Preliminary prologue | Everything Outside the Void

Dit is de proloog van mijn boek, Everything Outside the Void. Het it afkomstig uit de tweede draft en zal hoogstwaarschijnlijk nog aanpassingen ondergaan, maar ik wilde het toch delen om een indicatie te geven van de sfeer van het boek. Enjoy!

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The world shuddered when a rift opened, and a daemon stepped through the folds of the universe. Their black scales glinted in the light of the full moon as they gazed up and beheld a sky flecked with stars, leathery wings spreading wide at their back.

Panthea, the Mortal Plane, was peaceful at this time of night. It was quiet, safe for the sparse cry of an animal, and the air contained the slight humidity of nearing rain. It was as if the Plane held its breath, both disquieted and enthralled by the nearing change. Yet the human workers remained fast asleep, oblivious to the otherworldly being crossing the borders of space and time.

They wouldn’t remain that way for long.

Another ripple disturbed the air. Tendrils of bright, ethereal smoke wafted off white feathers as the seraph appearing across from them brushed off their armour. Their dark hair fell in waves over their shoulders, framing a face that was carefully disinterested when they asked, ‘You called for an audience?’

The daemon smiled at the stiff undertone. ‘I did.’

‘Any particular reason this could not take place at the Celestial Court?’

They didn’t deign a response, and it was the seraph’s turn to smile as the silence stretched thin. They knew the answer. No daemon ventured to the Celestial Plane, and neither would a seraph set foot in the Abyss for a mere meeting. It had been that way since the beginning of time when Anteanus had taken action and brought order to the Planes. He’d broken off wars that had raged for aeons by ordering beings to remain within the borders of their own realms, separating them in the hopes it would resolve the unrest of the universe.

It had worked—for some time.

But like all things static, peace was fallible, a fraudulent behaviour that went against the very nature of daemons and seraphim. The chains Anteanus had leashed them with had begun to chafe, and the Mortal Plane, an unremarkable, meaningless realm lying between their worlds, had been the ideal middle ground.

So their battle for dominance continued, fought unbeknownst to the highest of Gods, with careful moves and countermoves spread across millennia. A war with no end, it had seemed.

Until now.

The daemon stood before the seraph feeling victorious, revealing their sharp teeth with a grin. ‘I am the bearer of good news. It appears you have lost at last.’

The seraph’s eyebrows twitched up. ‘Has arrogance gotten the better of you?’

‘On the contrary. We achieved what you could not, laying claim to this Plane in ways you could not begin to imagine. It is ours for the taking.’

‘Do not provoke me with misinformation,’ they said, wings flaring in annoyance. ‘Stating you have won does not make you a victor.’

‘Does it not?’ The daemon cocked their head, an array of iridescent light bouncing off their scaly skin and refracting onto the damp grass when they raised a claw-tipped hand. Shadows trailed along their curved nails, as ethereal as the phantom wind ruffling the seraph’s feathers. Unnatural, yet present all the same.

The daemon saw the exact moment the seraph realised it, too.

‘You awakened the currents,’ they breathed, shock and awe flashing over their usually impassive face.

‘And not just that,’ the daemon said, the shadows around them deepening. From the forest to their right, figures approached. They were cloaked in darkness, attracted to the presence of their master—the presence of their God. They were not quite human, not quite daemonic, but something in-between. Children born of malice, awaiting command, eager to serve.

‘This upsets every balance there is to nature,’ the seraph said, stepping back as they beheld the gathering. ‘You cannot tip the scale and expect nothing to crumble.’

They could, and had.

The daemon let out a mirthless chuckle as their physical form shimmered. Behind them, the rift reopened, beckoning them home. Their eyes locked with the seraph when they stepped through, blazing red meeting icy blue.

‘Your move, angel.’

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Preliminary synopsis

Feydir Agassi spent the last seven years at a remote Imperial prison for a crime he didn’t commit. He comes of age in a month, after which the High Council decides whether he will be allowed to re-enter society or will be executed. He is convinced his days are numbered—until a witch crosses his path.

Sullivan Ecarain was sentenced to prison after being involved in a fatal accident. As a witch, she carries the legacy of the Witch Uprising from two decades past, which claimed many casualties and made as many prisoners. Fearing the inmates’ wrath, she strikes a bargain with Feydir and ropes him in to escape.

But what seemed like a straightforward prison break propels them into a world of political intrigue, deep-rooted bias, and history long buried. As they reach a crossroads, Feydir and Sullivan must decide: how far are they willing to go for what they believe they are owed?