Metorm: The Lightning Warrior
Unlock the Secret. Save the World. Or Destroy It.
Sagiron is no hero—just a young hunter yearning for simple adventure. But when a mysterious scroll falls into his hands, he’s thrust into a perilous quest he never sought. The scroll holds the code to the Secret, an ancient skill of the legendary Lightning Warriors. With its power, one can bend the will of others, become a warrior unmatched, or even control the power of thunder.
And with that code, anyone can learn the Secret. It's a gift long lost that could reshape permanent structures—or bring them to ruin.
As rumors of the discovery spread, those in power become interested in Sagiron. With enemies closing in, he must decide: destroy it, or risk wielding its devastating power himself.
The fate of the world hangs in the balance. And for Sagiron, the simple adventure he dreamed of is about to become a battle not only for survival but for the very soul of his oppressed land.
Perfect for fans of the classic hero's journey, this epic coming-of-age fantasy will sweep you into a realm of adventure, magical mysteries, and conflict. Learn the Secret today!
Warning: spoilers ahead
Book details:
U.S Edition (157 000 words)
Second Edition | October 2024 | Helsinki
Cover art: Eagle Arts
Editing and formatting: P. Paul
Publisher: Highwater International Publishing House
ISBN: 978-952-7606-34-6 (e-book)
ISBN: 978-952-7606-32-2 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-952-7606-33-9 (hardcover)
The adventure begins
"The Secret" is the first book in the four-part Selenthion series, introducing Sagiron, a young hunter who discovers a mysterious scroll in the forest—a long-lost code to a legendary skill known as Salat Kata. This ancient power was once wielded by the Secret-Keepers and the Saginair Riders.
With the code, anyone can learn the ability to bend wills, create unmatched warriors, and even command greater forces. It was kept hidden for a reason: if the Secret is revealed, its power can never be contained.
Sagiron is thrust into a world-changing journey, drawing the attention of the Perillean Empire and others seeking ultimate power. The code is both a curse and a burden—but could it also be the key to freeing Yanakhon, a land torn apart by invaders and civil war?
Intro: The Arkman
"Hold! In the name of the Perilleanic Empire!" The shout pierced the rhythm of the falling rain, mingling with the harsh clamor of a guard's bell. Three cloaked figures dashed into a narrow alley, their feet splashing through puddles as the heavy thud of armored boots on cobblestones closed in. "The Yoneians are escaping! The statelord has botched it again!"
Horadriam ran just behind his elder brother, rain pelting his face as he peered ahead into the shadow-laden passage. A high fence loomed before them, its top glistening slick with water. His younger brother leaped over it with the agility of one driven by necessity. Horadriam hesitated, only for a heartbeat, then vaulted the rain-slicked barrier, landing with a wet thud in the mud beyond.
The twang of bowstrings sliced through the air. A scream tore through the night, wrenching and raw. Behind him, something heavy crashed against the fence with a sickening groan.
"Brother!" Horadriam shouted, skidding to a halt. His heart clenched with dread, his breath catching in his throat as he spun around.
"Cease fire!" a rough voice commanded. "We need them alive."
"Destroy it," came a ragged whisper, barely audible beneath the drumming rain. A hand stretched between the broken laths of the fence, trembling until it slumped, lifeless. A scroll hung from his elder brother's fingers.
He was gone.
Horadriam lunged to snatch the scroll, blood pounding in his ears, drowning out everything but the roaring in his own head. He turned and plunged into the dark forest beyond, branches whipping at his face, his cloak catching on unseen limbs. The relentless clamor of steel-clad knights behind him grew louder, an inescapable drumbeat of doom.
Through the shadows, a low stone wall emerged, spectral in the dim, rain-soaked gloom. Horadriam sprinted toward it, desperation lending unnatural speed to his weary limbs. He vaulted—but the wet stones betrayed him. His foot slipped, and he tumbled to the ground in a tangle of limbs, pain flaring hot in his shoulder. He stifled a cry, forcing himself to lie still, as still as death in the shallow ditch beneath the wall.
Footsteps approached, heavy and numerous. He squeezed his eyes shut, scarcely daring to breathe. One by one, the pursuers vaulted over the wall, their armor groaning in protest under the weight of the rain. His heart pounded as he willed himself to become one with the earth, expecting at any moment to feel the crushing grip of a gauntleted hand.
