NIGHTSTRIDER: Book One of the Nightstrider Series

Half-TitleFull-TitleCopyrightDedicationText InsertProloguePart 1 - Steel And ShadowChapter - 1Text InsertChapter - 2Chapter - 3Chapter - 4Chapter - 5Chapter - 6Chapter - 7Chapter - 8Chapter - 9Chapter - 10Chapter - 11Chapter - 12Chapter - 13Chapter - 14Chapter - 15Chapter - 16Chapter - 17Chapter - 18Chapter - 19Chapter - 20Part 2 - Feather And BoneChapter - 21Chapter - 22Chapter - 23Chapter - 24Chapter - 25Chapter - 26Chapter - 27Chapter - 28Chapter - 29Chapter - 30Chapter - 31Chapter - 32Chapter - 33Chapter - 34Chapter - 35Chapter - 36Chapter - 37Chapter - 38Chapter - 39Chapter - 40Chapter - 41Chapter - 42Chapter - 43Chapter - 44Chapter - 45Chapter - 46Chapter - 47Part 3 - Snow And AshChapter - 48Chapter - 49Chapter - 50Chapter - 51Chapter - 52Chapter - 53Chapter - 54Chapter - 55Chapter - 56Chapter - 57Chapter - 58Part 4 - Ruin And WrathChapter - 59Chapter - 60Chapter - 61Chapter - 62Chapter - 63Chapter - 64Chapter - 65Chapter - 66Chapter - 67Chapter - 68Chapter - 69Chapter - 70EpiloguePronunciation GuidePlacesTermsAcknowledgementsAbout The Author Guide Cover Table Of Contents Title Page 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 NIGHTSTRIDER
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 NIGHTSTRIDER
 Book One of the Nightstrider Series
 Sophia Slade
 
 
 
 
 
 
 CALIDA LUX PUBLISHING LLC
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Copyright
 Copyright © 2022 by SOPHIA SLADE
 
 Cover Art by DIANA DWORAK
 
 Cover Formatting by DOCSHOT
 
 Published in the United States of America by Calida Lux Publishing L.L.C. 
 
 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
 
 ISBN 978-1-7321376-6-0 (paperback) 
 
 First Printing, 2022
 
 
 
 
 
 Dedication
 
 
 
 
 For Adam, my dream come true
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Please be advised that this book contains depictions of fantasy violence, death, and attempted sexual assault.
 
 
 
 
 
 Prologue
 Warwick
 
 The air was thick with the scent of decay. It seemed to shiver, recoil as King Warwick strode down the dank tunnel. He carried a torch to scatter the dark. The limitations of his human eyes were vexing indeed.
 Still, he walked as though he stood seven feet tall, a crown of bone on his head and a blade at his hip. 
 The King slowed as he approached his destination, a vast circular chamber drowned in shadow. He paused at the yawning entrance. Then, out of the abyss, a single quivering word.
 “H-hello?”
 Warwick stepped into the sanctum and touched his torch to the channel of oil set into the wall. It ignited, the flame following its path around the circumference of the room. Rivers of script climbed the stone walls, spiraling toward the cavernous ceiling in perfect rows. Thousands of years of history were entombed here, but the King had no interest in history.
 His sights were set on the future, on his divine right to dominate both worlds, and the path to that future was crumpled on the floor before him.
 “Good evening, little weaver,” Warwick said.
 The girl had barely reached maturity. Her cheeks were still round beneath her bruises. Her robes may have once been white but were now stained with blood and filth. She struggled to raise herself into a sitting position, her shackles clanking dully. 
 One of her eyes was swollen shut, purple and bulbous. The other was already filling with tears. 
 Satisfaction knifed through Warwick. He would never tire of that look. The haunted, guttering gaze of a prisoner inches from breaking.
 “Are you prepared to tell me where the weavers are hiding the dreambreaker?”
 The girl looked down and away, her matted blonde hair curtaining her face. Warwick cast his torch aside. It skidded across the floor and hit the wall with a crack, drawing a flinch from his prisoner. He started toward her from the edge of the room at a leisurely pace, allowing her fear to simmer. 
 “I grow weary, little weaver,” Warwick murmured as he arrived before her. 
 That was a lie. Her spirit was an unprecedented challenge but a welcome one. It had been a year since he had indulged this way. His last interrogation was a world away in a room a near mirror of this one. His last victim was born not of flesh and bone, but of a nightmare. 
 “I must admit, however, I am intrigued.”
 Warwick crouched before the girl and brushed a stiff lock of hair from her face. She recoiled from his touch, refusing eye contact. This close, he could see the layers of healing cuts and bruises beneath the fresh wounds. 
 “You weavers, so obsessed with the separation of the Wake and the Reverie.” His lip curled. “Insular fools.”
 The girl snapped her working eye to his, bloodshot and blazing.
 “The Boundary must never fall,” she rasped. “Too much contact between the worlds could unravel the fabric of reality.” 
 “Yet weavers walk between worlds at their leisure.” 
 “That’s different,” she snapped. “Unlike you, we close every door we open.” 
 “Unlike me,” Warwick repeated under his breath. “And what am I, little weaver?”
 The girl lifted her chin. Her split lip quivered, but when she spoke, her voice was steady.
 “You’re a mistake, an abomination. The night terror who lords over the Reverie. The one who wormed into the waking world and tried to claim it when his lust for power could not be sated.” 
 She tried to spit at him, but days without water worked against her. 
 “So the story goes,” Warwick acknowledged. “Indeed, walking between worlds is an uncommon gift. Tell me