House of the everlasting.., p.1
House Of The Everlasting Flame, page 1
House Of The Everlasting Flame
A HOUSE OF THE CROWNED STORY
SALAMANCA RITES
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book contains sexual situations. It is not intended for anyone under the legal age of adulthood. All characters depicted in sexual situations herein are over 18 years of age. This book is not to be used as an informational guide to any type of sex or sexual education. Some topics in this book may be sensitive or disturbing to some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Copyright © 2023 by Salamanca Rites
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.
For more information, address: salamancarites@gmail.com
Cover by SelkkieDesigns
Interior Design by Quirky Circe Book Design
Contents
Language Guide
A Brief History
Where It Starts
The Queen’s Rehearsal
Fyre
How Fitting
The Cove Of Dreams
Vivienna’s Birthday Eve
The Guardian’s Trial
A Legacy To Remember
Morning Spar
Nostros
Dinner In The Garden
When The Bell Tolls & A Door Opens
Fine
Ravens
Mountain Magic
Dream Or Nightmare
A Weird Time
Curiosity Finds The Dusty Tome
Hide & Find
Wherever The Wind Goes
Samhain
Eye Of The Raven
Day One
Raven’s Moon
Enderberry
The Grimoire’s Call
To The Mountain
From The Author
Valei - Voyager
Volyena - runt (girl)
Nolsenya - lovely creature
Liseva - ageless beauty
Mivesna - My Queen
Milevesna - my little Queen
Vesina - Princess
Vesin - Prince
Visana - sister
Visona - brother
Trotentia - troll
Vesevare - sweet one
Dracone - dragon boy
Moiaveta - my truest love
Priviana - sweet doll
Vebridae - breathe
Rosken - brat
Spriza - little sprite
Brovone - friend
Livana - little sister (Belvorrean)
Livono - little brother (Belvorrean)
Quevesna - Queenmother, mother-like figure
Respela - sweet child
Lesolya - dearest girl
Salves - Savage
Salvenya - savage whore
Tesala - brave one
When the realm Valnyra was still a young domain, navigating its way in this great universe, it fell victim to the deceitful practices of dark magic—believing in its corrupt temptations, allowing it to fester and feast upon the magic of the once pure lands.
While the Sea has always been its own entity, it managed to go primarily unaffected. Leaving Valnyra nearly defenseless.
That was until a family of voyagers made their presence known. Three silver-haired siblings, in particular, by the surname of Valei, used their skills in low light magic and knowledge of the tide to their advantage. Their one true goal being to save as many lives as possible. Preferably all.
Even most evils can be domesticated, after all.
While the Valei traveled from land to land, bringing aboard their boats as many as possible, they also searched for a way to rid their lands of this dark, infectious magic. So that they, and everyone else, may live in true harmony and peace, as it should be.
However, the Valei’s most valiant efforts were often met with failure. Yet they still went on with pure hearts and intentions. When Valnyra was left on its last thread, almost entirely lost to the dark magic, a raven descended from her keep in the stars—appearing one morning in a squint of sunlight aboard a Valei ship as an average bird.
But this was no ordinary bird.
This was a messenger, one that could change forms. One moment, a flying raven; the next, a woman. With the glowing skin of a celestial star.
Those aboard watched Her in awe. It was evident Her magic was not that of the one they fought to survive. She was of a higher existence, and this messenger brought a gift.
For their grit and loyalty to the love and light of all, the head of the Valei bloodline was named Guardian of the realm, gifted access to all of Valnyra and, with it, access to all of its power.
And for their spirited supporters, She gifted the powers of what they would name the Raven. These magical gifts are awarded after the succession of a sole Trial before the Creator, in which She will look into the heart of the initiate, gifting those that are successful with a unique pair of mighty raven-like wings, along with heightened skills in magic and abilities Eventually, these supporters would grow to become the eminent Raven’s Guard of Valend.
While a mountainous part of Valnyra still lived on with the darkest parts of the once prominent magic, they kept it well-tamed. Learning its ways, using them for the better.
The rest of the lands were restored after much love and tending to.
The Valei and a wide select of their supporters settled on a quiet, hidden island on the farthest outskirts of the Sea. This island was spelled to be hidden except from those seeking solace or with clear intentions. Those who stayed with the Valei’s insisted on honoring the brave family. Naming the island Valend after them, even celebrating the Guardian with the title of Queen.
Every few centuries following, another Heir to the realm is born into the Valei line.
Valnyra has known nothing but peace ever since.
That was until treacherous energy bombarded the haven that was the Belvorrean Mountains—destroying the Mountain and all of her beings within it. Only days after the birth of the Everlasting Flame, The Dead King and his wife were lost in the fight, along with most of the remaining Valei line in their efforts to save the Mountain’s magic from those who wished to gain it for evil.
