ã€ŠCreed War of Dragonsã€‹


 Prologue

    This world, deserves to die.

    Thousands suffered.

    Thousands died.

    And for what?

    Nothing.

    This war has been going on for millennia.

    No end.

    No beginning.

    Just fighting.

    Fighting for generations.

    This generation could change that.

    They could end the terror.

    The terror of going extinct.

    The Lore are vanishing.

    Yet fighting for a life.

    Very foolish.Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    The king in Argona won¡¯t stop.

    He will stop when they are dead.

    Every.

    Last.

    One.

    Thirty years since it started.

    It must end.

    But does he realize?

    What will happen?

    When Woodland vanishes?

    The jungles will go too.

    So will the trees.

    That allows them all to breathe.

    This is all moronic.

    No one cares.

    What happens.

    To the Lore.

    The Black Lore have it too.

    Ask?tori is throwing them in chains.

    She wants them gone.

    She and Randor would make good allies.

    If only they weren¡¯t on opposite sides of the world.

    Wither¡¯s people are to die.

    So is Woodland¡¯s.

    The First One made Her choice.

    We are all doomed.

    And there¡¯s nothing anyone can do.

    But . . .

    There is hope.

    People despise hope.

    It¡¯s a worthless, shriveled thing.

    This hope, is very small.

    So small, it barely exists.

    Javelin.

    That¡¯s our hope.

    A single shaft of metal.

    Filled with power.

    It¡¯s a shame,

    That only one of Dragon Blood.

    Can wield it.

    They say this person cooked in the belly.

    Of a dragon.

    What bullshit.

    I would see this planet burn.

    All its pitiful inhabitants too.

    But She cares for it.

    And the Kin of Suns would give their lives for it.

    There is something wrong with them.

    This world is as good as dead.

    We are gods.

    They are nothing.

    Their lives are meaningless.

    So why does Xroim refuse to believe that?

    The Xyiri fight with him.

    Stupid fools.

    That will only get them killed.

 1- Declaration

    <u>        High Prince Randor       </u>

    30 years ago

    Sundown and showtime.

    Readjusting the circlet on my head, I study my reflection in the full-body mirror. Tonight had to be perfect. Messengers from across Arkeya would be at the coronation, and nothing could go wrong. If it did, I would kill the person responsible in a very slow, painful death. Not that anything would go wrong, but still, it helped to have safeguards in place in the event of utter failure.

    ¡°Your Majesty.¡± A servant comes up behind me, their outline blurred in the mirror.

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°It is time.¡± They step out of view, then back into it as they lay the heavy red fur-lined cape that had belonged to my father over my shoulders. No, not my father¡¯s. Mine. I set my jaw, thrilled by the way the copper stubble on my chin moves with it. For someone who¡¯d just entered manhood, I look splendid.

    ¡°If I may, your Majesty, you look absolutely brilliant.¡± The servant says as they fuss over the ornamental gold bracer curled around my left forearm.

    ¡°Cruel would be a better word.¡± That held true. I had long waves of hair the color of copper wire, a square, well-defined jawline, Shur¡¯tyr-like eyes and thick flame orange brows. If cruel could be personified, it was me. I let the servant finish, before sweeping my arms up. As the servant fishes out a leather belt covered in silver and rubies, I study their appearance. Long brown hair tied back in a bun, a narrow, root-like head with lips too big for their face. A  white shift and brown leggings.

    ¡°Enlighten me, what is your name?¡± I demand, sucking in the slight gut I¡¯d grown over the past year.

    ¡°Garro, sire.¡± Garro says, kneeling and reaching around my waist with the belt in their arms. They clip it on and stand up, taking a few steps back to examine their work.

    ¡°Garro, tell me, how would you enjoy becoming my chamberlain?¡± Garro¡¯s cheeks turn bright red, and they keep their eyes on the leather moccasins on their feet when they respond.

    ¡°I¡¯d-I¡¯d like that very much, sire. Been me dream since I¡¯d a wee lad.¡± They talk with the accent of someone raised in the fields, using certain words at improper times. I dip my head, taking in the tight feeling around my midriff.

    ¡°Very good. What time is it?¡±

    ¡°Nearly midnight, sire.¡± Garro hands me the scabbard for the ceremonial dagger, decorated in dark leather, gold, and bright sapphires and emeralds. I take and put it on my belt, making sure it¡¯s tight so it would not slide free during the ceremony. Another failure I¡¯d like to avoid.

    ¡°Let¡¯s do this.¡± Sweeping in a half circle, I stride out of the dressing room clad in its depressing slat gray and bone white wallpaper, furnished with the palest aspen wood and thick curves of silver. It had been part of the new installation done by my father, a man too kind and open to other races. I was secretly proud of the assassin responsible for his death. It had enabled me to step closer to the throne. Pat on the back for the mystery killer.

    I stop, facing a long flight of stairs covered in a crimson carpet like a waterfall made of blood. The chandeliers far above my head are made out of dragon skulls, held together by silver chains forged by the Dwrfish. Another thing my father had left behind.

    Another thing I intend to wipe from the face of Arkeya.

    Muffled drums beat up and ahead of me, the Drums of Kuntri. Two guards clad in bright silver armor with colorful feather plumes on their helmets take their places on either side of me.

    We begin the tiresome walk up the stairs, and when we get to the top, two massive doors await us, made of white marble and lined with pieces of gold that depicted a very biased version of the creation of Arkeya.

    A functional piece of history, and not in the way its creator had intended. How hilarious.

    A member of the A¡¯Era¡¯i dressed in navy blue leather stood under each one of the giant brass nobs at head height on both doors.

    Heartless.

    A suitable name for a cult of well-trained guardsmen. The doors are pulled open, and I step out onto the comically  balcony. The railings are nonexistent, the floor a deep brown and well polished. Laid out before the balcony, is the Great Yard, a massive gathering space that could easily hold twice the current population. And tonight it was packed, an ocean of bodies. Mainly humans, some Dwrfish, a handful of Shapeless, and a great number of Lore. I flared my nostrils.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

    Already this night had taken a turn for the worst, all because of the Lore deciding to show their tree-loving faces. The sky sits in deep shades of navy blue and black, only a copper, half full Anariita visible in the night sky. Seven massive pillars rise from the ground, evenly spaced along the edge of the courtyard, like the bars of a cage. Atop each tower of black stone was a bonfire, seven bright flames illuminating the sky, casting the crowds beneath them in a dancing firelight that glows pale yellow and bright orange. The drums stop abruptly, the drummers shaking out their arms and hands.

    ¡°Ulm.¡± A priest wearing dark white robes clears his throat, hands nervously fiddling with the cover of the wooden box in his possession. I turn to face him, keeping a level gaze. The priest is old and wrinkled, long white hair kept out of his face by the antlered hat perched on his head. His old blue eyes carry the gleam of a man who¡¯s seen more then most others. When he opens his mouth, the words are loud enough for all to hear.

    ¡°Kneel, High Crown Prince Randor, son of the late King Kandor Odisson.¡± The priest¡¯s voice is thick and gravely, wrung tightly like a spring about to snap. I kneel, knees connecting with the ground in a soft thud.

    ¡°Do you swear, until the day you enter the Void, or your spirit weighs too heavy, to guard Argona till your dying breath?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°Do you swear to be a generous king, a sympathetic adviser, and a trustworthy general should enemies ever attempt to breach Argona?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡± Our enemies are already inside, walking among us. Why don¡¯t you realize that, old fool? Or have they already brainwashed you?

    ¡°Do you swear, in the holy name of the First One and your forefathers, that you will uphold these oaths till the day your bones join those of your ancestors¡¯?¡±

    ¡°I swear, by the Emhic that binds the world in Her heart, to uphold the sacred vows of the Odisson Line till the day I am unable to continue living.¡± I say, my voice carrying out on the gentle winds that besiege the crowd. The priest opens the box and pulls the crown out of it with nimble hands. He takes off the circlet on my head, replacing it with the gold and green crown. It rests heavy on my head, a settling weight.

    ¡°Now rise, Randor King of Argona! May the land flourish under your hand, and may the gods bless you with a long life and many heirs!¡± The priest raises his arms above his head, practically screaming the words out. I rise, slowly turning to face my subjects. It takes a few seconds of silence before one person begins clapping. The applause spreads like the plague, quickly taking over the entire sea of people in a sound similar to a thousand bolts of lighting striking at once. Revealing it from the folds of his robes, the priest passed me the bejeweled dagger of , before standing aside, showing me the pile of black stones behind. Every monarch from the first king has carved their name into this rock, every name written slightly differently. I find my father¡¯s with my eyes.

    ¡°Sire, if you may.¡± The priest gestures to the marble with a knotted hand. I go over, trying to resit the erg to walk around the stone, taking in every name, every king and queen who had ever sat on the throne before me. I etch my name right above my father¡¯s, keeping the text simple and legible. I put the dagger in the scabbard at my hip, returning to my place in the center of the balcony.

    ¡°Your first order, my King?¡± The priest asks, leaning forward slightly, hands clasped in front of him.

    I stride forward, clearing my throat.

    ¡°Hear me, and hear me well, Argona! My first order is not an order, but a declaration.¡± Murmurs erupt in the crowd, quickly silenced by three quick beats from the drums.

    ¡°My declaration is this: from the moment I took the crown, for as long as someone of my blood sits on the throne, the Lore are Argona¡¯s enemies. They are not welcome in this city, nor in any city west of the Dragonbone Mountains. As long as my descendants bear the crown, the Lore will be hunted down like the savages they are, and butchered like the monsters they are.¡± I scan the crowd, looking for reactions. The Lore in the crowd are pulling away, a rift forming between the two races. The Dwrfish and Shapeless shrink away, disappearing into the thong of people. Guards begin to corral the Lore, lances and poleaxes lowering. I grin, watching as the Lore who were witnesses flee, running from the city like water breaking the dam holding it back.

    My grin becomes deeper, cackling, already enjoying the chaos that would spread across Arkeya, already planning just exactly how I would kill off the Lore. And just exactly what I would do to insure that none escaped the net I¡¯d thrown over the west.

    Woodland¡¯s people are destined to die.

    Deep under the mountains far to the east and south, far beneath rocky layers of stone, one of the First One¡¯s children woke.

    The dragon growled, opening her eyes. Tonight did not sit well with her. She could sense it in the way the stale air clung to her scales, the slight scent of citrus in it. She stalked to the entrance of her cave, peering up at the blackness overhead.

    Not a cloud to be seen. All four moons hung suspended in the sky, each one a different shade of rust and red. It confirmed the dragon¡¯s suspicions.

    She tilted her head in the direction of , watching the black male land in front of her.

    ¡°You sensed it, didn¡¯t you?¡± The male dips his head, folding his sparrow-like wings along his back, stretching one of his hind legs out behind him.

    ¡°Yes.¡± The she-dragon opens her mouth, tongue venturing out to taste the air. The male watches her, coppery moonlight glittering on his scales.

    ¡°What scent does the world carry?¡± The male¡¯s blue eyes glint like shards of stolen ice.¡°Blood has been spilled tonight, up in the west.¡± The dragon flicks her tail, letting her scales scrape along the uneven stone with a shrill ringing. The male frowns, testing the air for himself.

    ¡°What blood?¡±

    ¡°The blood of Lore.¡±

    ¡°Then it has begun.¡± The male sighs, spreading his wings.

    ¡°It has. You know what role you¡¯re required to play.¡±

    ¡°So I have been told.¡± The male crouches, muscles preparing to take flight. He lifts off, soon becoming a mere shadow. The female twists around, heading back inside her cave, relaxing once she¡¯s out of the moons¡¯ painful glare.

    ¡°We all have to play the game called war.¡± She tucks herself back into the narrow crevice, tail tip resting above her nostrils. ¡°Even if we are not pleased with the role thrust upon us, it is our duty as children of the gods.¡±

 2- Killers

    <u> Cerbera </u>

    30 years later

    It¡¯s dawn. A new light carving into the land, Xroim making his way across the sky. And with the sun, comes the Shur¡¯tyr. The Bugplants. The feared hunters of the jungle.

    The village sat nestled under the roots of a tree. Black plumes of smoke rising above stone chimneys set into wooden roofs, with herbs and grasses dangling from strings in doorways and weapons hanging on hooks on the walls. From the vantage point, I could see all this, plus the cook-fires where Shur¡¯tyr corpses are being turned on spits over the open flames. The raised beds of plants that shone and grew in every color that fanned out from the largest hut in a tendril-like way, going all the way to the roots of the nearest tree.

    The trees in Arkeya¡¯s first canopy grow to be hundreds of feet tall. The trees in the second canopy, even taller, and third and fourth canopies, thousands. Between the roots, was a jungle of much smaller trees, and plants of every kind, shape, and color.

    Sitting cross-legged on a stone formation jetting out of the forest floor, I count how many seeds and berries I have.

    Thirty-four.

    Enough for a short scouting expedition into the jungle. About five leagues round trip. Tucking them back into the pouch on my belt, I stand up, smoothing out the wrinkles in my forest green jerkin. Taking long steps, I hurry to the soil, then break out into a run, branches and leaves tearing at my limbs and garments.

    It took a lot to survive in the jungle, with Shur¡¯tyr at every corner, along with the King¡¯s men hunting for Lore villages. Randor and his vision.

    Blah.

    Something only fools would think of, and Randor was no fool. Through countless battles and swift, heartless deception, he had killed three quarters of the Lore race, and the remaining quarter could do nothing but hide and wait for the storm to come to be past. It was infuriating, knowing that someone held a figurative axe to my nape, and the only thing I could do about it was wait for it to fall and pray it would not. But Randor and his people feared the Shur¡¯tyr. A fear we¡¯d exploited more times then I cared to remember. Maybe Aareon was right. And that I shouldn¡¯t be concerning myself with the past.

    Still.

    Randor had taken my parents, my family, everything I had known before-

    Stop. I stopped running and groaned, pushing my palm against my forehead and temple. The past is the past. I can do nothing to change it, no matter how much I wish I could.

    Hooking my arms around a low hanging branch, I hoisted myself up into a tree. Another branch, a few feet higher, until I could see the worn soil of the ground, broken by overturned logs and smaller plants.

    And tracks. Eight sets of prints edged into the mud, each one shaped roughly like fist and as big as my hand. Humans. Pulling out my knife, I crouched and followed the hoof prints, sliding to the ground out of the tree, keeping one eye out for threats that lurked in the underbrush. After all, this was Shur¡¯tyr territory.

    I followed the tracks until nightfall, the moons peeking out from behind branches, when I came to a clearing in the undergrowth. A village.

    Dark smoke rose from fires eating away at the sides of the buildings. Deep furrows scarred the earth, and the smell of carnage clung to the air with a sickly taste. And lying amid the ruins, were bodies. Bodies in green and brown garb. Bodies with skin in varying shades of green, blue, red, orange, and yellow.

    Lore. I swallow and stand up to my full height, tears threatening to come.

    Murderers.

    That¡¯s the only word I have for the people who did this.

    Killers. Who else would go and wipe out an entire village? This was Randor¡¯s doing, period. I growled. They would pay.

    All of them.

    Every single one of them would pay for what they did. I turned and began to head back to my village when I heard laughter echoing from one of the semi-destroyed buildings on the outskirts of the smoldering ruins. They were here. Pulling my hood up over my head and horns, I stalked to the ruin, moving slowly.

    Four people sat clustered around a small fire. Three burly men with full length beards that rippled around their jaws and chests. The fourth had black and white stubble sprinkled on the lower half of his round face. Sharp, eagle like eyes, with a hooked nose that¡¯d the look of having been broken and reset several times. A jagged, ropy scar started under his right eye and disappeared into the collar of his mail and leather jerkin. All of them were joking and laughing, throwing back their heads and bellowing.

    I slid behind an overturned boulder, straining to hear their conversation, when I noticed a fifth person huddled on the edge of the overhang. He was small, with black curls that hung in a shaggy mop. Narrow face, lean build. His body concealed by a dark cloak. He sat crouched next to the fourth man, arms wrapped around his legs. One of the men chuckled, taking a bite off a piece of meat in his gloved hand.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

    ¡°You really gave them hell, didn¡¯t you?¡± He snorted, then doubled over, laughing. The others joined in, except for the one with the scar. The boy frowned, his response inaudible. He shifted, pulling the cloak tighter, and I saw a glint of metal bands on his ankles and wrists.

    Most likely unsatisfied with his answer, the man reached across the fire and grabbed the boy¡¯s neck, jerking him to the side. Shadows played among the group, giving them a strange, barbaric look only amplified by their armor and weapons. The boy grunted, one hand clasped around the man¡¯s arm.

    ¡°Stop.¡± Jagged scar said.

    ¡°Or what? You¡¯ll kill me? You know we don¡¯t stand a chance against this . . . Boy! Look what he did! He wiped out an entire village by himself. Compared to that, we¡¯re worthless and beyond useless.¡± The man sputtered. His beard was red and twisted at the ends, caked with dried blood.

    ¡°Zifor did it with magic. And it is our job to assist him, as the king ordered.¡±

    ¡°Captain Theodan, with all due respect-¡± Red beard stood up and drew his sword. The silver blade reflected the flames, ¡°We should cut his head off and feed his guts to the worms, or, at the very least, use him as Shur¡¯tyr bait.¡±

    Theodan stood. Zifor shrank away, keeping his face down.

    ¡°Remember your place, Horan.¡± He snarled. I creep forward, hoping to get closer to hear more of their conversation,when Zifor turns his head in my direction.

    His eyes.

    They¡¯re green. Not a dull, unimpressive green, but a brilliant, scolding acid green. Green the color of emeralds over a fire. Shifting backwards, I pull my knife out of its sheath at my hip, turning the blade so it¡¯s inverted, sticking out of the back of my fist. Zifor blinked, then held a finger to his lips, telling me to be quiet. I frown, and he returns his gaze back to the fire. Exhaling slowly, I stand and take several steps back, concealed by the shadows cast by the jungle. Then I turn and ran. Fleeing back home to warn Aareon and the others.

    Side vaulting over a log that lay perpendicular to the game trail I was taking, I stumbled and slowed down.

    You¡¯re making enough noise to draw every Shur¡¯tyr within a league, I scold myself.

    That boy, Zifor. If Theodan and that other man, Horan, were right, then that boy had destroyed the other village with magic. Wildfire or Woodland magic was the most likely, maybe even Wither might explain the marks in the earth. But where would he have gotten enough Emhic in order to do an attack like that? That made no sense.

    If I ever saw him again, I¡¯d ask. If he wasn¡¯t going to be trying to kill me.

    Jogging back took less time then I thought it would, and when I burst into the clearing, I feared the worst. Instead, the villagers weren¡¯t dead, and the only fires sat safely in pits made of hard, rain soaked wood and  clay. I relaxed, and came to a walk. Aareon would be in the farthest pavilion, and if he wasn¡¯t, then I had no idea where he would be.

    The pavilion was made of old, dead wood, and carved to the likelihood of a dragon with its wings bent downwards at forty-five degree angles, creating a wall-less shelter to keep rain out of the shallow groove carved into the dirt underneath it. Seeing Aareon sitting hunched over a  book with yellowing pages, I came over and tapped his shoulder, making him jump and reach for the knife on his belt.

    ¡°Cerbera, what is it?¡± He asked, looking up at me. His brown eyes were set close together in the center of his face, glasses perched on what was left of his nose. Orange skin, ruby colored hair.

    ¡°Din¡¯s been destroyed, possibly by a Magi. And the people who did it are still there.¡± I say, crossing my arms. Aareon sighed and stood up, putting down his book.

    ¡°Describe them to me,¡± I do, making sure to mention the strange bands of metal around the boy¡¯s wrists and ankles. Aareon nods, ¡°Sounds like Captain Theodan and Horan, but I don¡¯t know who the boy you mentioned is.¡±

    ¡°Theodan called him ¡®Zifor¡¯.¡± I say, accepting the  he offers me.

    ¡°Zifor.¡± Aareon plays the name around with his tongue. I take a long drink, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand when I¡¯m done.

    ¡°You heard that name before?¡± I ask.

    ¡°Yes, once. It¡¯s a Shapeless name.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s it mean?¡±

    ¡°Ravaged. It¡¯s a dark, twisted name from another time, and I can¡¯t guess at why this boy bears a name older than the First Wars.¡± He rubs his chin, deep in thought.

    ¡°So what are we going to do?¡± I sit on one of the wooden benches and pull out a few berries, swallowing them whole.

    ¡°The only thing we can.¡± Aareon says. I groan, knowing all too well what he means. Sit around and do nothing. Like we always do, and what we¡¯ll continue to do until we¡¯re dead and our heads mounted on pikes.

