Laraque Academy-A Laraque Academy Saga

Please note that chapter are currently being revised until November 30 20206. Thank you for your patience.

Some love stories are destined to span lifetimes. Some legends refuse to be forgotten. And some secrets have been waiting centuries to awaken.

Welcome to Laraque Academy, where ancient magic walks beside modern life, immortal legends teach the next generation, and one young witch is about to discover that her past is far more powerful than she ever imagined.

Step through the gates. Meet the Laraque brothers. And prepare to uncover a world where every legend begins with a secret.

Note: This is a why choose.

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PROLOGUE

New Orleans, 1621

Redakai

The battlefield still steamed as I stood among the bodies, the hot night air thick with the scent of blood, wet iron, and burned pine. Rain fell steadily through the cypress branches overhead, soaking the ground, turning the clearing into churned mud as Spanish moss swayed in the wind above the fallen.

Stepping over a body, I moved toward the edge of the clearing where another body still breathed. Eryndor lay where he’d fallen. The witch’s cloak was torn open across the chest, dark blood soaking the fabric. Rain matted his dark hair against his forehead while faint threads of magic still clung to him, crackling softly through the air.

Crouching beside him, and pressing a hand against his wound, though we both knew it was a useless action, I murmured, “You should have not been here.”

Eryndor released a weak breath that might have been a laugh. “You know me better than that, Redakai,” he rasped.

His voice sounded thinner than it should have, each breath catching slightly in his chest. With a glance toward the treeline where the battle had ended, I watched the lightning flash faintly through the storm clouds above. “I can still save you,” I murmured quietly, my hand still resting against his wound.

“No,” he breathed, his head shifting weakly against the mud.

My jaw tightened. “Don’t make that decision lightly,” I warned.

The witch gave a faint, tired smile, murmuring, “Just let me go, my friend.”

For a moment I didn’t move. Rain continued to fall around us as Eryndor stared up through the bare cypress branches overhead, his breathing shallow and uneven. Then his gaze shifted slightly. “To your left,” he whispered.

I followed the direction of his eyes. Half buried in the churned earth beside us, something glowed faintly beneath the falling rain and scattered leaves: a flower, small and delicate. Its pale petals shimmered softly, light pulsing through them in slow, steady waves. Even now, even after the battle, it still lived.

Eryndor’s lips curved faintly. “It survived,” he breathed, his eyes lingering on the bloom.

Brushing the mud aside with the back of my hand, I exposed more of the flower. The faint glow warmed my fingers. “That thing should never have been created,” I muttered.

“You’ve said that before,” Eryndor replied weakly.

“And I was right then as well,” I came back, lifting the bloom carefully from the soil.

The flower pulsed again, magic rippling outward from it like heat rising from a flame.

Eryndor watched it with quiet affection. “Such beauty,” he murmured.

“Beautiful and dangerous,” I muttered, turning the flower slowly between my fingers, feeling the magic coiling through it.

Eryndor shifted slightly, a sharp breath catching in his chest. “You have to hide it,” he managed to get out.

I glanced down at him. “You think I don’t know that?” I asked flatly.

“Redakai…” Eryndor warned weakly.

“I heard you,” I growled.

The witch studied me for a moment, the faint glow of the bloom reflecting in his eyes. “You think it should be destroyed,” he said quietly.

“Yes,” I answered truthfully.

“Perhaps you’re right,” the witch admitted, his voice now barely a whisper.

I frowned slightly, the rain continuing to fall around us and pooling in the churned earth of the battlefield.

“When it awakens…” Eryndor’s voice faltered as his gaze returned to the flower.

“If,” I corrected sharply.

Eryndor shook his head faintly. “When,” he insisted.

A long silence stretched between us, before Eryndor added quietly, “My blood will wake it.”

I stilled, then asked slowly, “You tied it to your bloodline.”

Eryndor nodded weakly. “Yes.”

“That was reckless,” I muttered.

“Perhaps.” Eryndor’s eyes drifted toward the flower in my hand. “But necessary.”

I exhaled slowly through my nose. “You expect your descendants to survive long enough for that to matter?” I asked.

“I expect you to help them survive,” Eryndor replied.

The request hung between us as I stared down at him, unimpressed. “You are asking me to guard something the entire supernatural world would kill to possess,” he said.

Eryndor nodded again, his breathing growing uneven, each inhale shallower than the last. “Yes, and you must protect the one born with the magic that will awaken it. You owe me that much,” he murmured.

My eyes narrowed slightly. “You are playing a dangerous game with my loyalty,” I warned.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of the witch’s mouth. “You’ve never been able to refuse me,” Eryndor whispered.

Wind pushed through the cypress trees overhead, the Spanish moss swaying in the storm. Finally, I rose slowly to my feet, the bloom still glowing faintly in my hand. “Where?” I asked.

Eryndor’s voice had faded to a whisper. “Somewhere the blood will know.”

“That narrows the world considerably,” I muttered.

“Promise me,” Eryndor breathed.

I hesitated. Promises carried weight, especially promises made to dying men.

Finally, I inclined my head. “I will hide it.”

Relief flickered across Eryndor’s face. “And when it awakens…” His voice trembled slightly as he forced the words out. “When it is time and the blood awakes…protect it.”

I studied him for a long moment, then nodded, “With my life.”

The tension left the witch’s shoulders. “Thank you,” Eryndor whispered.

Rain continued to fall around us as Eryndor exhaled slowly, then didn’t inhale again.

I remained standing beside him for several seconds, long enough for the silence of his death to settle across the clearing, then I turned, the bloom still glowing faintly in my hand.