"Peace is no absence of confliction; it is the ability to handle conflict by peaceful means & the understanding within such person that bringeth peace"

  A Wise Man with Wise Possibilities

  This story is created By Ariel M. James, (code name HubbaBubbaBubbleCake) so characters within this story are not based on real events nor people and do hold some mild yet twisted semi-realistic events from the past, or something like that...

  This is for you... my brothers and my sisters.

  Somewhere in the past, when mythological creatures existed, there on the shores of an uninhabited beach on an small vacant island, there were two mermaids sun bathing...

  "What purpose do we serve in this realm" spoke Herrathia the mermaid, her voice as soft and clear as the whispers of the ocean, it was almost as if she were singing, "If we are not to be real, if we are but mythical beings or creatures of the dead... why then do we linger in this world?" the mermaid said, and with a curious mind she tugged at the string of Victoria's harp, yet to her dismay, it made no sound. Herrathia's face fell into a frown.

  "I cannot fathom it," she lamented. "Why does your harp sing only for you and for no other?"

  Victoria gave a gentle shrug and took up her harp once more. She plucked three strings, each one producing a distinct and melodious sound that seemed to whisper comfort to Herrathia: You are not to feel disdain, for you are a creature of beauty and grace.

  The notes carried with them the truth of Herrathia's splendor, her golden eyes like radiant orbs that captured the light of the sun, and her lovely hair as red as the coral beds beneath the waves. Her lips were perfectly pursed and stained a deep crimson from the berries she had plucked from the bushes growing near the rocks.

  Her shoulders, delicate and small, were adorned with pink sea glass, rare treasures from the ocean's depths that graced her form. These precious adornments supported the graceful curves of her form, each piece a testament to her royal heritage and the fashion of the sea.

  Indeed, it was no small feat to acquire such rare and coveted gems, yet Herrathia bore them with ease. For she was a princess of the sea, and her beauty was unmatched among the denizens of the deep.

  She flapped the deep green lower half of her body, covered in glistening scales and slick with sea-born mucus, down to the very tip of her fin. As she turned to gaze upon the view before her, she found herself perched upon a massive rock that overlooked the vast sea of Antallia. It was upon these shores that Herrathia felt most at home, for this boundless body of water reminded her why she so dearly loved the ocean.

  "The Men of the Land must live a poor life indeed," she mused, "upon this realm they call Earth." For beneath the sea lay wonders untold, with waters that changed hue according to the sky above and teemed with life both strange and marvelous.

  In this, Herrathia took great pride, and the curve of her beautiful lips bore witness to her satisfaction. She knew that while the land above may hold its own charms, it was beneath the waves where the true magic of the world was to be found.

  Yet Victoria thought Herrathia was perhaps too biased in her love for the sea, for her view of the world above was limited to what she glimpsed from the rocks and sands or through the shimmering waters when they dared to poke their heads out.

  To Herrathia, the land was a place where men toiled and struggled, but to Victoria, it was a world full of stories yet untold. All that Herrathia had seen were men clad in tattered brown rags, their faces obscured by unruly beards. At the shores, they gathered around their wooden vessels—small and large alike—that floated upon the waves like fragile leaves in a mighty stream.

  Some bore scars from battles unknown, and others were bald with faces set in perpetual scowls. There were those who had but one hand or leg, hobbling about with patches over their eyes, each a testament to adventures and hardships of their parts taken from the untold.

  To Victoria, these men were more than mere curiosities. They were stories waiting to be told, a tapestry of lives that spoke of a different kind of beauty, one woven with resilience and endurance amidst the challenges of the land.

  "Why dost thy harp play not for me, Victoria? Is it that thou dost not like me?" Herrathia inquired, a trace of melancholy in her voice as she ran a delicate hand through her own flowing hair. Deep down, she knew her friend could not answer with words, for Victoria was a mute, yet her silence often spoke volumes.

  Herrathia's gaze lingered on Victoria, who had once seemed such a delightful curiosity. Victoria's eyes were like clear, colorless crystals that contrasted starkly with her raven-black hair, which was neatly coiled into a tight bun, pinned with humble adornments fashioned from the salt rocks and vines of nearby trees. Her face was oval and fair, with a pointy nose and cheeks freckled by the sun's warm embrace. Across her chest lay a grand, faded white seashell, a striking piece that hinted at treasures hidden deep beneath the waves.