    ¡°Dragon¡¯s dung.¡± I swear. Aareon raises a brow but doesn¡¯t say anything.

    ¡°Is there something else you want to do?¡± Aareon puts a hand on my shoulder. I look up at him.

    ¡°Maybe. I want to find the boy, Zifor, then kill him. Then Randor won¡¯t be able to destroy more villages through magic, and he¡¯ll have to do it the old fashioned way instead.¡±

    ¡°You know that Randor most likely has more Magi besides this boy.¡± Aareon points out.

    ¡°I know,¡± I throw up my hands, ¡°But what else can I do? At least let me go out and track them, to see where they go next.¡±

    Aareon sighs, massaging his temples with his forefinger and thumb.

    ¡°You may go, but be back in a fortnight, or I will assume you have been killed.¡±

    ¡°Thank you.¡± I mutter. Aareon nods. As I turn to go, he reaches out and grabs my wrist. I spin around and glare at him.

    ¡°I almost forgot. Wait here.¡± Aareon broke into a jog, disappearing inside a nearby hut. He comes back a moment later, one hand clasped in a fist and pressed to his chest.

    ¡°What is it?¡±

    ¡°Something your mother would have wanted you to wear.¡± He cups his hands and extends them, showing what¡¯s in them.

    It¡¯s an emerald. Wrapped in gold webs on a braided string of leather. On the front of the gemstone, where all the gold flowed to and connected, was the outline of a leaf, with a highly detailed profile view of a dragon¡¯s head inside.

    ¡°You knew my mother?¡± I say, taking the pendent out of Aareon¡¯s hands.

    ¡°Yes. I knew your mother.¡± Aareon smiles softly. I slip the pendant over my head, where it rests at the center of my sternum.

    ¡°What was her name?¡±

    ¡°Isha.¡± he said.

    ¡°Isha,¡± I whisper, ¡°And my father?¡±

    ¡°Dytui. A brave warrior.¡±Aareon says. I nod slowly.

    ¡°Right.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t forget to pack supplies.¡±

    ¡°Right.¡± Saying goodbye to Aareon, I hurry over to my own small hut, filled with a single hammock, several bags hanging on hooks next to the doorway, and the  I¡¯d pinched off a Dwrfish caravan three winters ago. Buckling the  around my waist, I fill one of the bags with a cloak, dagger, Shur¡¯tyr lures, a , and provisions. I stop, then scoop up the slingshot and ammo pouch, clipping them to my belt as well.

    It didn¡¯t hurt to be prepared. Stepping out, I looked up. Arkeya¡¯s four moons looked back, only one of them full, the others in varying stages. I smile. Anariita, Arero, Detu, and Lexo. Arkeya¡¯s siblings. The Kin of Stone.

    Breaking into a trot, I speed out into the jungle, letting the most dangerous environment in Arkeya swallow me whole.

 3- Prayers

    Zifor

    The silence around the campfire is thicker than armor crafted by the Terrians. So quiet, you can hear rustles in the undergrowth and crickets chirping. I watch the flames flicker and dance, my chin resting on my knees, feeling at ease in their depths.

    ¡°So, where next?¡± Horan grumbles, breaking a loaf of bread in half. He hands one half to me, and begins to gnaw on his. I take a small bite, chew twice, and swallow. The bread¡¯s hard, and scrapes the inside of my already dry throat. Theodan¡¯s withheld water, again.

    ¡°We find another village, and repeat what we did here.¡± Theodan says in his thick, gruff accent. I shiver, rubbing my arms. Horan notices, and scoffs. The soldier¡¯s built like a polearm, lean and scrawny up to his broad shoulders that stretched wider than a ox¡¯s horns.

    ¡°Let the boy get some shut eye,¡± he chuckles, hatred in his eyes, ¡°He¡¯ll need it.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ll all need it.¡± Theodan grunts, unbuckling his sword belt. He¡¯s like a living version of a battleaxe, all muscle and rock-hard skin supported by steel bones.

    Laying down on my side, I pull my legs into my chest, resting my head on my arms. The cold Ironglass of the cuffs on my wrists bites into my cheek, making me wince. The sound of cloth being dragged over metal rustles from above my head, and something heavy is draped over my body. I draw it closer, closing my eyes. Slowly lured to sleep by the crackle of the fire.

    ¡°Get up!¡± Something hard is shoved against my ribs. I jolt awake to see Horan standing by my shoulder, blocking the sunlight that filters through the trees. He¡¯s gripping a spear in one hand, the dull end planted in the ground. I climb to my feet. In broad daylight, the exact amount of damage done to the village is clear. The smell of death and carnage hangs heavy in the air. Crows and the carrion eating, bird-like species of Shur¡¯tyr flocked on the rubble, making meals of the bodies that litter the ground. I feel bile rise in my throat.

    I did this.

    Wrapping my arms around my midriff, I close my eyes and press my chin against my chest, longing to disappear.

    ¡°Zifor!¡± Jerking, I feel a hand slam into the side of my head. I hit the dirt with a thud, landing on my tailbone.

    ¡°What?¡± I ask Theodan, looking up to see him glaring at me.

    ¡°Get yourself together! One more village, then you¡¯re done. Got it?¡± He snaps.

    ¡°Yes sir.¡± I say. Theodan nods, offering a hand. I take it, and he yanks me to my feet.

    ¡°Good. We¡¯re moving on.¡± He turned and walked away, whistling for his mount.

    Once we¡¯re on the trail, I eavesdrop on Theodan and Horan, letting their conversation drift into my ears as I lead both their horses.

    ¡°Kill him, Theodan. I¡¯m begging you.¡± Horan pleads.

    ¡°You know the answer to that question very well, I should hope.¡± Theodan answers.

    ¡°He ain¡¯t natural, and you know it.¡±

    ¡°Just because Zifor can use magic doesn¡¯t mean he¡¯s abnormal.¡±

    ¡°To hell with that, captain.¡± Horan grumbles, words half lost in the collar of his shirt.

    ¡°Pardon?¡±

    ¡°You love the boy like your own son. That¡¯s why yer bring him on missions and why yer brought him out here on one of yer killing sprees. One of these days that kid will have to choose between saving his neck or saving yrs. Which one do you think he¡¯ll choose?¡± Horan says, neck extended like a rooster¡¯s, eyes watching for Theodan¡¯s response like a vulture circling a dying animal.

    In honest truth, I wasn¡¯t young enough anymore to be called a kid. I was fifteen, lithe and scrawny for my age, standing at a respectable five feet five-and-a-half inches.

    Our group walks on in silence, keeping at a fast pace. Soon the jungle begins to close around us, the trunks of trees and other plants growing practically on top of each other. It gets denser and denser, and soon I¡¯m the only person able to fit between the gaps, with very little room to spare.

    I grunt, wiggling my way through a particularly tight patch of brush.

    ¡°Come on.¡± Horan complains from behind me. I grunt again, hard bark pressing against my back and belly.

    ¡°This would be easier if I was covered in grease.¡± I gasp, the backs of my hands planted on my chest, fingers splayed.

    ¡°Sweat will work just fine.¡± Theodan says from the rock he¡¯s sitting on, running whetstone over his sword. I roll my eyes. Let him try.

    ¡°Oh, for the First One¡¯s sake.¡± Horan stomps over.

    ¡°What are you-¡± I begin. Horan gives me a shove. I grit my teeth, pain flaring up from my hip. He pushes me again, the hard leather of the insides of his gloves cutting into my skin beneath my shirt. I pop free from the two trees, sprawling on the dirt on my palms and hips. I lay there for a few minutes, catching my breath. Decayed leaves litter the ground, curled up like rugs stacked on a cart.

    ¡°Hey! You dead yet?¡± Horan¡¯s voice is muffled, so it sounds like he¡¯s talking with a mouth full of mead.

    ¡°Last time I checked, he was still alive and breathing.¡± Theodan responds, also muffled.

    ¡°What if he somehow managed to break his neck?¡± Horan argues. I imagine him crossing his arms over his chest, chin tucked into his collar. I climb to my feet, pain spiking through the ribs on my right side.

    ¡°If he somehow happened to do that, then you won¡¯t have to worry about him anymore.¡± Theodan says. I do a three-sixty, looking for a way out. Between two trunks, there¡¯s a patch of dark green heart-shaped leaves, the stems brighter then the leaves. A deep snuffling sound comes from the leaves¡¯ base, specks of gray and lavender visible. I kneel down next to the plants, taking in their heavy lavender smell.

    ¡°Smokemaries.¡± I nudge one with my pointer finger. It curls up into the hard flat shell on its back, the glowing tips of its antennae waving back and forth.

    I grin. Randor could wipe out the Lore, but he would never have enough manpower to clear the jungle. My mother had served him, I served him. Randor had taken my life and twisted it around his fingers, grinding his heel in my neck every time I tried to break free.

    ¡°Hey, kid! You coming, or can we leave you for the Shur¡¯tyr?¡±

    ¡°Coming!¡±

    ¡°Oh, great. He¡¯s still alive.¡± Horan grumbles. I weasel my way through the Smokemary patch, stumbling out onto the trail a couple meters ahead of Theodan and Horan.

    ¡°There you are. Sure took your time, ain¡¯t ya.¡± Horan comes over, cuffing me in the back of the head with a gloved hand. Flashes of memory flicker in the back of my head. Images of a tall, bearded man doing exactly what Horan just did whenever he saw me.

    ¡°Come on. We¡¯re wasting daylight. Traveling under Anariita is a bad omen.¡± Theodan grunts. I blink, confused. For all the things I took Theodan for, him being afraid to travel under the coppery glare of Arkeya¡¯s third moon hadn¡¯t been one of them. I rubbed my wrist, shifting the metal band to a more comfortable place.

    ¡°All right, sir,¡± turning to the other three men, Horan waves at them. ¡°Move yer lazy asses! You heard the captain!¡±

    Night hits hard as a swarm of Shur¡¯tyr, wrapping us up tight in a blanket of darkness. I can only see my feet, the soft wobble of Horan¡¯s lantern, and the glowing purple orbs of jungle animals.

    ¡°I don¡¯t like this.¡± Horan whispers, jogging a few feet to catch up with Theodan.

    ¡°You don¡¯t like much.¡± Theodan says.

    ¡°Am I to suspect that yer about to tell me that ¡®being afraid of the dark is childish, Horan.¡¯¡± Horan says. Moonlight hits his eyes from a gap in the canopy, making his pupils narrow and harsh. A shiver runs its course up my spine, putting a chill in my bones.

    ¡°Perhaps, you just beat me to it.¡± There¡¯s no emotion in Theodan¡¯s voice, just cold metal. I glance nervously at the undergrowth, remembering what Horan had told me about Shur¡¯tyr eating people who strayed to far into the jungle at night.

    ¡°And not just Shur¡¯tyr, but Lore too.¡± He¡¯d told me, making claws with his fingers and waving them at me. I went over what I knew about Lore in my head.

    They liked to use knives and daggers as weapons. Anything bigger than a shortsword had no particle use in close quarters. They also liked slingshots, and weird, folding bows. Good climbers, skilled in the art of camouflage and moving silently. Randor¡¯s men stood no chance against them in a Lore¡¯s chosen battlefield, their longswords useless.

    ¡°Set camp.¡± Theodan halts, hands on hips.

    ¡°Perfect. Nice and marshy.¡± Horan¡¯s voice drips in sarcasm like a pastry left too close to an oven.

    A deep bellow pierces the dark, a cross between the Drums of Kuntri and a foghorn. Then the ground begins to shake, in a perfect beat with my heart.

    This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    ¡°Um, Theodan?¡± I eye the shadows of leaves that flutter to the ground, knocked loose from the branches above our heads.

    ¡°Yes?¡±

    ¡°Does the ground normally do,¡± I pause. Now entire tree limbs came crashing down, ¡°that.¡±

    ¡°No. Something big¡¯s coming.¡± Horan unslings his great-ax, twisting it so the curved blade is pointing upward, reflecting rusty moonlight. Theodan pulls something small out of one of his belt pouches.

    ¡°Here.¡± He tosses it at me. I catch it, frowning.

    ¡°Theodan, if we survive, I will throttle you even though you¡¯re my commanding officer for what you¡¯re about to do.¡± Horan starts backing away from us, turning his back to the jungle. I hold up what Theodan gave me: a key.

    ¡°Hurry, Zifor.¡± Theodan¡¯s sword is in his hands. I fumble with the key, before bending down to work on the Ironglass manacles around my ankles. Another roar shatters the sky, much closer and louder then before.

    ¡°On second thought. Theodan, you¡¯re a genius.¡± Horan says quickly.

    ¡°Horan, torch.¡± Opening the door of the lantern, Horan lets Theodan put a stick in. The sap that¡¯s wrapped around one end ignites, yellow and orange flames bursting to life. A strange calmness sweeps over me, like the eye of a storm. Theodan swings his improvised light stick in an arc, setting several leaves on fire. The manacle on my left ankle comes undone, sitting open next to my foot like a chunk of fallen moon. I feel for the other one in the dark, nearly dropping the key on the marshy forest floor in the process.

    A third roar echos, deep and baritone. The ground¡¯s shaking gets faster, then stops.

    Silence, only our ragged breathing. The second manacle comes undone. I stand up, working on my wrists.

    ¡°Zifor! Duck!¡± Theodan yells, eyes going wide. Something dark and long sails over my head, crashing into the foliage behind us. The creature brings itself up to its whole height. I gasp.

    Shur¡¯tyr.

    It¡¯s like a massive centipede, long and flat and earthy brown. A pair of dark legs jet out from each section, three sets of pincers framing its gaping mouth. Four almond shaped eyes rest on top of its head, amber gold and slit-pupiled. The Shur¡¯tyr rears back its head, screaming, spittle flying out its mouth. Horan yells back, brandishing his ax above his head. Then the titanic centipede charges.

    Pain flares up my left side in a splatter of crimson droplets. The world tilts sideways, turning brown and white.

    I¡¯m floating, dark hair bellowing around my face.

    Wake, a voice says.

    I groan, opening my eyes. I¡¯m hovering in a star field, deep black with swirls of colors and bright lights. Above me sits four massive orbs of copper and brass light, slowly orbiting. Below my bare feet is Arkeya, spread out like a carpet of greens, browns, and blues.

    Wake, little one.

    ¡°Who are you?¡± I look around. No one. I¡¯m wearing a loose tunic that hangs off one shoulder, and baggy brown pants. Quiet winds blow, getting stronger and stronger until I¡¯m under siege by them.

    You sit in a tempest, child. The voice is deep and airy. I spin.

    There¡¯s a giant gold she-dragon standing a handful of yards away from me.

    The wind ceases to blow.

    She¡¯s covered in gold scales that gleam, like each one is a piece of captured flame. Her eyes are huge, pupils as tall as I am, each eye an orb of liquid amber. Her wings, tail, and the very tips of her white talons flow out of the star field, flickering and pulsing.

    ¡°Who-¡± I gasp, lost for words. Six bronze horns emerge from the back of her elegant head, curling around each other.

    Your life hangs on a blade¡¯s edge. She hums. A sinking feeling wrenches my gut, like I¡¯m falling. Then I¡¯m standing level with her left eye, staring into its inky depths.

    ¡°You¡¯re the First One.¡±

    One of the many names your people call me. One I am not entirely pleased with. She says, showing ivory teeth bigger than Theodan.

    ¡°Where-what happened?¡± I ask, putting my fingers into the warm depths of my armpits. Another wind sweeps into me, bluffing and howling.

    You are on Death¡¯s door. Your friend sent a prayer for you. The First One says, blinking once. Her eye vanishes, then comes back, sparkling.

    ¡°I have no friends.¡± My voice is bitter.

    And yet you are not yet dead. The she-dragon¡¯s voice has a tint of humor to it.

    ¡°Is that why you¡¯re here, to tell me I might die?¡±

    I am watching you, Child. Your destiny is bigger than what even the kings of old could imagine. She¡¯s facing me now, the tip of her snout mere inches above the top of my head.

    ¡°You never told me where I am.¡±

    Does it matter? No. What matters is the role you were born to play. She lowers her head, gently resting the underside of her jaw on my head.

    Now go, little one.

    I get thrown downwards, falling. Falling into oblivion.

    The first thing I notice is the crackle and popping sounds of fire. Slowly, I open my eyes. There¡¯s nothing but a thin blanket between my body

    and hard, rough bark. I try to sit up, only for a white hot dagger of pain to rip through my ribs, sending me laying on my back, teeth clenched. A larger snap, followed by the sound of someone cursing. I roll my head to the right, looking.

    A silhouette of a small person is next to the fire, shaking out one hand. They¡¯re about my age, clad in green and brown. I open my mouth to speak, and hot blood rushes in. I gag, flipping onto my stomach, hacking up blood. When I recover, the person is watching me.

    ¡°Who-who are you?¡± I say hoarsely, groaning.

    ¡°Someone who kept you from getting devoured by Shur¡¯tyr.¡± It¡¯s a girl¡¯s voice, and when she gets on one knee to peer at me, I see her face.

    She¡¯s Lore.

    Skin the same shade as the bright yellow daffodils in the king¡¯s garden. Hair pulled back in a loose braid that goes all the way to her waist, a slightly darker, oranger shade of yellow than her skin. Dark green eyes, lean face, a build similar to a throwing knife. Freckles the same color as her hair are splattered all over her nose and cheeks. Her horns are fawn brown and emerge from right above her pointed ears, curving in an elegant way, the bases wrapped in strips of leather. A tail as thick as my calf emerged from where her tailbone was. It was the same color as her skin, with two pairs of leaf-shaped blades at the halfway point, and two more at the tip. Like her horns, the base and right beneath the leaf-blades was wrapped in dark leather.

    ¡°You need to eat.¡± She practically shoves a piece of burnt Shur¡¯tyr meat in my face. It smells good, like warm bread and pork. I take it from her and take a bite. It¡¯s a stampede of jungle flavors I can¡¯t put names to. The girl chuckles, a slight smile tugging on the corners of her lips.

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°Nothing. You should see your face.¡± She says, uncorking a waterskin. I blink, stunned.

    ¡°Okay?¡± I say.

    ¡°Can you walk?¡± I finish the meat, examining my body. I¡¯m bare chested, linen strips wrapped around my abdomen. The Ironglass bands are still around my wrists, like two of the biggest, most annoying bracelets on Arkeya. The girl tosses me my shirt, along with my belt, cloak, and satchel.

    ¡°Get dressed. And don¡¯t fall off.¡± She goes back to tending the fire, prodding it with a long knife. I pull my shirt over my head, slipping it on. After clipping on my belt, leather satchel, and securing the clasp of the dark gray cloak at the base of my throat, I attempt to stand.

    The whole world sways, bright lights flashing in my vision.

    I close my eyes, waiting for the planet to stop spinning. Without having to worry about falling over, I saw why the Lore girl had told me not to fall off. We were camping on a giant stump, hundreds of feet in the air. I turn to find the girl watching me, the fire a hissing circle of ash at her feet behind her.

    ¡°Who are you?¡± I ask again, twisting the strap of my satchel.

    ¡°Ain¡¯t it obvious?¡± She says, putting her knife into its sheath on her left hip.

    ¡°That isn¡¯t an answer.¡± I say.

    ¡°No, and your name is Zifor, correct?¡±

    ¡°W- yes. And yours?¡± I stammer. How did she know my name? I¡¯d never talked to a Lore in my life.

    ¡°Cerbera.¡± She says, hopping up onto a branch. Cerbera turns and offers me a hand. ¡°Better get a move on, if we¡¯re going to want to get there by sunrise.¡± I accept her hand, letting her tug me up onto the branch next to her.

    ¡°Why?¡±

    She doesn¡¯t answer, instead continuing to climb.

    ¡°Need a break?¡± Cerbera hoists herself up onto a ledge of wood and moss. She twists, offering a hand.

    ¡°Thanks.¡± I take it. And when she pulls me up, she practically rips my already sore shoulder out of its socket. I flop onto my back, eyes closed. I hear another flop. Opening my eyes, I turn my head to see Cerbera sitting down next to me. She sighs, rubbing her left forearm against her forehead.

    ¡°You should check your ribs.¡± Cerbera opens her pack, digging through it. I roll up my shirt, dreading what I might see.

    The bandages are a dark red mess, completely soaked in scarlet blood. I hook two fingers under it, trying to peel it up. Fresh pain flares up. I growl, waiting for the pain to subside.

    ¡°A. Little. Help.¡± I gasp. Cerbera pulls out a roll of gauze. She takes her knife, sliding it under the bandages. I stifle a scream, hands curling into fists at my sides.

