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  Copyright © 2022 Text and formatting by J. A. L. Solski

  All rights reserved. The rights of the author J. A. L. Solski to be recognized as the author of this title has been asserted. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, stored, or transmitted in any manner, whatsoever, in any form or by any means, without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles, interviews and reviews.

  Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the authors imaginations or used fictitiously. Any resemblances to persons, living or dead, events or locations are entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2022 Cover Art by Cora Graphics

  Copyright © Depositphotos.com

  ISBN: 978-1-7772134-0-4

  First Printing, 2022

  Published by JALSBooks

  www.jalsbooks.wordpress.com

  Copyright © 2022 JALSBooks Publishing

  Copyright © Freepngs.com

  Ontario, Canada

  ETCH

  Stone Souls Book I

  J. A. L. Solski

  CONTENT WARNING:

  This book contains mature, graphic, and sexual scenes not suitable for all audiences.

  Reader discretion is advised.

  Venturing from the forested path to brave the mountainous one.

  It was terrifying.

  And it was worth it.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Prologue

  The town bell rang out. In the rafters, where the loud dongs echo, a shadow lurks in the darkness. A lone elf races, heedless of any dangers, towards the bell tower. Her dark hair flying behind her. Her legs pumping to the beat of the bell tolling. One question keeps ringing in her head, Where is my father?

  When she reaches the doors, she swings them open wide, making quick frantic observations. There were signs of war. The hall was piled full of corpses. Bodies someone deliberately dragged in here to hide from sight. It was a trap.

  So many elves, so many lives lost. The dark-haired elf’s eyes begin to water at the sight. One body in particular brings her to her knees. “Father.” she cries out loud, sobbing hard into her hands. He's gone, killed in action, and she can do nothing but let the blood soak her knees, and tears roll down her cheeks. As she mutters incoherently, a new thought takes shape in her mind, Who did this?

  The elf stands, new determination surging through her, she searched for a way to the bell that had tolled only moments ago. She would make whoever did this pay. Not only for her father, for every elf in this city, for every elf in Zoriya. This murderer would answer to her.

  She crept along a passageway to her left, and up the spiral stairs that led her to the top of the bell tower, towards the shadow. Moving with her back against the bricks, she pulled her longbow off, and held an arrow in hand. Stealthily she nocked the base against the string, leveled her fingers towards its point, brought it to half draw, and rested the line against her arm guard. She reached the door to the landing. Before she could consider her next course of action, the handle turned and the door opened.

  A shadow stood in the entrance, over their shoulder sat a bright red and gold bird the size of a small elf. The bird was the most entrancing thing she had ever seen. It shot towards her, and she let out a scream. The bow vibrated in her hand. A sensation she had never previously felt consumed her. The elven magic within her flowing differently. Before she knew it, her body moved to protect itself, as if she was a puppet on strings maneuvered by magic. It pumped her blood harder fueling the adrenaline that aided this new magic. Her body flashed into stance, walked the string rapidly into position, and fired.

  The arrow flew straight through the being, as if it were a mirage. The bird flapped overhead back towards the shadow, it turned and glared at the elf. Tiny fires danced in its eyes. The shadowy figure loomed like a reaper, gauzy black fabric covering their tall frame, darkness cloaking their face. They picked something up from a slab table near the gargantuan brass bell hanging above them.

  Whatever they had picked up began glowing pink through their thin wispy hand. Without warning golden flames burst from the item. It was growing, and growing. The light blinding. The tower shook and crumbled. The shadow laughed, watery gasping sound.

  The elf loosed another arrow, at the bird this time. It fell, turning to a pile of ash that still held a small glow. Running towards the cloaked being the elf threw her bow overhead, slinging it across her chest, and then leapt for the shadow. She grabbed the burning orb, tried to peel it from the shadows grasp, they wrestled with it in a foolish looking fit of yanking and tugging. The elf jerked hard, and the boney fingers broke free, she had whatever it was now. She felt her body fill with ferocious energy. She was being swallowed up by a flame, burning all around her. No, she was the flame. Flicking and snapping out of control. She began sweating from the raging heat.

  All at once, the pile of ash that had been the red bird became a flame as well. One that seemed to unfold in layers as it grew. Then, as the red-orange parts of the fire reached white, wings shot out and fanned the flames into the rest of its body, as it shook the last of the feathers smoothly into place the flickers of heat sizzled out. It was reborn.

