New art for the new year - and this year my love of producing art turns to writing a fantastical gay adventure.
I hope you will enjoy reading The Sun Guardian.
Love to all,
Victoria
Scorch is a cocky apprentice at the Guardians' Guild, a fellowship of warriors trained to protect the people of Viridor.
But when his first guardianship turns out to be more treacherous than he'd bargained for, Scorch finds himself in league with an unlikely companion—the mysterious Vivid, a man as attractive as he is ill-tempered.
Assassins, monsters, and fearsome elementals await them on their quest to save the High Priestess, but the greatest danger of all may lie in the discovery of Scorch's darkest secret.
Available via digital download at my Etsy store www.Etsy.com/Shop/ArtbyVictoriaSkye
and in paperback and on Kindle at https://www.amazon.com/Sun-Guardian-T-S-Cleve…/…/1981971270/
and in paperback and on Kindle at https://www.amazon.com/Sun-Guardian-T-S-Cleve…/…/1981971270/
An excerpt from The Sun Guardian.
Before it
began, Scorch knew he would win.
His
steps were light, measured, and easy. His heartbeat was steady. The staff in
his hand was a natural extension of his arm; its weight was comforting, his grip
around it sure and solid.
She came
at him with bared teeth and an aggressive thrust of her staff, and he could
have evaded the incoming blow, could have ducked and twisted and rolled and attacked
from behind, but instead he met her straight on, lifting his staff, matching
her ferocity. Wood cracked together like thunder and she stumbled back.
“Almost
knocked it out of my hands that time,” he laughed.
The woman
before him in the sparring ring blew an errant strand of sandy blonde hair from
her eyes and steadied the staff defensively across her chest. “Liar,” she
huffed, and it sounded like an invitation. It had certainly been an invitation
the night before. Most words directed toward Scorch were an invitation for
something other, for his reputation
as an insatiable bedfellow was challenged only by his reputation for pyromania,
and it was safe to assume, when he was being spoken to, the speaker was either
sizing him up for a toss or wondering whether something nearby was about to
start smoldering.
“Come at
me again,” she demanded, and Scorch’s small smile became a mischievous grin; she
had also spoken those words the night before. As if sensing his debauched line
of thought, she rolled her eyes and slammed her staff on the packed dirt in a
prompt for further violence. “Come on, Scorch.”
He sighed.
“If you think you can handle it.”
“Shut up
and fight me,” was her quick reply, followed by a jumping high kick to his
chest.
He staggered
back, spinning his staff in the air as she stalked forward, searching for
another opening. She wouldn’t find one unless he wanted her to, and he wasn’t
in the mood to lose. The sun was bright, the day was cool, but his fingers were
hot where they wrapped around the smooth wood of the training staff, and his
palms were already growing sticky with sweat. His sparring partner quirked her
head at him and he threw her a wink, hoping his cheeks weren’t red from a heat
that had nothing to do with the mild temperature of the morning.
She
returned his wink with a grimace. “You can’t distract me.”
“Oh, I’m
sorry. Do you find me distracting?” he asked, punctuating his question with a
sweep of his staff that nearly knocked her off her feet.
She was
fast, leaping before she could be toppled. Without pause, she began riddling him
with formidable blows, which he blocked easily but enjoyed immensely. It seemed
the time for banter had concluded and the remainder of the sparring session
would be the sweaty onslaught of strength against strength that he craved,
apprentice against apprentice. He was glad for it, treasured the release of
tension a good round of sparring allowed. It was the best way he knew how to
alleviate his occasional fevers. As he dodged the staff swinging at his face,
he could already feel the heat in his fingers dissipating. She really was an
excellent partner, and for the life of him, he couldn’t recall her name. He
felt positive it probably started with an M. Or N?
The slip
in memory was excusable, in Scorch’s opinion, as the Guild was rich with
apprentices new and old, as well as graduated guardians returning for more
training, assignments, or merely because, for them, the stone walls were home. Scorch
had been an apprentice within the Guardians’ Guild for fifteen years, but he
could hardly be expected to remember every single person’s name, regardless of
whether he’d slept with them the night before or not. It was just too many
names and too many faces. The strangest thing was that, whether they had just
arrived or had lived there forever, succumbed to Scorch’s considerable charms
or not, everyone within the Guild knew his name with an instantaneousness that
set him ill at ease.
