The Mad Raven's Tale (The Accarian Chronicles Book 1) by Andrew Walbrown (little red riding hood read aloud txt) 📕

Amantius’ thoughts drifted to Accaria, specifically to the last time Ulam had mentioned anything about vampires. They had been sitting in their secret spot on the side of Mount Meganthus on a lazy summer day. Although over a year had passed since that moment, his mind was able to piece together the memory.

What was it he said to me? Something about the red marks. Was it that they were passed on from vampire to vampire, like some families have round noses? Is it the mark of a new vampire? Or do the red marks stay on a vampire until…no…

Until a vampire turns someone else.

He had stumbled upon the words, not knowing how to react. He tried to deny it at first, tried to blame a faulty memory for the realization. But no matter how hard he tried, he knew that was what Ulam had told him. He could even hear the phrase coming from Ulam’s deep, grumbling voice. There was no doubt in his mind.

Amantius removed the cloak from his back and folded it, creating a makeshift pillow. He kissed Ulam’s forehead and then gently placed it on the cloak, the Orc’s eyes still shut tight. He then crossed the grand hall, navigating the chaos of broken pillars and destroyed furniture, until he reached where Aldamar and Morganna were. Without thinking he approached Morganna from behind and pulled on the collar of her shirt, invoking her wrath as he did so. She snarled at him while displaying her fangs, a truly terrifying sight to behold. He felt his courage wane as he stared into her yellow eyes; a part of him fully expecting her to toss him aside as easily as she had Aldamar.

“What are you doing?” She snapped. “I have almost killed him!”

Amantius took a deep breath in hopes of fortifying his resolve. “Where are your red marks?”

“My what?”

“Your bite marks, from when you were turned.” Amantius insisted. He knew he was walking a very dangerous line. To an extent, the questioning even seemed a little absurd to him, especially at that particular moment. “You have them, right?”

“They disappear with time,” Morganna replied curtly. Her fangs retracted, her eyes returned to their usual color, and the rage that she had shown at first was all but gone. She was still irritated, though, with Amantius’ questions being the culprit. “Sometimes, darling, you ask too many questions. Help me end this and we will talk about it. I promise.”

Amantius nodded and grabbed a nearby sword, keeping his eyes on the Count. The man made little effort against Morganna now, his strength having been almost completely sapped from the slab of stone crushing his legs. There was still a defiance in the Count’s eyes, the last bastion of emotion fueling his will to live. As Amantius approached he noticed something else, though, a more powerful emotion lurking in the depths. It was one Amantius had not expected, one that had caught him completely off-guard. It was the look of soul-crushing sadness, a look the Count reserved for Morganna. There was something in his eyes which struck a chord with Amantius, a recognition of unconditional love, in this case, for a sibling. Amantius knew the emotion well and realized if he were in Aldamar’s position with Ulam on top of him, he would have been overwhelmed with sadness as well.

“That works,” Morganna said while her fangs descended from her gums again. “I will hold him still. Just make sure to line up your strike. One clean blow and it will all be over, we can live together forever. Just me and you, my darling, the Count and Countess of Silverwater. It is so close I can taste it.”

One clean blow.

Chapter 32

Ulam

Where am I? What is this?

Ulam was in a world of darkness; he did not know where or who he was. His body was falling, slowly twisting and turning. He felt like he was in the ocean, at the mercy of the waves, being pushed and pulled by the tide. Eventually, his descent began to slow as a legion of white streaks appeared from the blackness, circling him. They began to cling to his skin, holding him upright, until he had finally stopped. More streaks of white created a solid foundation beneath his feet, painting in the darkness like an artisan with a black canvas. Then the streaks began to create a bridge, stone after stone laid across an invisible gap, leading to a towering gate.

The white streaks disappeared, their work finished. Suddenly there was a burst of color, the entire fabricated world lit by some unknown source. The bridge was a rustic reddish-brown, the sky a soft shade of blue, and the ground a vibrant green with swaying grass. He did not know what to do, nor where to go. With the rush of chromaticity, he could see a radiant light shining above the gate, like a beacon directing a ship to shore. Without any deliberation, he began walking towards the gate, driven by the beauty he saw like a moth to a flame. But with every step, he felt an emptiness growing within him. At first, the feeling was negligible, but by the end the void inside had all but consumed him. He felt soulless, as though his body was a vase without any flowers.

Ulam was close enough to touch the gate; he could sense a powerful aura dwelling from the other side. He gently placed a hand on the bars before him and watched as gold wisps entwined themselves around his wrist. He pulled away, the wisps disappearing like smoke. He placed his hand back on the door and the wisps returned, circling him once more. He pushed the gate open, and stood in a room filled with rays of golden light.

There was a pearl silhouette in the middle of the room, as tall as Ulam and with a feminine form. It floated across the room as he entered, the golden wisps around