  Black dots were drifting across the dunes on the horizon. She tried not to let them distract her from the fiery bird and their eerie master. The dots became more shadows, moving fast towards their location, and within mere minutes they floated up to the tower. Hundreds of new shadows leapt up from all around them, with flowing wispy bodies, some were rushing through the door, while others came swimming up from outside onto the open bell tower landing.

  In that moment, when all the shadows were floating around her, she let out a wail like the call of a siren. She sang fire out of her body, like a dragon breathing flame. She felt the waves of power in every note. Every beat of her heart a drum, leading her voice, until it felt like all of the air had been expelled from her lungs. The singing stopped abruptly then and the elf went slack. Sinking to her knees, still soaked in the blood of her kin, her magic depleted, her arms draped at her sides, knuckles resting upon the stone floor.

  She looked up to see what had happened but everything was a blur. The elf could barely make out the cloak that appeared to whirl off the edge of the terrace, before the red bird swooped to grab them mid jump, then they flapped off to the West. The other fainter shadows followed them. Like a wave of dark across the sandy dunes. All of them just drifting away. As the elf strained to watch them leave, eyes turning white with blindness, the shadows on the horizon grew fainter, and so did everything else.

  Chapter 1

  As Ilva walked briskly down the damp leaf covered paths, her wavy auburn hair swayed against her sun spotted cheeks. With amber eyes, she saw reflected flecks in the autumnal colours that were beginning to change. The Nilfin forest was exceptionally beautiful this time of year. Ilva’s favourite time of the year was fast approaching. She loved this part of the season, colour and nature. Although autumn also meant traditions and rituals, ones that mattered little to Ilva. Whenever she thought about spending time with her kin, she became acutely aware of her disapprobation. Her family was not what she felt a family was meant to be. She fixated on these thoughts as she also tried to find salvation in the nature encircling her.

  Ilva believed that families were meant to be something harmonious and happy. She wanted to laugh freely. Laughter at improper times, such as near her father, was strictly discouraged. “Stone elves must be stoic.” He would always say. Ilva saw the world through he
r emotions, which were often as unbridled as a wild beast, and she thought it was natural to feel this way when living with such confinement. Though most of the time she thought of others more than herself. She thought of why her father was such a stiff unless he was pining over her mother, why her mother looked so sad all the time, and why the elves in the village rarely seemed content.

  When it came to family, it was hard for Ilva to see her sentiments as anything but reasonable. She thought her father wasn’t a fair ruler, that he didn’t give the people anything they needed, and that her mother clearly wasn’t happy with him, but she was too afraid of persecution to leave. Then they had her, and they probably only had her for this one reason, to carry on a legacy. She was nothing but a name and a face. One that had to live with infuriating expectations and obligations.

  This is not how we should all be living. My father is a jerk, my mother is a coward, and this life is depressing. What do I do with it? What is my fate? She slumped down on a log beside the path, put her head back, and groaned miserably. Her face wrinkled in frustration, her mouth turned down with stress, she thought she might cry but she did not. After a few moments she hunched forward, resting her elbows on her knees, and placing one hand on her temple she thought hard about her situation.

  Ilva was one hundred and six. Old enough to attend the village festivities for the last half dozen years, but not yet old enough for adult ceremonies. It was at one hundred and fifty that she would be brought to the stone sanctum to ensure her lineage, through the induction to her craft, should she possess any magic. She would then be allowed to find a husband from a list of esteemed elves, and then they would be expected to produce an heir for the stone nation. I will be expected. To Ilva bearing children was a responsibility that weighed far heavier on her than it would on any future husband. Something she never wanted, and still didn’t want, possibly ever, was to have children. Nothing in my life will ever be a choice. Ilva almost began crying again. Then she stiffened her lips, got up, and started pacing.

  In order to be inducted she had to possess some sort of magical ability. Preferably stone. Which was rare among her kind. She estimated only a quarter of the village had the skill to use stone magic. She was afraid, being a bi-racial elf, that her magic might not manifest as stone. Her mother was a sylvite elf, and as lovely as sylvite was, Ilva thought her mother weak. She also knew her father would not be pleased if she wasn’t able to ensure stone lineage. He would likely be happier if she had no magic than to have her mother’s sylvite magic.

  The stone elves are currently the weakest and smallest of the nations, after the recent annihilation of sylvite as a nation, and the disappearance of the stolzite elves almost two centuries ago. The silver elves took over everything, stealing the sylvite artifact that provided the race their magic, draining sylvite elf powers. The weakened elves rebuilt, and there was peace again for over a century after the initial war, though the sylvites were resentful of their magicless lives. This last month a sylvite elf infiltrated Karna, stole the artifact back, and returned it to Mila. The silver elves were furious. They marched on Mila the next day. And wiped out every single soul.