    ¡°If you scream, you¡¯ll attract every Shur¡¯tyr in a mile.¡± Cerbera says.

    ¡°Splendid.¡± I mutter.

    ¡°Shut it.¡±

    ¡°Fine.¡± I say. She smirks.

    ¡°Hold still.¡±

    I comply, clenching my jaw to prevent any further screaming. Cerbera peels the bandages apart, revealing a shallow gash of dark pink flesh, surrounded by dried blood and inflamed red-brown skin.

    ¡°That¡¯s-¡± I blink.

    ¡°Bad?¡± Cerbera shrugs, ¡°You¡¯re lucky the wound isn¡¯t green. If it was, well, you¡¯d be dead by now.¡± She hums, uncorking a wooden vial. Cerbera then upends it over my wound. Green liquid comes out, splashes my body, and evaporates, steaming. I grit my teeth, sharp pain blooming from my ribs and spreading throughout my entire body.

    ¡°What was that?¡±

    ¡°Disinfectant. For infection.¡± Cerbera says, putting the vial back. She starts to wrap my wound with a fresh bandage. Her hands are rough and calloused, but also smooth and gentle, fingers moving with a careful precision in simple, fluid motions. A shiny rope of scar tissue curls around her knuckles on her right hand, starting in the web between her thumb and forefinger, and ending on the first joint of her ring finger. I can see other, fainter scars on her arms and the farthest fringes of a tattoo on her collarbone

    ¡°Why are you helping me?¡± I blurt. Cerbera meets my eyes with her own dark green ones.

    ¡°Many Lore are healers as well as fighters, and your companions left you to die after the Shur¡¯tyr attacked.¡± She yanks the gauze tight, sending another brief spike of pain up my ribs.

    ¡°Ow.¡± I whimper.

    ¡°Sorry.¡± Cerbera grimaces.

    ¡°Where are we going?¡±

    ¡°Quite the Quy¡¯reyw, aren¡¯t you.¡± She stands, closing her satchel. I blink, confused, a hundred thousand thoughts flashing through my mind at the same time.

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s Loric.¡± She turns, hands on her hips.

    ¡°Oh.¡± Loric. The only word I knew-that everyone knew-was Shur¡¯tyr. Its meaning had changed over the countless centuries, but it still meant the same thing:

    Plant walker.

    Bugplant.

    Death.

    ¡°Come on. Anariita isn¡¯t too kind to travelers without her blessing.¡± Cerbera says. She jumps onto the next tree limb, arms raised slightly for balance.

    ¡°Theodan said something like that before the Shur¡¯tyr attacked.¡± Standing, I pull my shirt back down to my hips. Cerbera stays on her perch, watching.

    ¡°Seems natural for someone like him to be afraid of the third moon.¡± She says.

    I nod, frowning. ¡°Yeah. Horan didn¡¯t, though.¡±

    ¡°A Dty¡¯oty like him should.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡± I jump onto the branch behind her.

    ¡°Don¡¯t ask.¡± There¡¯s a dangerous edge to Cerbera¡¯s voice, like a newly sharpened blade fresh from the forge.

    ¡°Sorry.¡± I know what she means. What the tone in her voice says: don¡¯t ask, don¡¯t pry, it¡¯s too painful.

    It¡¯s better left unsaid.

    ¡°Tell me if it starts hurting again.¡± Then we¡¯re climbing, surrounded by greens and browns and jungle colors.

    ¡°Here.¡± Cerbera drops to the ground in a crouch, her hands planted on the worn soil on either side of her bare feet. I hit the ground less gracefully than her, landing on my side. Pain lashes my hip. Cerbera rolls her eyes, looking at me over her shoulder.

    ¡°Could you try to make less noise?¡± She stands in a single fluid motion, the strap of her satchel perched on the hump of her yellow shoulder.

    ¡°I¡¯ll try.¡± I push myself to my feet.

    ¡°Good.¡± She starts walking, her strides long and fast. I hurry after her, keeping my eyes on my feet, my world filled with the mud and grime that¡¯s caked all over my boots. It¡¯s part of the reason I don¡¯t realize that Cerbera has stopped until I ram into her, my nose smashing into her spine between her shoulder blades.

    ¡°Why¡¯d you-¡± I begin, back pedaling. Cerbera whips around to face me, and I see her face.

    She¡¯s on the verge of tears, the yellow skin around her eyes red and puffy.

    ¡°Look. Look what you- you filthy Dty¡¯oty did!¡± She points behind her, and I gasp.

    What might have once been a village sat tucked under a tree, mammoth plumes of black smoke leeching from burning huts and charcoal black timbers that crackle and pop. A garden for herbs was a bed for a blazing wildfire, the flames pale orange and dark yellow. A heavy scent of smoke, carnage, and burning plants lofted up, blown into our faces by a gentle breeze.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t-¡± Cerbera doesn¡¯t let me finish, because she slams her forearm against my neck, my back into a tree, and her other hand is raised, holding a dagger made of jagged bone to my throat.

 4- Twisted

    Cerbera

    I don¡¯t remember slamming Zifor against a tree with my forearm pressed to his throat. What I do remember is calling him a Dty¡¯oty: a taker of life.

    A murderer.

    And I do know he¡¯s scared. I can feel Zifor¡¯s pulse through my arm, pumping fast and strong like a dragon¡¯s wingbeats. I can smell him too: Warm leather, charred wood, and the raw, mineral hint of Emhic. I feel him swallow, the muscles in his neck tightening.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± He whispers, his head tilted back, green irises at the very bottom of the whites of his eyes, watching me.

    ¡°Don¡¯t. I do not want to hear it.¡± I say. Zifor gives the smallest of nods. A brief flash of pain crosses his face, replaced by a mask of uncertainty.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t do this. Cerbera, please, listen.¡± He reaches up with one hand, clasping it around my wrist. His touch is cold, sending shivers up and down my back.

    Aareon is dead. Everyone is dead. All because of Randor.

    All because I made the mistake of thinking I could change a human¡¯s mind.

    Just like last time.

    Everyone I cared about, dead.

    All because of me.

    ¡°I should have let you die.¡± I snarl. Zifor gulps, fear entering his shimmering green eyes for the first time.

    ¡°Then why did you save me?¡± He asks. I growl in annoyance, releasing him. Zifor shudders, sliding down the tree till he¡¯s sitting on the ground, knees pulled into his chest, arms wrapped around his legs. His hair, a dark mop of oily curls, hangs in front of his face, hiding his expression. I put my knife back in its sheath, letting its reassuring weight anchor me.

    ¡°What were they like?¡± His question startles me.

    ¡°Who?¡±

    ¡°The people in your village. What were they like?¡± He lifts his head, tears in the corners of his eyes, lower jaw clenched.

    ¡°Strong, brave, kind.¡± I say. Zifor nods.

    ¡°Mine are dead,¡± he tenses, resting his chin on his kneecaps. I almost ask him who he means, when it hits me.

    His parents.

    A deep well of empathy in my gut opens for him, a tiny fraction of my heart calling out for me to comfort him.

    To tell him it¡¯s okay.

    That he¡¯s not alone in his grief.

    ¡°So are mine.¡± I manage to say, barely getting the words out of my throat. I reach under the collar of my cloths, wrapping my fingers around my mother¡¯s pendant, letting the warm emerald settle in my palm.

    The greatest pain is not remembering. I am sorry, daughter, but you must live on. And to live is to forget, I am afraid.

    Why? Why did that small snippet of memory decide to come to the surface. I groan, massaging my temples. Then I offer Zifor a hand. He stares at it for a moment, then takes it. I hoist him to his feet, surprised at how light he is.

    ¡°Do you remember her? Your mother?¡± I ask. He nods his head.

    ¡°Yes. She died of the plague when I was ten. Randor pressed me into his service the day after, at her funeral. Said a grieving Magi was too dangerous unchecked.¡± He says. Zifor¡¯s a little shorter then me, the bridge of my nose between my eyes the same height as his forehead. This close to him, I can see little freckles on his nose and cheeks, small circles of ink splattered under and around his eyes.

    ¡°Do you?¡±

    ¡°Only- no,¡± I grit my teeth, ¡°We¡¯re not going to do this, share our sad stories. Share our pasts.¡± Why had I answered his question, knowing that it was an emotional trap? I turn and go over to the next climbable tree, crossing my arms over my chest. I study my left forearm, taking in the small blue veins under my skin, when Zifor gasps in pain. The sound of bowstrings being drawn follows, along with rustles from the underbrush. Reaching for my knife, I stop halfway, standing up straighter and tensing.

    ¡°That¡¯s right, Lore scum. Turn around.¡± The speaker talks like a snake, sly and cunning, giving me no choice but to do what he says. I turn, facing the addition pieces of scenery.

    A man with a light fuzz of silver hair wearing tight blue leather clothes stands behind Zifor, one arm holding back his arms, the other pressing a curved dagger to the underside of his throat. On either side of him, more men in blue leather hoods with ebony masks fanned out, longbows held taunt in their gloved black hands. Zifor¡¯s knees are bent slightly, the column of his neck exposed, the silver haired man¡¯s blade between his jaw and Adam¡¯s apple, digging into his flesh.

    ¡°A¡¯Era¡¯i.¡± I growl.

    ¡°Charming day, and you?¡± The man says.

    ¡°Enough riddles. What do you want?¡± I snap, raising my hands to show him I¡¯m unarmed.

    ¡°No pleasureful business with Lore. How sad. Anyhow, you have a choice.¡± The man puts pressure on the knife, making Zifor cry out softly, the corners of his mouth and eyes tightening in a grimace.

    ¡°What choice?¡± Enough choices. Enough of the damn whole world. Enough of people telling me I had to decide.

    Can¡¯t choose? Then let me do it for you.

    ¡°The choice of life: This Magi, or those two children.¡±

    ¡°What children?¡±

    ¡°These.¡± The man gestures with his foot, and the foliage to my right is yanked open. What I see sends a whole new wave of repulsion for Randor into my stomach, twisting and churning my gut.

    Two A¡¯Era¡¯i held loaded crossbows to the heads of two small Lore children. They were tiny, no taller than my hip, with small brown nubs for horns and wide, terrified green orbs for eyes. The one on the left, a boy, was slightly taller, with blue skin, navy hair, and freckles that overlapped. He gripped his sister-the smaller one with yellow skin and fern orange hair-with clumpy hands.

    ¡°Well?¡± the head A¡¯Era¡¯i promotes, ¡°Who will it be?¡±

    ¡°Aareon.¡± I blurt.

    The man blinks, taken back, ¡°Pardon, what?¡±

    ¡°The village Monarch. Where is he?¡± I say, letting the tension in my legs seep out, imagining it as a waterfall spilling over the rocks that are my body, into the lake that is the dirt under my feet in white surf like dragon teeth.

    ¡°I do not see how this is relevant to the situation.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s sacrilege to kill a Monarch.¡± Crossing my arms, I finger the sleeve of my jerkin under my left armpit, feeling for the blade hilt.

    ¡°Fine.¡± The man makes another signal, and one of his henchmen dumps a limp body next to the two Lore children, causing the girl to make a muffled scream. The body groans, and Aareon lifts his head.

    A bloody gash mares his right temple, cutting into his eye. His glasses are gone, his brown eyes searching for something. His clothes are ragged, one leg completely soaked in crimson, turning his orange skin a fine shade of cherry.

    ¡°Cerbera?¡± Aareon¡¯s voice is hoarse, cracking and brittle. The coppery scent of blood wafts up, infiltrating my nostrils, making my head and heart spin.

    There.

    I wrap my fingers around the weapon hilt. Zifor makes a grunting noise in his throat, yet another signal I don¡¯t understand.

    ¡°Well, this makes my choice easy.¡± I say, sliding into a fighting stance. I shoot Aareon a warning glance, hoping he can still read lips half-blind.

    I draw my blade at the same time Zifor swings his head forward, then rams it back, slamming it into the nose of the silver man holding him in a cry of pain and a spray of red. The man stumbles backwards, pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Zifor jumps next to me, his spine pressing against mine.

    ¡°Nice job.¡± I tell him under my breath.

    ¡°Thanks.¡± He whispers back. I feel him tense, the muscles in his body clenching. He¡¯s warm, soft heat radiating from beneath his roughspun clothes and the fabric of his cloak.

    ¡°I hope you can do magic, because it would be extremely helpful right now.¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t. Though an army of Shur¡¯tyr would be great.¡± Zifor says.

    Shur¡¯tyr.

    The idea hits me harder than a falling tree. It¡¯s a crazy one too. So crazy that it might kill all of us, including Aareon and the children.

    ¡°Cover your ears.¡± I reach into my satchel with my free hand, rooting around until I find what I¡¯m looking for. Zifor complies, his shoulder blades shifting as he does.

    ¡°Ready.¡± he says.

    ¡°Ducking might be a good idea too.¡± I uncap the jar I¡¯d pulled from my satchel, letting the sharp scent of almonds and acid out.

    ¡°What are you doing?¡± Zifor looks at me over his shoulder, parts of his nose and mouth hidden by the crock of his elbow and arm.

    ¡°Getting you the army of Shur¡¯tyr you wanted.¡± I throw the jar, along with what¡¯s inside it, at the feet of the silver-haired A¡¯Era¡¯i. He back pedals, bringing his blade up. Putting my bone knife back in its sheath, I stand up straight. I can hear Zifor muttering to himself in short bursts of Draconic. A fast and fleeting script of words.

    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

    Behind us, the undergrowth rustles. A deep baritone bellow breaks the sky, shaking the trees and dislodging birds and flying creatures in their thousands, creating a shrill orchestra of shrieks. Behind me, Zifor winces. The earth¡¯s shaking deepens, becoming strong enough to throw us off our feet. I grab Zifor¡¯s bicep, wrenching us both to the ground, when the Shur¡¯tyr emerge.

    They¡¯re beautiful.

    Three massive creatures that look like beetles with their shells inverted, dark and pearly black with ashy green eyes and obsidian fangs. Tentacles of the sundew plant sprouted from their backs, the underside of each limb covered in purple orbs. The Shur¡¯tyr in the middle reared back its head, roaring. I look at Zifor¡¯s face, expecting to see fear, but all I see is astonishment, his eyes wide, mouth slightly open, jaw slack.

    ¡°What?¡± He manages to say.

    ¡°Told you.¡± I can¡¯t keep a smirk off my face. It¡¯s been too long since Aareon let me summon Shur¡¯tyr. He had always told me to wait. To wait until I was older. And I was older. The last time I had asked him had been seven years ago, when I was seven.

    Can I do it?

    Do what, little ifre?

    Call the monsters, like you.

    When you have proven yourself, daughter.

    Little ifre, little flame.

    That¡¯s what Aareon had called me.

    ¡°Cerbera.¡± Zifor¡¯s shoulder pressing against mine brought me back to the present, as the three large Shur¡¯tyr ravaged the A¡¯Era¡¯i in bloodcurdling screams and wet ripping noises.

    ¡°Need to move, right.¡± I start to move in a crouch towards the children and Aareon. Zifor follows, slipping one of his hands into mine.

    His palm is warm and moist, his grip tight and comforting, sending little sparks up my arm. Then we run, daring to put ourselves into a loose crouch, shoulders brushing, leaves and twigs snaring at our legs and clothes.

    ¡°Follow.¡± I pull ahead, leading Zifor.

    ¡°Can¡¯t-wheeze-breath.¡± Zifor tugs at my hand. I twist to see him gasping, face bright red. Slowing, I readjust my grip on his hand, moving it to his wrist. I look into his eyes, into those deep, sorrowful pits of sparkling green flame.

    ¡°Trust me.¡± I tell him. He swallows, then nods, taking a big gulp of air. We continue running, until my sides ache and Zifor looks like he might about pass out, his pupils dilated, the dark pink of his lips parted, his skin pale. Putting my hands on the back of my head, I stretched back, letting my muscles and tendons strain against one another along my spine.

    ¡°Did we lose them?¡± Zifor¡¯s hunched over, hands cupped over his knees, cloak falling around him in dark flaps.

    ¡°Think so.¡± Right as I say this, I hear the twang of a bowstring. Sharp pain blares up from my chest, and I reach up to feel hot, sticky blood leaking around my fingers, bubbling up from my left breast. I sag to the side, slumping against a tree root, my vision swimming in shades of gray and black.

    ¡°Go.¡± I see Zifor¡¯s blurry form bend down in front of me, his hands raised part way.

    ¡°Cerbera.¡± He says. I open my eyes wide enough to take in his face. His terrified, pale face.

    ¡°Run!¡± I use the very last ounce of my strength, yelling at him to run, to leave me. As I fade into darkness, I hear his footsteps retreating, and bottomless gratitude swamps my heart.

    Too many of my friends and family have given their lives for me. And no one. Not a single person, would have to do it again.

    Do your worst, Xroim. I can take it.

    The first thing I notice is that I¡¯m moving. Which means either this is the Void, or I got captured and somehow managed not to bleed to death from a barb arrow through my chest.

    Why did Arkeya have to have such a twisted sense of humor?

    The world jolts upward, and I bang my shoulder on a plank floor. I try to reach up to my wound, when I realize I can¡¯t: my wrists are bound in iron manacles, as well as my ankles. I¡¯m gagged, I can feel the dirty cloth in my mouth, and blindfolded, my sight filled with dark brown fabric. Other senses come back to me in slow fits. The air smells like horse manure and straw, heavy enough to be suffocating. I can feel my clothes pressing against my body, most of my shirt and jerkin soaked with blood. Hard wood bites into my hip, shoulder, knees, and ankles. Another jolt, and something heavy and soft slams into my spine; and into the arrow still lodged into my body.

    The only thing keeping me from screaming is the gag. Spots swim in my already cloudy vision, and I feel my hold on conciseness slipping.

    The object rolls away, and I sigh in relief, shuddering.

    Too much pain, too much suffering.

    Too much loss.

    At least Zifor escaped. I work my jaw, clamping my eyes shut. Zifor ran. He had listened. How I knew, because I could hear only one person¡¯s breathing; mine.

    The wagon-I¡¯m sure it¡¯s a wagon now-comes to a grinding halt. A rough scrap of an iron clasp door, followed by muffled footsteps and grunting. Rough gloved hands hoist me up by my biceps. The sharp tip of a blade presses against the inside of my nose between it and the corner of my right eye.

    ¡°Don¡¯t move if you value your eyesight.¡± The blade jerks downward, cutting through the blindfold. Now I flinch, raising my left shoulder to block the harsh light.

    A man wearing furred trapper¡¯s leathers stands in front of me, dirt and blood coating him in a fine layer. He has a scraggly beard, with small, blank dark eyes separated by the harsh crest of his hooked nose. His mouth is in a permanent grin that sent chills through my body, most of his teeth missing or filed to points.

    ¡°Well, well, well. A little Lore all on her own. How tragic.¡± His eyes travel to the arrow in my chest, and a hunger enters his expression. I tense, waiting, knowing what he wants to do. Instead, he hooks two fingers into the gag, his dirty hands rough and wrinkled like dried herbs and leather. The gag falls from around my mouth to my collarbone, tight against my neck. I groan, sagging forward. The man behind me loosens his grip.

    Bad idea.

    For him.

    Ramming my shackled hands into his crouch, I spring forward, body slamming into the one in front of me. He crumples like a folding bow, quick and with a loud crack. I swing to the side, my bound ankles throbbing in protest.

    I hit the wood floor, something hard jammed into my throat, my entire body laced with pain.

    ¡°I told you trappers to be careful.¡± That voice. Looking up from the corner of my eye, I manage to see the newcomer. It¡¯s the A¡¯Era¡¯i from the woods. If he survived, then-

    No.

    Just no.

    ¡°We be sorry, sire. Very sorry indeed.¡± The first trapper says. He began to nod his head, shooting his comrade a look while doing it. The A¡¯Era¡¯i scoffs.

    ¡°And the hounds?¡± He sounds bored, like this is all a waste of his time in his already meaningless life.

    ¡°They picked it back up. We¡¯ll have it when they return.¡± The second trapper says.

    ¡°Hmm. Tie her to the post. And wrap that blasted shoulder before the entire wagon is red.¡± The pressure on my throat wanes, the man removing his foot. He steps back, letting the two trappers pull me to my feet. Now I can see where I am.

    It¡¯s definitely a wagon, I can tell from the curved, low ceiling, and the wooden bench cabinets that line the walls. The A¡¯Era¡¯i chuckles to himself. Then he leaves, leaving me and the two trappers. One takes a coil of brown, soiled rope while the other manhandles me, dragging me over to the pillar of wood.

    I get bound to it, the rope wrapping around my midsection, pressing my back into the hard wood, causing the arrow to wedge more out of my chest with a bloody gurgle. I barely contain a moan, clenching my teeth and jaw.

