CHAPTER ONE


    Mark Phillips had a thought, a quick one, about what it would be like to get abducted by aliens. It came to his mind like a thunderclap and derailed what little he’d already been thinking about; tonight’s dinner and remembering what his sister said to get for their mother’s birthday could wait.


    If they’re so advanced that with all of our surveillance we can’t detect them, I’m sure they wouldn’t need to dissect us or anything like that, he thought. Super-powered x-rays…yeah, something that can analyze our insides would make more sense. High-tech shit.


    Today’s thoughts seemed to be on the more tasteful side. A rare occurrence. But like with most things his interest in the topic quickly waned. Dinner would be that leftover pot of rice and maybe a can of tuna.


    The conveyor belt clunked, gears ground. There was the sound of cardboard rupturing but it wasn’t until someone shouted his name that Mark returned from the clouds.


    “The boxes, Mark! They’re stuck on the damn chute!”


    Thunderclap. He was back. Someone hadn’t been doing their job and placed improperly sized items on the belt. Oh right, that was him. Shit!


    The entire sector of the warehouse watched him bumble with the machinery, clearing it out to get it started again. He could feel the heat of embarrassment on the back of his neck, clawing for his cheeks.


    The disgruntled complaints soon faded and business returned as usual; the flush in his face was quick to go, too. It wouldn’t be long before his mind was back to wandering. The new Ninja Bullet, Mark remembered. She’s on some smoothie craze right now, right?


    And then it was empty; there was only the acknowledgment of passing boxes.


    Such was the mind of a man who lived for nothing.


    <hr>


    When his shift was over the sky had fallen to dusk with remnants of orange-red hiding thinly on the horizon. This was his preferred finish time; too early to turn in for the night but too late to do much else but grow roots. It let him start his day around noon, again not giving much time to do more than a load or two of laundry.


    At least this way he had a reason for not accomplishing anything. If he didn’t think about it, he could almost pass it off like it wasn’t his fault.


    His drive home was normal. The road was empty, wrapping around the escarpment as trees blurred by on the left. Ducktape held together his rearview mirror precariously, his oil light blinked on the dashboard. When was he supposed to get those dealt with? God knew how long the mirror had been broken, but…it still worked? It was hard to get up in arms about something that had little to no effect on him.


    Mark listened to his engine rumble. It didn’t sound good. “I’ll get around to it…” he mumbled, drowning the sound out with the scratch of his radio.


    It’s working, your highness!


    Mark jumped. The voice was so sudden. He looked at the radio; the green lights danced and warped as it struggled to stay alive—nothing but static. It scratched, scratched again, and then came on like a sputtering rust bucket.


    He was silent for a moment. The commentator gave a play-by-play of the Jets’ pitiful attempt to claw back from a 42-0 deficit in the 4th quarter. They wouldn’t. How long have they been in the dirt for? Mark thought, regaining his composure. “And who the hell are they calling ‘your highness’?”


    There was a time when Mark pictured himself on the big field, done up in the gear and dressed in the colours of his chosen team. Not the Jets. Not over his dead body. But it was a genuine dream. It was just so, so hard to play when he simply didn’t want to. Why was practice everyday for two hours minimum? It was highschool, god dammit. And how was it his fault that their first playoffs game was at the same time as his raid teams meeting?


    “So tedious,” he muttered. He couldn''t make it through his entire twelfth grade season. The coaches eyed him in the halls at school after that.


    They didn’t even clear the raid that night.


    Is there any interference? Why is it taking so long then! We’ll be out of power before we finish!


    “Alright! Shut it!” Mark shouted, shutting the radio off. He nearly ripped the knob from the socket. “Something’s gotta be up with my head…” A migraine, perhaps? Some of those words just rang too deep in his skull.


    His phone buzzed in the cupholder. A familiar name headered the message notification. “Jared?” he questioned, fiddling with his right hand to get a hold of the phone and swipe it open. His eyes flicked between the road and his screen. Not as if there were any cars all the way out here anyways.


    *Hey man, I thought you said you were coming? We were all supposed to meet at 8:15.I looked like an idiot telling everyone to wait just for you to not show up. We’re headed to the restaurant now, the message read. From Julian.


    “Dinner?” Mark said. Dinner…


    Dinner?


