This time last year I joined in with the @freewritehouse for some November MADNESS! Writing 50k words in 30 days while using @mariannewest's daily #freewrite prompt to guide the story.

That random thing I wrote ended up becoming my first ever published work. Which re-reading now is absolutely appalling and I don't recommend anyone buying it. Ever. Get it for free on Smashwords instead. 😉 And pretend you don't see errors on the very first bloody page.

I was proud of it at the time though, and proud of myself for finally ploughing through my emotions and finishing something. And despite how horrible I think the book is now, the amazing feelings I felt when I published it are all that matter.

But...

As I've blathered on about before, I have a series of books swimming around the giant puddle that calls itself my brain. I started semi-publishing the draft of one of those here on Steem before deciding to stop at around Chapter Five because things were still evolving in my head.

The main character was Lyria and the work was called Vengeance. That particular story is now going to be my Book Two. 😱

One of the things that I couldn't work out previously was the order of my books. Should it be in chronological order? Should it start in the middle, then be told backward in a 'glimpse of the past' type thing? I would choose one direction, stop, and throw myself into the other direction, never finishing either of the things I set out to accomplish.

In the end, I gained a clearer image of my overall story... and feel at peace enough to do this how I've always wanted to do it.

Yes.
I'm crazy.
I'M STARTING IN THE MIDDLE!

And that is my goal this NaNoWriMo. To finally get Alexandria's story out into the open. The neglected and abused red-haired witch with a heart of gold yet a blackened, twisted soul who has been with me since I was 11 years old.

I've already written a fair chunk of it -- about 45k words -- but I'm setting out to polish what I've done, slap a middle into it, and end it. Overall it's going to be around 90k words. Which kills me because in this day and age no-one has an attention span that long. Are you still reading? 😉

Wish me luck!

And, as promised in my title...

Trembling fingers grasped for a golden candle and carefully moved it into position. Attention to detail was a painful necessity —if even the tiniest taper was misplaced he, too, would share a similar ‘misplacement.’ The serf bit his lip and steadied his shaking hands, then carefully arranged the last set of three below their taller counterparts, stumbling back as a mass of flames burst into life.

“Joh’s eye!”

He whipped around, his hand flying to his mouth as his eyes darted from left to right. The chamber was empty. No-one had heard the outburst or witnessed his moment of weakness. His fear. The one emotion that was better left concealed lest the Magisters sensed it and descended upon him like a flock of ravenous deathbirds.

He took a shuddering breath and swept one last look over the clusters of candles placed in all five corners of the star-shaped chamber. Each was positioned as perfectly as could be asked; surely the Magisters would be pleased. The soft candlelight danced from wall to wall with a vitality the otherwise lifeless room did not possess, though the warm glow did little to alleviate the distinct solemnity that burdened the air or the chill that rose up from the floor, and neither did it brighten the shadow that crept across the dull white stone.

A barely audible hiss pierced the deathly silence and an icy tendril touched the back of his neck, but before he could wipe it away a man’s body materialised in the centre of the shadow. The corpse levitated a half-metre allowing room for a crystal slab to form beneath him, his bare skin shone with a bizarre sheen that eschewed the candlelight and instead cast its own glow, waves of shocking white hair cascaded across his shoulders and down the altar, hanging limp in mid-air, and the familiar scars carved deep into his face were heightened by the dancing flames.

“H-High Magister Victus…”

Unable to tear his eyes from the body, he stumbled backwards and fumbled for the door. The whispers that had plagued the castle since the early hours were true: their High Magister had passed and their future was now uncertain. May Victus find favour in the Aethya’s embrace and… by the Gods! May the Gods have mercy on the poor mortals who yet remained in this cursed realm.

The door flung open and a Magister strode through, near sending the serf sprawling. The man was dressed in floor-length robes as black as the void and his face was hidden beneath the shapeless folds of a lowered hood, but considering the identity of the deceased this unknown arrival had to be a Magister of importance, perhaps even a Council member. Most certainly a Council member. He could not dally any longer, nor did he wish to. Moistening his lips with a dried tongue, he bowed his head as reverently as could be managed and hurried from the room before his lowly presence could offend. Mere servants didn’t survive as long as he had without significant care and he would not squander his life, not this day.

Lord Magister Caelin ignored the scurrying servant and the pitiful odour of fear that wafted from him, and calmly knelt before the crystal altar. The hour of ascension would soon be at hand and his blood hungered for the bounty that awaited, the bounty that he had anticipated for so many years. He had practised for this moment behind the closed doors of his private chambers, training himself to welcome the agony that would one day come, and all had passed just as he had foreseen: Victus had bestowed authority unto him and after this final rite it would be he who controlled the most coveted of positions. He would become High Magister of Fan’driel.

Lowering his head, he appeared every inch a solemn and distinguished member of the Council and waited for his colleagues to materialise from the jagged shadows cast by ever-growing flames.

