his soul and with it her heart. The demon looked like his father.

  Asmodeus had destroyed his own son, and from the remains he had remolded himself the perfect heir of Hell. The sin-eater.

  “Either way looks like we may have been too late, her body is broken and it appears her mind isn’t that far behind. How long has she been down here?” Despite the indifference in his tone, his voice had remained the same, smokey and warm as if perpetually waking from a long nap.

  Another sound filled the cell, raspy and breathless, and it took a moment for her to recognize the sound of her own raw laughter.

  “You’re one to talk, broken prince. Between the two of us, I am left to wonder who is truly worse off... the prisoner, or the puppet.”

  Strong fingers wrapped around her throat without warning, cutting off her oxygen, her vision swimming with black dots.

  “Insult me again at your own peril.”

  “Cassius, take your hands off her. And Amara, if you have any sense then you will watch that blade you call a tongue.”

  The pressure around her neck eased, allowing her to take a deep, shaky breath as Azadiel stepped inside. The demon noble sheathed a bloodied sword to his side, indicating she had been about to receive more company inside her cell. Pain hummed through her body at the thought, causing her to shift her position again, securing her legs more firmly beneath her body.

  She stilled when his fingers moved from her throat to curl beneath her chin, his grip not harsh as she had expected, but gentle. “Your name is Amara?”

  Had his voice trembled?

  Then his thumb moved to brush along her bottom lip, those dark eyes sliding over her with calculation and ill-concealed disgust. His father’s eyes.

  “On Azadiel’s advice, I’ve come to recruit you, Amara.”

  This was not her husband, not her demon. The sin-eater was nothing more than a duplicate of Asmodeus. She’d rather stay in her prison and hold to the fruitless hope that one of her visitors might accidentally kill her while having ‘fun’ than be of service to him or his father. He had stolen everything from her.

  “Uhm, thank you? But… no.”

  A jolt of trepidation shot down her spine when his sensual lips curved into a smile, one that spoke of determination and malice. His father’s smile.

  A smile that distracted her long enough not to notice her chilled body growing warm, allowing a memory of a time long ago to surface, consuming her mind.

  He moved his hand down his body, her eyes following intently as his hand wrapped around himself giving a casual stroke. Up then down. One large hand gripping strongly, the other tenderly cradling her jaw, thumb pressed on her bottom lip.

  “Two fingers amata,” His voice was warm and raspy with excitement, “just rub yourself, feel that moisture?” His breath caught on a groan as she parted her thighs, separating her folds with two fingers, as he instructed. “Imagine it’s my fingers. Gently now. Or my tongue.”

  Heat flooded her, threatening to steal her breath altogether. This time she’d burn with him. Melt for him. Her body was an inferno on the verge of combustion...


  She sighed, her body a molten puddle of lust.

  “No...” Awareness rushed in, pulling her out of the enthrallment, nausea, and anger shaking her to her core.

  The faint tug of power that brushed along her senses was familiar, the Prince of Lust had ensnared her. Under his command, he could beguile her body, enthrall her senses, force her into a state of arousal against her will. Heat bloomed inside her belly, and terror filled her as it then slowly spread down between her thighs.

  “Release me this instant!”

  Despite knowing the futility of the action, she still struggled against the chains that bound her, while the sin-eater came to stand over her, not bothering to hide the fact he was about to unleash more of his power upon her. He had grown powerful these last centuries, enough that he could enslave her body and rob her of the only freedom she had left, her mind.

  Those cold, merciless eyes found the evidence of her arousal against her thigh. Her stomach folded into itself and acrid bile shot up her throat, forcing her to swallow down hard before it could fill her mouth.

  “Stop, please… I’m going to vomit!”

  He kept pushing. “Who is a puppet now, Amara?”

  That moment, something inside her broke. Cassius had indeed returned for her. But he had not come to save her. Instead, he had come to finish what his father started. He was here to destroy her.

  “I am…” She whispered, surrendering. That last remaining spark of herself faded away as she gave in to the carnal lust.

  “It’s time you realized you have but two choices. I can give you pleasure as you have never known, or I can cause you agony such as you have never experienced. The choice is yours, Amara. Be my ally or become my enemy.”


  the sack of Ghata'n

  ~Present Day~

  It had taken five days for her undead army to topple the Ghata’n kingdom. Five excruciatingly long days of feeding her magic into the lifeless corpses who even now ravaged through the burning capital like a violent plague.

  The templars had a legendary army, strong and skilled; the crafty bastards had secured their remaining forces within the walls of the holy temple, the one which housed the sacred sword, her endgame.

  She was after nothing less than The Sword of Divine Justice. A legendary weapon rumored capable of destroying any being found guilty of injustice, even if the transgressor was a deity. If the rumors surrounding the sword were true, it’s blade could end a god, and free her from the curse placed on her by a jilted Sumerian Death God.

  Amara stood a good distance from the fortress, up on a plateau overlooking the chaos, contemplating her next move. The harsh sun had baked the blood of her victims into the sand dunes, staining the yellow with rust. Each discolored stain served as a silent memorial to the fallen, indicating where both her mercenaries and the Ghata’n soldiers had died, before her magick had forced their lifeless corpses to rise from their resting place.

  Their first mistake had been not accepting the leniency she had offered with her initial demands. She had been willing to simply relieve them of the Sword, and allow the citizens of Ghat
a’n to live out their miserable lives in peace. Unfortunately for all involved, the sanctimonious templars had refused her terms, spewing nonsense about never allowing their holy sword to fall into the hands of evil. Rude. She was well acquainted with evil, and unlike true evil she could be reasoned with. Sometimes.

  Their refusal had come at a heavy cost, she was in desperate need of that sword and would stop at nothing to obtain it. Any moment now those walls would crumble around them, exposing the surviving citizens ensconced behind the ancient grey stones of the fortress to the ravenous corpses she had unleashed.

  Within the confinement of the capital a great fire raged, it’s green flames already having lain waste to most of the city structures, leaving only the temple itself intact. Ghata’n was falling, but not rapidly enough.

  With each passing moment her strength was faltering, Amara’s control over the undead horde waning. It was one thing to revive a dead body; raising an army while keeping the violently cannibalistic creatures under her control was an entirely different matter. They were draining her.

  Her gaze moved away from the distant battlefield for the first time since it had begun, her eyes dry and swollen, irritated from the sand and thick smoke which billowed from the burning capital city.

  As soon as her mercenaries had begun their attack, a barrier had been erected; white magick, pure and strong, centered around the main temple. She needed to secure a way inside the temple, had no energy left to deal with the unexpected challenge.

  The energy was powerful enough to bar her entry, not even the unbiased dead capable of penetrating its defenses. She recognized the imprint of magick, prayers from shrine maidens, their purity protecting the temple. In order to weaken their magick, the source of their power would need to be corrupted, and there was only one being gifted enough to accomplish such a feat.

  With a resigned sigh, Amara lowered herself to her knees upon the burning sand, her finger delving through the blood-stained grains, sketching out a meticulous circle, her memory guiding her as she recalled every symbol required to complete the summoning sigil.

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