Chosen: Book 1 in the Ancients of Light series by Heather Fleener

it
happening, but only the aftermath.”
    Tersely, Lorcan questioned, “Why do you find
it to be more than that now?”
    Jortha swallowed hard, “I can feel the power
responsible for the destruction drawing close to Breslein.”
    Dropping his hand briefly to Jortha’s head,
Lorcan dismissed him without temper. He turned to his gathered
guard with grim resolve, “Prepare the men. It appears we war, as
the Fates of the Realm see fit that we find no reprieve this
night.”
    Lorcan muttered a curse as he shadowed to his
own chambers to prepare for battle. He was beyond rage. Just when
Fate or God or whatever divine being oversaw this supernatural
realm on Earth appeared to grant him grace, it was always short
lived and wrested from his grasp before he could find respite. What
evil could be descending on him this time?
    His fist found the hard stone wall in his
room before he leaned his forehead against the coolness of the
smooth rock. He was exhausted and massaged the back of his neck
wearily. Lorcan began pulling on his garments of war and allowed
his thoughts to drift through memories that had brought him to this
circumstance.
    He could not help but smile as an image of
Kaitriana flitted past; Lorcan had seen her last at the Festival of
the Moon. Prior to that, he had encountered her only one other time
since saving her. She had been the awkward age of twelve. A gangly,
brown-haired girl, she was remarkable only in those eyes that had
remained unchanged. On that particular night at her uncle’s home,
those piercing eyes had fallen on him, no fear lurking in their
depths. That spoke volumes of her, as mighty warriors avoided his
presence when he was irked and he had been livid that night.
    She had studied him openly, her eyes warming.
The young witch had offered him a smile, despite that his mission
had been to deliver a stern warning to her uncle to cease his feud
with the nearby Vampire lest he wish to endure Lorcan’s wrath.
    Lorcan believed her eyes had sparkled
magically at him from the depths of that dark little cottage and
the little minx had actually made a face at him. He had replayed it
in his mind a thousand times over in the centuries since. When he
had turned to exit, she had smiled once more and given a tiny wave
of her hand, like to an old friend.
    Her face had lit with a youthful excitement
that she could not contain, as though she had waited so long for
that very moment. He grinned a bit in response to the memory as he
finished preparing himself. The little witchling had had
freckles…amazingly blue luminous eyes and a cute dusting of
freckles. Eighteen, in fact - he knew precisely because he could
recall every detail about her.
    At the Festival of the Moon he had been too
shocked to press Myrrdyn as to whether or not Kaitriana was the
Chosen, though he had wanted the answer. Her sudden appearance had
rocked him. He had assumed he might see her that evening, knowing
Myrrdyn had finally deigned to grace the gathering with his
presence. Lorcan had been curious to see if Kat was still the
rotten little scamp that had the audacity to claim the Warrior of
Light as ‘Mine.’ He had not expected, having seen no sign of beauty
in her either the day of her rescue or the lone night fourteen
years prior at her Uncle’s home, that she would have grown into the
exquisite little creature that had rushed into the manor.
    Lorcan had thought her gorgeous in the
sparkling ruby gown that accented her creamy skin and onyx curls.
With his acute vision, the black cape that had draped her had not
been able to hide the fineness of her form within its dark folds.
She had stolen his breath and he had wanted, for the first time in
his life, to shirk his duties and drag her away so that he might
have seen if she still possessed the impish spirit that had been so
enchanting.
    A frown took his face. The Chosen had been
destroyed that same night and for the five hundred years since the
witch girl had perished, the Realm had been in a