<u> Prince Skylar </u>


    Fire consumed everything.


    A great inferno of red and orange flames climbing the sky, staining the grass black with charcoal and the trees black with smoke. And the smell.


    Burned bodies and iron blood rising with the smoke and ash, a grimly layer filtering through the canopy.


    I clutched the Loric child in my arms closer to my chest, stumbling over a singed log, copper engravings melted along its length, fire licking at one end. The child sniffled, turning the fabric of my shirt around her tiny fists, lips and tongue a moist slug against my collarbones. She wasn’t heavy, weighing about as much as a hunting dog, green skin and darker green hair tied in twin tails, curls soft and silky on my skin. Her horns were little more than black stubs emerging from the sides of her head, right above her pointed ears in her hairline. Narrow brown eyes half-closed, the sharp angles of her nimble hips wedged into my navel, legs jostling up and down with every step, jostling around my waist.


    “It’s okay, it’s okay.” I whisper into her ear, her frantic pulse pounding like a jackrabbit under my fingertips.


    I’d found her kneeling next to a corpse, covered in blood and ash, shaking the body, like doing that could revert the dead to living. The body had belonged to a woman with red skin and dark orange hair, her throat slit open, brown, wide eyes staring up, frozen and lifeless. Blood had been everywhere, red staining the grass around her corpse, one arm bent at an unnatural angle, her brown shirt and green jerkin tore and gory. I’d picked up the kid, telling her it was okay, that she was safe.


    It was a lie, both to her and me.


    I hadn’t seen the Loric woman die, and yet I could feel her eyes on me, a spirit watching from the far heavens, following me in my path. Her haunted, open eyed face branded into my mind, an image rimmed with shock and fear that leaked of sorrow and pain.


    If this was the cruel reality of war, why did people do it?


    It made no sense, why a person would willingly inflict pain and suffering to some one else because they were ordered.


    Delto would laugh at that.


    And what makes you think they’re good people? If you spend your time debating whether the person about to carve you in half with a longsword is good or not, you’d die before you even realize your mistake. Wake up, Princeling. This is war, not some far off romantic endeavor where the weapons are made of wood and a lethal blow leaves a bruise instead of a corpse.


    I swallowed. Where was Delto? Last I’d seen him, he’d disappeared into the labyrinth of the market, two flames of gold and red in his hands, red-orange light illuminating from his veins.


    The world went black, pain exploding up from my hip. I screamed, letting the sound rush over my tongue and out of my mouth, adding to the crackling laughter of the firestorm. Clamping a hand over my right hip, I groaned, leaning against a half burned wall, gritting my teeth.


    “Come out, little scum!” The voice was singsong, a light and shrill crescendo of notes. “Time to wipe your pretty face from the face of this earth!” A blade as long as my leg streaked towards my head, spinning hilt over tip, a bright flash of silver in the reds and oranges of the surrounding flames.


    I ducked, crouching, and the sword embedded itself in the dark wood where my head had been. The hilt and crossguard wobbled, swinging up and down from the sheer momentum of being thrown. I glanced down, dreading the sight of my hand.


    It was covered in blood, bright red paint that stained my clothes and dripped on the ground. I sagged, all the feeling in my legs trickling out, spilling out on the ground in scarlet puddles.


    Is this how I die? Bleeding out on the dirt, alone and surrounded by enemies?


    “Skylar!” I blinked, lifting my head. A man in trappers’ leather stood before me, a great~axe lifted above his head, the blade a sharp crescent moon hurtling towards me. I clench my eyes shut, awaiting death.


    The axe never hits its mark.


    The man grunts in pain, a heavy thud following his cry. Slowly, very slowly, I open my eyes.


    Cerbera stands over me, gripping a bloody Loric tomahawk in one hand and her bone dagger in the other. The man lays at her feet, a throwing knife embedded in his forehead, blood running down either side of his dirty, grime-coated face and beard.


    “Ha-” I manage to say over the pain.


    “Get on your feet, Weakling. I don’t have time to save your pampered ass every time you get stabbed.” She starts for the next wagon.


    “Humph.”


    “Do you know where Delto is?” I can’t stop myself from asking. Cerbera raises a brow, the orange yellow hair lifting a small fraction.


