Prologue

A book is an interesting concept; one few of your kind ever truly pause to contemplate.

Yet its purpose can be rather astounding at times and its origin as equally compelling.  What was once only blank pages, or emptiness as one might define it, becomes a story.  It all begins with the birthing of an idea out of thin air.  The author becomes the creator, nurturing each character into a fully blossomed, matured state.  A story based on these characters, takes form and comes to life.  What was once nothing becomes something.  A story that may never have been told is now tangible for the pleasurable digestion of many.

Allow me to introduce myself to you, reader.  My name is Divina.  I dwell in another land by the name of Revelatia.  The story with which you are about to read, what you view to be nothing more than a fraudulent pleasure, a delicious cup of impossibility for you to curl up and partake from, takes place in this land.  Revelatia, appropriately named for the revelations it…well, reveals.

But the thing that may cause you to stutter, grappling once again with the things you consider tangible and reliable – your version of reality, is the part of the story which does not take place in Revelatia.  However brief it may be, there is a breech in universal laws, a line which is blurred, a crossing over which occurs.  A part of the story which takes place there, in your world.

This may trouble you for a few moments.  Especially if you are anything like the main character in this story.  A woman who cries, alone in the night.  A woman who questions her value.  A woman who takes for granted that she is unseen, unloved, and unimportant.  Her reality.

But what is reality?  The things you trust, I would say.  What is tangible, visible and plain to you.  Things you feel so certain of, you would take them for granted.

Did I mention in Revelatia that I am the Diviner of the North?  You will come to understand soon enough what all that entails, but least to say, I am well renowned for my wisdom.  So before you depart on your journey, your savory read, allow me to leave you with this.

Again…a story is nothing more than a creation.  Blank pages become full, something becomes nothing, and characters are given breath and a story.  You call them authors, I prefer creators.

Now…who wrote your story, reader?

Someone did.

Beyond what you see, beyond what you know, and certainly beyond what you can explain, someone created you.

The imagination becomes something more than a playground when you think of it that way, doesn’t it?  It becomes a portal.  A way to fathom the impossible.

No one stares at the sun directly without going blind, reader.  So think of the imagination as your sunglasses.  A way to peek into things beyond what your physical being is able to handle.  The mind censors and limits what it cannot explain.  So step outside the matrix of your mind…for awhile.  Let the lines blur for awhile.

Let the story of Revelatia become something more than you first bargained for.

This story all begins when an angel comes in the night, to rescue a weary soul.  The question is, next time, could it be yours?  Only the creator of your story can say…