    ¡°Wonder what the hounds will bring this time.¡± The trapper with the missing and filed teeth says, rubbing his shoulder, grimacing slightly.

    ¡°Could go for some more roasted Shur¡¯tyr.¡± The other pats his round, shield-like belly, sighing in content.

    ¡°All you ever think about is food, you moron.¡±

    ¡°Not true. Come on, or the boss will get all murdery again.¡± They leave too, shutting and locking the door with a metal squeal and slam. Groaning, I slump, letting all the tension in my legs evaporate, going over what I knew in my head.

    Zifor had escaped, where he¡¯d gone, I had no clue. He was alone, on the run, with magic-restricting cuffs and zero help.

    Foolish. I lean my head back, feeling my horns puncture the wood. There I close my eyes, my brain jumping from one vision of horrific torture to the next. I can see racks and bloodied spikes. An iron maiden, a whipping post, hot iron rods over a glowing cup of embers, chains. I let out a whimper, the sudden pressure of what had happened pouring over me in hot waves of fire and blood.

    The past is past, there¡¯s no changing it.

    The same words that had kept me from drowning in grief, mourning what I had lost and what I was afraid of losing.

    Hounds.

    That¡¯s what the trappers and the A¡¯Era¡¯i had said. That they were hunting something down in the jungle with hunting dogs.

    It hit me when the door swung inward on its hinges, emitting a high pitched shriek. I leaned forward, trying to see out, when a bundle of rags was thrown in, hitting the far wall with a fleshy thump, and rolling down to the floor, laying there.

    ¡°Zifor.¡± His name catches in my throat, sending a hurricane of emotions into my chest. Two people enter after him, slamming the door in their wake. Zifor moaned, lifting his head. The person on the left is the A¡¯Era¡¯i, the person on the right the trapper with the shield belly.

    ¡°I had hoped you would have put up more a fight, but your current state will have to do.¡± The A¡¯Era¡¯i says, scowling. My fingers curl into fists, my jaw tightening.

    ¡°At least we got him, capt¡¯n.¡± the trapper yawns, patting his belly.

    ¡°I suppose. Listen, Magi,¡± he bends down, grabbing Zifor by the throat, ¡°when we return to Argona, you will behave. If you don¡¯t, I have developed a new tactic that will put you in your place. I suggest you take this time to . . . reconsider your allegiances.¡± His grip clenches harder around Zifor¡¯s neck, causing him to make a strangled sound.

    ¡°Let him go.¡± The words creep out like a wisp of smoke, escaping my throat in hoarse drafts. The A¡¯Era¡¯i stands, dragging Zifor up with him.

    ¡°Why should I listen to flea-bitten scum like you?¡± He eyes Zifor¡¯s body with cold judgment.

    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t, that¡¯s why you should.¡± Riddles. Everyone likes riddles, because they give you an excuse to bash someone¡¯s skull in.

    ¡°Hmm.¡± He opens his hand, and Zifor drops, crumbling at his feet in a ball of torn gray and red cloth.

    ¡°Sir?¡± The trapper edges toward the door, reaching for his dagger.

    ¡°Get the men ready. I want to be in front of the citadel by daybreak, understand

    ?¡±

    ¡°Yes, capt¡¯n.¡± They go, exiting the wagon. I wait until the door has been locked and the torches roaring, to turn my attention to Zifor.

    He lays on his side, his clothes ripped and stained dark red. He groans, pulling himself into a sitting position, one hand braced on the wall. His arms are covered in makeshift bandages and angry pink cuts, turning his sleeves scarlet. Zifor¡¯s right leg was a bloody mess, dark crimson drenching his pant leg.

    ¡°Zifor.¡± I echo his name, letting it fill the cabin. He lifts his head, peering at me from beneath his tangled black bangs, blood and grim caked in his hair and all over his face.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± His voice is gravely, like shattered wood. Then he bends over, hacking blood.

    ¡°Don¡¯t¡± I say. He lifts his head, meeting my gaze with his sparkling green eyes.

    ¡°Hope you have a plan, cause I don¡¯t¡± He rolls to his back, one hand clutched over his ribs, the other against his leg.

    ¡°Got any knives?¡± I fiddle with my shackles, searching for a keyhole or clink.

    ¡°They searched me when I got caught.¡± Zifor groans again, leaning his head back, exposing the slender pillar of his throat.

    ¡°That how you got those?¡± I gesture vaguely to his wounds with my chin.

    He grimaces, ¡°Yeah. One of the dogs bit me, the others-¡± Zifor lifts his right arm, putting the cuts and bloody wrappings on display.

    ¡°How long?¡±

    ¡°Hmm?¡±

    ¡°How long has it been since I told you to run?¡± I ask, a cold pool of dread collecting in my stomach

    ¡°A week.¡± Zifor says. He pushes himself to his feet, swaying slightly.

    ¡°You don¡¯t-¡± My jaw goes slack.

    ¡°You saved my life. Now it¡¯s my turn to save yours.¡± Green light begins to course through Zifor¡¯s veins, rippling up his arms, wrapping around his fingers and hands. His eyes start to glow, bright green circles in stark contrast with the black of his hair. Then it stops. The green goes out, leaving an afterimage scalded in my mind, and the walls and ceiling a dark brown bleached of color. Zifor groans, his eyes rolling up into his head, body twitching. He falls, skin turning an ashy green.

    ¡°Idiot.¡± Fresh pain blossoms in my chest, sending me hunched over, jaw clamped shut. Zifor¡¯s unconscious, his limbs laid out next to him like offerings to the dead. His hair piled around his head, hiding his eyes. On his wrists, the Ironglass bands smoke, turning the skin around them pink and raw.

    ¡°Idiot.¡± The words fills the room, heavy like a rug thrown over a head. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

    The wagon jerks to a stop, muffled shouts and cries audible from outside it. A high pitched scream rings out, followed by the entire wagon being shaken. I get jerked to the left, the arrow fletchings snagging on the pillar. Spots swim in my eyes, turning my vision black and full of holes. The wagon is rammed into again, the whole thing tilting sideways. More pain, more spots, less holes. The smell of burning flesh hits my nostrils, making me gag, my throat clenching and pulling in on itself. I let out a moan, blood dripping from my mouth. It¡¯s too much. Too much pain. Too much suffering.

    Yet not enough vengeance.

    Randor would pay.

    They all would pay.

    Everyone except Zifor.

    Because this world had a twisted sense of humor.

    The wagon shudders again, signaling another attack. More screams and shouts echoed from outside, clawing at my ears like scavengers fighting over a corpse, ripping and tearing at it. The need to live in order to wreck havoc in Randor pounded in my head, hard and brash, like a thousand drums. I would live. I needed to live. And nothing would stop me, not even an arrow through my chest.

    The next time the wagon shook, the door flung open, sending a harsh beam of filtered sunlight across the interior. Someone pokes their head through, whistling when they see me tied to the post and Zifor on the floor.

    ¡°Well, seems Delto was right.¡± The person, bless the gods in all their Draconic glory, is Lore.

    ¡°Took you long enough.¡± I manage to say, before my vision goes black, and the world goes silent.

 5- Princeling

    Prince Skylar

    The gray sword hits the white sand with a thud, and I fall to my knees, cradling my stinging forearm to my chest.

    ¡°Can¡¯t you go easy on me?¡± I look up at Captain Tejon, where he¡¯s standing a couple yards away, his sword half raised.

    ¡°Afraid not, my Prince. Do you expect your enemies to go easy on you?¡± He gives his sword a flourish, catching a sliver of sunlight with the three-foot long blade.

    ¡°No.¡± I climb to my feet, bending down to pick up my sword. It¡¯s a simple longsword, with a straight crossguard and a hand-and-a-half hilt with a small ruby set into the pommel. It looked like a lowercase t, with the blade double-edged and the color of polished slate.

    ¡°Very well. Again.¡± Tejon was an imposing opponent, with oily brown hair that fell to his jaw, tanned bronze skin, and deep gold eyes. He was tall, with a set of broad shoulders and muscled arms, large hands under lace gloves. He wore a knee length blue leather jacket, tight boots that clung to his feet and every curve of his legs, and his military dress top, the medals shining and clanking together with every one of his movements. My opinion of Tejon was that he had been a soldier in the King¡¯s-my father¡¯s- army. From there he had worked his way up as a swordsman, earning enough respect to be able to teach said King¡¯s son in the art of sword craft. And that he was incredibly handsome.

    I hold my sword out between us, ignoring the pain of my throbbing forearm.

    ¡°Good. Lift your right elbow up a bit.¡± Tejon lifts his sword up, the tip level with my heart. I scowl, doing what he suggests. Listening to Tejon will help me in the long run better then if I ignore him. Which I¡¯ve done before.

    And paid the price for.

    ¡°AH!¡± I lunge, curling both hands around the hilt, swinging the blade towards Tejon¡¯s head. At the last moment, I swerve, aiming for his exposed chest. Tejon lifts his sword, blocking, and the harsh ringing of steel against steel echoes throughout the courtyard, slicing into my ears. I grit my teeth, pushing down on the two interlocked swords with all my weight, trying to overpower Tejon. With a grunt, Tejon flings his sword out in an ark, forcing me to duck and step away.

    ¡°Good. You are getting stronger.¡± He says, following me in my retreat.

    ¡°Humph.¡± Grunting, I swing at his legs. Tejon blocks, then with a sweep of his hand, sends my weapon sprawling over the sand a handful of yards away. He brings the blade up, the tip pressing against the soft inside of my throat. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, hammering into my ribs. It was all I could do not to move closer to Tejon. All my instincts wanted me to move closer to him. To all his muscle and bronze skin and gold eyes that sent my chest and heart throbbing, aching for him.

    ¡°I win.¡± He says.

    ¡°You cheated.¡±

    ¡°Cheating and exploiting an opponent¡¯s tells are different, my Prince.¡± Tejon digs the sword tip harder into my neck, letting the cold metal cut and bite skin.

    ¡°Exploiting tells?¡± I ask.

    ¡°Yes. Your tell is as obvious as a man in woman¡¯s clothes.¡± He releases pressure, taking a step back.

    ¡°What is my tell?¡± I recall this particular lesson that Tejon had taught. Every fighter had a tell, a sign or remainder of an old wound. Something they did right before they attacked. It could be anything. Taking a deep breath, tensing certain muscle groups, or even transferring weight to one leg and readjusting the grip on a hilt. I still remembered when he¡¯d taught it, pacing up and done the raised wooden deck across the front of the alter inside Argona¡¯s church, holding a large leather-bound book in one hand and a carved walking stick in the other, tapping it against the floor with every step.

    ¡°You tighten your jaw right before you lunge or swing.¡± Tejon bends down, picking up my sword from where it lays.

    ¡°I can see that.¡± I say. He frowns, the corners of his dark pink lips crinkling.

    ¡°I sure hope so, my Prince.¡± Holding out my sword, Tejon presents the hilt, offering it to me. I take it, wrapping my fingers on my right hand around the leather wrapped hilt, feeling the warm leather bite into my palm.

    ¡°Again?¡± I ask, yearning swelling in my chest, climbing out my throat.

    ¡°I suppose.¡± Tejon stalks back to his original position, spreading his legs out, sword lifted and ready. I slide into my own stance, keeping my grip on my blade loose. Then I wait.

    Better to be on the defense then on the attack.

    Tejon moves forward in practiced ease, putting his sword in his right hand, giving it a flourish with a flick of his wrist.

    ¡°Showoff.¡± I mutter under my breath. If Tejon was paying attention to my tell, then maybe I could find and use his tell against him; if he had one, that was. Loosening the muscles in my jaw, I strike first, forcing my jaw to remain still and loose.

    Good.

    My strike hits Tejon¡¯s sword at the crossguard, sending a jolt up my arms to my shoulders, rattling my bones. Gritting my teeth, I press downward, forcing Tejon to go to one knee. He grunts, pushing back up at me with our swords, resisting. Tejon falters, his left arm spasming. There.

    I apply as much pressure as I can, until Tejon releases his sword, letting it fall to the courtyard ground. Tejon drops his other legs, making him balance on his knees, the edge of my sword pressed to his throat.

    ¡°I win, Captain.¡± I say, letting pride and the hot rush of achievement flood into me.

    ¡°Well fought, my Prince.¡± I step back, lowering my blade, allowing Tejon to stand. When he does, he bows, low and straight, bending at the hip in an almost ninety-degree angle.

    ¡°Here.¡± Swooping down, I pick up the Captain¡¯s sword, handing it back to him.

    ¡°Many thanks, my Prince.¡± Tejon sheaths the sword back into the scabbard on his left hip, the blade sliding in with an audible slink.

    ¡°Thank you for the lesson, Captain Tejon.¡± I bow to him, though not as low.

    ¡°Of course. Now go and wash up. It is not everyday that the King¡¯s only son turns fifteen.¡±

    Hot water pours over me, helping ease the soreness in my back. Planting my forehead against beige tile wall between my hands, I close my eyes, letting the hot shower wash away all the dirt and grime my body gathered during sparring. I groan, splaying my fingers wide.

    My father had servants attend to everything that was related to washing and or hygiene for me except for this. The shower was the only thing I could do on my own, the only bit of personal freedom I had in my entire life. And tonight?

    Tonight would be a nightmare.

    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

    A mudslide of nobles in their brilliant silks and jewels, expecting me to hold at least fifty different conversations at a time, while eating and traipsing around, and all the while finding creative ways to avoid a hundred marriage offers to girls I had never seen.

    At least Tejon would be there, to act as the guardian of the young prince. My father, Randor, would be too focused on enchanting noblewomen away from their husbands to send the night with him to spend time with me. That was how the world worked. Fathers didn¡¯t spend time with their sons, so when the sons grew up, they wouldn¡¯t spend time with their sons, and so on and so forth.

    Then there was the issue with the Lore.

    Argona had a long and bloody history with the Lore. From after the Siege of Catalina to before the massacres of my father¡¯s doing, there had been uneasy peace, broken up with small skirmishes here and there, but nothing big.

    Nothing that could change all of Arkeya.

    And yet here we were.

    ¡°Why?¡± The word creeps out, falling off my soaked lips in a cold lump.

    ¡°Your Majesty?¡± Someone on the other side of the chamber door asks, their voice drowned out by the shower.

    ¡°What?¡± I bellow, putting all my emotion into that single word.

    ¡°It¡¯s almost time. Hurry up!¡± That was brave of that person, to order a prince around like a lowly servant. I run my fingers through my heavy, soaked hair, my nails snagging on small knots and tangles. Turning off the water, I step out onto the cold brown tile floor, picking up a white rough towel, wrapping it around my waist.

    Two servants, both male, enter the chamber, their eyes downcast. One has a dress uniform tucked over his arm, the other carrying several brushes and ointments. They dress me in belittling silence, tightening and fussing over the placements of every single gold thread. The one with the brushes, a tall man with golden brown eyes and tan hair, places the brush in my hair, and begins to comb my tangled mops.

    There was a mirror seated on a stool in front of me, and in it I could see myself. Wavy hair the color of orange flames and copper wire that went to the tip of my ears, the sides and back shaved, the top kept long. Sharp, harsh pale blue eyes. Hooked nose, a light dusting of ginger freckles, a small scar cutting across the corner of my lip on the right side. A firm, well defined jawline and angular thick brows.

    As my hair dried, it curled till it was a curly mess on the top of my head, golden red and brown. Three sharp raps hit the door from the other side, causing the servants to jump and mutter curses under their breath. In the mirror, one rushes over, pulling open the door a tiny fraction, sticking his head out. He comes back, exchanging a few tense words with the other, before they both leave. I close my eyes, resting my hands in my lap, listening to the heavy footfalls of a person, feeling the rough wool of my clothes press into my collarbones and hips.

    ¡°Why are you tensing, son?¡± The speaker stops behind me, placing their warm hands on my shoulders.

    ¡°Father.¡± Opening my eyes, I look at the reflection in the mirror, which has begun to fog over from the steam like smoke pressing the sky in thick layers. King Randor of Argona stands as a backdrop to me, his thick red beard and piercing blue eyes that seem to stare into my very soul peering at me. I twist around in my seat, meeting his gaze with my own.

    ¡°Dear boy, I hope you could spare a few minutes for talking.¡± Randor purrs. His voice is deep and rich, lightly accented.

    ¡°Of course.¡± I say. Randor nods, a slight smile pulling at the corners of his cherry red lips.

    ¡°There is a option that sits open for you. When and if she comes, I would like you to accept the marriage offer for the daughter of that eastern count.¡± My father says, releasing his hold on my shoulders, allowing me to stand.

    ¡°A-a marriage offer? Father, I¡¯m fifteen, I still have five years till entering manhood, and besides, what if she isn¡¯t there, or what if she refuses?¡± I stammer, my tongue suddenly heavy in my mouth like a lead weight tied to some prisoners¡¯ ankles.

    ¡°This is for the best, Skylar. Argona needs to be stronger then ever, and an alliance between the eastern count and us through a marriage is the best and only way to strengthen our city. I hope you understand that Skylar, because the last thing I need is a divided court when unity is crucial to our survival.¡±

    ¡°Crucial against the Lore, you mean.¡± I bite the words out, knowing full well that I might be condemning myself to my father¡¯s wrath.

    ¡°I suppose. Rotten tree maggots, always showing up when they¡¯re not supposed to.¡± He spits, a hard blade of loathing entering his voice, turning it razor sharp.

    ¡°Did something happen?¡± I venture, a warm sense of curiosity entering my stomach, turning it to goo.

    ¡°Yes. Several prisoners, a Lore girl and one of my Magi, were on a transport wagon that was ambushed by the Lore. There were no survivors.¡± Randor flicks his wrist, studying the ornamental gold bracer on his forearm.

    ¡°A Lore?¡± That was strange. My father had never ordered a Lore taken prisoner before. The men who did it must have done it without orders.

    ¡°Yes. And there has been no word from Captain Theodan or his men on how they lost the Magi assigned to them.¡±

    ¡°Could they be dead?¡±

    ¡°Hardly,¡± my father snorts, then turns his gaze to me, ¡°I will see you in the ballroom.¡± Then he leaves, the chamber left in cold silence without him. Sighing, I run a hand through my hair, several strands catching on the gold rings I¡¯m wearing.

    Time to get this massacre over with.

    I enter through a side door, hoping against hope that no one would notice me. The side door closes with a muffled thud, going unheard in the chatter of my father¡¯s party guests.

    Women in elaborate skirts dance around, jewelry of every kind and color adoring their bodies. Men in dress uniforms parade around, holding shots of liquor in their white gloved hands. Couples besieged the main area, light from the chandeliers reflecting in wine bottles and glasses of beer.

    From the staircase up to the indoor pavilion, the guests close to my father were dancing in slow, methodical movements.

    ¡°May I have the dance, my Prince?¡± I twist to see Tejon standing behind me, his hair combed back, his brown skin oily and glowing. His eyes sparkle like gems, catching firelight in their bottomless depths. His uniform is perfectly pressed, not a single crease line in sight. On his left pectoral, his medals hung like bars of liquid gold. My heart begins to pound, steady and fast like a drum.

    ¡°Tell me something, Tejon.¡± I breathe, letting him sweep me into his arms for the next dance.

    ¡°What would you like to know, my Prince? The battles of Lore, or the inner workings of your father¡¯s politics, or perhaps something else?¡± Tejon puts one hand on my left hip, clasping the other around my right hand. I put my left on the crook of his elbow, allowing him to sway our bodies side to side.

    ¡°What is my father planning for the Lore?¡± I ask. Tejon frowns, his brows folding and wrinkling. Behind him, the ballroom swims in bright amber and gray flashes, adding to the slight ringing in my temples.

    ¡°I know a few things, not all of them good.¡± He says.

    ¡°Tell me.¡± I say, shifting my weight, pulling Tejon closer, trying to evade my impending headache.

    ¡°Everyone knows that he is trying to kill off the Lore entirely. But that¡¯s the mere surface of his plan. His Majesty wants to eradicate all Woodland Emhic. And he believes that wiping out Woodland¡¯s people will achieve that. Whether or not that¡¯s true, remains to be unseen, my Prince.¡± Tejon turns, making us swerve in the opposite direction. This close to him, I can smell his breath, lemons and vinegar, and feel the waves of warmth that are radiating from his body.

    ¡°All of Woodland Emhic?¡± I blink, stunned.

    ¡°Yes, my Prince.¡± Tejon says. He slides his arm around my waist, sending shivers up my spine, pulling me closer until our chests were almost touching. I¡¯d forgotten the feeling of having someone this close to me. I¡¯d forgotten the tiny daggers of yearning and anguish of wanting the person, but being unable to earn their love.