    “He’s over near the outskirts. Barbecued three men and their horses just to save my ass. Wasted a bunch of Emhic to do it, though. Stupid idiot.” Cerbera shakes her head. Her hair was charred black in a few places, whole strands escaping from her braid.


    “Are you okay?”


    “What makes you think I’m not okay?” Cerbera snaps. I shrug. What made me wonder that? The way she set her shoulders and jaw. The way she held her weapons, each knuckle a white star on her yellow complexion. Or was it the slight hitch before each inhale? The veins in her forearms bulging and pulsing, thin rivers of blue and green under her skin.


    “I’m sorry. It’s just-”


    “You’re right, Skylar. As much as I hate to admit it, you’re right.” Cerbera exhaled sharply, her chest deflating.


    “Right about what?” I ask, not missing that Cerbera had used my name instead of her Weakling nickname for me.


    “That this is wrong? That killing is something no sane person could do? So wake up. Wake up and keep your head on your shoulders, because I’m not going to hold it there for you.”


    Will you fight, or will you be a coward and add yet another corpse to the body count?


    “We need to find Delto.” I struggle to stand, a fresh, brutal wave of agony ripping its way up from my leg and hip. I collapse, my chest heaving, each breath a weight that kept growing.


    “Right. Here.” Cerbera reached behind her and pulled out a small pale yellow green plant from one of her pouches, pinching it between her thumb and forefinger.


    “What is it?” I take it from her, turning the small bundle of yellow roots and canary green spade-shaped leaves over in my hand.


    “Devil’s Claw. Should numb the pain enough for you to get back to Ribena. And make it so I don’t have to lug your heavy arse back home.” I blush at that, not quite sure why. Girls didn’t hold the same level of attraction as boys did to me, a fact that had taken everyone, including me, a second of two to comprehend back in Argona.


    Home.


    It’d been a while since I’d had one. Argona didn’t count, it had been a hellhole of noblemen and women constantly badgering me about everything. They wanted to know everything, including things that were even more private than the topic of my virginity.


    “Home?”


    “Just eat it. I don’t want to have to force it down your throat.”


    I shrug, upending the plant into my mouth, working it past the blockade in the back of my throat. It tasted like straw, with bitter roots and a scalding aftertaste, burning my tongue and singeing my insides.


    “!” I spit, my saliva a swirling pool of green and cloudy white curled up in a bed of bloody dirt.


    “Tastes like straw and sour rocks, just so you know.” Cerbera lets out a loose chuckle, putting one hand on her hip. She’d put her bone dagger back in its sheath on her right thigh, the hilt sticking out a good two inches from the lip of the beaded leather scabbard.


    “Delto. We need to find him.” I climb to my feet again, relief flooding through me in a numb rush of pain-free needles.


    “Outskirts. Foll-”


    “Duck!” I obey, sprawling on the ground, knocking Cerbera over. She grunts, somersaulting head over heels in the dirt. Something long and silver whirled overhead, slicing an arc in the air, swinging back. I look up.


    A tall man with a buzz cut of moon silver hair stood several meters away, wearing long navy blue leathers and black gloves. The entire left side of his face was a bubbled mess of black and red flesh, massive white blisters surrounding his pale eye, the skin and meat burned and glistening ashy black.


    “Who-”


    “You!” Cerbera snarled, climbing to her feet. The man eyed her with a shimmer in his gaze, cocking his head to the side slightly, the muscles in his jaw working and flexing..


    “Me.” he agreed.


    “A’Era’i?” I blink. What were they doing here?


    “Prince Skylar, please come here.” The A’Era’i held out one hand, gesturing to me to walk over. I take a step back.


    “You should be dead.” Cerbera drew her dagger, holding the beige and white bone blade between her and the man. The Loric child lay on the ground behind her, the girl’s tiny chest sliced open, her large eyes staring up at the thick haze of smoke in a lifeless stare.


    “And Fate had other plans for me.” He says.


    “Where’s Delto?” I yell.


    “Oh, that blue Lore Magi?” The man waves one hand dismissively, gesturing to someone behind him. The weapon he’d tried to cut our heads off with hung at his side, a small crescent scythe blade attached to a long black chain, a small ring of metal at the other end.


