Table of Contents

  Start

  Foreward

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Author's Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2022 by E.S. Barrison

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  E.S. Barrison

  www.esbarrison-author.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Content Warning: This book is rated 16+ due to violence, alcohol use, and language.

  Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com

  Architect of the Mist/E.S. Barrison. -- 1st ed.

  ISBN 979-8-9853634-8-7

  Dedicated to Grandma Rhoda & Grandpa David

  It’s hard to dedicate a story about a villain to two people I loved dearly. But you taught me everyone has a story.

  So I’ll tell this one too.

  al•ma•nac

  a publication containing astronomical or meteorological information, as future positions of celestial objects, star magnitudes, and culmination dates of constellations.

  Not all stories deserve a pedestal.

  Some belong in a drawer or buried in a hole.

  Forgotten.

  But I’m not in the business of forgetting stories.

  It wasn’t my choice to join the Council of Mist Keepers. Rather, fate thrust it upon me when my teacher, Caroline Walsh, brought me to the Library deep in the heart of the earth. This Library harbored more stories than I ever imagined.

  And soon, I would become one of their keepers.

  Yet the Library itself has a story far darker than the tales of the dead. Built by an architect with an obsessive vendetta, the Library was no sanctuary. Rather, this was the home of fallacies and domination.

  This was the home that the Architect built to hide.

  He did not build it to protect. No, he built it to torture and rule.

  I should have known when I first met the Architect, a duplicitous and manipulative man named Alojzy, that something was amiss. Alojzy wore a guise of composure, but behind that mask hid a man driven by a distorted ambition of divinity.

  At first, I didn’t notice. I was young and naïve, overtaken by the endless tales before me in the Library of my dreams.

  Only later did I realize the darkness that place held. Unleashing a monster was an accident, a mistake…but that monster unveiled the true nature of the Library and the prisoners it harbored deep within its crypts. With their escape came the stories the Council so desperately wanted to hide.

  And these stories flicker like a dim candle, begging to be extinguished.

  But it is my sworn duty to continue fanning the flame.

  With these candles in my hands, I bring you the fire of Alojzy's tale. I want to say I do not agree with this man. His cares have only ever been for himself and no one else. He will do what he needs to accomplish his goals, whether the cost is the lives of the innocent or their humanity.

  But now that I've chosen to tell his story, it will forever be part of me.

  Because I am the Story Collector.

  And I will not let the truth flicker into darkness.

  -Brenton Rob Harley

  Ninth Member of the Council of Mist Keepers

  The Story Collector

  On the eve of his twelfth birthday, Alojzy selected his god. His father led him out onto the Schanifeld, the black-and-white checkered field that extended beyond the border of Evylain, and there, he decided.

  Like all the children before him, Alojzy had waited for this day. He had picked apart his father's books, listened to his mother as she described their gods, and weighed his options in each hand. Whichever god he chose would define his life, and it was not a decision to take lightly.

  He stood on the edge of the Schanifeld beside his father, flowers decorating the field and guarded by the pine forest where he used to play. The time for fun and games ended the moment he selected his god, so he had to be prepared.

  This was it; this would begin his life.

  His father cleared his throat. “I apologize your mother cannot be here today, Alojzy. As you know, the war with Kainan continues to brew in the south.”

  “I understand, Father.” Alojzy laced his hands behind his back. He'd grown up with the constant nagging of war on the border, and his mother's routine disappearances no longer phased him. She joined the strongest men and women, the most powerful magicians, to fight off the Kainan foe. The reason for the war? Alojzy didn't know. No one really did. But throughout his life, the warning blared: the men of Kainan did not support Evylain’s gods.

  To avoid succumbing to the Kainan forces, Alojzy had to select one.

  His father removed a piece of paper from his pocket. He glanced over it before saying, “Today is the day, as decreed—”

  Alojzy interjected, “Father, I've already memorized the decree.”

  “It is customary, Alojzy. You should know that by now.”

  Alojzy huffed but didn't argue. The sooner this ended, the sooner he could choose.

  His father continued, “As decreed, on this day, the gods Leycie and Moltod ended their centuries of war to create a soul. So may it be that all of us and you–Alojzy Gorski, son of Gerick and Felcia—entered this world. But every soul enters this world on a gamble. This gamble was one indeed that Leycie and Moltod held dear: would you, Alojzy, choose the path that Leycie lay before you or the one that Moltod left instead? Would you choose a path of affirmations, of evidence, and of light? Or would you choose a path of independence, of abstract, and of night? They have waited all these years to hear your decision, holding their wagers close and their own prayers closer. Today is the day you choose that path. Truth or belief? Support or independence? White or black? The choice is yours. So be it.”

  Alojzy's father dropped the paper and turned to his son. His voice cracked when he murmured, “I hope you choose the right path.”

