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Legacy's Ghost (PRE-ORDER)

Legacy's Ghost (PRE-ORDER)

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Atan is invisible.

At least that's how he feels as an orphan in the Legacy Colony monastery where they raise the next generation of leaders for their planet. When he's forced to join the classes for Trinity candidates, he becomes a target. None of the other kids want him there. He's a freak. An orphan. A nobody. And some of the students--and adults--want him gone.

Can Atan survive his first year of Trinity school with his life intact? Or will he mysteriously disappear without a trace?


THIS NOVEL is on PRE-ORDER.  It will be shipped to your inbox by 07/30/24

Intro Into Chapter 1

Chapter 1

My stomach grumbles as I stand in the windowed alcove, my back against the UV protected windows simulated to look like leaded glass. I wait for the last of the students to meander down that long wooden hallway with massive trees arching over the ceiling, their branches knitting together to form an arched canopy ceiling.

When the final child pushes through the heavy carved wooden doors to their classroom, I wait a couple more minutes to avoid any stragglers, then I ghost down the hallway in search of food to steal in the kitchen.

The kids would have stared right through me anyway. Being an orphan means I have no value to the children preparing to become leaders of the Legacy colony.

Looking like a freak of nature with skin void of pigment, and hair the color of storm clouds means my existence is a downright imposition.

You’d think after three hundred years of colonization on Planet Legacy, we’d be more socially developed than Earth was before it imploded.

The sun filters through windows on both sides of the hall, creating a ripple in the light as it hits the carved wood walls on each side.

Sliding my bare feet along the planked floors, I avoid any squeaky timbers that will give away my location, until I reach the adjacent Treeouse, which is one of a network of massive hollowed out trees, turned into a building and called the Trinity Monastery.

I reach the double swinging doors to the kitchen and I raised to my tiptoes to see through the windows at the top of the doors. I glance inside, checking for movement.


Slowly pushing on the door, I cringe as the hinges squeak. I needed to find some lubricant for those, or I will get caught one day.

Stepping just inside the kitchen, I survey the butcher block counters and state-of-the art appliances designed to feed an army. Nothing is out of place, or dirty. It smells of antiseptic and looks as if Cook attacked this place with a toothbrush again. Does that old woman have anything else to do besides cook and clean?

I open the walk-in refrigerator half the size of the kitchen, and slip inside the cold metal room, carefully closing the heavy insulated door to rest on the clasp, but not lock.

My feet stick to the icy metal floor, so I shuffle them, never letting the soles rest on the metal for more than a second or two. Experience tells me I have thirty seconds before the biting cold on my toes and soles will morph into an unbearable ache radiating up my legs.

My breath fogs in front of me as I grab the leftovers, avoiding the greens from the Monastery’s garden and diving straight for something that will stick to my ribs for the rest of the day.

This will be my only chance to pinch food till Cook gives me my gruel in the morning.

I snatch some meat from one container and stuff it into my mouth. It's soft and salty with a hint of garlic. From another, I take a bit of cheese—crumbly, smelly, sharp, and salty.

I stuff more meat into my mouth to cover the taste of the cheese. The next container contains beans. Not my favorite, but it will keep me full for a while. The beans are purple and mash easily in my mouth. My nose wrinkles at their bland taste, so I continue to search for something else to replace the aftertaste.

As I eat, no more than a few ounces disappears from any single container. The trick is for Cook to not notice my handiwork. If she catches me...well. Last time is why I've only had breakfasts to eat for the last two months.

My skin sticks to the cold metal floors and pain throbs through to the bone. I take one last longing glance at the shelves to make sure nothing is out of place, then reach for the door’s handle.

Before my hand reaches it, the door opens and Cook fills the doorway. Her hunched body is a shadow with light from the kitchen streaming around her thick silhouette.

“You! What are you doing here?” she bellows, shaking the metal spoon in her hand.

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