Lyra is a girl caught in the middle. The demon warlord, the Scourge, has lain siege to the capital city of Zaanefra with his multitude of inhuman henchmen. The citizens of Zaanefra are outnumbered beyond imagination, but the King and his advisor, Loremaster Arken, are convinced they’ve got a weapon to turn the tide: her. Lyra has the legendary gift of Sight, a thing attributed only to the powerful Prophets of old, men and women who wielded the Silver Scepter of Truth to maintain and protect balance in the land. But Lyra’s gift weakens her with every use, and she’s already lost an awful lot to this war; her family, her friends, and her home were destroyed by the Scourge on his march of conquest. Is she about to lose herself too?
Echelon Press LLC, June 2008.
“I swear to you I’m not the one!”
Lyra looked up at Arken, the Loremaster, from the floor of the palace Hall. Scourge forces had destroyed her home, her family, everything she’d ever known on their march of conquest. Now, as if that weren’t enough, the powers of her own country, her homeland, insisted she was the lost Prophet! Lyra hid her face in her hands as tears escaped her eyes. She pressed her back against the stone armory wall. She had the fabled Sight, it was true, but her seer’s skills were nothing compared to what the Prophets of old possessed. The Sight weakened her every time she called on it, leaving her an unconscious lump of flesh on the floor. Outside she could hear the chants of the Zaanefran citizens, The Prophet has come, The Prophet has come. The echoes rang hollow in her ears; what could an unconscious lump of flesh do to save anyone?
“You have the Sight.” He towered over her, arms folded into the ample sleeves of his green robe.
“I’m not the one,” she insisted, turning her clear gaze to meet his, pleading.
“The prophecy has stood for over fifty years.”
“You’re mistaken!” Lyra shook her head back and forth, her thick brunette hair sweeping across her shoulders.
“The shadow is falling; the Scourge is at our door! Pick up the Scepter and accept your role-your responsibility to this country!”
Lyra clenched her fists, grinding her fingernails into her palm. Before her lay the Scepter, the Silver Scepter, the magical item wielded only by the Prophet. She wanted to break it over her knee. The sight of it offended her eyes, and she was tired of having it thrust in her face at every opportunity.
“I will not be a pawn!” she shrieked….