    “Oh, crap!” he exclaimed. “The reunion. That was today?”


    When had they last even talked about it? Three months ago? It was a tall ask to expect someone to remember without checking in on them a little closer to the event.


    His phone buzzed again.


    *You said you were up for it like, last week. What happened? No longer coming? It’s been nearly three years since we’ve seen each other. The last time you saw the others was at grad, right? C’mon man that’s like, half a decade ago


    Oh…so it was last week, then. In Mark’s defence, last week felt like forever ago. With so little going on, everything kind of blends together until last year and yesterday become frighteningly similar.


    Half a decade is a bit of an exaggeration, he thought. It was July now, so it would have been exactly four years. He sat in a daze for a moment thinking about that; he’d been out of high school for as long as he’d been in it. Quite terrifying.


    All that was on the table for tonight was cold rice and salty tuna, maybe a movie he’d fall asleep to. Wasn’t all that exciting, if he was being honest. “Guess I could show up.” Mark glanced at his reflection in the rearview, at the smudges of grease and oily hair. “After a shower.”


    Bright headlights shot around the bend and blinded him. Another car. Another car that was kissing the median. Mark swerved and further into his lane, teasing the rocky wall. He dropped his phone in panic. His car tried to overpower him. He grabbed the wheel with both hands and turned against the sway. Tires screeched. His teeth were grit. His car slid into the opposing lane and back into his own.


    Eventually, he wrested control and came to a stop halfway through both lanes.


    “Jesus…” he said. His chest heaved. He drove like a robot for the next ten minutes, barely breathing.


    “Right, the reunion.” His phone was below the glove compartment. There was nothing but straight road ahead and not a car in sight. Carefully, he reached for his phone. Julian had sent another message.


    They’re trying to take another. I won’t let them, said a new voice. It was female, unlike the previous two.


    “I thought I turned off the damn—” what was that? Mark froze, quickly sitting up straight. There’s no way he just saw what he thought he saw, right? Out the front window, in the sky? That’s ridiculous. He swallowed sharply, took another look.


    When it blinked, he could hear the dew on its sclera squelch. It took the place of the moon, casting a faint red light in the sky around it. There were no lashes, or perhaps they’d all been plucked out. The skin on the edges of its lids were inflamed a painful red. Veins ran through the delicate whites that had turned bloodshot. Red streaks painted its irises.


    An eye. It cried blood. It was looking right at him.


    I won’t let them! the voice said again.


    A tunnel of flames connected his pupil to its. On the other side he saw the world. A different world. One that burned; landmarks crumbling to decay; bodies mummified; survivors mutilated; lands splitting; the sun consuming all. Pain. Death. Fear. Screaming. And then it was bright. A figure was silhouetted by the light. Long hair cascaded around its head, below its shoulders. It kissed his forehead. The tunnel of flame reappeared and he sped through it, eyes clenched shut.


    When he heard his own rasped breathing again, Mark realized it had all been soundless. The screaming he’d heard was distant, like it had come from a world beyond a mirror. Where he had viewed it all from above and within, like box seats from God, there was nothing.


    But now there was solid ground, and Mark was kneeling. He opened his eyes to a red carpet imprinted with gold linings and sigils.


    What…the hell is going on? he thought. He dared to glance to the side; there was stone flooring lined with suits of armour. No…not just suits.


    “So you have come to us at last, Hero,” said a rustic voice. Mark had heard it before. It was the second strange voice from the radio. He looked up, now seeing the faces in those steel suits, and glanced at the speaker.


    They sat atop a throne in the middle of a high-ceilinged room. Banners hung in between the equally spaced window panes that warped the sunlight into hues of green, gold, and purple.


    It was a man of later years who’d long since gone grey. His skin wrinkled and his neck fat hung, but his eyes…whatever youth he had left, that’s where it was held. At his side stood two, regally-plated men. Their armour was cobalt blue, gilded in silver—the crest of a soaring eagle on their chests.


    On the head of the speaker rested a thick, multi-jeweled crown of gold. With the fur coat draped over his shoulders and the eagle-headed scepter in his palm, one would think him a king of some sort.


    Mark couldn’t find the words to respond.