"Advance!" barked a voice, and the footsteps receded, fading into the depths of the forest.
Horadriam dared to open his eyes. Silence enveloped him, broken only by the patter of rain upon the earth. Slowly, cautiously, he pushed himself upright, glancing around. They had not seen him. Relief washed over him, leaving him trembling. He leaned against the cold stone, exhaustion and sorrow weighing heavily upon him.
The guard bell of Tritoria had fallen silent, its echoes swallowed by the storm. A shuddering sigh escaped his lips. Borodriam—his eldest, wisest of them—was gone. Manadriam—clever, but weak of heart—had fled. How had it come to this? Their secret mission had unraveled into chaos, the careful threads of their plan torn apart by the brutal hand of fate.
His hand moved beneath his cloak, fingers closing around a small, leather-bound scroll. It felt heavier than any burden he had ever borne. If this fell into Perillean hands, the greatest secret of the Yoneians—their most powerful weapon—could bring ruin upon the world. He knew what he must do. He had to destroy it, even if it meant sacrificing all.
A twig snapped nearby, sharp and startling. Horadriam tensed, eyes darting toward the sound. He pressed himself against the wall, a stone loosening beneath his hand. Footsteps drew nearer. Panic seized him. Quickly, he wedged the scroll between the stones. Without looking back, he slipped away, melting into the dense forest like a wraith.
The trees parted ahead, revealing a rough forest road. To his left, the remnants of an ancient stone bridge rose from the mist. Its base crumbled, the approach collapsed. A dark archway lay at its foundation—it might offer a way to cross the Silvon Stream. His chance at escape.
Horadriam dashed forward, feet pounding against the wet earth. Just as he emerged onto the road, four soldiers in crimson armor stepped from the shadows, crossbows leveled at his chest.
"Alert!" The cry cut through the air, echoed by distant shouts. More footfalls approached from the forest. Desperation gripped Horadriam. He had no choice. With a defiant snarl, he charged the soldiers, their crossbows tracking his movement.
"KATA!" he roared, the word tearing from his throat like a thunderclap. The air around him shimmered with a strange energy. The soldiers' eyes glazed, their movements stuttering. Without a sound, they turned their weapons upon each other and fired.
Horadriam leaped over their fallen forms, crossbow bolts jutting from lifeless bodies, and plunged into the tower's dark maw. Blindly, he felt his way through the shadows until his fingers found the spiral stair. Upward he climbed, each step a grueling effort.
He burst onto the bridge, rain lashing his face like a scourge. Behind him, the clang of pursuit echoed on stone, his enemies drawing ever nearer. He raced forward, the bridge slick beneath his boots. A flash of lightning illuminated the shattered edge ahead.
Horadriam skidded to a halt, arms flailing to maintain balance. His breath caught in his throat. The bridge ended in a jagged drop, the chasm yawning below. Before he could turn, hands seized him, yanking him back with brutal force. His head struck the stone, stars bursting before his eyes. The world spun in a dizzying haze. Through the blur, he glimpsed armor gleaming yellow and black through the rain.
The Meusar Knights—the elite of the Perilleanic Empire. They encircled him, faces hidden behind expressionless helms, their quad bows aimed unerringly. One knight shoved him onto his stomach, others binding his wrists and ankles with coarse rope that bit into his flesh. Roughly, they hauled him upright, his limbs aching from the strain.
Torches flared in the downpour, casting flickering shadows against the bridge's stones. Through the veil of rain, more knights arrived, their steel boots striking the bridge like the tolling of a bell. With them came a figure clad in golden armor, crimson accents glistening like fresh blood against polished metal. The intricate designs etched upon the armor marked him as one of high rank—the highest rank. Horadriam's blood ran cold. A Meuriorian prince. His presence could mean only one thing: the highest powers sought them. At the prince's side hung a dual reverse handbow.
"Search him," the prince commanded, his voice echoing metallically from within his helm. There was a weight to his words, an authority that brooked no dissent.
The knights descended upon Horadriam, their gauntleted hands rifling through his sodden robes. Panic twisted within him, but he forced himself to remain still, feigning defeat. They searched him thoroughly—pulling at his garments, patting down every pocket—but found nothing. A flicker of relief sparked within him, though he dared not let it show.