Peace has since been restored once more, only to the thanks of those who sacrificed their lives for it.
Now, all Valnyra can do is heal. And hope that those who wish to disrupt their peaceful lives remain hidden away.
One hundred seventy-eight years before the birth of the Everlasting Flame.
Somewhere on the outskirts of the Belvorrean Mountains, Valnyra
The whistle in the wind sings an icy, unforgiving tale. Despite the Enfield-lined gloves, Viktor can still feel the bite in the air, unable to shake the chill settling deep into his bones. Unable to keep himself from wondering why anyone in their right mind would choose to live in a constant state of frostbite.
Despite his discomfort, he trudges through the snow, begrudgingly eyeing his gloveless friend only a few feet ahead, watching irately as Knave strolls through the howling winds contently.
“Not even wearing a cloak,” Viktor grumbles, rubbing his gloved hands together in a poor attempt at warmth.
“What was that friend?” Knave calls over his shoulder, sporting an artful grin.
“You heard me.” Viktor grunts against a shiver.
Knave smirks to himself, strolling on. Before Viktor amused him with his pouting, he had been eyeing over the tattered brown cloak of the Yete Chief guiding them. He sneers, fighting the urge to tsk with distaste.
Being of this land's magic, the chill does not affect Knave. He quite relishes in the occasional nip of frost against his skin. He tries his best to do as much now, enjoy the brutal chill in the air. However, he cannot help but glare ahead. Undoubtedly, the Chief does not need the tattered remains of a fur pelt. Not with the warmth provided by their silky white coat.
No. This cloak is for show.
Given the state of the pelt, it is decades old, but Knave would know that pattern anywhere. It was one of his first familiar. Lost long ago, it had been assumed he lost his way on an expedition.
It is clear now those thoughts were hopes made in vain.
Knave knew the mountain folk had been cross with his father all those many years ago, but he hadn’t a clue to the extent. To commit such a violent act of treason against one of the Mountain’s beings, nonetheless, is a crime punishable by the most gruesome deaths. Yet, for some reason, She seems to be taking mercy on this particular citizen. And that is the only reason Knave walks on, keeping his mouth shut.
“Not much farther.” Chief Tirana barks over the howl of the wind.
Knave wrinkles his nose at the gravelly bass in the Chief’s voice. Viktor elbows him in the side. Knave makes a poor attempt at half of a smile before his gaze drifts back to the worn cloak.
It was roughly one moon ago when a crow flew into Viktor’s bedroom with a message from the Cheif of a small northern village named Tikaolo. Viktor knew once he spotted the poor bird, nothing good would come from its message. Not moments later did Viktor begin the journey to the Mountains, where he sought out the aid of his astral ally.
It turned out the village was just out of Kanve’s territory, but still, he joined Viktor on this
Viktor shakes his head. Nearly fifteen children are missing. That is only as far as they know. Some villagers were still barricaded in their homes when the pair arrived.
The Chief told them of their suspicions. There was a young woman, Kyrena. Kyrena lived alone with her mother, a woman of genuine good nature. The pair were often seen at the market, selling their tinctures, herbs, and other goods. Always so full of light. That is until one season, Kyrena and her mother stopped showing up for the market. The villagers wondered if the two were alright, but by the time anyone decided to journey to their cottage, there was a storm. This storm lasted nearly an entire season. By the time it was over, the damage to the village overshadowed the memory and worry spent on the young Kyrena and her mother.
That is until it all resurfaced with the disappearances of several village children. Each time a child went missing, the following morning, the villagers would wake up barricaded in their homes by the snow. Their children were gone from their still-warm beds.
When they were finally freed from their icy prisons, the tracks would be almost entirely melted away, but they always led them in the direction of the cottage.
The cottage in which they head to now. In search of this Kyrena, or whatever may be left of her.
Eventually, the path clears around them, the landscape transforming into what it would look like in the warmer season.
Knave eyes the treetops, listening for anything to make a slip in the wind.
Before them, the tight tree-filled path opens into a grassy clearing.
Chief Tirana does not enter the clearing; instead, she leaves each King with a curt nod. This situation was now their problem. That was clear enough.
Viktor watches the Chief until they disappear from his eyesight.
“They called us all this way for a witch.” Knave tsks, watching the Chief disappear into the snow. His distaste is evident as he eyes the surrounding wooded area uninterestedly.
“They have called us for help.” Viktor corrects, starting toward the cottage.
“I suppose you’re just going to knock and hope she invites us in for teas, then?”
Viktor chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Why have you always doubted me, old friend?”
Viktor continues heading for the cottage, the slightest smile on his face as the soft crunching of Knave’s footsteps falls in line behind him.