    I¡¯d had a crush on Tejon since the first day he was assigned to train me. Every time he showed skin or got close enough for me to touch, my heart would pound hard against my ribs, restricting my breathing. And in this ballroom, with a splitting headache and Tejon a mere breath¡¯s away, it felt like someone had wrapped a belt around my chest and was pulling it tighter and tighter like a vice.

    ¡°Can you explain Emhic again to me? I know that it¡¯s what allows mages to do magic, but I forgot how.¡± I manage to squeak, the belt around my rib cage tightening even farther.

    ¡°Emhic runs in the blood of mages. If they are able to obtain it, a mage can summon the Emhic and use it to, for example, create fire or even to fly.¡± Tejon says. His teeth are white and straight, glittering silver like stars. Silver like dragon scales.

    ¡°Alright. Could killing off an entire race actually destroy an Emhic?¡± This was the question that was really bugging me. Was it possible to destroy an entire Emhic? It was a question that we as Arkeyains had been pondering for millennia, debating and arguing over for centuries, too frightened of the side effects to experiment with.

    ¡°I know not, my Prince. It is the question your father has taken into his own hands to answer.¡± Tejon sighs, his grip loosening.

    ¡°One more thing.¡± I say, looping one arm around Tejon¡¯s shoulders.

    ¡°What, my Prince?¡±

    ¡°This.¡± I kiss him, overlapping his lips with mine, standing up on my tiptoes, curling my fingers around his collar. Tejon stiffens, then relaxes, and I feel his muscles loosen.

    ¡°My Prince. Prince Skylar. Skylar.¡± Tejon breaks away, putting his hands on my shoulders, taking a step back.

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°Many apologies, but I must go. I meant to tell you, but you will have another tutor, his Majesty has called me to the raids.¡± Then he turns and walks away, disappearing into the crowd, leaving me standing there by myself, my mouth parted.

    He left.

    The realization comes, slamming into me at full power. My knees nearly buckle, all my strength and dignity flooding out of me at once in an embarrassed puddle.

    Stupid stupid stupid.

    I had to be a fool and stupid to just go and kiss him. Tejon was in his thirties, and I was on the barest fringe of fifteen. Stupid stupid. Stupid.

    Great job Skylar. Now he¡¯ll never want to see you again, that¡¯s for sure. You just had to kiss him. Now he¡¯ll hate you for the rest of your sad, miserable life. I closed my eyes, letting my mind swim in the darkness, afraid of what I might see if I opened them.

 6- Dreams

    Zifor

    I was dreaming again.

    Dreaming of her.

    Nine year-old me runs up the rickety stone steps, wind blowing and throwing my dark hair in my face and eyes, momentarily blinding me in short flashes of ink and smoke. Wind taking my baggy clothes and turning them into sails, sending them smacking into my narrow frame.

    Running, running faster then I¡¯ve ever run, sprinting up those stairs.

    She¡¯s there, my mother.

    Her daisy yellow dress flapping and billowing in the wind, whipping around in pale gold and white lace ripples.

    ¡°Mother!¡± I try to yell, only empty air coming out. She turns and sees me, her face breaking out into a wide grin.

    ¡°Mother! Please, it¡¯s me, Zifor!¡± I try to say, though nothing comes out. She¡¯s beautiful, long, wavy locks of black hair, tanned skin, with a lithe build and a narrow face. Her eyes sparkled, silver and white like trapped diamonds, caged in her irises.

    ¡°Mother.¡± I stop on the steps to the cottage¡¯s porch, my hands falling at my sides, the warm breeze tugging on my shirt.

    ¡°I told you to go away.¡± The voice startles me. In these dreams, there was no sound. Not even the wind howled. But this dream was different. The wind was howling and roaring. The whitewash and oak cottage creaked and groaned, and my mother was talking. Nine-year old me was shoved aside by a person from behind me, their hand rough and hard against my shoulder.

    ¡°I can¡¯t, Odella. It¡¯s the king¡¯s orders.¡± The person, a man, says. He stares at me, his bright green eyes flickering like emerald fire. Like mine.

    ¡°Then why are you here? Come to torture me with your lies of safety for my child?¡± Odella snaps, her eyes smoldering. I¡¯ve lived this scene again and again before, I knew what would happen.

    What this man would try to do.

    It was a few days later, with the man and my mother arguing over something, their voices hushed and muffled. I sat crouched on the edge of the hayloft, peering down, watching the argument, the dusty smell of hay and fresh tiled dirt clinging to me. And because sound worked this time, I knew what was being said.

    ¡°I won¡¯t! Your so-called king agreed to wait until he is older!¡± Odella says, her skirts flashing pure gold in the torchlight.

    ¡°Please, Odella. It¡¯s important. Randor needs more Magi. You and your son are needed.¡±

    ¡°Needed as weapons of destruction, you mean.¡±

    ¡°Odella, please. It¡¯s for the best.¡±

    ¡°No. I will not let that . . . man anywhere near my son! Get out, Theodan, you are no longer welcome here.¡± My mother snaps, gesturing to the dark wood door with one finger. Theodan leaves, and in his wake, my mother settled down in the only chair in the room, holding her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking as she cried.

    ¡°I know you¡¯re listening, Zifor. Come down.¡± She says.

    The scene transformed, turning black and gray and pink all at once, a sinking feeling entering my gut like someone had tied a rope to my lower abdomen and was suspending me from the gallows with it.

    The world stopped morphing, and there I was, ten, with my mother laying in her deathbed, as pale as frost, gulping and fighting for every breath. Her black hair, once glowing rich like wet ink, was now a slink shade of gray, pillowed around her head like a fan. I was kneeling next to her bedside, begging her to eat and to keep living. I knew these attempts were futile. No one with Emhic survived the plague. It took the magic in our blood and turned it against us, destroying us from the inside out.

    Odella moaned, her mouth parted open, and there I was, sobbing, as my mother drew her last breath.

    The scene shifted again, and I was in the daffodil patch, my mother¡¯s corpse wrapped up in a dirty, beige sheet, sitting nestled in a hole I¡¯d dug myself, a pile of loose mud next to it. Hot tears made rivulets down my cheeks, stinging my eyes and blurring my vision. With a grunt, I began to shovel the dirt, the wooden shovel giving me splinters in my palms, burying my mother, Odella, under three and a half feet of dirt, mud, and plant roots. The scene changed yet again.

    It was the next day, rain pouring in drops the size of apples, drenching me. I lay curled next to the foot of my mother¡¯s grave, too tired to move. Too pissed off at life to continue living, cold dirt pressing against my body, waiting greedily for me to die. It changed again.

    I stood in front of Randor¡¯s throne, two guards on either side of me, the king himself slouched in his gold and ruby throne, one arm hanging off the armrest, the other pinned under his bulb chin.

    ¡°Today is a great day. You, Zifor Widowbeak, have decided to join me in my campaign.¡± Randor¡¯s voice sparked terror in me, igniting my heart with raw, burning hatred and an untamed, primitive fear.

    This was the man who would use me for his mad schemes. This was the man who didn¡¯t care who lived or died in order to achieve what he wanted.

    Randor was a user. He didn¡¯t do anything but sit on that ugly, gold eyesore of a throne until it and him became one being. One being intent on destroying everything.

    Someone tapped my shoulder, saying words that flowed over my ears like water, like someone had shoved me into a pond, and wasn¡¯t letting me come up for air. I gasped, and the world-the dream-went dark.

    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    Something warm and wet rested over my eyes, smelling of lavender and healing herbs. I groaned, trying to remove it, when someone¡¯s hand closed over my wrist, stopping me.

    ¡°Leave it.¡± The voice is male, a little rushed and lithe. Lore.

    ¡°Who are you?¡± I croak. My throat is dry, parched like dried leather left under the sun.

    ¡°A friend.¡± The Lore says. A part of Cerbera must have rubbed off on me, because I almost snapped at him that that was a bullshit answer.

    Not a good idea, considering that I had no idea where I was, and who the person with me was. I knew that they were Lore and male, but that was it.

    ¡°Here. You need to drink.¡± Something cold and metal was pressed to my lips. I opened my mouth, letting a warm broth slide in, pouring over my tongue and down my throat. I sat up, pulling the wet cloth off my face, taking in my surroundings.

    A Lore with orange skin, dark orange hair, and kind brown eyes sat cross legged next to my shoulder, holding a brown leather wineskin in his large calloused hands.

    Next to him, lad out with a blanket covering her from collarbone down was Cerbera, her eyes closed, brows clenched. The corner of a bandage prodded out from her left shoulder, evidence of her wound.

    ¡°Who-how?¡± I say. I¡¯m shirtless, my forearms, ribs, and left thigh wrapped in thick gauze.

    ¡°Your friend woke up enough to tell us to take you as well. She needs rest, and so do you.¡± The Lore says.

    ¡°Right.¡± I scan the branch we¡¯re own, looking for my clothes and belongings.

    ¡°Your name is Zifor, right?¡± The Lore says, standing.

    ¡°Yes. Yours?¡± I stand too, my knees nearly buckling.

    ¡°Tavarn. Pleasure to meet you. I apologize for the rough treatment we put you under.¡±

    ¡°O-okay?¡± I blink. Rough treatment? If it had happened, I didn¡¯t remember.

    ¡°Delto went to Ribena to tell the others. Right now, it is you, me, and your friend. Do you know her name?¡±

    ¡°Cerbera?¡± I ask. Tavarn nods. He¡¯s wearing tight brown leather pants, leather bracers on his forearms, and a vest that left his chest and biceps exposed. Around his neck, he had a black tooth hanging on a cord, along with two beads, a yellow one and a green one.

    ¡°Yes. Are you able to climb?¡± My mind immediately went to the week I¡¯d spent alone in the jungle, hungry and lost. No idea if Cerbera was alive, dead, or captured. Then there had been the wagon. The hunting dogs sent after me. The sharp, agonizing pain of the hounds ripping at my arms, the hot white dagger of it as one sank it tooth in my leg.

    ¡°Maybe.¡± I say. Tavarn frowns, his thick dark orange brows folding over his eyes. He has a hard, angular jaw with a firm nose, high cheekbones, and weathered skin.

    ¡°Here is your gear.¡± He hands it to me, just like Cerbera did. I slip my bloodstained shirt over my head, threading my arms through the sleeves, pulling the helm down to my hips.

    ¡°Thanks.¡± I whisper, putting on my belt and the sad remains of my cloak. Tavarn¡¯s frown deepens when he sees the clock pin.

    ¡°May I look at that?¡± He points to the clasp, a thin layer of worry and curiosity clouding his eyes.

    ¡°Sure.¡± I take it off and hand it to him, the cold rusted metal a stark contrast to Tavarn¡¯s warm skin. He scowls at the cloak clasp, then gasps, murky brown eyes widening.

    ¡°How did you get this?¡± He asks, handing it back to me. I look down at the pin laying cupped in my palm.

    ¡°My mother gave it to me.¡± I run my thumb over the design of the metalwork. It¡¯s a flame in the shape of the Wave symbol, a wave crashing over with the silhouette of a smaller wave inside it.

    ¡°Then your mother would be a mage.¡± Tavarn says.

    ¡°She was.¡± I put it back on, letting the worn metal rest at the base of my throat, a settling weight on my collarbone.

    ¡°Oh. My apologies.¡± Tavarn places one hand on my shoulder, bending over to look into my eyes. He has a small scar in the corner of his right eye, between his eye and his nose.

    ¡°Right.¡± I mumble. Get it over with, Tavarn. Give your condolences then shut up so I can continue to mourn her silently.

    ¡°I knew your mother. When I heard of her death, I grieved as if I had lost my own mother. Odella will be missed. In this world and in the next.¡± Tavarn pulls me into a hug, his arms digging into my shoulder blades, pressing my face into his chest. I can feel his heartbeat, fast and strong, a steady pounding beneath his sternum.

    ¡°You guys done bonding? Or is this the afterlife?¡± The voice is gravely and familiar, like an old friend.

    ¡°Cerbera!¡± I pull out of Tavarn¡¯s embrace and peek over his shoulder. Cerbera¡¯s trying to sit up, her left shoulder covered in rust brown gauze.

    ¡°Sure took your time.¡± She grumbles. I chuckle, going over, not trusting my legs to carry me, and squatting down next to her.

    ¡°Just glad you¡¯re alive.¡± I say.

    ¡°Humph. Takes more than an arrow through the shoulder to kill me.¡± Cerbera scoffs, groaning as she sits up.

    ¡°Can you walk?¡± Tavarn asks.

    ¡°Can you can the sense of humor?¡± Cerbera snaps back.

    ¡°If it helps, yes.¡± Tavarn crosses his arms over his chest, frowning, wrinkling the front of his open jerkin.

    ¡°Good.¡± Cerbera hops to her feet, swaying slightly. I don¡¯t notice what I¡¯m doing until Cerbera flinches, and I realize that I had put my hands on her shoulders. Her heart is like Tavarn¡¯s, fast and strong, pounding like the rumble of stampeding Shur¡¯tyr. Of course it would be. They¡¯re both Lore.

    They¡¯re both stronger then me.

    The dragon opened her eyes, trying to stop the shivers that traced up her spine, the chills penetrating into her bones and causing her scales to stand on end.

    The stone pond greeted her with its black marble and dark gray walls surrounding water that glowed white and pale blue. She didn¡¯t remember why it was here.

    That information, as all information she had once held, was gone.

    It had vanished, like embers floating off a fire.

    So she peered into the pond, seeing herself in it. She didn¡¯t mind her refection. She¡¯d learned to live with it. But it was the scene she saw that sent her heart racing and her hackles rising, a snarl building in her throat. Even now, she could feel the air closing around her, tightening against her ribs, pulling on her wings and tail.

    She saw death.

    She saw him.

    She could feel him.

    Feel the snug embrace of the Great Shadow pressing down on her.

    ¡°You have come to haunt me, have you not?¡± She could bear it no longer. The words echoed throughout the cave, ringing into the shadows that painted the walls in thick layers.

    She didn¡¯t hear him speak, didn¡¯t need him to, because his silence answered for him. It made her ache for the Wither dragon who had shared kindness. Kindness towards an old she-dragon who had lost her mind.

    Kindness to someone who didn¡¯t deserve it, because of what they had done. She turned back to the pond, knowing and dreading what it meant.

    An army waged war on a mountain, siege weapons flashing black and gold under an ashy sky. Dragons flocked in massive numbers, their scales bright colors amid the grays and blacks. Among them, a dragon bigger then any she¡¯d ever seen flew, its scales the palest of whites.

    The scene shifted, zooming into a boy standing on a bloody russet hill, a sword over his head, his armor glinting blood silver, his hair a tangled mane of copper wire.

    It kept changing.

    Next to a girl with yellow skin and dark horns, an ax gripped in her hands, mounted on the back of a blue dragon, crimson fire their backdrop.

    Another boy, this one with dark red horns, his mouth open. Whether in pain or defiance, the she-dragon knew not.

    A girl wielding two silver blades, dancing through her enemies like water flowing over rocks. Oh, how the she-dragon missed the sounds of roaring water. The mist from it hitting her scales, the deep thunder as it rolled into gorges.

    A boy.

    Another girl.

    The images kept morphing. Morphing so fast they began to bled together, a swirl of exotic colors.

    Then they stopped, fading to a black shape with silted glowing yellow eyes.

    No. NO. This couldn¡¯t be happening.

    It sent fresh fear into the dragon, ripping its way all the way into her spade and out to the farthest tips of her wings.

    War was coming.

    And nothing could stop it.

 7- Vines

    Cerbera

    You could stab me through the gut with a lance. You could take a serrated knife, stick it in me, and twist it in a full circle.

    The amount of pain from that, however, is nothing in comparison to the amount of anguish I could sense from Zifor.

    It surrounded him like a thick cloud, a mist of pain and suffering floating around him.

    ¡°You okay?¡± I look over my shoulder at him. Zifor¡¯s head hangs, his black bangs hanging in front of his eyes, shoulders sagging.

    ¡°He¡¯s processing, let him think.¡± Tavarn says. His voice is deep and lithe, reminding me of Aareon.

    Aareon.

    He was gone, left to die with those two children, completely at the mercy of Shur¡¯tyr and the A¡¯Era¡¯i.

    Damn it.

    Not this again.

    Not this feeling of helplessness and grief. Not this sinking feeling in my chest that weighs me down like lead. Not the realization that people I had cared for were gone. Gone to the Void. Gone forever.

    It makes me want to hit someone.

    It makes me remember Zifor¡¯s hand on my shoulder, the warmth that radiated from his palm. The hard skin of his finger pads through my shirt and bandages.

    It made my skin tingle just thinking about it. Zifor was Magi, and while he had Ironglass restraints, I had felt the power swirling in him. The raw power of Emhic trapped in him, the pounding of it in his blood.

    ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡± Zifor whispers.

    I don¡¯t pester him. I understand. At least, I think I do.

    ¡°Alright. Here to talk if you want.¡± I say. Zifor¡¯s only answer is nodding his head.

    ¡°Cerbera, I need to check your bandages.¡± Tavarn¡¯s voice startles me back to reality, ripping my thoughts away from the horrors they always went into.

    ¡°Sure.¡± I set down the small pack I¡¯m carrying, my  shoulder throbbing from being rubbed by the cloth strap through my jerkin.

    Zifor sat down, wrapping his arms around his ribs, groaning slightly. The urge to pull him into a hug struck, hard and heavy. I nearly took a step towards him, stopping myself just short of doing it.

    ¡°Cerbera.¡± There was a warning in Tavarn¡¯s tone, not really, but hinted in the way it dropped an octave.

    ¡°I¡¯m ready. You don¡¯t have to wait.¡± I say. Tavarn lets out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose between his eyes.

    He was tall, a head and a half taller than me, with horns that swooped up in two steep dark brown spires. His eyes were warm and friendly, deep brown pits that seemed bottomless in layers upon layers of wooden umber folds.

    Tavarn crossed the space between us, sliding two fingers under the gauze on my shoulder. He muttered something under his breath, eyes widening.

    ¡°Have you ever used Emhic before?¡± His question is one I get often. People look at me, look at the way I fight and move, and assume I¡¯m a Magi. I¡¯m not. I¡¯m ordinary.

    So painfully ordinary that magic is almost an annoyance to me.

    ¡°No. I¡¯m not a mage.¡± I bite the words out, forcing each one past the dry surface of my tongue.

    ¡°Oh. My apologies.¡± Tavarn unwraps my shoulder in three quick circles, exposing the torn and bloodied flesh of my shoulder and collarbone to the moist jungle air. I inhale deeply, fighting back the pain.

    ¡°How bad is it?¡± I refuse to look down. Down at the wound I gained out of my own foolishness.

    ¡°Bad.¡± Tavarn whistles. At least he¡¯s being honest, unlike the healer back home. Tara what¡¯s-her-name. She¡¯d been fine, just dishonest when it came to determining the severity of a potentially fatal wound.

    ¡°How bad is ¡®bad¡¯?¡± I ask.

    ¡°It¡¯s not green, if that was what you were wondering. Other then that, it¡¯s about as red as a fireberry.¡±

    ¡°That bad?¡±

    ¡°Aye.¡± Tavarn nods.

    ¡°What¡¯s a fireberry?¡± Zifor asks. Both me and Tavarn turn slowly to face him, his face wide with shock.

    ¡°It¡¯s a- how do I explain this?¡± I stammer.

    ¡°A fireberry is one of the more rarer ingredients used in alchemy. It¡¯s more common around Bellsworth near the Ice Gorge and the Wilder, up north.¡± Tavarn explains.

    ¡°Oh.¡± Zifor mumbles. He rubs his wrists, gray cloth running over white-pink gauze and silver bands.

    ¡°Can we get a move on? Or will we just magically teleport to this ¡®Ribena¡¯ place?¡± My patience is breaking, cracking under my skin like dead leaves, digging into me with the same stinging pain as splinters.

    ¡°Of course. Just take it easy.¡± Tavarn hefts his satchel over his shoulder, gesturing at us to follow him with a wave of his hand.

    We follow him, like lambs to the slaughter, climbing higher into more jungle.

    Into more wilderness.

    ¡°Almost there.¡± Tavarn¡¯s voice shatters my train of thought, ripping me back to reality. It was a welcome interruption; my head was ringing from alternate fantasies of being tortured in Argona.

    All it did made my resolve to end Randor stronger. He would pay for his crimes a thousand times over.

    Then he would pay it again.

    ¡°How close?¡± I ask. Rough bark pressed against my palms and aching fingers, digging into my toes and knees.