  Alojzy smirked at his father, bouncing on the balls of his feet. His heart pattered in his chest. As the excitement welled in his throat, he took a deep breath, pulling back his emotions before finally speaking, “Yes, Father. I have studied long and hard. I know my path.”

  “Very well,” his father’s expression straightened. “I shall turn my back. Your choice of god is yours alone to make. It is not my place to influence your decision.”

  Alojzy didn't move until his father turned away from him. While the choice of god was a private manner, families usually shared their decisions. His parents both had followed Leycie since their twelfth birthdays, and while this decision was his alone to make, his parents had pressured him silently his entire life to follow the path of Leycie. They would leave books out about the god, which Alojzy devoured with curiosity. They would whisper Leycie's prayer over dinner. Even at night, through the thin walls, Alojzy heard talk of their god.

  He had to admit, a god that built a kingdom from absolutes held its appeal. Why wonder when the truth was right in front of you?

  Why not fall into a deep support network?

  Why not stay in the light?

  But ever since Alojzy had been a child, the night called to him. He would sneak out into the streets just to count the stars. When his parents weren't around, he would borrow books about Moltod and read beneath his waning candlelight. Moltod made no promises; in Moltod's world, everything existed as a mere abstract. Nothing was definite.

  And Alojzy could build whatever world he wanted. He could escape the routine, redefine the definitive, and build his own castle.

  He'd known in his heart which god he would choose long before his twelfth birthday.

  Confidence welling in his chest, he marched onto the Schanifeld. The white and black flowers stroked at his ankles, beckoning him to either side. But he ignored their pulls, walking straight to the first fully black square and planting his feet in its center. He waited, letting the night air wrap around him.

  Part of him expected something grand, but Moltod had never been the type of god for resplendent gestures. Rather, a deep chill arched over his skin.

  It had to be Moltod whispering, “I'm here.”

  Alojzy took a knee, smiling to himself, then whispered, “And I shall stay. So be it.”

  The chill departed. One at a time, with the delicacy of a threading a needle, Alojzy removed one of the black-petaled flowers from the ground. He cupped it in his hands, brought it to his nose to sniff, then crumpled it in his palms.

  For a mo ment, beneath the moonlight, a dark smudge crossed his palms like blood.

  Then it vanished like smoke, securing him in the grasp of Moltod.

  Alojzy wore his god close to his chest. Whenever his parents mentioned Leycie, he merely smiled, often complimenting their god's prowess but never giving away his loyalty. It was a private matter. Even if his parents would continue their love for him, he knew that if they found out he followed Moltod, disappointment would follow their every step.

  He said his prayers in private, bowed his head in subservience, and gathered the pieces of his future with precision. With Moltod as his guide, a voice of question and abstract, he navigated the pathway to his future.

  He buried himself in books, reading about the castles and fortresses built in Moltod's name. In the dark of night, with a single candle burning, he would sketch out his own stronghold. Beside each image, he detailed a personal crest: the headless body of Moltod sitting upon a throne, letting the world change while his rule remained.

  Alojzy did not let his imagination exist only on paper. Most days, he ventured into the forest. There, he built a private altar that mimicked his dream, where he would pray to Moltod without his parent’s knowledge. In the forest, by Moltod’s hand, he learned.

  He dove into the prayers, but he also observed. In the shadows, he lurked as young lovers met outside of wedlock, as soldiers trained without supervision, and as the men of Kainan built campsites on the Schanifeld.

  The Schanifeld existed as the battlefield between Evylain and Kainan, with the town of Freiborn serving as its guard. Alojzy’s parents warned him of those men; they called them slurs and profanities, halfhearted worshippers of the gods. But curiosity always struck Alojzy.

  After constructing his miniature altar each day, he’d ventured to the edge of the forest to watch the Kainan soldiers as they left their battles with the fighters from Evylain. At first, he kept his distance, but as he spied on them, he became in tune with their humanity. These men of Kainan prayed to Moltod like he did, built their altars each night, and sang songs around the fire.

  His fear of the men from Kainan deteriorated, and each day, he moved slightly closer to the campsite. Finally, he could hear them from his hiding spot. They spoke the same Ainan language as his own people, though their accent was slightly thicker, as if food always filled their mouths. Laughter bellowed as they gathered, roasting rabbits over the fire and throwing jugs of bier in the air.

  Alojzy kept his distance.

  Moltod preached patience. With patience, he could create; with patience, he had an eternity.

  So Alojzy listened to their prayers.

  And one day, a certain prayer struck him. A Kainan Kapitän preached by the fire just within Alojzy’s earshot. He said, “And so Moltod departed, patiently waiting for the day of Leycie’s surrender, with his angels on his heels. For one day, Leycie, she will submit. She will be his again. For everything returns to Moltod.”