    One thing many people got wrong about the lazy was that they were unattentive, oblivious; that was far from the truth. After all, you had to know the pros and cons of what you were up against to decide you’d rather just…not. Mark was remarkably attentive. That’s why he knew this wasn’t a dream; he knew he hadn’t somehow overdosed on boredom mid drive home and was now in the midst of some hyper-realistic trip—he was quite sure he wasn’t dead, either, but that was a hard one to vouch in confidence for. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    It’s real…it’s all real…I know that. But what’s real? he thought. What the hell was that eye in the sky? That vision? And now this…this King? Those voices…


    Mark was attentive.


    Someone had mentioned a ‘highness’—it had to be these guys. I was hearing their conversation before all that eye shit happened, and now I’m here. God, this is about to sound so stupid…


    “You summoned me?” Mark asked.


    The maybe-King snickered. It was a vile sound.


    “He’s not as daft as the others, it seems. That’s right. We summoned you from your world to ours using the power of the spirits. A power that should now be imprinted upon you, and will be of quite good use to us,” he said.


    “So the eye in the sky…that’s what it was? Magic? From…spirits?” Mark asked.


    “We don’t know their methods, but from the stories I’ve heard of your world floating eyes aren’t a regular occurrence. Though, I may be mistaken.” There was a snide bite to his words that brought a grimace to Mark’s face, like each one rode on a derisive chuckle.


    So…by the stuff he’s saying, it seems like people coming here from Earth isn’t such a rare thing? And what’s this with spirits and powers? agh…I’m starting to not care. It’s too much. All that matters is whether I’m in danger or not.


    The king rose and stalked towards Mark—the scepter was for his bum-leg— with the two men in cobalt at his side. “This will have to do for introductions, I’m afraid. We don’t have the luxury of wasting time on someone that may be of no use to us. As I said before, the power of the spirits should be with you. That of a powerful, primordial existence. It should thrum through you like ice through your veins. It should not be hard to feel. Pull it out. Show it to us.”


    “Power? Like magic? Thrumming through me…” They weren’t really questions, more statements of disbelief. It was true he didn’t feel like his usual self; his fingers were cold and pale, his legs felt so weak that he was grateful they hadn’t asked him to stand, and his stomach was impatiently searching for the bathroom—he had a hard time working the thoughts going through his mind, too—but that wasn’t power; it wasn’t the work of some spirit mucking about inside him. That was just plain ole fear and bewilderment.


    “I don’t feel anything,” Mark said. “Nothing…special, at least. I’m a little nervous is all. Not everyday you have to kneel before a king after being cradle-snatched from your car.” He let out a small laugh.


    The king’s face twitched, his expression darkened. Mark stifled what remained of the laugh and went purse lipped as his gaze unbiddenly fell to the ground.


    “Could you maybe tell me what it is I’m looking for?” Mark said again. “I…I don’t know what the power should feel like.”


    “You’d know,” the king said. Mark stole a glance. The weathered man was looking off to the paned windows, but not through them. Whatever he eyed was in a distant place that only he could see. He broke his reverie and limped closer. Slowly. “If the Supreme haven’t blessed you, perhaps the dregs have. Search the pit of your stomach as if you were quelling an ache. Feel whatever is there; fire, water, ash—even pitiful wood.”


    Mark was lost. He fumbled his words. “I don’t think I understand…maybe ex—”


    “I don’t expect you to. Do it.” The steeled guards surrounding the room stomped as if to punctuate his final word, or possibly because of it. Their hands were closer to the hilts of their swords now, Mark was sure.


    Fuck. Fuck. Just do it. Feel your goddamn stomach. Shit. Shit!


    He ‘searched’ in the pit of his stomach, whatever that meant, for the ‘power of the spirits’, which meant even less. His eyes shut tightly, he squished his face in concentration. What was he even doing? What was even going on? All he could find in his stomach were painful twists and the need to clench his behind. Mark wanted to cry.


    “There’s nothing. I don’t feel anything,” he blurted. Mark heard the king whip his cloak behind him and slump his way back to his throne. He didn’t want to open his eyes this time.


    “Test him,” the king demanded.


    Metal clinked and shuffled as the guards about the room retrieved a contraption from a curtained alcove. Mark eyed it as they wheeled it towards him. It rode an axel-bound base like those of portable catapults, but much smaller. Atop the wheels was a hangman-like post that acted as a spine and four sets of ribs that protruded from it. Dangling from the head of the spine was a metallic headset with a chinstrap.