    ¡°Here.¡± Tavarn pulls himself up onto a thick branch, his long orange body folding around the length of deep brown and moss green wood. I heft myself up after him, reaching around to help Zifor.

    The Magi boy clung to the tree like lichen, his body flat and spread, limbs hooked to the trunk in a very spider-like way, his gray and black clothes hugging his narrow frame with sweat.

    ¡°Zifor, here.¡± I offer a hand, loosening my fingers. Zifor looks up, his shaggy black hair pasted to his cheeks. He reaches up, curling his fingers around my wrist. Planting one knee on the edge of the branch, I wrap my other hand around his wrist, yanking him up.

    We both flopped down on the tree limb, chests rising and falling rapidly, covered in sweat and grim, our clothes and garments sticking to our bodies.

    ¡°I-huff-never want-huff-to do that-wheeze-again.¡± Zifor groans between deep, rapid breaths.

    ¡°No promises.¡± I chuckle, sitting up. My ribs ached, throbbing from both the arrow wound through my shoulder and the exertion of climbing with little rest and rations.

    ¡°Okay.¡± Zifor closed his eyes, the ashy tint to his skin turning his eyelids translucent.

    ¡°Cerbera, a word?¡± Tavarn crouches down next to me, his brown eyes glowing like embers in a dying fire.

    ¡°Sure.¡± Standing, I follow him to the base of the tree limb where it flowed into the main trunk in ripples of browns, grays, and greens.

    ¡°I understand what you have seen. However, I need to know what happened.¡± Tavarn places his hands on my shoulders, the insides of his hands warm and moist against my skin. Something twitches in my left collarbone, and I look down to see the wound closing up, knitting itself back together under the gauze.

    ¡°Happened to what?¡±

    ¡°Your village.¡±

    ¡°Oh.¡± I go silent. It¡¯s hard, getting the pictures of the destruction out of my head. I can still see the ravaged wood burning, the bodies littering the ground. I can still smell the smoke, the scents of burning flesh and bark. Still hear the fire crackling, the screams frozen in the air.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I shouldn¡¯t have brought it up.¡± Tavarn¡¯s hands drops from my shoulders, hanging at his sides. Two orange birds hanging from thick orange strings.

    ¡°It¡¯s not something I¡¯ll forget.¡± It¡¯s barely a whisper, more a promise. To whom, I know not. It could be a promise to myself, to the people who deserve death after what they¡¯ve done. No, I know what it is.

    It is a promise to myself.

    A promise to never forget.

    A promise to not let the dead have died in vain.

    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

    ¡°Be careful, Cerbera.¡± Tavarn warns.

    ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°I can see it in your eyes. See your thirst for Randor¡¯s blood. As much as I want him dead too, do not let this need for revenge cloud you. It will bring you more harm than good.¡± He sighs, running one hand through the short tangled mess of his dark orange curls.

    ¡°You can-?¡± I blink, shock coursing its way through me. How did he know? He said he had seen it in my eyes, my yearning for Randor¡¯s death.

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°Why tell me? You barely know me.¡± It was stunning, to say the least, that all someone had to do was look into my eyes to know what I wanted. To know what I was willing to leave the world for in order to achieve it.

    ¡°I can see myself in you. I can see a younger, more naive self in you. I have been down this path too, Cerbera. Tread carefully, if you plan on taking it.¡± Tavarn says.

    ¡°Okay.¡± I whisper. Tavarn gives a slight smile.

    ¡°Sorry. Didn¡¯t mean to lecture you. Zifor¡¯s waiting.¡± With that, he strides past me, offering a hand to Zifor, who¡¯s still laying on his back, eagle-spread.

    I let out my breath, exhaling sharply. My shoulders felt lighter, like a weight had been lifted off them, despite what had just happened. I go over to them, casting a look at Zifor. He blinked, looking up at me.

    ¡°You okay?¡± He asks, standing.

    ¡°Never better.¡± I lie. Better kind lies then terrible truths.

    Zifor turned to Tavarn, ¡°How much farther?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re here, believe it or not.¡± Tavarn takes a step back, gesturing to the seemingly empty void of trees and vegetation that served a backdrop to us.

    ¡°What are we looking at?¡± Zifor squints, his eyes narrowing, cutting his bright green irises in half.

    ¡°That.¡± I point, my finger wobbling slightly.

    ¡°Oh. I see it.¡± Zifor says. I¡¯m glad he can, despite everything that¡¯s happened. In front of us, half hidden in the foliage, a group of wooden hexagon huts made of dark cedar wood with thatched green roofs sat built into the trees, connected by a tangled web of rope and plank bridges, rope swings, and other various methods of moving between platforms. Plants grew on the roofs, smoke leeching from the cobblestone chimney of one brick hut. Platforms jutted out like limbs, made of various types of wood. There was no Lore to be seen, but what I did notice was strange was the catapult that sat on one of the more isolated platforms, next to the hut made of brick with the smoke.

    Hanging suspended between our branch and the closest platform was a rope bridge, the knots in it tied in careful loops, the planks not too far apart but not too close together either, swinging slightly in the gentle breeze. And standing on that rope bridge, right at the lowest point of its slight downwards arc, was a Lore.

    ¡°Delto.¡± Tavarn stepped in front of us. I could see the muscles in his jaw tightening, the ones in his nape rolling. The Lore on the bridge marched over, right up to the end where it was anchored to the bark. He didn¡¯t step off, instead kept his feet planted firm on the swaying planks.

    ¡°I thought the Shur¡¯tyr had gotten you.¡± He snarled.

    Delto was tall, his skin a dark, dull blue, hair a tangled mess of midnight hanging to the sharp angles of his jaw. He wore a loose green tunic under a gray vest that was unfastened, leaving portions of his toned chest bare. Tight brown pants that ended right below the crook of his knees, leather wrapped around his ankles, the arches of his feet, and his wrists. Three amulets hung around his neck on three silver chains. The first was of a small orange dragon curled around an egg. The second a sword with a corkscrew sapphire wrapped around it. The third a tip of a black horn tangled in a copper wire net.

    His horns stood looming, two black hooks emerging from his upper temples, curling around in a loop to the back of his head. Then there was his eyes. Well, eye. Delto¡¯s left eye was gone, replaced by a leather eyepatch and a jagged scar that run parallel with his nose, bisecting his angular dark brow.

    ¡°Who are they?¡± He points to me, then to Zifor.

    ¡°Allies.¡± Tavarn responds.

    ¡°Allies?¡± Delto cocks his head to the side, studying us with his remaining acid green eye.

    ¡°Yes. Did you tell Cata and Xandyr?¡± Tavarn asks.

    Delto let out a sigh, his broad shoulders drooping, ¡°Orders are orders, Tavarn. Don¡¯t stop me.¡± Then his eye began to emit a light glow, bright green light traveling through his veins up from his fingertips, through his arms, across the exposed skin on his chest, up to the sides of his neck.

    The light hummed under his skin, all of his veins and arteries aglow with it. I took a step back, crouching. Tavarn did the same, as did Zifor. I reached for my knife, fear sinking its teeth into my spine when I remembered that Tavarn had it.

    Idiot.

    Aareon would be pissed that I had no weapon.

    No, Aareon was dead. The only one I had to blame for this was myself and my foolishness.

    ¡°What did Cata and Xandyr tell you?¡± Tavarn¡¯s voice is barely a whisper, more a command.

    ¡°That the Magi would die, the girl too if she intervened.¡± Delto¡¯s words have a strange ringing to them, the glow in his veins pulsing with each one. He raises one hand, fingers splayed in the air.

    ¡°Delto, s-¡± Tavarn is interrupted by a scream. A scream that is painfully familiar. A scream I¡¯d wished never to hear again. I whirl around, just in time to see massive green and rust-brown, thorn-covered vines erupt from the ground, twisting around Zifor¡¯s body.

    He lets out a cry, struggling against the earthly restraints. The vines curl tighter, drawing crimson blood that flows over their thorny lengths, collecting in puddles on the ground. I can smell the blood, as well as the raw mineral scent of Emhic. The air is vibrating, blurring from the amount of pure magic in it.

    ¡°Delto, stop!¡± Tavarn yells, his hands clasping into fists at his sides. Delto turns his attention to us, Zifor clawing weakly at his magical prison behind him.

    ¡°Make me.¡± Delto bares his teeth. His hand clenches into a fist, fingernails pressed to his palm. I close my eyes, trying to tune out Zifor¡¯s sounds of agony.

    ¡°Cerbera, open your eyes.¡± Tavarn nudges me with his elbow, the hard rough skin of the joint burying into my ribs. My eyes fly open, in time to see Zifor throw his head back, dark curls falling away from his face, blood in the corners of his mouth, bearing his throat. A sign of surrender.

    ¡°If you believe in mercy, Magi, I don¡¯t grant mercy to murderers.¡± Delto closes his fist all the way. Zifor thrashes, his body the gray moth trapped in a mantis¡¯s arms, struggling to the last breath. I swallow, knowing I¡¯d taken that advice wrong.

    Better terrible truths then kind lies.

    ¡°Delto, let him go!¡± I snap, taking a few steps forward.

    ¡°Why should I?¡± Delto glares at Zifor, who hung limp, neck bared, eyes half closed, mouth parted.

    ¡°He saved my life. He can¡¯t use magic because he has Ironglass manacles on. You¡¯re Lore. Please, show him mercy.¡± I don¡¯t like begging, but here I am, pleading for the life of a boy I was ready to kill only days ago.

    ¡°Listen to her, Delto.¡± Tavarn rests his hand on my right shoulder, deep brown eyes drilling holes into Delto. Delto let out a long sigh, closing his eyes. Minutes tick by, broken by Zifor¡¯s groans. Then Delto opens his hand, the green glow in his body dimming, becoming darker until it was no longer there. The tangled green and rust-brown vines around Zifor began to shrink, creeping back into the branch until they no longer existed.

    ¡°Thank you.¡± I breath, letting out the breathe I didn¡¯t realize I was holding until now.

    ¡°Don¡¯t thank me. This is war, girl. And there is little mercy in war.¡± Delto hisses. He stalks over to Zifor, pulling the small boy up by his left bicep.

    ¡°.¡± Zifor groans, eyelids fluttering. He lifts his head, the green in his eyes duller than it usually is.

    ¡°Shut it. Follow.¡± Delto turns on his heel, creeping over to the rope bridge, dragging Zifor along behind him, his tail a blue banner behind him. ¡°You folks coming?¡± He looks over his shoulder at us, stopping at the threshold of the bridge.

    ¡°We are coming.¡± Tavarn lets out a tired exhale. I nod, doing my best not to look at Zifor¡¯s battered frame.

    We were coming, into Ribena, a hidden village of Lore.

    A village that might help us.

    Or destroy us.

    ¡°Where are we going?¡± The streets-I guess you could call them streets- of Ribena were narrow, the wooden huts and building on either side of us rose to two stories, tightly packed in this part of the village. Ribena was more of a small town then a village.

    More of a stronghold.

    ¡°You¡¯ll see.¡± Came Delto¡¯s reply. Hours ago, he¡¯d given up on half-dragging, half-carrying Zifor. Now the boy walked shoulder to shoulder with me, his head hanging, chin resting on his chest. Dried blood covered him from head to toe, staining his clothes and skin a slight pink. He¡¯d lost so much in so little time. It made the fact that he was still standing almost a miracle itself.

    ¡°Not an answer.¡± I say.

    ¡°Thought you liked riddles.¡±

    ¡°I hate them.¡± I close my eyes halfway, taking in the feeling of the wooden platform beneath my feet, of my ragged breathing, of Zifor¡¯s shoulder occasionally brushing against mine.

    ¡°War is hard, Cerbera.¡± Delto¡¯s voice calls me back. I open my eyes, glancing up to see him standing in the archway of a longhouse, soft orange light glowing through a curtain that hung in the archway.

    ¡°I know.¡± I whisper, reaching up to finger my mother¡¯s pendant.

    ¡°Do you?¡± Delto asks.

    ¡°Yes. Do you?¡± Take the question, answer it, twist it and throw it back at the original .

    ¡°Of course I do. Why else would I be here?¡± Delto rolls his remaining eye, his tail curling back and forth behind him.

    ¡°Figured.¡± I mutter.

    ¡°What about you, Magi. Do you know war?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡± Zifor whimpers. Delto raises a brow.

    ¡°Tell me, then.¡± He says.

    ¡°War is hard. It takes you, twists and breaks you, then puts you back together as a new, hardened person. It¡¯s not glorious, it¡¯s not honor-filled. War is bloody and horrible. The people involved with it do horrible, terrible things. Things that change you.¡± He swallows, wringing his hands in front of him.

    ¡°Good. Seems you understand,¡± Delto pulls back the beige curtain in the doorway, throwing warm firelight on us. ¡°You convinced me. Now you have to convince them.¡±

    We entered, entering a long room that smelled of smoke and pork, the air cloudy with the warmth emitting from the fire that roared in the center. Three people sat on the fire¡¯s other side, the flames flickering and popping, their bellies blue and yellow. Tavarn stood to one side, arms crossed over his chest, the fire turning his skin spice-red. Delto touched his fore and middle fingers on his right hand to his lips, then to his forehead, before bringing them out to the three people seated next to the fire. I did the same, my rough fingertips a stark contrast to my chapped lips and sweat covered forehead.

    ¡°Zifor.¡± I dug my heel into his ankle, hissing his name under my breath. Zifor jumped, hands flying up to his head.

    ¡°What?¡± He hissed back. I did the gesture to him. Two fingers to lips, then forehead, then outward.

    ¡°Do it. It¡¯s a sign of respect.¡± I whisper. Zifor nods, turning to the three seated Lore. He does it, though I notice that his arms and hands are shaking.

    ¡°A Magi and one of our own.¡± The voice belongs to the Lore in the middle, a male who towers above the other two.

    ¡°Ku¡¯yu Xandyr, this is Zifor and Cerbera. They have a tale to share.¡± Tavarn says. I twist slightly to see him out of the corner of my left eye. We have no story to tell these people.

    ¡°Ku¡¯yu,¡± I bow my head, keeping my eyes focused on my feet, the wooden floor, and the sheepskin rugs on said floor.

    ¡°Lore bow to no one. Rise, girl, and tell us your tale.¡± When Xandyr speaks, his voice rings with power. Power and wisdom. A shudder passes through me.

    Power and wisdom.

    Something all Ku¡¯yu, chiefs, hold.

    I peer over my shoulder at Zifor. He gives a slight nod, clenching his jaw, glaring into the depths of the fire. Silence falls over the room, save for the snarls from the hearth.

    ¡°Go on.¡± Tavarn breaks the silence with his gentle words, snapping me out of a trance.

    Right. Tell us your tale.

    I could do that.

    I did, spinning it so thick that when I was done, there were tears in the corners of Zifor¡¯s wide green eyes. I felt tears in the corners of my own.

    ¡°If Randor is-was- using Magi to advance his plans, then we¡¯re doomed.¡± The person on Xandyr¡¯s left speaks, standing.

    ¡°Precisely.¡± Delto says. He crosses the room, standing next to me. I come up to his shoulder, the tips of my horns at the slanted angle of his jawbone.

    ¡°Arck, how is the, er, catapult coming along?¡± Tavarn coughs into his fist, giving us a guilty look, the corners of his eyes pinched.

    Arck blows a raspberry, counting on her fingers, ¡°¡®bout as good as it can, considering the course of the trajectory and the-¡± She¡¯s cut off by Xandyr pushing himself to his feet.

    ¡°Arck, get the catapult working.¡±

    ¡°Aye, sir!¡± Arck runs out of the longhouse, her long red tail waving along behind her like a flag.

    ¡°Delto, Tavarn?¡±

    ¡°Yes?¡±

    ¡°Operation Minx. Understand?¡±

    ¡°I-what?¡± Delto shakes his head.

    ¡°Very well. And the children?¡± Tavarn says. Xandyr turns to us.

    His skin is white with patches of dark gray and black on it. All that¡¯s left of his horns are two dark brown stumps on the top of his head. His hair is jet black, hanging to his shoulders on one side and cropped close to his scalp on the other. Eyes the color of murky pond water, an algae green with hints of jade and teal sprinkled in with crow¡¯s feet at the edges. His tail was gone, probably nothing more than a stub at the base of his spine.

    ¡°I have plans for them.¡± Xandyr answers.

    ¡°What kind of plans?¡± Zifor swallows, lifting his head up a tiny fraction of an inch. Xandyr raised one of his thick, heavyset black brows.

    ¡°I need the two of you for something that I¡¯ve been planning for a long time.¡±

    ¡°Which is?¡± I venture. Xandyr fixes his gaze on mine, those murky eyes of his staring right into my soul.

    ¡°Why, dear girl. I need you to kidnap a certain someone.¡±

    ¡°Who?¡±

    ¡°Prince Skylar of Argona.¡±

 8- Sun and Fire

    Prince Skylar

    There is something pecking my shoulder.

    Slowly, I open my eyes, turning my head to the right. A pair of beady, large gold eyes framed by a head of tawny brown and red feathers behind an umber copper beak was peering down at me.

    ¡°Hi, Bassa.¡± I reach up, stroking the feathered head with the back of my hand. Bassa shrieked, spreading her large gold red-brown wings, her downy white belly puffing up in delight.

    I groaned, sitting up in the four-poster canopy bed, the white silk sheets clinging to every curve of my legs and lower body. My body ached, from a combination of training, the dance, and sleeping for only four hours last night. Every muscle in my thighs and calves throbbed, a dull pulsing that set my chest on fire, sending my heart pounding.

    Bassa perched on my right shoulder, her curved black talons digging into my flesh and skin through my nightshirt. The red-tailed hawk let out a soft caw, using my shoulder as a launch pad to throw herself into the bedroom air. I laugh, my laughter ringing throughout the room, watching the hawk circle around the ceiling, a dark blur against the whites and  of the chamber.

    Swinging my legs over one side of the bed, I stand up, swaying slightly from the stiffness in my joints.

    ¡°Ow.¡± I wince, reaching down to massage my hips. The nightshirt was more of a loose shift, going down to my knees. I didn¡¯t bother to wear pants under it. Instead, my bare legs sprouted from the shirt¡¯s helm like tree limbs, my bare feet and exposed calves left to the mercy of the cold wind sweeping through the open window.

    Bassa swooped down, brushing her left wingtip against my hair.

    ¡°What is it?¡± She dips down, circling once around the dark oak armoire sitting against the wall of the circular chamber. Bassa landed on top of it, folding one wing against her side in a rustle of feathers, and tucked her beak under the other, resting on top of the elegant  on the amoire¡¯s roof. I signed, padding over on cold toes and numb heels across the stone tile floor.

    ¡°You trying to tell me something, girl?¡± I extend one of my arms up to Bassa, ignoring the tight stretching feeling in my shoulder blades. Bassa opened her beak, bending her head down to graze my fingers with her open mouth.

    ¡°Not helpful, but okay.¡± I bend down, attracted by the corner of brown canvas that stuck out from beneath the tall dresser.

    ¡°Hmm.¡± I tug on the canvas, popping it free from the armoire¡¯s belly.

    It was a folded package, about as big as one of the atlases in the library, with something long and metallic-feeling coming out of both sides. It felt like there was something cloth in it; the package was slightly wrinkled around the edges, and when I rested my hand on it, it sagged a little. I¡¯d heard tales of people finding things like this in their rooms and opening it, only for the object inside to be a bomb.

    A type of Loric sabotage, really.

    Well, blast that.

    Picking up the canvas package, my knuckles grazing the freezing tile floor under the brown thing, I brought it back over to my bed, setting it down. Bassa came over, landing on top of it, her wings half spread. She caws again, her gold beak parted, showing the pink slug of her tongue creeping down the darker pinks of the inside of her throat.

    ¡°I know, girl, could be anything.¡± I give her a chin scratch, opening the drawer on my nightstand and pulling out the pouch of pellet treats. Pouring several of the grainy, dry scat shaped pellets into my palm, I offered them to Bassa. The hawk leaned forward, cocking her head to the left at the sudden appearance of the food. I set the pellets on the blanket, retracting my hand just in time for Bassa to lunge at them, her beak going up and down in short gold flashes. Chuckling, I reach around her, pulling on the wrapping paper around the package until it comes undone, everything that was in it clattering to the ground.

    Bassa shrieked, flapping her wings wildly.

    ¡°Oh, for the gods¡¯ sake.¡± I fall onto my knees, pulling out a folded hard blue cloth, a long red soft one, and a tight brown vest. There was a sword too, tucked in drapes of oil cloth with a wire wrapped hilt and a red leather scabbard that hid the blade. I curl my fingers around the hilt, the copper wire digging into my palm, the hilt fitting into my hand like a second skin. It took me all of three seconds to realize that this sword had been made for me.

