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

cycle of unending
and vicious wars. The Light and the Dark were in constant conflict
and even the Witch and Vampire within the Ancient Light often broke
their tenuous truce to kill one another at the slightest
provocation. Those centuries had taken their toll, battle after
battle, and no purpose seeming to be behind any of it except that
of surviving.
    Her death continued to pain him. He had
relived the brief scenes of when he had encountered her again and
again, during melancholy nights after horrific battles. He oft had
wondered what she would have brought to the Realm if given the
chance. He was certain that the girl had been the Chosen, the one
that could restore the Realm as Myrrdyn’s prophecy foretold. Lorcan
had begun to believe that had the little witchling lived to fulfill
whatever great role she had been destined for, these past five
centuries would not have been filled with gore and death.
    He heaved a sigh and shoved his broadsword in
place. His thoughts returned to her frequently in times of great
trouble as though haunted by an unseen presence. Lorcan seemed
destined for eternity to regret a Sorcerer’s prophecy that would
never come to fruition. If Fate was bringing evil to his steps
tonight, he would fight in honor of that little witch that should
have been more.
     
     

CHAPTER 8
    As he exited his room, the rumbling of the
men in their war gear and the voices of various members of the
Coven echoed off the stone walls in the hall below. The noise all
but overtook the sound of Jortha’s voice as he called above. “Sir,
Sir, you must hurry.” Lorcan glanced down and finally caught sight
of the witch, braving an entire room of Vampire this time. He shook
his head in disbelief. Jortha remained pale and had a noticeable
sheen of sweat on his brow, but he brushed vampires from his path
as though he were set upon by hellhounds. “Sir, hurry, there is no
time.”
    The fact that Jortha seemed oblivious to the
three hundred Vampire milling around him created a knot of dread in
Lorcan’s chest. Lorcan shadowed to the young man’s side and the
room quieted. Jortha looked as though he would retch at any moment,
the pallor in his countenance growing, as his eyes shifted in the
direction of the panes of glass at the front of the keep. A
tremendous bolt of lightning split the dark sky. His voice hushed
and his eyes fell closed, “It is here Lorcan, she’s arrived.”
    She? Lorcan frowned. With an encompassing
sweep of his arm towards his men, he marched with determined
purpose towards the heavy iron doors of the keep. He did not
shadow, but took measured steps. He would meet Fate’s latest
challenge this time, on his own time, his own terms. The thought
crossed his mind that he was turning bitter in his old age, his
thousands of years of existence weighed heavily on him. Jortha
trailed in the wake of the armor clad warriors filling in the ranks
behind their leader and again found his voice “At the gates, Sir,
at the gates.”
    Catching Lorcan’s grunt of acknowledgement,
Jortha withdrew towards the warmth of the towering hearth in the
sidewall. Lorcan threw both iron doors open in a flourish of
strength and anger. Taking a deep breath of the unseasonably cold
night’s air, he briefly studied the gates. Continuing down the
stone steps and onto the grounds below, he eyed the high stone
walls that surrounded as far as he could view. Jortha had worked
his magic well to provide protection to those walls and no evil had
found its way through in well over a century.
    Lorcan made the journey across the sloping
grass quickly to those massive metal gates that towered well up
towards the sky. He was conscious of the sounds of the metal
weaponry of his armed Elite and Coven warriors behind. Lightening
continued to wreak havoc in the sky above his home.
    He stopped short, a good ten feet from the
scrolling metalwork. His gaze was drawn down in puzzlement as his
foot crunched…snow. Lorcan heard the strength of his men