Dark Origins Read online

  Dark Origins

  The Dark Ones Saga

  by Rachel Van Dyken

  Copyright © 2022 RACHEL VAN DYKEN

  www.RachelVanDykenAuthor.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  DARK ORIGINS

  Copyright © 2022 RACHEL VAN DYKEN

  ISBN: 978-1-957700-02-1

  Cover and Interior Design by Jill Sava, Love Affair With Fiction

  Editing by Kara Hildebrand and Jill Sava

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Dark Origins

  Prologue

  Part One: The Beginning Of It All

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Part Two: The Downfall

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Want More RVD?

  About The Author

  Also By Rachel Van Dyken

  DEDICATION

  Thank you so much to everyone who’s been on this Dark Ones journey with me!

  It started as a passion project and turned into something even greater!

  DARK ORIGINS

  There was a time before time.

  Time where nothingness existed, where the only thing in the universe was the creators’ breath and their first creation.

  They ruled the cosmos, and as the creators continued creating more and more planets, they made one they favored most.

  It was magnificent.

  They called it the Crown of Creation.

  But the problem with giving something a name, they soon found out, was that they made it more unique than the others—those they had failed to care enough about to name.

  Up until that point, there was perfection.

  Hate didn’t exist.

  Only love.

  But the day the creators favored earth—jealousy was born.

  And jealousy, as they soon discovered, will always become the father of hate.

  PROLOGUE

  Sariel

  The wind whips at my cheeks in an angry manner that I feel all the way down to my core. It won’t hurt me, the wind, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel its effects. If I was home, in my birthplace, I would feel nothing but the pressure of it against my face and the pleasure of feeling it sing through the air.

  Not the case on the mountain.

  On the mountain, you feel everything—emotional, physical, painful.

  Sometimes being a Watcher sent by the creators feels more like a punishment than a reward.

  They sent down their best archangels—my brothers and me—to guard a mountain deep in Siberia.

  Or at least what would one day be called Siberia, according to the creators.

  They said it was important.

  So here we stand.

  Here we’ve been standing for already a thousand years.

  Time goes by slower down here than it does in the heavens; what feels like a thousand years down here feels merely like a year up there.

  I know I’m not the only one amongst my brothers who feels forgotten, but we trust in the creators. It’s an honor to be given a job in the first place, guarding their precious planet.

  I almost scoff; nothing precious about this bitter cold.

  I bite my tongue and blink, staring down at the humans as they carry about their days.

  Sometimes I play games in my head and make up stories about their lives, and other times I just go into a trance while standing as still as possible.

  I know they can see us because every year when the cold chill melts and life begins anew, the village gathers at the foot of the mountain. A fire is lit, and one of the elders tells the story of how we became their protectors.

  The story has changed over the years from us being gods to angels, and back again, this year we’re the gods of old sent to protect their magical little village because they have a great purpose, bigger than anyone else in the world.

  So typical of humans.

  To think that they’re more special than any other creation. As if these humans have seen the billions of stars that sing at night—because, of course, they never stop long enough to truly look up, they will never be still enough to hear.

  They don’t know that they’re constantly surrounded by a planet that sings the praises of its creation—it’s wasted.

  I bite my tongue again.

  They’re getting the village ready for our origin story, and even though all of us are used to it, I can feel the tension radiating from all one hundred and ninety nine of my brothers as we stand even more still.

  Taller.

  Stronger.

  More radiant.

  Our golden armor shines against the stars in the sky, reflecting the way they burn and shine.

  Just like their purpose is to sing.

  Ours is to watch.

  I hold my sword tightly between my fingertips, my black hair falls across my back, blowing in the wind.

  I imagine we look like a golden army set to destroy them when we’re a golden army sent to save them.

  From what?

  It’s the question we all ask from time to time. My brothers and I have connected thoughts if we will it—thank the gods; otherwise, we’d be bored.

  I’ve been playing a guessing game with Bannik going on a hundred years—he’s losing.

  No matter how well we guard—the creators don’t come.

  I flinch—not many would notice it; the humans certainly don’t as I see her out of the corner of my eye. I’ve seen her hundreds of times, actually thousands, quite possibly ten thousand-seven-hundred and twenty-seven times.

  And each time—something in my chest feels like it’s going to burst. My heart beats faster, my soul takes flight—and alarmingly enough, the songs of the stars become harder to hear, my focus weakens because all I can concentrate on is her laugh.

  It’s beautiful.

  It reminds me of the songs of the stars, and for one brief second as she moves to sit in front of the fire and hear whatever story the elder is about to tell—I feel free.