  The lower half of Victoria's body was that of a fish, her tail a wondrous canvas of ever-changing hues that reflected the depths of her emotions. At this moment, the scales shifted from vibrant red to a deep, brooding purple, a silent indication of her inner turmoil. Though she could not voice her thoughts, Herrathia felt a tinge of jealousy stir within her, wishing that her own form could so beautifully display the emotions she held inside.

  Herrathia turned her gaze away, a shadow of disdain flickering across her mind. Such incompetence, she thought, unable to bear looking upon Victoria any longer. Why can I not change the colors of mine tail too? she pondered, pouting with confusion.

  Her father had warned her not to dwell on such matters, saying that nothing held more significance than the music of Victoria's harp. "Focus on the music, dear one," he would say, his voice echoing like a gentle tide. Yet, despite his words, a flicker of jealousy lingered in Herrathia's heart, a desire to express her emotions as vividly as the colors that adorned her friend's tail.

  The wisdom of her father was not to be questioned, yet Herrathia could not help but wonder if the magic of the harp held secrets beyond her understanding—secrets that could unlock the colors within her soul. It irked her to know that such mysteries lay beyond her reach, even as a princess of the sea. Though she held a high rank, there were still wonders that she was forbidden to touch, treasures reserved for those above her station.

  This knowledge only deepened her jealousy, for it seemed unfair that her title did not grant her access to all the mysteries of the world.

  But for now, she must set these thoughts aside, lest they lead her astray from the path laid out before her. Her father's words echoed in her mind, a constant reminder of the responsibilities and expectations that came with her birthright.

  As the wind caressed the sea and the shores, it brought with it a reminder of the parched state of Herrathia's skin. The irritation of dryness settled upon her, and a longing to return home grew ever stronger. She turned to Victoria with a sense of urgency.

  "Come swiftly now, Vickie," Herrathia called, her voice as gentle as a sea breeze. "Though thou hast no voice to sing, thou canst still play thy harp. And I, with my voice, shall sing as sweetly as the morning song of the waves. Let us hasten to bring joy to the hearts of my people."

  With those words, Herrathia gracefully leapt from the rock, her form shimmering in the sunlight. She descended into the waves below with a soft splash, her movements as fluid and elegant as the sea itself.

  In a time long past, there was an era of fairness and rightful order, a golden age where warmth and unity reigned supreme. This was a land where all manner of beings—witches, warlocks, beasts, fairies, and humans alike—dwelt together in a singular, harmonious embrace. Each creature, from the tiniest sprite to the grandest giant, shared in the bounty of this blessed realm.

  This age of tranquility was born when Peace herself walked upon the land, her presence felt in the whisper of the trees, the breath of the air, and the depths of the crystal-clear waters. All inhabitants, regardless of their nature, saw themselves as threads woven into the same grand tapestry. Though disputes and quarrels were not unknown, they were but fleeting shadows upon the enduring light of their unity.

  In those days of yore, the people gathered around great tables, their hearts entwined in joy and fellowship. The air was alive with the sound of merry laughter, hearty chuckles, and jubilant cheers. There were moments of heartfelt grins, joyous giggles, and resounding hurrahs that echoed through the land. The very essence of their lives was steeped in peace and affection, as each soul contributed to the collective harmony.

  Thus was the era of boundless harmony, a time when the land itself seemed to sing with the chorus of unity, and every being, great and small, lived as one in the embrace of mutual respect and love.

  "And I will give peace in the land, and ye shall lie down, and none shall make you afraid: and I will rid evil beasts out of the land, neither shall the sword go through your land"

  -Leviticus 26:6

  "Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity!"

  -Psalm 133:1:

  Who was to know that one day, Peace would be diminished...

  It was as though a great tempest had befallen The Land, once a haven of peace now cast into a maelstrom of chaos and despair. The serenity that had long graced the land was replaced by a relentless tide of turmoil. Beasts, once noble and steadfast, turned against Witches with accusations of malice. Witches, in turn, cast blame upon Fairies, accusing them of sowing discord. Fairies, in their turn, held Warlocks responsible for the unraveling order, while some pointed fingers at Humans and their God, and others at their own kin.