He did not
strive for infamy, yet it was always finding him. But what was he to do? He
would not smother his exceptional skills because it made the other apprentices envious
gossips, nor would he deny himself the comfort of companionship because it
earned him dirty looks. And the single facet of his reputation he would have
made an effort to stop was the one he could never disprove. Scorch, they had dubbed him. A fire starter. His alleged proclivities
had earned him the nickname, and he was powerless to correct the assumption
that he, Scorch, enjoyed playing with fire in the literal sense. It wasn’t true.
He didn’t enjoy it. But letting them think he did was better than the
alternative.
The world
narrowed down to Scorch and what’s-her-name, the clanking wood of their staffs,
and the practiced in and out of controlled breaths, one after the other, as
every kick was careened and every offensive strike was defended. She jumped at
him with a grunt of frustration and Scorch ducked, twisted, and grabbed her
from behind, holding his staff beneath her chin. She choked and he released
her. When she swung at him, he blocked her with an upraised forearm and jabbed
at the backs of her knees with his staff. She buckled and landed with a thud
before rolling into a crouch, which she swiftly unfurled from with a sidekick.
He let it
connect and grabbed her ankle in retaliation, giving it a brutal yank and
sending her to her back. The air was knocked from her lungs in the time it took
him to knock the staff from her hands and straddle her waist. He let his own
weapon fall and clutched her wrists, pulling them roughly above her head in the
dirt, sending a puff of dust floating around them. She strained against him and
he sat triumphantly atop her for a few moments before relinquishing his hold
and sitting back on his heels.
“I wish
they would stop assigning you as my sparring partner,” she grumbled. “It’d be
nice to win every once in a while.”
Scorch
offered her his hand and she took it without question, letting him lift them
both to their feet. He didn’t miss the way her fingers brushed the underside of
his wrist, or the way her lashes batted with intent. He responded with a leisurely
step closer, until their hips were a hairsbreadth from knocking together.
“If you’d
like, we could have a rematch,” he offered slyly.
“Only if I
end up on top next time,” was her slightly breathless response.
He laughed,
a hearty kind of laugh that lifted his face to the sun. His hair fell back from
his forehead, scruffy and blond and boyish, and he knew she was admiring the
chiseled line of his jaw and comely shadow of beard. When he lowered his eyes
back down to her, he wondered whether he truly wished for that manner of rematch.
A fight like they’d just had? Definitely. But a repeat of their less clothed
sparring from the previous night? He wasn’t so sure. She was pretty in a way that
left no room for debate, with an alluring hourglass figure beneath a layer of
taut muscle. Her lips were full, her cheeks a healthy pink. With her blonde
hair and tan skin, Scorch mused that she looked a bit like he would look, were he
female. But was he interested in lying with her again?
“Hey!”
hollered a third voice. Scorch and his sparring partner both responded, turning
their heads toward the figure approaching the training grounds. “Scorch,” the newcomer specified, and now
that he had walked nearer, Scorch could see it was Merric, the only apprentice
he knew who had been living at the Guild longer than himself, and that was only
because he was the Master’s son.
“Missing
me already?” Scorch asked with a cocky flit of his eyebrow. They had seen one
another an hour ago for archery practice.
Merric
crooked a finger once he reached the wood-post fence that surrounded the melee
ring. Tragically, the Guild Master’s son belonged to the slim lot of people
stubbornly un-beguiled by Scorch’s flirtations. Generally, Scorch didn’t care
much for Merric, but it was still tragic, because the young man was gorgeous. Deep
auburn hair and green eyes and milky skin, made all the more irresistible by
the fact that Merric seemed to loathe Scorch. He was the one to first spread
rumors that Scorch was a fire-lusted fiend that set the forest ablaze. Still, Scorch
could have overlooked their disagreements for what would undoubtedly be a
glorious tumble, but Merric remained unshakable in his distaste for all things
Scorch.
“The
Master wants to see you right away,” grouched Merric.
Scorch scooped up the training staffs, tossing one into his partner’s hands, and they crossed the ring together. He leaned against the fence, lowering his head so his hair fell messily across his brow, and looked up at Merric beneath pale lashes.
Scorch scooped up the training staffs, tossing one into his partner’s hands, and they crossed the ring together. He leaned against the fence, lowering his head so his hair fell messily across his brow, and looked up at Merric beneath pale lashes.
“If you’re trying to get me on my own, all you have to do is ask.”
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