  She looks up at me often.

  As if I’m her own guardian angel rather than a part of an army sent here to watch.

  I blink.

  I feel she sees it.

  I am a Watcher.

  So I watch—her.

  I know I have been called. I just wish I knew my destiny, my purpose—even though my soul screams at me that I already know my purpose.

  So why do I want to take a step toward her?

  Just as the children sit around their parents and the girl I watch sits by the fire, a noise breaks out.

  She screams.

  I flinch again.

  I hear the cries of my brothers in my mind as we watch in horror. Someone is burning down their village.

  “We must do something!” Bannik shouts in my mind.

  Azeel starts to wail. “The children, they’re taking the children!”

  “We can’t!” Uzza shouts. “We will be punished!”

 
“They’re being punished!” I hear their screams. I watch them die.

  I grip my sword.

  And as for hundreds of years before, as the tide comes, the sun rises, the moon follows.

  We do nothing.

  But watch.

  PART ONE

  THE BEGINNING OF IT ALL

  ONE

  Helena

  “It’s gone.” I sit in my tent and rock back and forth. Not only is our elder dead but half our village is destroyed.

  Children were murdered before my eyes.

  And they did nothing.

  Our heroes.

  The Watchers of the mountains did nothing!

  Why were they put there if not to help us? Not one of them drew their swords. I’d been warned not to look to them as much as I did, but I believed that they were there for a purpose, just like I believed I was born for a reason.

  Tears are mixing with dirt and soot on my face as I sit there and stare at the ashes from my fire.

  I can’t eat.

  Sleep won’t come.

  And I’m angry.

  I’m so angry I want to run up to the mountain and shout at them. The trek would take too long though, at least a day in the freezing cold and ice.

  “Helena!” my father yells my name. “Hurry!”

  I scramble out of the tent and fall to my knees as my cousin lays dying in his arms. “Save her! You have to save her!”

  I’m the only healer our village has.

  I’ve spent years collecting herbs, trying to do the best I can.

  “I can’t,” I finally whisper as I press my fingertips to her cold skin. She has burns up and down her arms and legs, her breathing is shallow. “But”—a tear falls onto her face—“I know someone who can.”

  Everyone around me gasps.

  “Who?” Father asks. “What great healer do you know?”

  I stand to my feet, look up to the mountain and say, “Them.”

  I know he’ll try to stop me.

  I know they’ll all try to stop me.

  But it’s my cousin.

  It’s my people.

  My people.

  My village.

  My life.

  And. They. Did. Nothing.

  So I’m going to die trying to make them do something and know that my sacrifice won’t be in vain. Not if it can save her, not if it can save us.

  No, it won’t be in vain.

  I wait for everyone to fall asleep in their tents and start to pack enough food for the trek up, not enough for the trek down.

  This won’t be a trip where I will be returning; I know somewhere in my soul that I’ll be punished.

  It will be worth it.

  To see her walk again, to smile, it will be worth it, won’t it?

  The elder told stories of magical powers that the people who watch possess, that they keep their powers, unwilling to use them on humans for fear of retribution.

  My opinion is that they’re selfish, rich, gods, standing on a mountain because they’re bored with life in Heaven.

  Their armor is pure gold, it gleams and shines down on our village during the sunny days, and in the winter, it burns so bright it’s like having our very own sun of protection.

  But that’s all they’ve given.

  So now it’s time to take.

  “Goodbye,” I whisper to my father as I lift the flap of the tent and wrap more wool around my head and torso.

  When I look up, I see only golden helmets and what looks like dark hair. I see massive swords at their sides and expressions of silence, if that could be an expression.

  I wonder if they’ve talked in the hundreds of years they’ve been here?

  With a deep breath, I start walking to the edge of the village, where the mountain starts to get steep.

  With one last look behind me, I turn toward the golden army.

  And start to climb.

  TWO

  Sariel

  “Did you see?” Bannik whispers in the darkness so only I can hear him. It’s the first time his voice has reached my ears in hundreds of years, yet lightning doesn’t strike down, and the creators do not come.

  “I see.” My voice is raspy like it’s filled with cobwebs or just waking up from a deep sleep.

  “We should not be talking out loud.” Azeel reminds us.

  I almost roll my eyes which makes me laugh—when was the last time I wanted to laugh anyway?

  Have I ever?

  I admit it’s what’s made me jealous of humans, they laugh, they play, they dance, they sing.

  The songs of the stars start to fade again, so I straighten my spine and continue to watch the tiny, pretty, little human make her way slowly up the mountain.

  She’s brave.

  So brave.