    “What did you do?” Cerbera hissed.


    “I killed him. Worthless fool. Thought magic would save him.” He shrugs, like the death of a single person didn’t matter.


    Maybe it didn’t for him.


    It did for me.


    “You . . . murderer!” I scream. The man starts laughing. The entire world seemed to go silent, the fire and everything else fading to background noise. I clench my jaw. Delto couldn’t be dead.


    He couldn’t.


    Not that I held any attachment to him.


    But-


    Green vines burst from the ground, dark green tentacles with red-brown thorns and angular runes that glowed jade green light. The vines flowed over the ground, some of them diving into the earth and sprouting back out like sea serpents in the ocean. Only one person could do this.


    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    “Weakling, get ready.” Cerbera stepped closer to me, her body going from a ridged board to a flexible sapling.


    “Why-” More vines burst out, moving much faster than the first ones. They snaked out, curling around the A’Era’i, tightening like a vice, pinning his arms to his sides. The thorns cut into his skin, red blood running in small rivers over the earthy plants, dripping onto the scarred dirt. He thrashed, stuck like a fly on a sundew, unable to do anything but struggle and wait for death.


    “Oh.” I mouth. My jaw hangs slack, the burnt, ashy air settling over my tongue.


    The vines snap closer together, the sounds of bones crunching, splintering, and cracking filling the smoke-clogged air.


    I close my eyes, right as the A’Era’i bursts in a bubble of blood and bone, his remains scattering everywhere. Red and scarlet sprays, white rods of bone clattering against structures that still stood.


    No one deserved to die like that that.


    No one.


    Horror and cold shock started creeping into my chest, icy fire curling around my heart and lungs, squeezing them.


    “Skylar.” Cerbera starts backing up, grabbing me by the shoulder, dragging me with her. Her hand is shaking, her gloomy green eyes wide with the same emotions that ripped through me.


    “What?” I turn, shaking out the tension in my legs, getting them to start working again.


    “We need to get out of here.” She starts running.


    “Why?”


    “Oh, I don’t know. This place is on fire, and I don’t feel like burning to death in a firestorm. We find Delto, then we get the hell out of this place.” Cerbera says, her voice hard and sharp, a blade dipped in the poison of sarcasm. She glances at me over her shoulder, the helm of her cloak lifting up behind her.


    “Right.” Idiot. Of course we needed to leave before we burned to death or died from smoke inhalation. We start running, flames and black, ashy silhouettes of buildings and people streaking past us. I dare a peek at the scene behind us, at the bulb of green and brown  vines, the plant bodies covered with blood. I swallow.


    Maybe Delto shouldn’t have killed that man.


    Fool.


    Something catches my eyes, a flash of blue on the soil, a wide arch of black earth behind it.


    “Cerbera!” I twist, pointing. My lungs burn, each breath like sliding raw skin over sandpaper. The smoke is getting worse, thick wraiths of ink and ash spreading their misty tendrils over the earth, billowing up into the sky, turning it from blue to black. She stops, banking towards it. Both of us heading towards the navy color.


    Pain lashes up my hip, sending me stumbling. The effects of the pain-killing herbs Cerbera had given me were starting to wear off, small pinpricks turning to needles, needles turning to daggers, daggers turning to swords. The pendant Delto had given me slipped out from my shirt collar, the metal chain hot and cold around my throat, the amulet a longsword with a corkscrew sapphire wrapping around the blade. The entire thing shimmered with some sort of hidden light, the gemstone vibrating softly in my hand.


    “Is this supposed to vibrate.” I hole it up for Cerbera to see. She’s kneeling next to the blue shape, and it was indeed Delto.


    He lay on his side, blood seeping from a wound in his belly. More blood scattered the ground around him, staining the left side of his neck and his left cheek red, a stark contrast to the dark blue of his skin.


    “It’s vibrating because he’s dying. All mages have something like it. Something that’s tied to their life force, something that signals when they’re fighting Death itself.”


    “Death itself?” I stand next to her, struggling not to look at Delto’s body.