  The very fabric of the land, which had once flourished in unity, was now unraveling. Rivers that once flowed with life-giving waters had turned to arid beds of dust. Waterfalls, which had sung with the music of cascading waters, now stood silent and dry, their once-mighty torrents reduced to mere trickles. The earth itself was rent asunder by violent earthquakes, creating vast chasms that cleaved families and friends apart, leaving them isolated in a world of fractured landscapes.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Volcanic eruptions spewed forth torrents of molten rock and ash, painting the skies with fiery streaks and choking the air with smoke. Hurricanes and tornadoes roared across the land, their ferocious winds tearing through fields and forests, leaving devastation in their wake. Lives were lost in the chaos, and the bonds that once held the diverse inhabitants together were torn asunder.

  Amidst the devastation, blame was cast upon those with the power to wield magic. The very abilities that once seemed to unite and protect were now seen as instruments of destruction and discord. The one force that had kept the world together—the magic of unity and harmony—was now diminished, leaving only the echoes of a bygone era of peace.

  Presently... In the era of the scarred land, where what were able to survive have generations of their own...

  Meyrin huddled in the corner of the small boat, which bobbed gently just off the shore of Rattled Waters. Her wide eyes fixed upon the human before her, who was engaged in acts so strange that neither man nor creature of the Land would dare dream of such folly.

  "Do you truly believe you shall catch it with that?" Meyrin's voice trembled as she pointed to the flimsy stick with a thin string attached at its end, a contraption that seemed more fit for jesters than for serious endeavors.

  "Indeed!" Mika, the man at the other end of the boat, responded with a grin that spoke of mischief and confidence. He busied himself tying a bell to the end of the string. "This is a strategy of great renown; first we shall cast the bell, and then..."

  Meyrin sighed, her fingers idly brushing a strand of her lustrous auburn hair, which cascaded down her back like a river of autumn leaves. She had heard Mika's explanation of this curious tactic for the fifth time, and her mind wandered as she marveled at the endless chattering of humans. She was a proud Acolyte of the Great Church of Holland, a title that spoke of her duties—lighting altar candles, leading prayer services, and aiding in the solemn rituals of the sacred order. For five long years, these duties had become as monotonous as the turning of the seasons. The Acolytes, who lived twice as long as humans, ought to have pursuits that were more befitting their youth, yet here she was, confined to the tedium of ceremonial tasks.

  Meyrin's true gift lay in the art of healing, a potential hidden from the public eye due to her deep-seated shyness in large gatherings. The trialed tests, which she had failed time and again, only deepened her frustration. She knew her heart's true calling, yet she was bound by the constraints of her station. As the boat rocked gently, the Rattled Waters seemed to whisper ancient secrets to her, tales of times long past when magic and mystery wove the very fabric of existence. Meyrin, though caught in her current predicament, dreamed of a day when she might step beyond the constraints of her role and embrace her destiny with the grace of a true healer.

  In the past, Meyrin traversed the desolate forest, her path fraught with peril as she crossed treacherous borders to seek sustenance for her family. Having failed the trials and been expelled from the academy, the once-thriving sponsorship for her kin had vanished, leaving her to fend for them alone.

  As she neared the boundary of Witch-Leaves, her gaze fell upon a shadowy figure lurking just beyond the fringe of the Deep Forest. A chill of fear swept through her, colder than the biting wind that rustled the leaves. Before she could react, the figure leapt from the shadows, startling her so violently that she nearly collapsed. Yet, a surge of adrenaline steadied her enough to discern the writhing form of a young boy. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of the blood seeping from his coat, staining the earth beneath him. With a sense of urgent determination, Meyrin hurried to his side, kneeling beside him. "Dear Sir, let me assist you!" she implored, her voice trembling with concern.

  The boy groaned in pain and managed to turn onto his back, exposing a grievous wound below his ribcage. Meyrin's heart raced as she observed the deep gash and the copious blood that flowed from it. The severity of his injury was such that she marveled at his continued survival.