    The scabbard was three and a half feet long, made of dark red leather covering a slim wooden slide. Gold veins ran their way around the tip of the sheath, running from the gold tip cover like water streaking across broken stone. I stand, pulling the sword out of its sheath, holding it up so I could see it.

    The blade was beautiful, all three point five feet of it. It was double edged, a raised fuller running from crossguard to tip. A single emerald was set in the straight crossguard as well as one at each end and a bigger one in the pommel.

    ¡°Wow.¡± A shortsword and what else? Setting the naked sword and its scabbard on the bed behind me, I unraveled the blue cloth. It was a jacket, navy blue and made of tanned leather, a high wide collar that would go to my jaw. It was a jacket like the ones pirates wore in stories, an overcoat with gold embroidery and brass buttons.

    The red thing¡¯s a scarf, long and thick, made of wool. Both ends are knotted in half foot braids, little wooden beads crowning each one. And tied to the scarf, is a folded piece of parchment with my name scribbled in laced handwriting on it.

    Handwriting I recognize.

    Fumbling with the brown string tying the paper to the scarf, I undo it, the parchment coming undone in my lap. On it, written in words that slated with a certain urgency, was a letter that sent blood spinning in my head:

    My Prince,

    I hope things and events are going well for you. The scarf and jacket is a gift from me, the sword and vest a gift from a friend. I hope they serve you well.

    If you¡¯re curious about the sword¡¯s name, it is the Loric term for fire. I hope you remember enough of those lessons I taught you to know the word for it.

    I can¡¯t say much, meaning that I write this letter near a single candle in the cellar of a dear friend of mine while Randor¡¯s soldiers turn their house inside out; my time is short.

    You must find a way out of Argona.

    Your father, the King, will stop at nothing to either bring you completely into his plans, or kill you. He wants total annihilation of the Lore. You must warn them.

    I won¡¯t ask you to betray blood. I can¡¯t, not after what the two of us have done. But hear me out, I beg of you.

    The ink was still shiny, gleaming in the light from the open window, meaning that this letter had been made only hours ago.

    There is a sally port near the southern gate. Go through it, then down the Widowbeak lane to the cottage ruins on the hill there. I won¡¯t tell you everything; the risks of someone intercepting this letter are too high.

    From there, go into the jungle, following the compass rose east. Don¡¯t stop until you find a Lore village in a clearing with a pavilion made of dragon bone. Whether it¡¯s been destroyed or not, I know not. Simply know that the Monarch there will help you, should you simply ask him for sanctuary and show him this scarf.

    Time is running out. Randor is searching for allies.

    Don¡¯t let your emotions rule you.

    I am sorry that you couldn¡¯t find what you were seeking for in me. It pains me to see you searching for love in a time when your future is . . . uncertain. Here me when I say this, you don¡¯t have to limit yourself to your own race in the search for a partner. Love comes in all shapes and forms. However, put it as being the main goal away from your head. Focus on the present, on the war your father started, and look for a mate secondary.

    You must succeed. Thousands are counting on you, whether they know it or not. Things have been set in motion that can¡¯t be stopped.

    Be careful, be smart, and stay sharp.

    Your faithful advisor,

    Captain Tejon

    The blade is strong, as long as I breath, learn from pain or death shall take you.

    I blink, curious as to the three dark splotches that marked the parchment. They hadn¡¯t been there when I¡¯d started reading Tejon¡¯s letter. My eyes felt dry, the corners parched of liquid. Reaching up with one finger, a single tear ran down my cheek, flowing over my fingernail, continuing its path down my face to my chin.

    Names held power, I remembered that, but not the word for fire in Loric. The only word I knew was Shur¡¯tyr, Bugplant. It was the only word a lot of people knew. Only a few knew more, and those people were the Lore.

    The very same people my father wants dead.

    I sigh, rubbing my head.

    Politics were complicated, a tangled web of lies and half-truths that ensnared any who became involved with them.

    Tejon had stated that I would soon be forced to make a choice. Choices were good. They invoked change, and people couldn¡¯t live without change. Sure, most change was terrible and heartbreaking, but change made us make choices, and most of those choices were good and beneficial.

    Some in the short run, some in the long run.

    Padding over to the armoire, I opened it, taking a pair of less formal breeches and a simple non-embroidered tunic out. Slipping them on, I took out the knee high leather hunting boots I had, pulling them up to my lower thighs and buckling the straps, fitting them to the curves of my calves and shins.

    Going back over to the bed, I put on the vest that had been in the present, giving it a good sniff. It smelled of iron and leather, marking that it had chain mail sewn into it. Slipping it over my head, it sat tight against my chest, pinching ribs.

    Means it¡¯s doing its job.

    Tejon had told me when I¡¯d complained about the tightness of a pair of greaves. If it was loose, then it didn¡¯t protect the body part or body parts it was supposed to.

    I put the jacket on next, looping the scarf around my neck. Then I attached the sword scabbard to my belt, the straps of leather looping around my hips sagging to the left a little from the weight of the sheathed sword.

    ¡°Bassa, come.¡± I spread one arm, offering my hawk a perch. Bassa cawed, preening her white feathered chest. ¡°I take that as a no.¡± I leave the room, closing the heavy oak door behind me on oiled hinges, preventing it from squealing.

    I groan, pressing my back to the door, splaying my fingers on either side of me over the smooth surface of the wood, leaning my head back, closing my eyes.

    The weight of Tejon¡¯s words crashed over me, sending a hurricane of anger and raw vengeance swirling in my gut.

    My sword¡¯s name meant fire in Loric.

    Tejon was hiding in someone¡¯s cellar.

    My father might kill me.

    I might have to go on the ran.

    And life sucked.

    Propelling myself off the wall, I hurry down the hallway to the dusty whitewash and cobblestone spiral stair, taking them two at a time. Dashing down the stairs, my view went sideways, one of my feet catching on a loose slab of stone, pain flaring up my toe,sending me teetering forward.

    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

    And falling right into my father.

    ¡°Prince Skylar.¡± My father plants his hands on my shoulders, keeping me from face-planting on his boots.

    ¡°Sire, I apologize.¡± I can¡¯t keep the whimper out of my voice, my lips quivering with each word.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t raise you to be a , Skylar. Get up.¡± My father¡¯s grip slides to my wrists, yanking me to my feet.

    ¡°No, Father.¡± I say.

    ¡°Good. I need you to do something for me.¡±

    ¡°Which would be?¡± I tug back on my arms, trying in apparent vain to slip out of his grasp.

    King Randor of Argona stood giant, towering almost seven feet, with muscular shoulders and an obvious gut kept trapped beneath a tight royal purple tunic and fur lined jerkin. He had a full beard of thick gleaming red wire that covered his entire jaw and the skin around his lips. Randor¡¯s head was balding, the wave of copper hair thinning and running down to his hard jaw. His eyes were narrow and sharp, darkened pits of mournful blue. Nose a hard, jagged blade, lips full and puckered, bright cherry red.

    ¡°So much like your mother, Skylar.¡± He hisses, leaning forward until his face was inches from mine, fingernails digging trenches in my forearms.

    ¡°What would you have me do, Father?¡± I whisper.

    ¡°Go to the Lore village east known as the Barrow. You¡¯ll know which one it is by the dragon pavilion in it.¡± Randor releases my arms, taking a step back. ¡°Do not fail me, boy. Come home with a Lore¡¯s head and news of victory, or don¡¯t come at all.¡± He turns on his heel, shiny black military boots climbing the steep slopes of his calves to his knees clicking on the hard gray stone floor. The sound follows his retreat until I can¡¯t hear his footsteps anymore. I exhale, freeing the breath I was holding pinned in my diaphragm.

    Wrapping my fingers around the banister, I steady myself, sharp splinters of anguish creeping up my arms from my wrists.

    Oh gods, Randor¡¯s grip hurt.

    It¡¯s been years since he¡¯d last grabbed me like that.

    Five years ago, when my mother died of the plague when I had just turned ten.

    I could still see the rage in his eyes, the fear of losing another. Even though the Lore had had nothing to do with her death, Father still blamed them. He blamed them for everything.

    The drought last year.

    The failed assassination attempt on me three months ago.

    I shake my head, massaging the bruised area. I needed to get to the stables, from there I could worry about it.

    And worry about how my father would react when he learned I might disobey him.

    Scholars had drilled into my brain the events of the war with the Lore. The rest of Arkeya had to still choose a side. Ask?tori and the Nara in the east along with the Terrians on the coast seemed promising. The Shapeless had declared themselves neutral, the arrogant peacekeepers they were. The Dwrfish and Iybrids were unknown, their views as clouded as a fog bank, completely hidden. But what did I care of interracial treaties. The Lore were losing, their numbers plummeting from the millions to the early thousands in the span of three decades.

    I knew I had reached the barn and royal stables when I smelled the straw. The stable smells wafted up, bringing the scents of straw, manure, and wet huge furry bodies into my nose. Not very pleasant smells, but bearable. It brought back memories of one of the nobles¡¯ daughters coming down here with me years ago, saying that she¡¯d teach me how to ride. Even now, I couldn¡¯t suppress giggles at the thought of her going down three steps, moaning, and fainting, falling into a pile of horse scat, her lily pink and indigo dresses and skirts turning a moist brown.

    ¡°¡¯ you laughing at, youngling?¡± I jump, whirling around to see the  standing behind me one step up, a long bending piece of straw poking out of the corners of his wide wet lips. An oversized hat sat on his head, hiding a greasy mop of gray curls. A buttoned shirt barely hid the beer belly he had, jester¡¯s striped leggings hugging his legs close, and pointed Eastern boots riddled with holes.

    ¡°I need a horse.¡± I say, moving back to let him pass me, one hand resting on the pommel of my sword.

    ¡°Aright. Anything ales yer might need?¡± He crosses the straw cover floor, padding over to a massive deep brown stallion.

    ¡°Provisions and directions, if you have them.¡± I follow him, stepping around a mammoth black cat curled up sound asleep amid the brown and yellow flooring, half a mouse tangled up in its right paw.

    ¡°Aye.¡± The horse is already tacked, a saddle, bridal, and saddle bags decorating the creature¡¯s back, head, and hips. The man passes a packed satchel into my hands, grunting as he does, the insides of his rough hands grazing the nails and tops of mine.

    ¡°Thank you.¡± I put the satchel in the saddle bag closest to me, strapping it shut, hard leather and cloth pushing up against my hands.

    ¡°Don¡¯t hear words like those in these parts. There¡¯s enough chow for a week, hope you have a place to restock. The horse can outrun most Shur¡¯tyr, though only on flat ground. Nice sword, and here,¡± he hands me a sheathed dagger, one that¡¯s as long as my forearm, both hilt and blade combined.

    ¡°Thank you.¡± I say again, sliding the dagger into my boot.

    ¡°Stay alive out there, Little Lark, don¡¯t do anything too crazy. Sure would hate to lose the only heir in a time like this.¡± He hands me the reins for the horse.

    ¡°Does he have a name?¡± I swing up onto the creature, putting my feet into the stirrups.

    ¡°Aye. Most folk don¡¯t know what it means, but his name is Utyir.¡± He says, running one hand down the horse¡¯s mane.

    ¡°What does it mean?¡± The horse starts moving, heading for the stable doors.

    ¡°Meanin¡¯s changed over the past few centuries, but it¡¯s Loric, know it to me bones. Good luck, now. !¡± He slaps the horse¡¯s haunches, sending it galloping through the huge double wood doors, out onto the paved stone and lead road of Argona.

    The wind whipped at my hair, pulling it down in my eyes, only to rip it back out. Beneath my legs, the horse, Utyir, heaved and strained, his muscles shifting and pulling, tightening and stretching.

    I decided to ignore Tejon¡¯s advice about Widowbeak and the cottage. I¡¯d go to the village Tejon had told me to, then to the Barrow, the one Randor had.

    Head east, follow the compass rose til you reach a village in a clearing.

    Maybe, just maybe, I could escape the destiny laid out for me. Maybe the Lore would help me.

    Or maybe they wouldn¡¯t.

    Who knew, but what I did know, all the way to my bones, was that I trusted Tejon, and would until the day I died.

    ¡°Hello?¡± My voice echoes, strangely empty in the tunnel of ferns I had somehow managed to get myself into.

    ¡°Hello!¡± I shout it again. Nothing happens, only the tall green spires of plants shaking slightly from some hidden wind on either side of me. I sigh, running one hand over my eyes. It¡¯d been a day since I¡¯d left Argona, a day since I¡¯d been in the untamed jungles of Arkeya, fending off small pack hunters and a few panthers.

    ¡°Oh course I had to pick the most deserted part of the jungle to scream my lungs out.¡± I haven¡¯t denied it though, that screaming all day had helped me vent out my emotions. All the pain and rejection from Tejon had been bottled up in my chest, weighing me down, and bellowing at the sky and the trees had uncorked the bottle and upended it, pouring out all the emotion and anger on the floor.

    It helped, in a way, to picture that.

    Utyir twitched, standing up straighter, muscles hardening beneath me.

    ¡°What is it, boy?¡± I lean forward, patting the side of the horse¡¯s neck, feeling the beast of burden¡¯s powerful heartbeat. Utyir huffed in response, flaring his nostrils. Then I heard it, someone yelling and the ground thundering. I twisted around just in time to see the biggest centipede I¡¯d ever seen come charging down the center between the two walls of ferns.

    I had had a gut feeling that these walls weren¡¯t natural, that someone or something had put them here. And I was right.

    The centipede came barreling down, roaring and bellowing, spittle and blood flying out of its tooth-lined mouth, bearing down on-

    What the hell?

    There was a person running in front of the centipede, waving their arms at me.

    ¡°I can¡¯t hear you!¡± I gesture grandly to my left ear, doing whatever I could to control the horse with my right hand. The person gets closer, more details of their appearance coming to light.

    The person was a girl, and the girl was Lore.

    Her skin was daffodil yellow, hair long , braided, and canary yellow with an orange tint. Short light brown horns wrapped in leather, a long tail streaming behind her like a banner on a windy day.

    Both the girl and the centipede get closer, until I cam hear the girl yelling at me, her chest heaving, rising and falling rapidly.

    ¡°Get out of the fucking way!¡± She changes course, heading straight towards me.

    ¡°Who- !¡± The centipede jumps, sailing over my head, a long streamline body broken by segmented plates of armor and long spindly legs all in shades of murky brown.

    Something hard rams into my shoulder, knocking me off Utyir¡¯s back. I hit the ground, pain flaring up my left ankle, someone¡¯s ragged breathing against my ear, their breath hot and moist. The world spins, flashes of black and gray seeping into my vision like water escaping a leaky dam.

    ¡°You better not die, you oversized fool.¡± Sharp pain lights up my cheek, and I open my eyes.

    The Lore girl is on top of me, her legs parted on either side of mine, knees wedged into my armpits, one hand on my chest, the other holding an inverted curved blade made of white and beige bone, the tip resting just inches from my face.

    ¡°Who are you?¡± I croak. The girl scoffs, leaning back, putting more of her weight on my naval.

    ¡°Someone you should fear.¡± She leans forward, jamming her knees farther into my armpits, pressing the tip of her blade to my throat, right under my chin. This close to her, I could smell her breath; chives and bread, and see her eyes.

    They seethed with anger, deep startling pits of dark green. She had freckles along her cheekbones and nose, a small gold earring in her left ear, and dark yellow lips that curled outward in a sneer.

    The sounds of something crashing around behind us made me swing my head to the right, ignoring the bone dagger taking residence on my neck.

    The centipede creature lay thrashing and writhing in a huge snare-like net, its pincers and limbs and long flexible body tangled in the weaving. Standing on top of the net, their arms spread wide, was another Lore, a red one, whooping and yelling while a blue one with a black eye paced around the centipede in circles. I turn my head back to the girl on top of me.

    ¡°You never answered my question.¡± I say.

    ¡°I don¡¯t care about your questions. Shut up and stay quiet.¡± She climbs off me, the absence of her weight making me feel light and airy. It doesn¡¯t last long.

    I¡¯m yanked to my feet, fresh pain igniting my ankle. The girl scoffs, slipping one arm around both of mine, forcing me to lean back and bend my knees.

    She¡¯s shorter then me, the tips of her fawn brown horns level with my eyes. Her knee rams into the back of mine, and I¡¯m sent sprawling.

    ¡°Who¡¯s this?¡± A face comes into my vision, hovering on the verge of blurriness before coming to focus, revealing another Lore, a male, with blue skin and midnight blue hair, a black eyepatch with silver designs on it covering his left eye.

    ¡°Him.¡± The girl says.

    ¡°Ah, him.¡± A hand slides around my throat, rough and calloused, lifting me from the ground. I gag, clawing at the person¡¯s wrist as their embrace tightens. Nothing happens, and I stay like that, until my sight goes black, and the world fades to darkness.

    ¡°Did you kill him?¡± The voice stirs me, bringing me back from whatever strange realm I¡¯d gone to in unconsciousness.

    ¡°I don¡¯t think so.¡± A second voice states.

    ¡°Humph. You can¡¯t kill a Magi with Emhic that could kill a dragon the size of a mountain, and you killed a prince by choking him? Gods, Delto, what on earth were you thinking?¡± The first person snaps.

    ¡°Give it a break.¡± Delto snarls. Slowly, I open my eyes.

    My world is upside down, everything flipped a hundred eighty degrees vertically. I swing my head upward, trying to take inventory of my body.

    I¡¯m shirtless, my muscles gleaming oily under a hidden torch. Leather straps crisscrossed my chest and belly, binding my hands and arms behind me in the small of my back. Shackles around my ankles suspending me from the ceiling, a thatched maze of angular beams and strips of dried leaves and grasses woven together. A gag made its nest in my mouth, shoved back far into my throat and tied in place with rope.

    Growling, I throw back my head, arching my spine in an attempt to break free. Nothing happens, only the wraps around my midriff digging into my ribs and hips, my ankle blazing like someone had lit it on fire.

    ¡°I think he¡¯s alive.¡± The first, female voice, says.

    ¡°Wow, Arck, you don¡¯t think that someone thrashing around means they¡¯re alive.¡± There¡¯s two people in front of me, standing around a low table. There¡¯s the blue male with the eyepatch, his hands thrown up. The second person had red skin, a blacksmith¡¯s apron covering their narrow frame.

    ¡°Can it, brother. The Ku¡¯yu is waiting.¡± The female says, crossing her arms over her chest, biceps flexing.

    ¡°I¡¯ll shut up if you do, sister.¡± Footsteps, then a hand grazes my sternum, lifting me up by the straps around my belly. The face of the one eyed Lore from before fills my vision, a sneer twisting his dark blue lips in a curved, jagged line. He reaches up with his other hand, the chains binding my throbbing ankles coming undone with an audible click.

    I tumble, somersaulting head over heels, slamming my jaw into the hard cedar wood floor, my groans muffled by the cloth shoved down my throat.

    ¡°Don¡¯t break him. Humans have terrible skeletal structural integrity. It makes them so flimsy.¡± Arck chuckles.

    ¡°Won¡¯t dream of it.¡± Delto hoists me to my feet, rolling his eye. ¡°Don¡¯t make me carry you, Princeling.¡± He drags me out of the hut, a sliver of sun hitting my face, before we go down a narrow tunnel, the ceiling low and the wooden walls closing around us. One of Delto¡¯s hands is planted between my shoulder blades, and I¡¯m launched forwards all a sudden, rolling to a stop in the center of a dirt circle, warm hard soil pressing up against my shoulder.

    It¡¯s an arena.

    Lore of all colors and ages fill the circular stands that line the place I am, whispers and chatter lifting up like smoke. Using my shoulder, I push myself to my knees, my spine and hips aching. Padded footsteps signal someone¡¯s behind me, and I pivot to see three people emerge from the tunnel I was thrown from.

    The first person is the girl who had held the dagger to my throat. She wore a simple dark green jerkin over a brown sleeveless tunic, deep brown leggings covering her legs from ankles up. Her hair was in a tangled braid that went past her hips, almost to her knees. A braided leather belt wrapped around her hips, three pouches and her bone dagger hanging from it. Her tail flickers, curling around itself.

    The second was a tall orange male wearing an open vest, his horns two spiked peaks above his head. His tail a half stump waving slowly behind him.

    The third was the blue male who¡¯d thrown me. He wore a loose gray tunic with sleeves that went to his elbow over loose black pants, a green infinity scarf nestled around his collarbones, partly covering three pendants. His eyepatch caught light, revealing a jagged silver scar running vertically through his left eye. Silence falls over the crowd, punctured with three heavy thumps.

