Preview of The Continua Chronicles Book 2

The sequel to The Seventh Cadence is currently being drafted. I know it has been a long time since you’ve gotten another entry in this series, so I wanted to share a bit of the book as a preview.

There won’t be any major spoilers for the book in this scene, but please note that this preview is unedited and is subject to change or be cut entirely since I haven’t entered the revision phase of the story.

I hope you enjoy it!

Manzo idly traced the scars on his right palm as he stood in the shadow of the colossal archway of stone and steel that guarded the entrance to the subterranean labyrinth. Woven from threads of darkness, long shadows draped over his shoulders like a cloak of despair. Here, in the heart of Caldor’s underground network of tunnels, daylight was akin to a myth, and the light that dared to dance here did so feebly. The crystals’ reluctant glow were like the last embers in a hearth that only whispered of warmth but gave none, turning the faces of men into hollow-cheeked masks, mere husks of what they could be, what they would be.

He watched his men work. Their tools clanged, chipped, and crunched, a pulse against the hiss of water rushing through the cavernous pipes. All about them, the air was as cool and damp, lingering, whispering over flesh and seeping into aching bones.

In this realm of endless dusk, Manzo’s scars guided the way to a brighter future, a map of battles past, present, and future, each line a verse in the epic of survival. Here in the forgotten realm of darkness, away from the spoils of Caldor’s power and influence that shaded the world in its ever-growing sprawl, a power was rising—a current that would soon surge forth, as relentless and unyielding as roots breaking through rock.

As one, the men paused their labor, taking a moment to clear their brows of sweat and air their shirts of musk. Some leaned against their pickaxes, others sank to the ground, eager to absorb every moment of respite available to them as the echos of their labor dissipated into the deep recesses of the underground expanse.

Manzo couldn’t fault them for taking a rest. They had labored long in the shadow in dwellings unfit for noble eyes. It was only reasonable to expect them to fall prey to the weaknesses that plagued all men. The pressures of upholding the weight of the aristocracy made a man strong, resilient. But crush his soul, and he will never rise again.

But their effort was not without reward.

Manzo stepped forward into the thin tendril of light that shone through the ice above, a pale beacon in the encompassing gloom. His eyes, accustomed to the perpetual twilight of the underground, squinted as he scrutinized the wall. There, a mere arm’s length from victory, the ice thinned, betraying the silhouette of the city beyond. It was the precipice of change, a test of endurance where so many faltered, the verge where dreams were abandoned, so close to fruition.

Often, the difference between a life in shadows and one in the sun was not a span of distance but of resolve. The people needed a beacon, a catalyst to ignite their buried hope, to show them the proximity of their potential. 

Manzo would be that spark.

He shed his shirt, grabbed a pickaxe, and positioned himself before the fissure. He swung the pickaxe again and again. Sweat trickled down his spine, each drop carrying away the residue of resignation that had settled upon the shoulders of his people.

The ice above resisted, then relented. More light, cold but bright, leaked through. Whispers spread through the men like a waking dream, their breaths held in anticipation.

One man stood, his eyes reflecting the burgeoning light, and took up his tool once more. The clink of his pickaxe joined Manzo’s rhythm, a tentative harmony of determination. 

“What’s your name?” Manzo grunted between strikes.

“Jarin,” the man replied, his voice a blade of strength cutting the dense air.

Manzo nodded, not halting his labor, a silent pact of solidarity. 

Jarin’s effort ignited a collective fire. One by one, as if roused from a spell, the others took their place beside them. A symphony of pickaxes crescendoed, and with a resounding crack, light burst forth as the ice gave way to the world above. A cold gust of wind rushed in, a harbinger of the tumult to come, stirring the stagnant air into a frenzy. 

Manzo met a city cloaked in white. Towers and spires, once proud and piercing the heavens, stood muted and hunched as if bowing to the relentless march of frost that claimed them. He gazed up at the grey, overcast sky of boundless opportunity.

Manzo turned his attention to the muted thud of a pickaxe landing on the hard ice beside him and smiled at his comrade. “Welcome, Brother Jarin, to the future.”