A commotion drew their attention. More soldiers approached, dragging another captive into the torchlight. A slender, dark-haired youth with hands bound behind him. Manadriam. Horadriam's heart sank like a stone into dark waters. They had captured his younger brother as well.
Behind Manadriam strode a corpulent Perillean lord, his face flushed with exertion. A drooping blond wig clung pathetically to his rain-soaked head, and his mustache bristled with indignation. A servant struggled behind him, attempting in vain to shield his master with a tattered umbrella.
"Meusar Detective Chasoir," the lord wheezed, his voice grating against the storm. "You apprehended him swiftly. My incompetent officers nearly ruined the entire operation, but fortune smiles upon us tonight: this rat ran straight into the highway copolion."
"Statelord Le-Muel," the prince replied coolly. "Had it not been for your interference, we would have avoided this chase and captured them without incident. You nearly compromised years of investigation."
"Speak Silvon, Reddicks!" Manadriam shouted, defiance flashing in his eyes despite the mud and blood staining his face.
The prince turned his gaze upon Manadriam, the helm's visor concealing his expression. "Where is De-Arcie?" he demanded sharply, but with bad dialect. "I know you have found something."
Le-Muel scowled at the prince's attempts and stepped forward, his small eyes narrowing. "Where is that temple treasure—the Ark?" he demanded, wagging a pudgy finger at Manadriam. "What does it contain? Who is the Arkman? And what of the lights in the river village? Speak!"
Despair gnawed at Horadriam. They knew too much. They have been following them for a while. He met Manadriam's gaze, a silent plea passing between them. But fear had unhinged his brother's composure.
"Take them both," the prince ordered. The Meusar Knights moved to seize Manadriam, but Le-Muel raised a hand, a smug smile curling his lips.
"Hold! I am most curious about this treasure," Le-Muel retorted, his tone dripping with arrogance. "They will be taken to Tritoria, where I shall extract the truth."
"This is a Meuriorian matter," the prince hissed, his voice edged with warning. "They will be brought to Teleng."
"Shall I remind you, knight-detective," Le-Muel sneered. "This is my district, and as statelord, I hold command here."
"You would do well to reconsider opposing the Family," the prince warned, his tone cold as ice.
The two men glared at each other, tension crackling like lightning in the air. Le-Muel's guards tightened their grip on Manadriam, whose face had grown pale.
"Horadriam," Manadriam gasped, his voice barely audible above the storm. "They know everything. You must use it. There is no other way. If you don't—"
Horadriam shot his brother a fierce glare, willing him to silence. But panic had seized Manadriam, unraveling his restraint.
"We shouldn't have been caught!" Manadriam cried, his voice rising. "The Meusarion will torture us until we break. You have to use it, Horadriam! Do it! Repeat what you did!" His words spilled forth in a torrent of desperation. He twisted to face the knights, shouting, "Hear me, Reddicks! The New Antorian Order is coming! The Prophecy of Anthorm is fulfilled! Before you stands the Heir of Arkhaniel, master of the Salat Kata!"
Manadriam turned back, eyes blazing with a wild resolve. "Horadriam, do it!"
"So, you are the Arquis," the prince murmured, his voice a deadly whisper. In a fluid motion, he drew his handbow, aiming it at Manadriam. "We have no further use for you."
"No!" Horadriam shouted, horror clawing at his throat. A blinding flash of lightning split the sky, thunder crashing in its wake. He squeezed his eyes shut, summoning the power that surged within him.
"valanat!" he roared, his voice resonating with ancient force.
The air thickened, alive with ethereal whispers. A gale whipped across the bridge, tearing free the servant's umbrella and extinguishing torches. The storm intensified, rain driving in sheets.
"rasanat!" Horadriam bellowed.
A wave of shimmering cyan light erupted from him, sweeping over the Perilleans. Knights were hurled backward, the bridge trembling under the onslaught. The prince was flung over the edge, his cry lost to the storm.
Horadriam collapsed to his knees, drained. Darkness encroached at the edges of his vision, but he forced his eyes open. A dark form lay motionless upon the stones. Lightning flashed, illuminating the scene.