  Her gaze was then drawn to the boy's face—so youthful, so fresh with the bloom of his teens. The sight was incongruous with the danger of the Deep Forest; she wondered what had driven him to such a place. With trembling hands, she drew her knife, her eyes scanning his pale visage. She checked his pulse, faint but still present, and with a steely resolve, she sliced through his garments.

  As the fabric fell away, revealing the full extent of the gash, Meyrin gasped. The blood was unmistakable, and with a jolt of realization, she saw that this boy was of Royal Blood. Her heart pounded as she pressed her palms against the wound, her healing touch an act of desperation and hope.

  The boy's agonized groan pierced the air as she worked. Among the Sibyls—those who possessed the rare gift of recognizing the essence of blood and healing its wounds—Meyrin was an anomaly. At the tender age of twelve, she had inherited this rare ability, a skill usually reserved for the most seasoned Acolytes and Priests.

  As she concentrated, a warm flush spread across her cheeks, her entire being focused on the task at hand. To her astonishment, the wound began to mend with an efficiency that surpassed even the most seasoned Sibyls, those with beards and long coats who had dedicated their lives to the healing arts. Her hands moved with agile precision, her burgeoning skill evident in the rapid recovery of the boy's grievous injury.

  When she had finished her work, Meyrin sat back, panting from the exertion, and watched as the boy began to stir. Despite her fatigue, she found herself captivated by his appearance. His pale skin gleamed with a supernatural light, and his chest, glistening with sweat under the sun's rays, seemed as if it had been carved by divine hands. His golden hair, tousled and damp, framed a face that bore the unmistakable signs of nobility, and his eyes—those piercing golden eyes—flashed with both anger and bewilderment. "Royal Blood, eh?" Meyrin mused aloud, her voice a soft whisper carried by the breeze—a habit she could never quite shake.

  The boy gasped, his eyes widening with surprise and indignation. "How did you know such a thing?" he demanded, his voice strained with lingering pain. He continued to breathe heavily, and the lines of exhaustion beneath his eyes were stark against his otherwise regal visage.

  "Forgive my presumption, your Majesty," Meyrin stammered, hastily gathering her bags and belongings. She bowed deeply, her heart pounding as she glanced nervously between him and the forest path she longed to escape down. Anxiety clawed at her insides, provoked by the intensity of his gaze and the weight of his presence.

  Slowly, the boy rose to his knees, the color returning to his cheeks as the pain began to fade. "The Prophets I know..." he wheezed, a hint of disbelief in his voice, "are no less than twenty years of age and above. They alone wield such powerful healing arts.″

  "I am sorry, Your Highness. Forgive me, but I must be on my way," Meyrin stammered, her voice a hurried whisper as she turned to flee along the winding trail that led to the riverbank of Witch-Leaves. Her heart pounded in her chest like a trapped bird, eager to escape the pressure of this unexpected encounter.

  "You will halt at my command!" The prince's voice, though strained and roughened by his recent ordeal, echoed through the forest with undeniable authority.

  Meyrin whimpered, sensing his lingering pain. Yet, when she turned fearfully toward him, she was astonished to find him standing on his own two feet, beads of sweat glistening as they ran down his pale face. A man who had suffered such a grievous wound should not be able to stand, let alone command!

  "I have a profitable request, young lady of the Acolytes," he proclaimed, his eyes burning with a fierce determination. "Accompany me upon my quests."

  "Your Highness?" Meyrin fell to her knees, too stunned to comprehend the words offered to her ears. The very notion seemed as fantastical as the legends of old.

  "You will be well paid," he assured her, his gaze steady and unwavering.

  Her breath caught in her throat, and time seemed to pause. The world around her—the rustling leaves, the whispering wind, the distant call of the forest—faded into silence, leaving only the echo of his promise.

  "You will be well paid if you protect me with your Acolyte ability," he repeated, each word laden with the weight of opportunity and obligation.

  Now, here she sat in a humble boat, staring at the man who had hired her with the promise of countless pounds of wealth. Her mind drifted back to the moment she accepted, a choice that had altered the course of her life. For this decision, her family was blessed with riches enough to secure their fortune for generations upon generations, a legacy carved by her bravery and skill.