  “But Leycie is powerful,” a subordinate argued. “She will overcome us.”

  “What you are saying is propaganda from Evylain. That Leycie and Moltod are equal is repulsive. Leycie is not powerful; she is a temporary force that will always submit to the eternity that is Moltod’s realm.”

  “You talk of Leycie like she is a woman. But she is a god. She is powerful. She won’t just submit to us.”

  The Kapitän smacked the younger man across the face.

  Alojzy winced at the sound.

  The Kapitän then snarled and spat, “It is those like you who make Moltod weak. Put your faith in our god, for he guides us through this war.”

  “An endless war,” the younger man grumbled.

  “Because you lack faith. Evylain survives because they believe Moltod and Leycie are equals. The moment they learn Leycie is no god, our war may end. Instead, they choose to divide their people, allow them to choose their faith. Half of them believe Leycie brings peace, but her inability to be daring only creates chaos. It leads to the misuse of magic, to the creation of monsters, and to the abandonment of sense.” The Kapitän paced around his subordinate. “Which you, Herr Pavlov, seem to have forgotten.”

  “I only ask questions.”

  “Perhaps you ask questions because you, too, want to follow Leycie.”

  “No. I am loyal to Moltod and Kainan.”

  “Then prove it.”

  The Kapitän handed Herr Pavlov a knife. Herr Pavlov stared at it for a moment, then lifted the knife and stabbed himself in the leg. The man winced but didn’t move, letting the blood drip from his leg.

  The Kapitän nodded and took the knife back. “That’ll do, Herr Pavlov. Thank you.”

  Alojzy watched as the men continued their meal as if nothing had happened. They knew so much about Moltod; were the books in Evylain hiding the truth? Did Moltod really deserve to be worshipped by everyone?

  Perhaps. He chose Moltod, after all.

  Alojzy didn’t want to risk being seen by these men. As they returned to their meal, he slinked back into the forest. His altar waited for him, as always. Designed to look like a castle with a sketch of Moltod’s headless body staring straight at him, it beckoned him, demanding he show his loyalty.

  Alojzy paused, then raised his hand and scraped it against the bark of a nearby tree. Blood gathered in the center of his palm.

  He held his hand over the altar and squeezed it tight.

  Three drops of blood fell, landing on the sketched crest of Moltod himself, like a quiet prayer.

  Alojzy couldn't keep his beliefs hidden from his family forever. His constant disappearance into the forest came with questions, and occasionally, he even found the words of the men from Kainan on his lips. He admired their determination and power, their utmost respect for Moltod. After all, Moltod survived even in darkness; Leycie relied solely on the unfounded belief of her worshippers.

  But he couldn’t say that to his parents.

  If they found out he had been listening to the Kainan warriors, what might they do? His mother was a member of the Evylain Army; she certainly wouldn’t let him continue his treason.

  Alojzy concocted an array of possibilities each day, building each one out of the ashes of the next. His mother could send him to jail. They might brainwash him into believing in Leycie, or perhaps it might even mean death. At his altar each day, he asked Moltod for clarity. Alojzy understood better than anyone that Moltod would continue to mull in the abstract as if locked deep in a fog of night and death. Moltod did not decide the path of life. Rather, Moltod let the world thrive in chaos, then collected the souls from the ashes to build his kingdom.

  For those who followed Leycie, the thought was hard to fathom. But Alojzy recognized the truth: Moltod was the master of death.

  He almost let it slip one day over dinner with his parents, but to his relief, they didn’t say a word.

  At least not until soon after his fifteenth birthday.

  One day, upon leaving the forest after another day of spying on the men from Kainan and praying to his altar, he found his father walking home from the small fortress owned by the notorious Goryl Family. A resplendent structure that towered above the rest of the town of Freiborn, the Goryl family marked the town with prosperity. All because three hundred years earlier, the Dame Boguslawa Goryl led the fight against the men of Kainan in a battle. Her army fought back for weeks, and ultimately, the men of Kainan retreated, never to infiltrate the northern city again. Even now, the Kainan opposition avoided Freiborn, and the Goryl Family maintained a place of honor in the city even after all these years, with their matriarchs holding the gavel of war.

  Alojzy slowed upon seeing his father leaving the Goryl home. His father caught sight of him at once. “Ah, Alojzy, my son. Where were you?”

  “The forest, as usual, Father.” Alojzy eyed his father closely. “More importantly, what are you doing here?”

  His father laughed. “I am sure you know that I have been repairing Herr Sauer and Dame Goryl's shoes for many years now.”

  “Yes, but never in their home. They send their servants.”

  His father laughed again. “Well—”

  “Father, please do not lie to me.” Alojzy crossed his arms. This is what you get for following Leycie, Father. You think people will have your back and pass you affirmations. That is not the way the world works.

 

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