The Sins of Silas (The Light And Shadow Chronicles Book 3)

Book summary

In the streets of Belkeep, poverty and an age-old conflict with the Children of Light grip the land. Silas Wilder, born into royalty, rejects the distant battles in favor of addressing the city's pressing issues: homelessness, disease, and destitution. Known as the 'Champion of the Slums,' he fights to give purpose to those in need. However, destiny intervenes when a mysterious encounter leads him to an ancient text, thrusting Silas into a role he's ill-prepared for. Now, he must either embrace his true destiny or face dire consequences in this gripping tale of duty and sacrifice.

Excerpt from The Sins of Silas (The Light And Shadow Chronicles Book 3)

“You are not weak! And you are not disposable!” Silas drank in the people’s attention as he delivered his speech.

“It doesn’t matter what the Ever-Youngs tell you. No, we will not live forever. We will grow old and die. BUT, without aging, without death, there would be no thrill to life!

“They think we are inferior, that we deserve less in our short lives. But as Agers, we get all the ADRENALINE-FUELLED—” A cheer from the crowd.

“NERVE-SHREDDING—” Another cheer.

“FATALISTIC MAJESTY of the end!” The room erupted into roars.

Silas continued, “They don’t understand. The Ever-Youngs in the Children of Light,” he spat on the floor, “feel none of the pleasure of knowing your time in this world is finite!”

Silas held his arms out wide as he addressed the crowd, all eyes upon him. “Your time may end tomorrow on the battlefield or in fifty years warm in your bed. If you really let yourselves go, it could end tonight—there’s quite a range of intoxicants after all.”

A wave of raucous laughter spread across the room.

Silas made a conscious effort to slow down his speech, all too aware that when he got overexcited his words became a garbled mess. “Whatever the case, embrace life and laugh in the face of death every time you escape it. We don’t get many wins in the Brotherhood of Shadow. We must recognise our blessings when we can. And our chief blessing is access to the widest range of food, drink and pleasures known to mankind, right here in the slums. Thank the Bavelize for that!

“So, tonight, you should partake of any and all delicacies—and don’t forget the workers at the Orchid Lounge are here to fill in for your other needs.” He waved over to the back of the hall where silk drapes separated the room into private sections. There was snickering and nods of appreciation.

“Some of you have asked why I organised this event tonight. It’s simple. There’s not enough happiness in the Brotherhood. And there’s certainly not enough appreciation for the REAL people of Meraxor. Those in the diamond tiers get enough spent on them, the ‘privileged prats’.”

Another roar of appreciation and laughter as Silas raised his thumb and little finger in the Meraxan symbol of disrespect.

“But YOU are the underappreciated and unrecognised. YOU make the city of Belkeep tick. YOU harvest our food, stitch our clothes, oil our machines, and guard our borders. All of this,” he held his arms out wide, a huge grin on his face, “is for you! It’s your reward. Enjoy it. Just leave some for me.” He flashed the crowds a lopsided grin as the music kicked back in again.

A quick trot down from the stage, and Silas was back to walking the room, shaking hands, sharing kisses, and slapping old friends on the back. He had never felt so popular. Life wasn’t so bad.

At least, it wasn’t so bad at this moment.

Life in the Brotherhood of Shadow never stretched as far as “good”. An eternal war, against an unbeatable enemy, and Silas Wilder found himself on the side of the damned Brotherhood of Shadow. If this state of stagnant, simmering hatred could be considered a war at all. Fighting hadn’t broken out in nearly a year. Sure, there was a great deal of underhandedness, of spies and secrecy, but no real battles. Silas was beginning to forget what it felt like to fight for real.

Given the choice, he would have left the army, and this stupid cold war, for a life of pleasure in his beloved slums. But, of course, he had never had a choice. As the son of the king of Meraxor, Silas had been born into the lifelong battle. And it was all he ever heard from his father. Moaning about the enemy, worrying about tactics, getting angry over losses, and bragging over victories. It all got old quickly.

Much like him. At twenty-three years old, he was already older than the majority of Children of Light soldiers.

Their ever-present enemy, the Children of Light—Silas scoffed at the name—were Ever-Youngs. Immortals practically. They had a literal eternity to grow strong and skilful, and they used that eternity to batter Silas’s people whenever they could.

It would drive Silas to despair if he thought about it for too long. Much better to drown his sorrows in alcohol, party like it was his last day alive—which was always a possibility—and hang out with ordinary people who didn’t want to talk tactics and loss.

This was where he truly belonged, down in the slums of Belkeep City, with the real people. This was where he was happy.

Ale and draka—a cheap but strong spirit from Karinam—were flowing, laughter filled the air and everywhere Silas looked, something delightful was happening. Exotic performers from every corner of the world danced and gyrated, weaving in and out of the guests, perfume hanging alluringly in the air. Padded and plush cushions were spread across the floor with people lounging across them, soaking up the decadence. Fragrant oils and spices scented the air, delicious and captivating.

A line of Paradoran dancers paraded past Silas, decked out in brightly coloured feathers and ornate headdresses, but little else. He stood back to watch them appreciatively as they jiggled past, men and women alike, all rich, brown skin and toned bodies.

Two men he recognised from one of the slum taverns barrelled into him, laughing at the top of their voices.

“Hey, Silas!” one of the men called out and wrapped a sweaty arm around Silas’s shoulders. “Amazing party.”

Silas beamed. “Glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

“You the best of that horrible bunch in the Brotherhood, ya know.” He slapped Silas on the cheek, laughing.

“My family, you mean?” Silas said, trying to keep a stern face, but he couldn’t help his face cracking into a huge grin. “Yeah, I know. They’re so far up their own asses they can drink their liquor twice.”

A quick frown of confusion, then the men returned to laughing and clapping Silas on the back.

“You’re different though, aren’t ya? You like to keep it real with the rest of the Belkeep scum.”

All three of them cheered raucously. One of the men, a sweaty overweight baker from the market, raised a tankard full of draka, spilling half of it in the process.

“Thank the Bavelize for Silas!” he roared at the top of his voice, and the room erupted into a cacophony of cheers. To a chorus of chanting and cheering, he tipped up his tankard and poured the rest of his draka into Silas’s mouth. Silas swallowed as much as he could, letting the rest dribble down the front of his uniform. When the tankard was empty and he had chugged down the last of the burning liquid, he raised both arms in the air, to a roar from the gathering.