  Not to just attempt the twelve-hour climb—but to face us in our presence like this. To look upon an archangel Watcher is death.

  Humans and angels don’t mix.

  We aren’t supposed to for a reason that again has been hiding in the creators’ great wisdom.

  She’s smaller than us by at least a foot and a half, if not more.

  Her hair is pretty, black, long down her back, and her eyes are like the blue of the oceans. I shouldn’t know any of those things.

  I’m not the only one who’s distracted, who’s watching the human as well as the mountain while she climbs.

  “Impossible. She’ll never make it,” Dagon says in an even sturdy tone.

  “Is everyone breaking rules tonight?” Azeel grumbles.

  “What do you think will truly happen, brother?” Bannik scowls. “You think they will come even then?”

  “It’s an honor to watch their creation,” Azeel says.

  He lets out a sigh I think we all feel. “What if this is our punishment?”

  “What did we do wrong?” Uzza asks lightly. “This is our job. We don’t question why. We simply watch, remember when our focus leaves its purpose—you lose yourself.”

  It’s a reminder I need—I think we all need. We’ve only ever fought over flying back to Heaven once—it was after one of the great wars.

  There were so many deaths.

  So much sorrow.

  Part of me didn’t want to exist anymore—I wasn’t the only one.

  “Well, look at that,” Bannik says as the top of the woman’s head fills our line of sight.

  She’s about a quarter of a mile away from us.

  None of us speak.

  We’ve all lost the ability as the tiny human stomps through the snow, tumbling into it, nearly freezing to death. Her teeth are chattering, her fingers are turning a bright purplish red.

  “She won’t make it,” Dagon says again.

  “Shut up, Dagon.” I snap.

  My brothers go quiet.

  I’m the calm one, after all.

  My heart feels like it’s beating out of my chest as she continues to walk despite the bitter wind, the frost forming on her tiny eyebrows, and the fact that she will never survive the walk back down the mountain.

  Still. This human walks.

  Stunned stupid, I stand in the middle, a bit farther out than my brothers, as we constantly change formations and let each person lead every hundred years; it’s my turn to stand there, to lead The Watchers.

  Her eyelashes are dark; they’ve caught both tears and flakes of snow. She doesn’t cower when she looks upon our faces.

  And in a moment that I had no idea would change the course of the universe and time itself—I turn my head.

  And all I see.

  Is her.

  THREE

  Helena

  I must be delirious.

  I thought they were statues I would set my food on. People I would worship as stone. I thought that they didn’t have faces, only armor.

  I thought them—golden gods I would worship with fire and beg for healing.

  These are men.

  They are breathing, living, beings.

  They’re also enormous, seven
or eight feet tall. Muscular and the most beautiful beings I have ever laid eyes on.

  They look like they’ve been carved effortlessly out of the mountain themselves, with olive-toned skin, sharp jaws, full lips, and eyes that are both a mixture of blue and green.

  Their hair blows in the wind beneath their helmets, long, like black silk that changes in the light from white to black then back again.

  I have next to no time.

  I drop my small bag of food and start walking toward the one in the middle. The rest of them do a slight shift that I can barely see as they look toward him. Is he their leader? Someone else? Important?

  I have no time. I know that now.

  I have to worship.

  I have to serve.

  I have to sacrifice.

  I grab my bag from the ground where I just dropped it and stumble toward the giant in the middle. He’s a god, isn’t he? There’s no other explanation. My legs hurt as I move through the deep freezing snow, and yet I keep going. I’m numb as I finally fall at his feet.

  His gold armor coats his legs, his toes; every part of him seems to be gleaming in something other, something not of this world.

  I take a deep breath and slowly pull out a few biscuits I’d cooked the day before. They’re cold, they won’t even taste good, but I lay them at his feet, and I follow with a few pieces of beef.

  Finally.

  Finally, I grab the small bottle of wine and dump it across him. I take one piece of the biscuit, dip it in the wine, and eat it. “My sacrifice to you. Will be my life. Save one of my own and…” Tears well in my eyes as I look into his. “I am yours. All of me.”

  I hear a gasp to his side.

  He flinches.

  His nostrils flare like he’s angry enough to kill me, but something passes between us, something tangible that I can’t actually describe.

  “Rise, human,” he commands.

  I don’t hesitate.

  He grabs my arm and then jerks away.

  I frown.

  He looks down at his fingers like he’s been burned, then back at me. “Sorcery?”

  I almost laugh because it’s so ridiculous. “I’m merely human.”

  He stares me down. “No. No…”

  His brothers start to whisper amongst themselves.