Manadriam. A bolt protruded from his temple.
The prince had fired.
A howl of anguish tore from Horadriam's soul, the sound swallowed by the raging tempest. He doubled over, grief threatening to consume him. Below, the shouts of the Perilleans rose as they regrouped, their voices muffled by the storm's fury.
He could not be captured. He would not be captured. Better to succumb to the abyss than to face the Meusarion's tortures. Summoning the last vestiges of his strength, he staggered to his feet, hands still bound. He stumbled toward the edge of the bridge, casting one final, sorrowful glance at his fallen brother.
Then he leaped, surrendering himself to the depths below.
Chapters
Full synopsis
The Perillean Empire colonizes all of Yanakhon. Chasoir, a knight detective, follows a lead on the Arkman, a treasure hunter linked to the Secret, an ultimate power hidden in the Temple Ark, but finds nothing. Sagiron later discovers the Arkman's abandoned scroll and gets into trouble with bandits. With his friend Merkhat, Sagiron meets Yahamat, a local madman with symbols like those on the scroll.
A rogue band raids Sagiron's village, blaming him for a death and demanding a duel. His father, Sargus, dies defending him, but Sagiron defeats the rogue chief. Sagiron refuses the role of chief, and the rogues flee. Arhim, the village herbmaster, offers Sagiron shelter, but he refuses due to Arhim's Perillean ties.
After his father's funeral, Sagiron gets drunk and passes out. He wakes at Arhim's, who helps him understand Yahamat's madness is due to smoking herbs. They steal the herbs, and Yahamat sobers up, revealing he taught Sagiron's father. To hunt down the bandits responsible, Yahamat starts training Sagiron and Merkhat.
Through winter, they train, but in spring, Merkhat is taken as a slave. Sagiron learns Yahamat is part of a temple order, but when shown the scroll, Yahamat tears it up, identifying it as belonging to their enemies, the Harachimians.
Pilgrims arrive in the village, and Sagiron joins them on a journey to a mountain temple. He meets the Order of the Salon and takes part in trials. He also finds a group practicing in ruins—Harachimians—but Yahamat pulls him away. During a ceremony, Arhim arrives, warning of an approaching army. Yahamat takes an arrow, telling Sagiron to flee and find a missing knight.
Sagiron and Arhim escape with the Harachimians but refuse their offer to join them. Back in the village, Sagiron becomes a hermit, studying the remains of the scroll and discovering strange powers . He proves his abilities to Arhim, who realizes they have stumbled upon Salat Kata, an ancient skill anyone can learn with the code Sagiron had replicated to his Journal.
When the village chief is murdered, Sagiron is accused, but Arhim exposes the true culprit. Percilion, son of Governor Le-Muel, becomes chief, turning the village into a concentration camp. Sagiron plans to leave, but Merkhat is taken away, and the village is locked down. Sagiron uses his powers to awaken a comatose elder and incites a revolt during the harvest festival. He flees with Arhim and friends.
Knight-detective Chasoir and the elite meusar knights have already been investigating the rumors and ambush them, arresting and taking them to Tritoria. They attempt an escape, exposing their skill, but are imprisoned. Roy, a boy Sagiron recognizes from the rogue band, helps them escape. They sneak into the castle to retrieve the Journal, but Le-Muel escapes. Roy leads them to a rogue band, and Sagiron defeats their new cheater chief to claim his place.
Sagiron sets out to rescue Gatsemat rebels, dueling leader Elyara to a draw. He uses his powers to show the rebels a vision, convincing them to join. They attack the Silvon Palace, rallying slaves and Sagiron can control a storm with the Secret to defeat their enemies.
Le-Muel surrenders the Journal but escapes. Scouts warn of an approaching reinforcements, and the rogues retreat. At Bearhill hideout, Sagiron considers destroying the Journal but decides to stay with the rogues, seeing an opportunity to start a rebellion against the Empire.
Subscribe to our newsletter
Copyright © 2024 by Eric Highwater all rights reserved.
Highwater International Publishing House | 2024
The Journals of Metorm | 2004 - 2024
No part of this website may be reproduced in any form
without permission with the exempt of fair use.
Free sample requests for book bloggers, reviewers, critics, freelancers, journalists:
samples@metorm.com