Stepping down from the brittle remains of what had been one of the city’s inner water towers, Manzo’s breath plumed before him as he appraised each face that stepped through the breach. They huddled together, tuning their eyes to him, searching for the confidence in his gaze to light their way.

It had been several weeks since anyone who dwelled beneath Caldor had seen the surface. After the Deseran Dominion’s creatures attacked the city, Manzo led his men through the sanctuary in a surprise attack that eliminated every seer and prophet they could find before they retreated underground. He’d underestimated how much ice the beasts could project and how widespread their destruction would be. Though the underground network of tunnels provided them with protection from the ravages of the frost, it also became their prison. It had taken weeks for them to break through, with little time to spare as their reserves ran low.

But he had a plan.

“Follow me,” he said simply.

And they followed, past the frosted dwellings and abandoned markets, down narrow alleys slick with ice, towards the remnants of a grand plaza that once served as one of Caldor’s thriving centers of commerce. Each step they took crunched beneath their boots, the sound stark against the silence. Shadows clung to the frosted walls, but the determination in Manzo’s stride cut through the dimness like a beacon.

Sensing danger, he slowed to mute their footfalls as they neared their destination, and with a fist, Manzo brought his men to a halt before they could march headlong into the open. He leaned against the stone building at the corner of the block and stole a glance to access the storehouse’s defenses. 

As he suspected, Manzo spied two Caldor Guardsmen and three civilians loading supplies onto a train of carts pulled by four horses. The Gaurdsmen’s hands were occupied, their weapons sheathed or leaning against the nearby wall—a critical oversight, but then how were they to know what would befall them?

With a series of subtle signs he’d developed with his team, Manzo silently commanded his men to fan out, flanking the storehouse entrance. They moved with grace, like a phantom out of Desolate. Each man found their mark and crouched at the ready.

Slowly, Manzo raised his hand, and, sensing opportunity just as their targets were completely absorbed in their tasks, he let it drop—the signal unleashed.

His men pounced. They moved to disarm, incapacitate, to take without unnecessary bloodshed. They were not there to end lives but to reclaim life.

The plaza erupted in a fury of chaos, but for Manzo’s crew, it was calculated, controlled, each man executing his command with precision. 

In the midst of the fray, Manzo noticed one of his own falter, an middle-aged man named Tarn, whose legs gave out as he tried to wrestle a guardsman to the ground. Without hesitation, Manzo was at Tarn’s side, pulling the guardsman away and pressing him into the storehouse wall before slamming his head against the ice.

“Hold firm, brother,” he murmured to Tarn, lending him a supportive arm. “We rise and fall as one.”

As Tarn came to his feet, Manzo turned back to find that the ambush had come to a still. His men stood over the stunned surface dwellers, slowly writhing in pain on the cold, packed snow. The echos of the struggle faded as sounds fled into the distance.

Manzo looked to Tarn. “Gather the weapons.” He turned Jarin. “Secure the horses and finish loading the carts. Then take it all back to the breach.”

Jarin nodded, stepping into the role he’d been assigned without hesitation, an air of pride filling his lungs with the success of their mission. The two others stepped in to assist with the supplies. They worked quickly, aware that it would only be a matter of time before someone would come looking for their missing supply team.

Manzo pointed to the fallen guardsmen and civilians. “Bind their hands and load them into the cart as well.”

As his men complied, he surveyed the captives with a critical eye. They would be valuable, not for ransom, but for the information they could provide. Yet, there was one among them—a young soldier with eyes still bright with the fading shock of defeat—who Manzo decided to leave behind.

As the hostages were marched away, Manzo approached the remaining guardsman, who was slumped against the wall, his consciousness ebbing. The soldier’s breath was ragged, his awareness hanging by a thread. Squatting down to meet the man’s dim gaze, Manzo placed a calm hand on his shoulder. “I want you to deliver a message.” 

If you haven’t yet read The Seventh Cadence, you can read it here.

Or, if you want to read a free adventure in the world of Continua, you can get a free story here.