Since the day Kat DuPont made a deal with the Fee of the Earth Realm, each realm has begun to merge. Follow along with Rise of the Realms flash fiction short stories, and watch as her consequences unfold.
To the readers: Each flash fiction will be written from scratch at the time of posting – a complete “on the spot” writing of the author’s imagination. Each story will be written and posted immediately, untouched by an editor. At no time may this be copied or reproduced in any way, without permission. (C) D. Fischer 2018.
Yaris bows before the Fee of the Dead, one knee resting his weight against the stone floor of The Keep. The throne before him, made of the same stone, is large and intimidating, his creator slouching against the backrest.
Keeping his blood-red vampire eyes downcast, he trembles in fear of Kheelan’s wicked and unpredictable wrath. His keen vision takes in the fine dust layered along the floor, evidence of years of purposely forgotten upkeep. He studies the grains in an attempt to sooth himself before he voices the news.
“Yaris?” Kheelan asks, his tone filled with restlessness. “Do you enjoy staring at the stone, or do you wish to tell me why you are here?”
Yaris gulps, stands with the speed all vampires possess, and straightens the wrinkles lining his stale shirt. “There are rumors, sir.”
Kheelan cocks his head. “Oh? Rumors?” he asks sarcastically. “Have you forgotten where we are, fool?” He sweeps his pasty-white arm out in front of him and rests it once more against the throne’s armrest. “The Dead dwell in the death realm. What more can they do than pass the time with a bit of gossip?”
“It is not the residence of this realm I speak of, sir,” Yaris begins, his voice cracking. The news he brings is more than gossip – it is truth. When Kheelan learns of it – the sighting of the dragon thought dead – his wrath could be directed at him. “It is rumors of the earth realm.”
Kheelan sighs. “Why do you believe I would hold an ounce of care for Erline’s realm?”
Yaris presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth and pulls at his fingers.
“Speak!” Kheelan yells, his voice carrying throughout the empty room. Decor and possessions are not high on Kheelan’s list. He prefers grey and blacks – emptiness just as his soul.
Yaris flinches. “The vampires living in the earth realm had attacked a wolf-shifter pack.”
“As is their right,” Kheelan interrupts. He leans forward, smirking with sick and twisted interest. “Was it a blood bath? A massacre to be noted?” Yaris stomach rumbles with the thought of blood splattering grass, gone to waste.
“No, sir. They’re all dead. Rumor has it they had help from a local witch.”
Kheelan frowns and leans back once more. “What do you know of this witch?”
“She holds holds fire within her body, sir.” Yaris licks his bottom lip.
Fingers curling to grip the armrests, Kheelan’s face hardens, turning a dangerous shade of scarlet. “That isn’t possible. The first born – my child – hasn’t been spotted since the seventeenth century!”
Yaris’ eyes flick back to the stone floor, his momentary appetite fleeing. “What do you wish to do, sir?”
Kheelan remains silent, the air cackling with electricity – his unleashed power and fury. “Find this witch.”
Shocked by Kheelan’s restraint of his own anger, Yaris whips his gaze back to his creator.
“Find her, and bring her to me.” Kheelan narrows his eyes. Yaris nods and spins on his heel, preparing to make a hasty exit. He halts misstep as Kheelan speaks once more, a growl on the edge of his tongue. “And Yaris? You’re in charge of this. If you fail . . . Well . . .” He chuckles, his cackles following Yaris to the outside of The Keep.
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