    “Who . . . what . . . no . . . wait.” Delto mumbles. His jaw is barely moving, his eyepatch drenched red, hair draped around his head, covering his horns partway.


    “Delto.” I grab his hand, feeling for a pulse on the vein on the underside of his wrist. Delto groaned, turning his head slightly. Fear entered his remaining eye for the first time, the pupil narrowing, the sharp acidic tint to his iris glowing.


    “You . . . murderer . . . go . . . away . . . end . . . it.” His eye closed, a deep breath exiting his body. My hand reaches up, cupping his cheek, his dirty, grimy, blood-spattered skin soft and firm beneath my fingers. There’s a single tear in the corner of his eye, and in it, I see myself.


    A boy with curly red-brown-gold hair, icy, grief-filled blue eyes. A face with a haunted look, pale skinned and glossy.


    War changes you. It changes everyone. Please, do not become your father. The world doesn’t need a second one.


    “Skylar.” My name tumbles off Delto’s lips, his entire form going rigid.


    “What?” I gasp, one of Delto’s hands wrapping around my wrist, his nails digging into my flesh. I wince, fighting back the urge to break free.


    “Tel . . . porter . . . hold . . . on.”


    The world goes dark.


    “Weakling. Weakling? Can you hear me? Skylar!” Someone’s hands are on my shoulders, shaking me. I manage a groan, opening my eyes. The red female from the arena’s face filled my vision, her warm green eyes filled with worry.


    “Where?” I blink.


    “You, Delto, and Cerbera dropped out of thin air, right in the middle of a council. Thank the gods you weren’t dead. Gave the Elders quite the scare, though. ” She leaves my vision, letting the room fill it. I turn my head, another groan escaping the prison bars of my lips.


    I was in a hut, laying on a cot, with an open room to my left and a wall woven of branches and bark to my right. There were other cots, arranged like mine around the circular building. I looked up. A chandelier, more of a pillar, took up the middle of the room, going from floor to ceiling, a statue of some Lore girl in a tornado of leaves and branches, everything in pearly white and pale beige. The floor was made of beige tiles, the walls dark brown, lined with drawers and shelves and climbing plants in thousands of shades of green, a frozen waterfall of leaves and stems that tumbled from a skylight at the zenith of the domed ceiling.


    “Delto’s alive and stable. Cerbera’s fine. You lost about a quarter of your blood. What else?” The Lore frowns, the corners of her mouth pinching together. I shrug, not entirely sure how to answer.


    “News of my father?” It’s a terrible question, I realize as soon as the words are spoken.


    “Randor put out a bounty for you and Zifor. Several Shapeless were killed at the Tyr’yui market, threatening their neutrality.” The girl goes to a set of drawers next to my head, opening one of them.


    “Zifor?”


    “Right. He’s a . . . ally, of sorts.” She mutters a curse under her breath, closing the drawer and opening the one beneath it.


    “Of sorts?”


    “Similar to you, only he doesn’t have a genocidal maniac as a father. Not to blame you for Randor’s ideals and his parentage, but it’s something to consider, especially in the tribal debate of whether or not we should have let you bleed to death instead of patching you up.”


    “Who are you?” I try to sit up. My body screams in protest, the numb throbbing from my hip spiking into a white hot dagger being wrenched to the side.


    “I’m Arck.” She says.


    “I’m Sky-”


    “I know who you are. Everyone here does. Not that most people realize you’re actually here, of course.”


    “Oh.”


    Arck’s tall, with a spindly, muscular frame. Her shoulders and arms ripple with muscle, a brown leather apron covering her front from hips to clavicle. She wore a loose pale brown jerkin with the sides open, a woven net of leather strips that showed red and orange freckled skin. Tight green pants that were shoved into the crook of her knees, her red feet bare. Her hair went to her jaw, straight and a dark crimson, flowing like water around the brown curved spikes of her horns, pulled back in a loose ponytail with her bangs, the undersides, and back free.


    Her eyes are sparkling green, deep, warm pits of emerald. Dark orange freckles spattered her cheeks and nose, standing out against her red skin.


    “If you’re curious, it’s been three days since the massacre at the Tyr’yui.” Arck says. I nod.