    Mark’s legs wouldn’t move. The fear in him only allowed for his knees to scrape across the carpet as his nails dragged him forward. “Wait, wait! What is that? What are you going to do to me!”


    Three soldiers restrained him. He wouldn’t have been able to fight off even one of them. They dragged him up as the machine arrived and slammed him back into it. His pleas were unheard. The king watched him with a furrowed brow and a hand nursing his temple.


    The rib-like protrusions were like the bands of a straight jacket. They snapped shut around Mark’s torsos and squeezed like the most unwelcome of bear hugs. As he struggled to breathe, the headset was fastened around his jaw and chin and pulled tight until the bumpy insides felt like needles puncturing his skull.


    A wooden gag halted his screeching.


    “Activate it,” said the king.


    Something thrummed. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the sudden activation of whatever magic they wanted from him. It was the machine. It vibrated slightly. A thin blue light cascaded from behind and below to the pinnacle where his head trembled in the metal trap. It gathered there and dispersed, using the bumps inside the headset as a pathway to Mark’s brain.


    It assaulted him. Inspected his mind like a dental scraper did the grooves of teeth.


    The machine rattled now. It was Mark. His eyes rolled back in delirium. It was almost instantaneous how he lost control over himself. The pain wasn’t even pain; if you could gather the trauma of recovering from a full body fracture to a single point and then unleash it all at once, it still wouldn’t come close. Pain was a warning sign; it ramped up in accordance with the mind’s assessment of danger. Mark’s brain was telling him he was dead while he was still alive.


    The wooden gag splintered under the force of his clenching. Something cracked in his mouth, bits of wood sliced his cheeks. His left leg was soaked through.


    Only two minutes had passed.


    And then, it was over.


    The headset came off and the latches undone. Mark’s body slumped to the ground. Surprisingly, he was quite conscious and in control. Enough to curl up on his hands and knees and beg. “Please! Whatever it is, I’m sorry! Whatever I’ve done wrong, I’ll fix! Just…don’t hurt me, please…”


    A woman emerged from behind the machine. Over her armour she wore a cobalt tabard that hung to her feet as if some half-robe. She whispered something to the king. “Nothing?” he said. “At all?”


    There was silence, and then he rose.


    With more force than any old man should be capable of, he slammed his scepter over the arm of his throne, shattering it into a million splinters. His shoulders hunched, long, stringy hair about his face, heavy heaves in his chest, he looked a madman. “Khathrix.” That was the only word he said.


    “So the reports from our scouts were true. The other members of the alliance must have truly failed their summonings as well,” one of the men in cobalt said; the younger of the two, with cropped, brown hair and sun-kissed skin. A few scars danced over the lower half of his face. “The Heroes…”


    “We cannot rely on them anymore. The great spirits have abandoned us.”


    A deeper silence fell over the room. Mark still shivered in fear, curled armadillo on the floor. He quietly mumbled, “Don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me.”


    “What are we to do then, sire?” the older man in cobalt asked. His skin was leathery, dusted at his chin with a thin beard. Black hair hung above his eyes.


    “First, take this swine out of my throne room. I want no trace of him here. He is not a child of the spirits but an omen of darkness,” the king said.


    “What are we to do with him?” asked the younger.


    The king found his calm as he sat again.


    “Execute him.”


    Mark’s heart leapt. His body did, too. A quick movement to his feet. “Wait!” he called out. “I haven’t done anything wrong!”


    The guards were upon him in seconds, slamming his jaw to the stone.


    “My king, impotent as he may be, it is only with the power of the spirits that he could have been summoned here. I do not think it wise to execute him. He is still their property” said the older.


    “He is more a message than property. The spirits are afraid, and they have left us to fend for ourselves. And may I remind you, advisor Rhun, that it is your duty to provide insight on my decisions, not overrule them. I do not think it wise to forget that.”


    The man did not speak again.


    Mark thrashed and wailed.


    “Silence him. Don’t make me endure a moment more of his presence.”


    The pommel of a sword cracked the back of Mark’s skull. His thrashing was no more.


