Arcane Gateway - Prologue

OK, here we go. Finally. 

✨🥳 I have the freedom to do this because I am NOT in Kindle Unlimited! ✨🥳 

In hopes of inspiring more of you to buy my freaking book, I'll be uploading the first batch of chapters over the next few days/weeks. If you like what you read, you can support me by purchasing Arcane Gateway from your favorite online store at the link in my bio.

I lounged on the banks of the pool in our inner gardens, without a care in the world, on the day when Augustin first insisted that I should write out the story of my life. His suggestion took me completely off guard, for of the two of us, he is the writer and I the musician. I tilted my head toward where he rested beneath our silver oak tree with a sketchbook in his lap, his cobalt eyes focused on the page before him, his right hand directing the pen with an artistry that forever enchanted me. “Are you being serious?” I questioned, thinking of all of the volumes he had recorded for history’s sake. “Pretty sure my life story wouldn’t interest scholars.” 

Augustin chuckled at my assertion. “As true as that may be, you have told me many times that in your century especially, people enjoy reading the stories of . . . how would you say it . . . tragic heroines? Flawed saints, perhaps?” He looked toward me with a wry expression. 

I scoffed quietly and turned my head around to face the pool, lightly tracing its waters with my fingertips. “Sure, I could call it ‘Annals of the Teuton Witch.’ From purity to degeneracy. Definitely a bestseller.” 

“Ach, Swanhilde, you ought not to assume the worst. You need to write out your story because your life has been very momentous.” I looked back toward him, and he clarified, “I doubt too many other young women have bent the threads of time in an eternal quest for the truth.” His fiery blue eyes seemed to carry a silent rebuke, and his pen no longer beautified his page. 

I could not argue that point, but I gave the traditional response. “Everything worked out in the end.” 

He smiled darkly and appended my declaration with another inarguable point. “To an extent.” 

I sighed, knowing that I was beginning to give in. “Why don’t you write it instead?” I hedged. “I mean, you’re the experienced chronicler, anyway. It would read a lot better if you wrote it.” 

“I have written enough over the years for history’s sake,” he replied. “I have chronicled our recent history and my own discoveries in more than one language, but it is all from my perspective. I am sure that many Teutons in your century would be curious to read our recent history from a female perspective.” 

I chuckled, though he might have been right. “I don’t know. Some Teutons in the modern era are still really old fashioned, especially the ones who care at all about the past. A lot of people still haven’t gotten over the gender gap.” I frowned. 

Augustin smiled in a cynical fashion. “We know that they never will. In spite of this, I am certain that in the future there will be at least one Teuton who would be very interested in reading your history.” He nodded significantly at me. 

With those words, I abruptly understood his purpose. I shook my head a bit in shock, then stared over at him. “You’re thinking of my son.” 

Augustin nodded again. “Well, someone needs to think of him. You never told him the entirety of your story, did you?” I acknowledged the truth of this, and Augustin finished, “I think he is one person who deserves to know all of it. I am sure that he would view both himself and you in a more positive light, should he discover the motives behind your decisions. And who knows? With his position, he may be able to share your story with others, even with outsiders.” 

“Outsiders?” I repeated the word with a touch of skepticism. “They’d think my story was just a fantasy novel. No one in my era believes in magic.” 

“I pity their narrow-mindedness.” Augustin had returned to his drawing, his right hand adding sweeping strokes to the page in his lap. 

“What language should I use when I write it?” I asked, turning my attention back to the cirrus clouds flecking the sky above. “Teutonica?” 

“If you want your son to share your story, I would suggest using whichever language is the most widely understood.” 

“American English it is,” I said in the same tongue, snickering at memories of the days I had spent in southern New Jersey. 

“I was thinking of Latin, actually.” I burst out laughing, and when I looked at Augustin he rolled his eyes at me, his expression clearly revealing his thoughts on the modern era. He belonged in another one entirely. 

Now here I sit at Augustin’s writing desk, surrounded by his pens, inkwells, and sheets of parchment, contemplating the task of putting my life story into words. How long will it take me to fully explain my life? How long will I compose words on these sheets before I deem my story complete? So many events swirl in my head, and I do not know where or when to begin . . . . 

Max. Though you may not refer to yourself that way anymore, when you find this record someday I want you to know that I have never cared much for tradition. I have cared only that the truth be discovered, and that the Teutons finally appreciate how special a people they are. If my record is to be read only by you and others of your ilk, my writing is not in vain. In my heart, you will always be Max, my son . . . just as Augustin will always be Augustin. In your hands, my son, you hold the keys to our people’s future along with the means to break a piteous cycle. They must understand the past to face today.

This record is for you.