    “And-”


    “This isn’t the afterlife, and no, I am not your maid.” Arck stuck out her tongue, making a retching sound. “Hate that word. Blah. Anyway, I’m rambling. Everyone’s waiting outside.” She throws a wrapped bundle into my lap.


    “Is this-”


    “Yes, yes. Now get dressed. The others are waiting!” Arck crosses the floor in three long strides, withdrawing from the Loric infirmity.


    The others consist of Cerbera, the orange male Lore, Xandyr, Arck, and a human boy with shaggy black curls. I shift my hips, noting the way Delto’s eye tracks the movement. They sit around a circular platform, crouched and sprawled over crates and barrels, long strips of canvas draping over a wooden frame that surrounded the platform, the start of some sort of structure. They were gathered around a low, long table covered with maps and several thick, leather-bound books.


    “So, what are we doing?” It was starting to feel creepy, without any sound.


    “We need allies.” Cerbera breaks it for me, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning forward. I try not to stare at her. She’s wearing a sleeveless green shirt under a tight brown jerkin that stopped at the base of her ribs. Brown pants hugged every curve of her legs, stopping right below her knees. Her lean yellow arms were bare, leather strips and bracelets coiling around the limbs. Her belt hung lopsided on her hips, a few pouches and her bone knife on it.


    “What kind of allies?” The orange male cocks his head to the side. His chest is bare, a brown vest, leather bracers, and loose brown pants covered his lean frame.


    “The Dwrfish, the Iybrids. Anyone. Even the dragons.” Cerbera throws one hand up.


    “The dragons aren’t an option, they’re on the verge of war themselves.” Delto says. His eyepatch is gone, showing what remains of his left eye.


    “How do you know that?” Arck’s question goes unanswered when Xandyr clears his throat. Everyone swivels their head towards him.


    The black and white striped Lore is perched on the edge of a wooden crate, leaning on his carved staff. His eyes are turquoise, deep pits of blue-green jade.


    “Cerbera is correct, we need allies.” His voice is deep and gravely. “In the past three decades, our population has gone from several million to a few thousand. Our numbers are smaller than a single Terrian army. We are fighting a losing war.”


    I shifted, fingers tapping on the hilt of my sword. The bundle Arck had given me had been the things Tejon had given me, the blue leather jacket, the Loric scarf, the chain mail vest and the sword. It was a sign the Lore trusted me, to give me a weapon. Even the dagger the stable-master had gifted to me was in my boot, the hilt protruding out a few inches from the lip of the shoe.


    “I’ll go to the Dwrfish with Delto. Skylar, Zifor, and Tavarn can go to the Iybrids.” Cerbera says. She exchanges a glance with the human boy, who gives a small nod.


    “That won’t work.” I say. Now everyone is staring at me, raised eyebrows and confused faces everywhere. I clear my throat. “The Iybrids are having a turf war with the Terrians over trade routes. They won’t be able to help you—us.” I stutter at the last part, not quite sure if I’m included in this struggle.


    “So, no Iybrids.” Arck wraps one arm around herself, resting the other under her chin.


    “No Iybrids.” Delto shakes his head. Then he turns to me. “You sure are persistent with this.”


    “Persistent with what?”


    “Getting people to fight. Getting them to follow you.”


    “Thanks, I think?” I blink.


    “We could still have a group go to the Sword.” The human boy whispers. It’s the first time he’s spoken. He sits cross-legged on a barrel, his arms resting in his lap, wrists on full display. They’re red and raw, blisters and scars winding around them like bracelets.


    He’s a Magi.


    I’d heard rumors of Randor using Magi to help further his goal. And this was one of them.


    So much power in him, and he’s so small.


    “Why?” Delto asked. The boy lifts his head, meeting my gaze. His eyes are acid green, sharp and bold, framed by shaggy curls the color of wet ink.


    “If you and Cerbera fail getting the Dwrfish to help us, then we’ll need some sort of backup plan.” He says.


    I snap my fingers, middle finger and thumb clicking together. “You’re thinking of hiring an assassin to kill my fa— to kill Randor.” I force the words past my tongue.


    I won’t ask you to betray blood. I can’t, not after what the two of us have done.