Knave shakes his head, eyeing the skies now. “Never you, brovone.”
As they near, the scent of fresh herbs and baking bread grows heavy.
Viktor stops short of the cottage’s first step, leading to the small, rickety deck. Knave watches impatiently from a few steps away as Viktor looks over the entryway, tilting his head in thought.
After a short pause, Viktor unsheathes the StarShatter blade from a pocket of light at his side. Knave hisses, following the action instinctively, drawing his menacingly curved blade.
“What is it? And why have you brought that garish blade with you?”
“The scent is meant to trap the mind,” Viktor answers flatly, turning away from the front door on his heel.
“That’s how she’s luring the children,” Knave says absently, following Viktor around the side of the cottage.
“What she does with them once she has them is the question now, brovone.”
Knave inhales sharply as they enter the backyard; he grabs Viktor by the arm, forcing him to stop.
“The magic here is dark and heavy. I can hear its cry so much clearer now, specifically its hunger.” Knave’s gaze never breaks away from the surrounding woods.
Viktors claps Knave’s shoulder, a bright smile splayed across his face.
“Now you see why I’ve brought you along.”
“Here, I thought you just wanted to spend time with your best friend, your astral ally. I’ll remind you.”
“It is not I that refuses every invitation sent to me, brovone.”
Knave stops, seemingly offended. “I did not reject this one.”
Viktor huffs, taking in the overgrown gardens littering the yard. A few empty livestock pens line the border of the clearing. They scan the area, and nothing suggesting children, or anything at all, reveals itself.
With a gentle defeated sigh, Viktor looks to the grass at his feet and then to the cottage's back deck.
“What is it,” Knave whispers, eyeing Viktor curiously.
Viktor turns his gaze so it meets Knave. Immediately, the bright green of Knave’s irises darkens severely. “Do not say it.” He manages through a painfully clenched jaw.
“We must.” That is all Viktor says.
“We will not.”
“We must,” Viktor says again, growing impatient.
“I will not,” Knave says defiantly, crossing his arms.
Viktor huffs out a laugh. “You will.” He says, turning away from Knave and heading towards the cottage again.
Knave stomps his foot angrily, spinning in place to reel his frustration. “We cannot!” Knave whispers angrily, practically on Viktor’s heels.
“We will.”
“No!’ Knave argues.
“Yes,” Viktor answers with another soft laugh.
“No.” Knave whines, his head falling back as he follows Viktor toward the cottage.
“We must,” Viktor says again, taking the first step onto the deck.
He pauses just before his still-gloved hand meets the door’s knob.
“Viktor! The first rule of witches is to never, I mean ever, ever go into their homes unwelcomed, uninvited!” Knave insists, pleading with every last star for his friend to gain even a sliver of doubt.
Viktor weighs his options a moment, finally releasing a deep sigh.
Knave watches him intently, a slice of hope ripping through his chest.
“We must.”
The knob turns itself in Viktor's grasp, allowing the King entrance to the cottage. With a deep, heavy regret, Knave watches Viktor cross the threshold into the stuffy cabin.
A single room makes up the entire inside of the seemingly well-kept home.
In the corner, a primarily clean stone heart simmers, a small iron pot suspended above the fire. Crushed, dried herbs and rusted gardening tools litter the counter spaces. A shabby rocking chair sways slowly beneath the only window, stacked high with blankets of varying textures.
“The home appears to belong to a grounds witch,” Viktor says aloud as Knave reluctantly steps into the home.
Once the door slams itself shut behind him, the cottage reveals its true self. The once cozy room turns into one that is entirely different.
The smell of rot is nearly overbearing, everything covered in a thick blanket of what seems like centuries' worth of dust.
Knave wrinkles his nose at the sour stench of the cottage. The Kings scan the small space, searching for any sign of life or threat.
Knave wanders towards the rocking chair, the only thing that remains as before, the blankets and chair being the only thing not covered entirely in the dust. The blankets seem to be freshly washed. As Knave takes the one from the top into his grasp, everything seems to be still. Even the chair has ceased rocking.
As if the room itself has taken in a breath, holding it in. Knave doesn’t move an inch, angling his head so he can see Viktor from the corner of his eye.
Viktor lifts his chin, and a breeze with the power of a monsoon rushes through the room. Despite the power behind it, the Kings remain firm in their spots. Knave still gripping the blanket in his hand.
“WHO DARE ENTER MY HOME”
The voice booms from everywhere yet originates from nowhere at all. Shrill, yet deep and husky all at once.
On a crooked shelf nearest Viktor, a glass jar filled with some poor creature’s eyeballs shifts slightly. Without hesitation, Viktor slices the StarShatter blade through the space between himself and the shelf.
