Cursed:
The Hunter Inside
Publisher: Parliament
House Press
A
war rages between kings and clans for centuries, their nations split
and their kingdoms fallen. Caught in the midst of poverty and bedlam,
twenty-year-old Aldor faces a choice. Should he leave home and start
his life anew, or stay and protect what little he has?
Aldor
has only made one friend in his life and has never seen a legendary
creature before. As soon as he steps beyond his door, he finds
himself an outlaw, hunted by creatures of pure fantasy.
Forced
into joining a team of misfits in a race to recover a sacred, lost
stone, Aldor finds unexpected friendships and adventure. But just as
things start to look promising, disaster strikes, wielding the
unexpected and the terrifying!
Aldor's
life will never be the same as he struggles with true feelings of
fear, loss, love, and suffering for the very first time
EXCERPT
It
hurts. There isn't a way to describe a stab-wound that justifies it,
so that'll have to do. It was a close call – being pinned down to
the floor like an insect to a ruddy scientist's board, nor was it an
experience I'd recommend. If it wasn't for Jethro, once the metal
entered my skin, it would've been over within a heartbeat. Glimpsing
Farthan's smirk but unable to hear his words as he screeched—a
brittle sound—was enough for me. It’s been days. Days since the
bloody squeals of arrows, chains, and pullies… like the gateway to
hell started, and I’d be lying if I’d told you it hasn't been
pandemonium. It’s hard to remember where we came from or where
we’re going, King Jethro, the troops, and I as we cower between the
only thing between us and Farthan: a rock wall not a meter thick.
Every time the sun is snuffed out, we see nothing; rock behind, death
ahead. Having Farthan gut me like a fish last night made me wonder –
There
wasn’t anything else. The rest of the narrative was splattered with
far too much blood for comfort. Crimson stains seared away the rest
of the lettering like a burn charring flesh, little droplets here and
there dotting the i’s for Rowan as a favor. It was the last thing
the man had written since the demolishing of Bishopthrope Citadel.
Like most stories, good had won in the end. Shortly after Rowan’s
death, King Jethro had been able to rally his troops to victory
against Farthan and the army he'd bred himself. Orcs hadn’t been
used as an asset of war since ancient times, but Farthan had figured
how to change that quickly.
The library
was a greasy place. That's probably the reason why Aldor never got
into books. He hadn't thought it possible for firelight to look
sticky, but the torches lining the walls of the dungeon-like
athenaeum certainly did. Books. Crackling. Papercuts. Old ladies.
Ugh,
definitely
not the best place in the world.
Aldor
closed the script gently and shoved it behind the counter again. Two
things got him the special privilege of having access to the real
archives hidden in the library: being Rowan's son and having Prince
Jonathan as his best friend. Some people argued that Aldor was only
Jon's friend because of the benefits, but seeing as Aldor didn't have
the guts to interact with anyone else, that speculation dissolved
quickly.
A good
eighteen years had come and gone since his father had passed away,
and now all Aldor could do to be sure Rowan existed once was stare at
his blood drippings that dotted the manuscripts. Despite the wounds
carved into the teeth of mountains and the marks searing the moors,
it was like Eldoran had fallen asleep. Orcs hadn’t been seen in
nearly two decades and civilians were off their guard. It was like a
curtain that had briefly encircled the world was thrown back. No one
second-guessed another’s intentions, the smog of war rendered the
north completely untouched. His heels slapped the library floor, the
echo of his footsteps strangely satisfactory as he strode through the
corridors. The light poured in now and poked his eyes, having to
adjust to the brightness of the world above ground.
Aldor was
pleased to say that he had more to life
than studying ancient scripts. Aldor lived in Dagon, a northern
agricultural realm, for longer than he could remember. Glen, his
nurse from infancy, told him so. His world was composed of the empty
plantations stitched together by hedges and nothing else. The hunger
for change burned in his belly whenever he saw the guards ride into
the forest that enclosed the tiny bubble he called home. He hated it.
He hated the feeling because it couldn’t be contented.
His head
was too busy to notice much of the market, so all the faces, sounds,
and sights were only smears of memory. The market stood in a vast,
cobblestone square, circled by dense forest on all sides. The Castle
is a bit monstrous with gargoyles to match, looming several thousand
feet high, its spirals tickling the sky's underbelly. Shops crowded
around a dense sea of bodies and noise. There were no gaps between
the stalls. The mingling smells of sweet blood from the butchers,
sweat, and spices could've been overwhelming if Aldor wasn't so used
to it.
“Oi!
Watch it!”
Aldor
dipped his head apologetically, slipping through people making him
stagger. “Sorry, sorry!”
He slunk
along the edge of the town and out of way, moving into the forest.
Noises of a different life set apart from the turmoil of the city
enveloped him as he shifted into trees. It was soothingly dark, the
harsh eye of the sun cast a glare on the trees which absorbed it into
a dense canopy. The forest, though mostly feared, was often taken for
granted as a sort of protection. It kept things out. The natural wall
was thick, and no one ever ventured in there—except for Aldor, Jon,
and the king's patrols, which was a rare thing to see in these days
of plenty.
The blue
thread of the river gushed through the woods nearby, slicing Dagon
neatly in two before moving on to join the River Everlasting farther
down. Parts were more lax than others, and that was exactly where
Aldor found him. The heavy sword on his belt made Jon look more
intimidating than he really was. He was a princely figure. Literally.
Jon hated being the king’s grandson, but that wouldn’t stop his
ceremony of becoming admiral. A ceremony which was to take place that
night. Aldor was proud of himself because he hadn’t forgotten.
About
the Author
Casey M.
Millette, sixteen, has been into writing since she was five. Her love
of The
Lord of the Rings and
The
Chronicles of Narnia has
inspired her to write the Cursed
series.
Casey lives just outside Atlanta, Georgia with her family and cat,
Hudson. You can follow her on the Casey M. Millette Facebook page,
Instagram, and her website: www.caseymmillette.com.
Contact
Links
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