The Onyx Prince: A Tyr Retelling – Norse God of Justice

Chapter 27: See Things Differently (excerpt)

We approach a tall gate, which looks to be fashioned in the way of wrought-iron. Rather than made of dark metal, however, it is a golden color. Still has the creepy vibe about it, though. Both it, and its fence to match. They tower like fences belonging to old estates. Only, they are much, much higher. Probably older too than any estate I’ve read about or seen pictures of, back home.

Zymarc undoes the heavy latch, then pushes the single gate wide open. He goes forward along the black-stone path. I follow. Our footsteps are silent.

Even so, floating glass orbs burst with flames—colors of blue, yellow, and red. It’s as if they alert the cathedral’s grounds to intruders. The sound of shattering glass startles me. But not Zymarc.

He continues forward. “This ShenawFayel is harder, because of who you are. His son. LanSoren never called me a friend. Yet I considered him to be mine.”

The white-stone cathedral trimmed with gold comes into focus. Deezalo’s Cathedral. Rather than having gargoyles, or angels and demons, or important figures for its statues of adornment, it is the golden statue of a bird. Images of the same kind of bird—an incalculable amount in this dim, colored light—are purposefully dispersed on the cathedral’s exterior to make the building look as a living, elegant thing. I know I’ve seen that bird somewhere, before. But where? I wonder.

A breeze drifts about the area, coming from the sides of the path. It howls as a strong wind, yet it has not the strength behind it.

Even so, the gate slams shut behind us.

I whirl around. Zymarc doesn’t. No one’s there. It’s just us. The two in ShenawFayel together. Turning to face the cathedral again, I glance to either side of the path. The courtyard has numerous black-stone walkways, and its grounds are filled with dead-looking trees of many sizes and shapes. They are encased in metal. Many colors of metals; gold, silver, bronze, iron, copper, brass, even some are as clear-crystal. They are beautiful and terrifying all at once, for, what if—like many of the things of this world—life can be breathed into them, and they can then decide to attack? Their branches are mighty thick, and those branch-tips are as pointed as freshly sharpened knives.

Zymarc interrupts my growing fear, to quietly say, “I miss that Ravier. Long for him, actually.”

My face gets hot. “Then why are you doing all this? If you ever cared about him, why are you tormenting his people?”