  The rumors Ilva heard around the village say that the sylvites had tried to trap and attack the stone and silver elves in a building, no one from Mila survived this time. Ilva’s father was ordered to fight alongside the silvers during both battles. If he refused, he would have risked the safety of his own race. And so, he led the stone elves to war against Mila, upon his return much sorrow was felt when the death toll was realized. Our elves were the first line of defense on the battlefield, and our race had suffered the most casualties, aside from the enemy. The race my mother belonged to before the first act of war. And my father helped slaughter them all.

  Her father was a terrifying looking elf. With a large scar blinding his left eye in contrast to his ocean blue right eye, a mohawk of dark brown hair, a grin that sometimes gave Ilva nightmares. She respected her father. But did she love him? He always gave her a terrifying vibe when he was around. There was great distance between her and her parents.

  One thing is for sure, she thought, I will never let any children I’m forced to have feel this lonely and unloved.

  She strongly believed in love. That real honest kind of love which could nurture anyone. Heal any affliction. She even believed that any two elves could love each other if they tried hard enough. Maybe I can find love among my list of suitors, she soothed herself with small hopes. Wishing for a life where she would no longer need to act. As her heart beat against the inside of her chest, and she ached over the fear of her parents never loving her, or expressing anything other than negative emotions towards her, she became angry. As if I would get first pick. They’ll chose my husband for me. I get no choice. No choice. No choice! She raged and paced harder. She wanted to rebel from this, she wanted a life filled with truth and openness. I want out. I want to get away from this life. I don’t care what happens to any of them! I want to be free.

  She turned on her heel, despite her itching reservations, and began the trek back towards Falil. I’ll run away, she thought, I’ll run and hide somewhere deep in the Nilfin forest. They don’t love me enough to miss me, and even if they did it would take them centuries to find me in these wilds. It was almost a full day's run to get home from the edge of the wood. She had run all night, just for a glimpse of the sun rising through the canopy. Ilva didn’t mind spending her whole day running back to Falil. As she passed Ivarseas village she scanned it. Looking to see if anyone was staring at her, their lord’s daughter, running at full speed down the dirt path.

  Her father, Lord Ediv, was from Ivarseas village. He was lorded after the first battle with Mila, then he was appointed to live in Falil for ease of communication. Ilva thought Falil was a gossip ridden place. Negativity and judgement echoed in every corner. So, whenever she could, she would slip out for these runs, despite the danger. This run brought her the focus she needed to sort out her thoughts. Although, at times, that was easier thought than done. More often than not her thoughts would trouble her, as they did today. For all she could think about were her own judgements.

  Some days she wished for even more silence than that which the forest provided her. She wished to turn off the cruel voice within her head, which sounded like a mash up of all the elves who had ever criticized her. Crueler even were the original critiques that she created herself. How did I ever come to be so hard on myself? Ilva wondered this occasionally, yet those thoughts continued, over and over.

  The village came into view, far off in the distance, she was almost home. The last few hours passed by fast, Ilva thought. When you become lost in your mind, time becomes a relentless thief. New thoughts and fears bombarded her now. As the cobblestone path to Falil emerged, seemingly from under the dirt path, and dread crept over Ilva at the concept of being in this foreboding gloomy place, Ilva could think of only one thing; I just need to get through tonight. Then I’ll run one last time. Far away from all of this.

  Chapter 2

  Syli watched her daughter carefully, inspecting her movements for any falter. “Ilva!” she proclaimed loudly from the balcony overhead “Watch your steps. Angle your chin outward. Why are your toes pointing in?”

  Ilva was performing a dance that many her age had performed in her mother’s homeland. It was upon Ediv’s insistence that Syli teach Ilva how to be beautiful and intoxicating, in the hopes that more suitors would show interest. Image was everything. The dance involved a series of fluid soft movements, catching rays of sunlight in ornamental sylvite items, which would power the magic within the sylvite flecks of pinky orange. Her mother had sylvite encrusted fans, the very ones Ilva was using to practice now. Ilva felt no connection to the fans, and felt even less connection to the dance, but practice she must. Relentlessly.

  Her mother was a sylvite elf who took great pride in her heritage. Her kind were very few, and most were slaves in Marka, maybe a handful were respectfully married to silver elves. Ilva had never met another sylvite besides her mother. Syli was quite old fashioned. Ilva hated it. In fact, she hated it so much that no matter how much effort she put into the dance, it was passionless and forced. She would move too quickly, jerking her body, there was no grace to what she was doing. It wasn’t dancing.