Eight figures robed as he slid across the stone and formed a circle around the body, their heads bowed as they beheld the man who had been both the source of their strength and the earthly embodiment of the Gods that they worshipped. He quickly bit the inside of his cheek before the involuntary smile could spread. Reverence was high, as was a distinct air of resentment. Many were offended that Victus had chosen him —the youngest of the Council, who had only recently passed his trials no less— and believed their esteemed leader to have held a hidden madness. Their thoughts radiated from them as clear as the flawless moons, but such ill-concealed insubordination was irrelevant: they would submit or they would die.

Three Magisters raised their arms into the air and weaved their hands through candlelit shadows. A deep hum rose from their throats, amplified within the deathly silence, and the yellow flames flared tall, rapidly gaining a blue hue as they intuited their purpose. It was time.

Caelin climbed to his feet and stood over Victus’ body, an eerie calm replacing his concealed humour as he closed his eyes and chanted alongside his fellows. The depth of his voice added an intensity to the already powerful hymn and the thickening air began to fluctuate as the humid waves rose and fell in time with the disturbing harmonics. The chamber wobbled as the chant reached its crescendo, though none were bothered by or even noticed the shifting floors that swayed as the ocean beneath them.

In long serpentine tendrils, the blue flames took leave of their tapers and approached Caelin. They were as ribbons that wrapped about his flesh through the protection of his inscribed robes and swiftly shrouded him in their blessed blaze, their touch imparting a sightless burn that incinerated every inch of his body and scorched through to his innermost being. Without the slightest flinch betraying the agony that writhed within, he calmly retrieved an obsidian knife from beneath a fold in his robes. The silver handle glittered as he moved it from his right hand to his left, its thin black blade gleaming with the same crystalline essence that coated Victus’ body, and he ran a finger along its keen edge as tenderly as another man might stroke a lover allowing small droplets of blood to slide down his flesh. In response to the crimson offering, an energy emanated from Victus and thrummed in thick, palpable waves that called to the flames and drew them towards him, shrouding both men in the crackling blaze.

The minutes seemed as hours as he stood encased by the flames, refusing to yield as each flicker shot through him and threatened to turn his bones to ash, his rhythmic voice as unwavering as his will as he continued to chant as effortlessly as before, and though the flames remained the agonising heat vanished. A chill swept over and soothed the imperceptible burn that covered his skin and he briefly closed his eyes, allowing himself a moment to indulge in the sudden bliss. The blue fires had completed their purification and he had been found worthy —he was ready to ascend.

Victus’ body levitated above the altar, buoyed by both the icy fire and the remnants of his magical energies, and Caelin’s dark eyes shone bright with a golden hue as his own energies radiated outward and sought those of his predecessor.

Moving of their own volition, his hands webbed and weaved in perfect cadence to the hymn, tightened their grip on the knife and descended upon Victus’ stomach, carving a rapid array of runic symbols deep into the dead, unyielding flesh. One last determined swipe expelled a torrent of magic that crackled and flowed about the chamber akin to the electrical writhing of an ancient sea serpent, that whorled in cyclonic gusts strong enough to throw back the hood from his head and reveal the hunger written across his face, and his heart beat faster as insurmountable joy expanded deep within his chest, as the energy and euphoria joined as one and lifted him upwards to loom over the corpse, then silence fell over the chamber.

As the hymn stopped, Caelin’s hands simultaneously thrust themselves and the blade down in one mighty stab into Victus’ heart and sliced into his own wrists, allowing the onslaught of energy to find passage through his veins. The glorious pain writhed within, twisting and contorting as it swarmed through his blood, and he released a powerful howl as the last remnants of energy crossed the threshold.

As though the object had sensed its purpose, the obsidian blade morphed into a blazing rod of fire and pressed itself against Caelin’s wounds, cauterising and healing the flesh instantly. The crystal altar vanished and Victus’ body fell to the floor with a stone-shuddering thud, the blue flames slithered across the floors and returned to their candles, shifting back to their soft, yellow hues, and the chamber was once more as cold and silent as a tomb.

The golden hue held within Caelin’s eyes vanished along with the magic and he observed his surroundings with a newfound clarity. The depths of the shadows faded and contrasted sharply against the silhouettes of his associates, and the humour he had suppressed for so long finally burst free. His laughter bounced from each wall and filled the bleak chamber with its chaotic melody and the grim faces of the other Magisters only furthered his mirth. His blood was fuelled by the energies of all High Magisters past. He was a power to behold, a power without equal —a power akin to the Gods!

His peers watched in uncertain silence as he laughed and the minutes were as slow as the rising run before he regained control and allowed the throes of madness to fade into the void.

A tranquillity took over as his mirth vanished and he slowly gazed upon every Magister who stood alongside him, each one returning his stare with careful, watchful eyes. It would be difficult for them to adjust to new leadership but they would learn. He was an Arisse! The blood of the original royal family flowed through his veins and though the era of Kings and Queens was distant history, the fortunate truth would not be ignored by the people. His lineage was a boon that would please the masses, and if his Council did not submit they would suffer for their heresies in more ways than the obvious. The demons his family had long worshipped would see to that.

A small smile crept over his face and he flicked his wrist, a barely perceptible movement that allowed the burning rod to return to its original bladed form, and grasping the handle in both hands, he plunged the knife deep into Victus’ gut and exited the chamber without a backward glance...