    <hr>


    There was feeling first, that of being dragged along stone; it stopped and started many times. Sound came next—muffled tones, argumentative; scared. Finally came thought. He was warm, and…standing? That was strange. How could he have fallen asleep if he’d been standing? Did he not make it to his bed last night?


    Mark’s eyes fluttered. Now there was a bit of sight. Blurred, of course. Two figures, one robed. The other seemed familiar; blue steel coating his frame.


    Ah…it was coming back to him now. But his body was so weak—he couldn’t move. Even as the bare-chested man with the black sack over his head sharpened a man-lengthed scimitar and reddened it over a forge, his body refused to do much more than lull its head side to side. His mind processed everything as if it didn’t concern him.


    Yes, the seven-foot man just cut through metal with his molten blade. Why, how interesting. Mark never knew steel armor could be sheared through with such ease. It would be terrible if the weapon was ever used on someone. Though, maybe it wouldn’t be too bad? With such a powerful man behind the swing, it was sure to be painless. The wound we cauterize itself, too. Quite a messless execution.


    Mark’s eyes opened a little more. The blur faded, the room was now clear. It was a small shed; a smithy? It held a forge, an anvil, and a grinding wheel. Perhaps there was more behind him.


    “Cut it clean off,” said the man in cobalt. Right, there were supposed to be two of them. The older one wasn’t here, Mark noticed. He was most likely still with the king.


    King…the king, that’s right.


    Now it returned to him. He was about to be executed. Panic rose. The back of Mark’s neck tensed; that wasn’t good—what if the blade couldn’t cut through it in one stroke?


    The executioner raised his sword to his lower hip and gripped tight. It would be a diagonal swing upwards, and then everything would be black forever.


    Mark’s toes curled. There was no gag in his mouth, so some sounds escaped. The two men noticed this. “Hurry now,” the younger said again. “Before it becomes worse for him.”


    The executioner swung. A kick knocked the sole door open in a crash. With closed eyes, Mark could only feel the heat of the halted blade inches from his neck. He opened them and saw the retreating scimitar. His cheeks were wet.


    Standing in the doorway was the missing cobalt man. His breathing was haggard and he looked as if he’d run the whole length of a fortress wall with a pack of wolves at his back; his face was a mess, hair matted to his forehead. “Enough of this, Edward,” he said.


    The sudden relief brought dizziness back to Mark’s head.


    “Are you a fool?” Edward said. “On what grounds do you think you can interrupt a royal execution? You’ve let your stature afflict your judgment, Rhun.”


    Rhun placed both gauntleted hands on the shorter man’s shoulders, half to catch his breath, half to make a plea. “My young student, if ever my teachings were of use to you let that be now. Think. Think. The king is a wise man, but this…this was not a decision from a sound mind. There is much that weighs on him lately, you know this. This man, graced or not, is a child of the spirits. They have brought him here to us; we cannot execute him, lest we incur their wrath.”


    Edward took his elder’s hands from his shoulders gracefully. “I am aware of that. And in honor of our relationship I shall ignore the slight to our liege; I ask you to think: the spirits have not left him their grace, killing him only presents a chance of their wrath while failing to do so ensures that of our king’s. What do you say is the proper choice then?”


    “Neither,” said Rhun. “And both.”


    “I am no longer your student. Spare me the riddles.”


    “I speak truth. The king wants him gone, and we will make sure of that, but we must leave his fate in his own hands.”


    Edward eyed him warily. “Continue.”


    Rhun glanced towards Mark; he was dipping into unconsciousness now. He’d tried his best thus far to catch every word he could, but that luxury was over.


    “The coliseum is an honorable place to die. He will be given a chance to survive, a fighting chance, and if he fails it is on him. The spirits will have no quarrel with us,” Rhun said. Edward sat on his words.


    “Your wisdom humbles me, master. It is most likely that he will perish…”—Mark lost focus. The strike to his skull still reverberated through him— “…he survives? What if he makes a name for himself in those pits? It…”—Darkness. Brief— “…cannot stand with you when that time comes. It will be your head.”


    “Better mine than our entire nation’s,” Rhun said without hesitation.


    Edward sighed. “Then so be it.”


    The last word Mark heard before his mind fell into deep rest was one of solace. “Cut him down,” said Edward. Then silence. Peace.


    It wouldn’t last.