Excerpt of Impossible by C.A. Gray

Prologue

Sargon stood on the edge of a precipice. He was somewhere
in the Andes mountains, thick fir trees at his back and
sheer rock descending to a ravine below. He could not
even see the bottom.

In one hand, Sargon held the Philosopher’s Stone. It was
blood-red, and cut in a spherical shape. In the other, he
held the fragments of a golden sword: Excalibur. He
closed his eyes, a blissful smile curling his cruel lips,
creasing the jagged scar across Kane’s right cheek.

You’re going to lose, Kane snarled. Peter will destroy
you.

You know that is a lie, Kane, Sargon replied calmly. I
have the Philosopher’s Stone, and the fragments of
Excalibur. I am invincible.

But you don’t know how to reforge Excalibur. As long as
they are fragments, you have no hope of fulfilling the
prophecy!

Sargon shook his head, still smiling. Kane was right, of
course: he did not know how to reforge the sword. Yet.
But he knew how to find out.

In a ringing voice, Sargon cried out,“An sprioc, inis dom
do speisialta!”

Instantly the Andes disappeared, and the world became
silent and luminous. Kane felt himself locked in a rigid
lattice structure of purest, deepest red, the light of
the sun bouncing all around and through him.

A thousand flashes of the Stone’s memory bombarded Kane
at once: the impossible, dizzying, unimaginable heat from
the inside of a volcano; the crushing pressure; the
explosive force, propelling him down the edges of a
mountain amidst running lava.

Excalibur must be reforged, Sargon told the Stone. How
can this be accomplished?

Kane felt, rather than heard, the Stone’s answer. He
watched without eyes as men slaughtered one another,
their blood running like the lava had done seconds
before. It was both a memory and a reply.

Blood, thought Sargon with satisfaction. Of course. It is
so simple. Had not the Stone required him to spill his
own blood in exchange for his immortality?

The red luminescent world disappeared, and Sargon
blinked, again standing on the edge of the precipice. Of
course, he thought again. He consulted Kane’s memory of
the prophecy with a flash: Both shall fall, but the One
who holds the blade that was broken shall emerge
victorious.

In order to reforge Excalibur, someone must die.

There are three candidates, Sargon thought. I have
already taken the body of one; only two yet remain. One
will serve the blood sacrifice. Then, with Excalibur
restored, I shall kill the other.

Sargon felt Kane’s quiet despair. A cruel smile curled
his lips once more.

It is a beautiful symmetry, Kane. Is it not?