  The small boat shook violently, sending shivers down Meyrin's spine as she clung desperately to the rim, her fingers white with fear. Even her toes trembled within her boots as the tiny vessel rocked perilously on the water. "Sir Mika!" Her voice quivered, betraying the terror she tried to hide. She attempted to glare at him, but the fear in her wide eyes was unmistakable. This boat was so little, and the threat they faced was so great.

  Meyrin was no coward, but the thought of battling a Widow Snake in such a fragile craft was sheer madness. This fearsome creature had been terrorizing the villages for months, snatching babies from their cradles under the cover of night. The grief of the parents was so profound that some had taken their own lives, unable to bear the loss. The once-thriving villages were slowly emptying, leaving behind only sorrow and despair.

  But Sir Mika was no longer the boy she had first met, with his plain chest and boyish features. The years of questing and battle had honed him into a man of formidable strength and skill. He had grown stronger, keener, bolder—every inch a warrior. He had mastered the dark arts of Assassination, earned the cunning of a Darkstalker, and bore the scars of a seasoned Mercenary. Recently, he had even been named a high-ranking Darkstalker, a title that commanded both respect and fear.

  Meyrin had devoted her life to him, as he had to her, their bond forged in countless battles and shared dangers. Yet, despite the innocence of their pact, she found herself praying for more than just the royal seal on a scroll of dedication. Deep within the threads of the scroll lay an unspoken spell—a spell of subsided love, woven by the Great Wizard Spillaz at the command of the King of Grealand. The spell was meant to repel any woman's affections, a cruel safeguard until the prince proved himself worthy of the throne. The king, in his rage, had decreed that no woman should lay claim to his son's heart until he had earned his place as heir.

  And so, Mika's heart was bound to duty, his thoughts consumed by the task of ridding Grealand of the monstrous creatures that plagued it. His spirit and strength were entirely focused on the battle against these dark forces, leaving little room for matters of the heart. Yet Meyrin held on to a fragile hope—that one day, the king would relent, and Mika might see her not just as an ally, but as something more.

  "Be careful," Meyrin protested, her voice laced with unease.

  "I shall be fine, worry not," Mika assured her, his tone firm and resolute. With a swift motion, he drew his sword, the blade gleaming as it caught the faint light that filtered through the misty air.

  From the depths of the water, the Widow Snake surged forth, its monstrous form breaking the surface. It bared its double rows of needle-like teeth, each one glistening with the deadly acid that was its greatest weapon. A single bite could burn a man from the inside out, the corrosive venom consuming flesh and bone in mere moments.

  Meyrin's heart pounded in her chest as doubt clawed at her mind. Maybe this wasn't a good idea, she thought, the fear creeping in like a shadow. "Sir Mika!" she cried out, rising shakily to her feet. "If the snake bites—"

  "I will be fine! Stay behind me!" Mika commanded, his voice unwavering as he swung his sword with practiced skill. The blade whistled through the air, slicing towards the serpent as it lunged at him with a feral hiss.

  But Meyrin could not suppress the terror that gripped her. The boat rocked violently beneath her feet, and she fought the urge to curl into a ball until the nightmare was over. Just as she began to lower herself back into the boat, a sudden horror struck—something cold and scaly wrapped around her waist, yanking her backward with brutal force.

  A scream tore from her throat, piercing the night air as the serpent's tail lifted her high above the water. The crushing pressure around her middle stole her breath, and her cry for Mika was strangled by fear. The tail squeezed tighter, and a sinister black aura enveloped her, suffocating and cold. This was no ordinary attack—dark magic was at work, twisting the Widow Snake into something far more dangerous and malevolent.

  Meyrin's thoughts spiraled in panic as she tried to warn Mika, but the words died in her throat. Before she could utter a sound, the tail jerked her downward, plunging her beneath the surface of the water. The world above faded into a blur as icy water closed over her, and the darkness took hold.

  As unconsciousness claimed her, a final, dreadful vision seared itself into her mind—Mika's face, strained and horrified, his eyes wide with a fear that mirrored her own. His expression, so fierce and brave moments before, was now twisted in anguish as he reached out for her, helpless to save her from the abyss that swallowed her whole.

  And then, all went black, and Meyrin knew no more.

  End of chapter 1. Thank you for reading!!