    He nods. “Yes. You could go to the Sword-” He hops off the barrel, and leans over the map, pointing to the curving black line separating the expanse of the Western Ocean from the jungles of Arkeya, a rune of a sword at the tip of his finger. “Then hop on a whaling ship and take it to Sixa and Bellowback Peak.” His finger goes from the coast, following a thin line to two islands in the bottom corner of the map.


    “Genius.” Arck says. I swallow, my eyes jumping from person to person. The way Tavarn and Xandyr’s eyes seem weighed down, deep and sorrowful. The sharp edge to Delto’s remaining eye. The way Arck and Cerbera set their shoulders. The way the Magi boy, Zifor, seemed to be folded into himself.


    These were dangerous people.


    They’d killed, taken lives, murdered and stabbed and slashed.


    They had blood on their hands.


    And I didn’t.


    Not a single drop.


    I could feel the eyes of every dead person at the market staring at me, large and ominous, dark and lifeless, the dried ingredients of a poison trickling into my head and heart.


    “So, I guess that’s what we’ll do.” I say.


    “Aye.” Cerbera nods.


    “You are an interesting man, Skylar.” Xandyr shifts, peering out and up at me.


    “What do you mean?” I straighten, tension trickling into my bones.


    “You were not born into this fight, like many of us were. You could have stayed in Argona, where you wouldn’t be aware of our struggles, oblivious to the horrors of this war. And yet here you are, throwing yourself into a fight you barely understand. It warms my heart, to see one so young so willing to help.” Xandyr says. I swallow, looking around at everyone.


    Cerbera was around my age, Arch a few years older. Delto seemed to be in his mid twenties, Tavarn too. Based on his size, Zifor was probably a few years younger. Only Xandyr seemed older than thirty, older then my father’s war.


    “How old are you guys?” I ask. Delto snorts.


    “I’m nineteen, Arck’s seventeen, Tavarn’s twenty. Why?” He says.


    “Just curious.” Delto’s nineteen? I remember overhearing Delto’s conversation with Cerbera when we’d been watching the drinking contest between the Dwrfish and Loric man.


    Randor killed him.


    Him?


    Aye.


    Your father?


    No. Xandyr’s my father.


    “We should get packing.” Delto climbs off the wooden box he’s sitting on, wincing slightly.


    “Aye.” Tavarn nods.


    Cerbera and Delto start for the opening when a Loric girl rushed in, her small chest heaving. She’s lean and thin, her skin a pale lavender purple color, hair a darker shade with strips of greenish blue in it, a messy pixie cut spiking up around two black horns that stuck straight up. Her horns were wrapped in brown leather, bright red, blue, and yellow feathers tied in the leather.


    “Pakii, what is it?” Tavarn stands, his features a sculpture craved with the chisel of worry and patience.


    “Nara. I spotted a ranger and several Nara heading towards Argona. I saw her, too.” Pakii bends over, hands on her knees.


    “Her?” Zifor asks.


    “Dragons help us.” Delto cursed under his breath.


    “What?” I say.


    “Ask?tori. She’s here. Which can only mean one thing.” Tavarn says.


    “What?”


    “The Nara are helping your father, Skylar. They’re his new allies, the people of Wildfire.”


    “Oh gods.” Arck mutters. Her eyes widened. “You don’t mean-”


    “We have new enemies.” Xandyr says. Cerbera swallows.


    “Say it, we’re doomed.” Arck leans forward, planting her hands on the map, fingers splayed.


    “Less doomed and more violently outnumbered.” Delto shrugs.


    “I-okay.” Pakii says.


    “Guys, we can do this. We can gather allies, we can fight this war. We might be outnumbered, but we have something they don’t.” I slam my fist into the table, making everyone jump and tense.


    “What would that be?” Cerbera cocks her head to the side, studying me.


    “You have knowledge of the jungle. You know its ins and outs. You rely on speed and strategy, not brute force and overwhelming numbers.” I say.


    “He has a point.” Tavarn gives a careful nod, one finger tapping his chin.


    “Use that. Use that knowledge to your advantage. Make traps and snares. Don’t make rash decisions.” I feel like a general, telling people who know more about this then I do what to do.


    “Woodland can still win. And I have a plan for that.”