    ¡°So this is the prince of Argona.¡± The voice comes from above me and to the right. I twist my head to see a male with striped black and white skin seated on a twisted chair made of tree roots, a staff crowned with a carved bird made of dark wood held in his right hand.

    ¡°Yes, Xandyr.¡± The orange male steps forward, striding up til he¡¯s standing parallel with me, large calloused hands hanging at his sides.

    ¡°I see.¡± He leans towards me, resting one hand under his chin.

    ¡°Yes, Ku¡¯yu. We found him when we were trapping Shur¡¯tyr.¡±

    ¡°I suppose introductions are in order, after all. I am Ku¡¯yu Xandyr, and welcome, Prince Skylar of Argona, to Ribena.¡±

    The man besides me crouches, whispering in my ear. ¡°I am going to remove the gag.¡± He hooks two fingers between my cheek and the rope, a knife flashing in his other hand. The cold steel of the blade kisses my skin, weaseling its way across my face, cord coming undone and falling around my neck. I cough the gag out, pressing my forehead to the earth as I recover, hacking and spiting out threads.

    ¡°Who are you?¡± I croak, my throat hoarse and chapped.

    ¡°He already told you, Weakling.¡± It comes from the girl. She stalks over, her bone dagger gripped in one hand.

    ¡°Then you?¡± I meet her eyes, daring to glare into their green depths.

    ¡°I could gut you here and now.¡± She takes a step closer, flipping the blade in her hand around, inverting it.

    ¡°Cerbera, peace.¡± The orange male rests his hand on her shoulder, stopping her from craving her knife across my skin.

    ¡°Tavarn, please don¡¯t stop me,¡± she says it to the orange male, then she turns to the striped male up on the throne like chair. ¡°I invoke the Trial of Sun and Fire for the Weakling prince.¡±

    Gasps carry throughout the crowd, people muttering and whispering to each other.

    ¡°Cerbera.¡± Tavarn says in a warning tone, his lightly accented voice dropping an octave.

    ¡°I said don¡¯t stop me. Please, Tavarn, I have to do this.¡± Cerbera says, retreating out of Tavarn¡¯s reach, her movements graceful and swift, cunning like a predator¡¯s.

    ¡°She is right, younger brother,¡± Xandyr stands, silence falling over the crowd in his wake. ¡°Prince Skylar, Cerbera has challenged you to the Trial of Sun and Fire. This trial ends in one of two ways. Either you win, or you die. Do you accept her challenge?¡±

    Thousands of thoughts race through my mind at once. Both my father and Tejon had said to find a Lore village called the Barrow. I¡¯d found a Lore stronghold called Ribena. This Xandyr character was right. There were two ways everything-not just these trials-ended.

    Either you won, or you died.

    I raise my head, meeting this man¡¯s gaze, cold resolve digging into my heart, clamping its jaws around the inside of my chest, a cage of sorts.

    ¡°I do.¡±

 9- Steel Dance

    <u> Cerbera </u>

    ¡°Are you sure this is a good idea?¡± Zifor looks up from his sketchpad, a crease line in his forehead between his brows.

    ¡°No.¡± I say, ¡°But it¡¯s the only idea I have.¡±

    ¡°What exactly is the Trial of Sun and Fire?¡± Zifor asks. I glance up at him, pausing running the gray lump of whetstone over the edge of my bone dagger.

    ¡°The Xroi¡¯teyr ifre?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, that.¡± Zifor mumbles.

    ¡°It¡¯s an old way to settle blood debts, used back before the Siege of Catalina. It¡¯s combat based. Each person chooses a weapon and fights to the death.¡± I say, standing up. I put the whetstone in my pouch, sliding the dagger into its sheath on my left thigh.

    ¡°The death?¡± Zifor comes over, arms wrapped around him, hugging the leather book he had to his chest like a prized possession.

    ¡°Aye. Either that, or until the time limit is passed.¡± I put my hands on my hips, leaning back in a stretch, the muscles in my lower back straining in protest.

    ¡°Time limit?¡± Zifor cocks his head to the side, hair falling away from the right side of his head, revealing a sliver of his ear.

    ¡°Aye. Tavarn will explain it.¡± My tail flicks, brushing the backs of my calves.

    Zifor had changed. It wasn¡¯t just the way he held himself, it was the way he acted around Lore. When we¡¯d first gotten here, people had treated him like a plague victim; which was impossible considering that no one with Emhic in their blood survived the plague. Then people had started to change. We no longer had to worry about getting knifed in the middle of the night or dying of food poisoning.

    Tavarn had given us each a blade; Zifor¡¯s was strapped to his calf, a narrow strip of green and brown against the gray of his trousers. Mine hung in its sheath on my thigh.

    ¡°When is it?¡±

    ¡°Tonight.¡±

    ¡°Tonight?¡±

    ¡°Aye. It starts when the moons rise, and ends when the sun does.¡± I say. Zifor nodded, swallowing.

    ¡°Who are you fighting?¡± He asks.

    ¡°You¡¯ll see, Zifor.¡± You¡¯ll see.

    The moons are out, four orbs of rust and copper throwing their light across the treetops, turning the moonlight that filtered through the leaves pale orange and gold.

    Tavarn stood in front of a ring of fire, his skin glowing red from the firelight. A sword made of Argonain steel was in his hands, as well as a long, curved staff made of jade colored wood, an elegant blade emerging from the top, crowning the weapon like a silver, melted candle. Delto stood next to him, arms crossed over his chest, his skin tinted dark indigo from the flames that shine and flickered, their bellies yellow and blue, roaring and crackling.

    ¡°The Xroi¡¯teyr ifre is a sacred trial only invoked in times where bloodshed is inevitable but necessary. Step forward, Cerbera of the Barrow, Skylar Prince of Argona. For when the moon rises, so does the sun.¡± Tavarn¡¯s voice carries over the platform, the wooden deck glowing like the heated end on an iron. I do as he says, stepping forward, hands at my sides.

    Skylar obeys as well.

    The Prince of Argona looks like he had just crawled out of an alley, his curly copper wire hair filled with mud. Dirt caked his face and throat, making his thick angular brows and piercing pale blue eyes stand out. Sweat gleamed on his jaw, reflecting light off his tanned skin. Skylar wore nothing but a simple rope belt over a loose linen shirt and black breeches, his feet bare and muddy, speckled with brown and red.

    His hands were bound in front of him, a black snake of rope twirling around his wrists. I size him up, taking in the broadness of his shoulders, the slopes and lines of his chest and abdomen, the way his fingers curl outwards, the backs of his hands pressed together from his ropes.

    ¡°Blades or fists?¡± The question comes from Delto, who takes a knife and frees Skylar with it, killing the black snake with three quick metallic slashes.

    ¡°Blades.¡± I say.

    ¡°What she said.¡± Skylar gestures to me with his chin. I scowl at him, straightening. Even though he¡¯s a good three meters away from me, I can tell that he¡¯s taller then me, the tips of my horns level with his jaw; he¡¯s around the same height as Delto.

    His reach would give him an advantage, but would also be a weakness. Aareon¡¯s lessons come back to me.

    Find his tells. Find what makes him weak, and use it against him.

    I set my jaw, bowing at the waist to Skylar.

    ¡° Du¡¯ty  .¡± I say.

    Skylar blinks, ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°I take your life with remorse.¡± I give him the translation, digging my nails into my palms.

    ¡°Draw blades, if you will.¡± Tavarn hands the sword to Skylar, taking a few steps back. Delto clicks his tongue, giving me a tiny nod. I finger the pommel of my dagger. Skylar spots the movement, his eyes going to the sheathed weapon, lips twisting upwards in a slight grin. I don¡¯t miss the way he stares at me, like I¡¯m someone right out of a fairy tale, someone destined to fall in love with the wayward prince and help him reclaim his stolen throne.

    He thinks he¡¯ll win, a longsword against a single dagger.

    I can¡¯t wait to wipe Skylar¡¯s smug smile right off his angular face.

    Tavarn¡¯s and Delto¡¯s arms begin to glow, bright orange flowing up their veins like molten fire trapped beneath their skin. Skylar adverts his gaze, turning to the ring of fire that is now a semicircle.

    Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

    ¡°Fight until the fire extinguishes. No exceptions.¡± Tavarn says, voice straining. A bead of sweat traces the right side of his face, following the gilded edge of his cheekbone. ¡°Understood?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡± Skylar hefts his sword.

    ¡°Aye.¡± I say.

    ¡°Now fight!¡± Delto snarls.

    I run into the circle of flames, Skylar on my heels. The wall of fire closes around us with a loud boom, sparks floating up, bright red stars against a backdrop of ink.

    ¡°Don¡¯t make this harder then it has to be.¡± Skylar holds his sword in both hands, the tip a silver dart aimed at my heart.

    ¡°Shut up.¡± I draw my knife, inverting it in my hand. I slid into a loose crouch, legs spread wide.

    Skylar smirks, flashing white teeth. ¡°Make me.¡±

    I lung, aiming low. Skylar takes the bait, his body folding to block a possible blow to his knee or shin. At the last second, I feint, slicing a red slash across his stomach, dancing away in retreat.

    Skylar hisses in pain, staggering back.

    ¡°Guess you missed the lesson about fighting people with daggers.¡± I smile.

    ¡°Never took it.¡± Skylar grunts, clamping one hand over his wound. The blood glows rust gold under the moonlight, glittering like stolen jewels. The smell of iron drifts up, mixing with the scent of smoke and burning wood.

    ¡°Then you¡¯re a fool.¡± I wipe the blood on my blade on my pants. Skylar rolls his neck, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

    ¡°A fool with a sword.¡± He swings at my head, crossing the distance between us in three long steps, sword a golden flash. I duck, striking out with my blade to his knee, cutting open the skin right above the joint.

    Skylar screamed, a sound of pure agony that reverted off my eardrums, echoing throughout the night. Wounds around the knee were some of the most painful.

    I back step, working my way around him, taking advantage of Skylar¡¯s pain to slash open his shoulder blades, an ugly wound materializing from the crock of his right armpit to the peak of his left shoulder. He screamed again, falling to his knees, sword clattering to the ground a few feet away. I step around him, flipping my dagger tip over pommel in my hand.

    ¡°End it.¡± Skylar¡¯s wheezing, his head back, baring the dirty expanse of his skin. I bend down, picking up his sword.

    ¡°No. Get on your feet and die like a man, not a sniveling coward on his knees.¡± I throw the sword at his feet, the emeralds embedded in the pommel and crossguard flashing yellow in the firelight.

    ¡°Fine.¡± Skylar picks up his sword, climbing to his feet.

    ¡°Four more hours, Weakling. Think you can last that long?¡± I slid into a fight stance, keeping Skylar in my peripherals as I turn a hundred eighty degrees, turning my back to him.

    ¡°Think you can?¡± I hear a hitch in his breath, followed by his footsteps thumping on the wood. Whirling around, I block his blow, the sound of steel and bone connecting ringing out, driving hard nails into my ears.

    ¡°Smart.¡± I pant. He smelled of cinnamon and salt, his face mere inches from mine, breath hot and moist. Eyes pale and hard, stolen fragments of sky.

    ¡°Now who are you calling weak?¡± He hisses into my face.

    ¡°Shut up.¡± I growl back, shoving him back as hard as I could. Skylar¡¯s sword slipped, cutting a gash across the outside of my left thigh, hot agony whipping into me, shooting up my leg like a bolt launched from a crossbow, causing me to stumble.

    ¡°Not so tough now, are you?¡± Skylar chuckles.

    ¡°Like hell.¡± I slash his cheek open, forcing him to step back, red mixing with the brown dirt on his face. Skylar takes another step away from me, teeth bared, jaw clenched.

    ¡°Why are you doing this?¡± He asks

    ¡°You¡¯re just like someone I used to know, always getting into other people¡¯s business.¡± I lift my dagger, using it to shield my chest, lifting my other hand to hover between the blade and my body.

    ¡°Who was it?¡± Skylar asks, cocking his head to the side.

    ¡°Just like him, always asking questions.¡± A small smile hits my lips, pulling them up in the corners.

    ¡°Who was he?¡± The sword comes towards my head. I duck, grunting.

    ¡°Why do you care?¡± I swing at him. He sucks his belly in, narrowly avoiding getting another slash parallel to the first one.

    ¡°Always in other people¡¯s business, said so yourself.¡± He swings again, and we stay like that, dodging and slashing, neither of us able to land a hit, a chaotic dance with blades and blood.

    A dance of steel and bone.

    He lands another wound, cutting a fine line open across my right collarbone, a sharp needle of pain. I yelp, cutting open his cheek in retaliation, a diagonal line running through the other cut on his face.

    I do a whip kick, swing my leg in an arch, smashing my heel into Skylar¡¯s hip, sending him sprawling on the wooden deck, his sword clattering away. Pain shoots little rivulets up and down my leg every time I put weight on it, a pain I¡¯m used to, yet not at the same time.

    ¡°Save your words, I don¡¯t need to hear them.¡± I hiss, stalking up behind him. Skylar flips around, his linen shirt stained red from blood.

    Blood. It¡¯s all around us, drenching my leg. Turning his shirt red, coloring the ground crimson and scarlet.

    Skylar climbs to his feet, staggering with each breath. I growl, lifting my blade.

    Time to end this.

    I rush at him, swing my dagger towards his throat, when the fire goes out. I stop, the edge of the bone blade kissing Skylar¡¯s neck. The sun peeks out from the treetops, reflecting off both our weapons.

    ¡°Yield.¡± I say, gritting and bearing my teeth. ¡°Yield if you know what¡¯s good for you.¡±

    ¡°I yield.¡± Skylar pants. His mouth is open, blood in the corners of his lips, my blade resting right above the mountain peak of his Adam¡¯s apple, resting tucked beneath his jaw.

    ¡°Then you¡¯re smarter then you let on.¡± I say. My arm is trembling, shaking. Skylar notices, because he reaches up and wraps his hand around my wrist, steadying it.

    ¡°And you haven¡¯t killed me yet.¡± He says.

    ¡°How many times do I have to tell you to shut up?¡± I snap back at him. Skylar raises a brow.

    ¡°It¡¯s over, Cerbera.¡± I turn my head, looking over my shoulder, to see Tavarn, Delto, and Zifor standing just outside of the ring of charcoal.

    ¡°Fine.¡± I spit, stepping away from Skylar. He stays where he is, falling onto his knees, head tilted back, exposing his throat.

    ¡°Mercy, really?¡± Delto raises a brow, a slight smile tugging on his lips, pulling on the scar through his left eye.

    ¡°Yes.¡± I put my dagger in its sheath, groaning slightly.

    ¡°Why didn¡¯t you kill me?¡± Skylar says. I turn to face him.

    ¡°The time limit, Weakling.¡± I say.

    ¡°Thanks, I guess.¡± Skylar says. Then he collapses, falling over to his side.

    ¡°Um, Cerbera?¡± Zifor swallows.

    ¡°What?¡± I say.

    ¡°You¡¯re bleeding.¡± He says.

    ¡°Thank you for letting me know.¡± The world teeters sideways, going black and quiet.

    The she-dragon roared, sending all her rage out into a single bellow. She hated it. Hated the fact that she was stuck in a cave, with no idea where the war would start. She growled, raising her haunches.

    The Great Shadow might have been the one to banish her here, but that didn¡¯t mean she¡¯d let him forget her.

    ¡°No, it really doesn¡¯t.¡± She flicked her tail, snorting ash colored smoke into the murky confines of the cavern.

    She turned back to the pond, dipping a few talons into it. She had to see another vision. Another one, she didn¡¯t care what it showed her, she just wanted to see it. She hated it, how powerless she was in this cavern. How little she could do, a dragon mentally chained to this infernal pond.

    She whacked it with her spade, hissing at the electric blue and swirl white water. She had tried to break it before, and nothing had happened.

    Finally, finally, another scene floated to the surface.

    It was a boy, Black Lore, from the gray coloring of his skin and the angular curves of his horns. Bright blue eyes on his face, dark gray lips parted. The boy lay on his back, inky black blood leaking from a wound across his midriff, his dark leather clothes flapping in the wind.

    ¡°Show me something else, I beg you.¡± The dragon lifted her head, straining to pull her eyes away from the vision of the Black Lore boy dying.

    The scene shifted, to a mountain view of a city smoldering, ablaze with fire and destruction. A massive black creature with gold wings sat in the city¡¯s heart, sparkling blue flames billowing from its mouth, charring the stone and wooden buildings, turning them charcoal black. Smoke filled the sky, turning the sun blood red. The she-dragon shuddered, a chill racing up her spine.

    ¡°So this is how you warn me? Glimpses of what might happen?¡± She shook her head, sitting back on her hind legs, pulling her wings tight around herself.

    The Great Shadow¡¯s silence answered for him again, a great blanket of gloomy, dark suffocation lying on the she-dragon¡¯s shoulders.

    She shuddered, feeling chills slid into her bones. Another thing she hated, that she was at the mercy of the weather.

    ¡°Do your worst, Great Shadow. I can take it.¡±

 10- Rivers

    <u> Delto </u>

    ¡°Don¡¯t say or do anything you¡¯ll regret.¡± I pull the Princeling¡¯s gag out, not bothering to clean the scarlet blood off it. He groaned, head falling forward, chin resting on the bare, tan skin of his sternum.

    Slowly, ever so painfully slow, he lifts his head, sharp sky blue eyes meeting mine, dark pink lips opened halfway.

    ¡°Why would I regret anything I say?¡± He asks, shifting his arms. They were bound above his head, thick chains curling along his wrists.

    ¡°Princeling, don¡¯t test me.¡± I crouched down in front of him, staring into his pale, soulless eyes. My tail flicks, brushing against the backs of my calves.

    ¡°Fine.¡±

    ¡°Why did you go into the jungle?¡±

    ¡°I was sent by my father to a Lore village called the Barrow. Happy?¡± He says.

    ¡°The Barrow?¡± I turn around to where Cerbera¡¯s standing in the wide doorway, one hand gripping the hilt of her curved bone dagger.

    ¡°Yes. Someone else told me to go to it and ask for asylum.¡± Skylar says, looking from me to Cerbera and back.

    ¡°The Barrow¡¯s gone. It and all its people are dead.¡± Cerbera stalks forward, coming over to the raised wooden circle Skylar knelt on.

    ¡°Really?¡± The Princeling swallows, bowing his head. ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t need your pity nor your sympathy.¡± Cerbera snaps.

    ¡°None of us need your condolences.¡± There¡¯s a bitter taste in my mouth, not from the prince, but from the familiarity of his eyes.

    Those eyes.

    Pale shards of ice and blue sky set beneath thick copper orange brows, resting above a light dusting of ginger freckles across his nose and cheekbones.

    They were the eyes of a murderer, set on the face of a boy whose father was responsible for the death of him.

    It had been three years ago, when I¡¯d been sixteen. Seder and I had been at the annual market in the camp of a Dwrfish caravan. It had been a peaceful night, in the middle of the Tyr¡¯yui; the time of year when all the trees opened their pollen glands right after the coldest drags of winter and before the heavy rains of the growing season. Lilies floated down from the trees in their thousands, blanketing the earth in a layer of white flowers. Candles decorated the wagons, soft bright glows illuminating the dusk. People milled around, cloaks and scarves hiding bodies from the harsh northern wind, wares being sold from stalls made of painted canvas and carved wooden poles. There were blankets embroidered with dragons in flight, made of wool found only in the Dragonbone Mountains. Glassware and jewelry. Hats and clothes, weapons of every shape and size; battleaxes made of dragon horn; swords and daggers fashioned out of elk bone and gemstones.

    And the food.

    Warm currywursts cooked over open flames, drenched in spices and sauce. Delicious breads made of wheat and corn, baked over warm coals, smelling of cinder and pastries. Roasted Shur¡¯tyr turned on a spit. Soups that filled the air with scents of pork, basil, tomatoes, dozens of other herbs and plants.

    Then there was Seder. He sat on the edge of a temporary deck connected to one wagon, a ceramic mug filled with hot cider cupping in his large hands. He wore a cloak wrapped around his bulky frame, an oversized scarf covering him from nose to collarbones. I sat next to him, bundled up in my own cloak and scarf, clutching my own mug of apple cider.

    Seder was apprenticed to a blacksmith, a year older than me his body large and loosely put together under freckled skin a slightly lighter shade of blue than mine. His hair was deep indigo, with black roots and streaks of purple, curling into his golden eyes in a mop of ringlets. His horns had strips of gold around the tips, light brown rings that flowed out of the top of his head is graceful arcs.

    Seder sighed, resting his head on my shoulder. ¡°I¡¯m going to miss you, Delto.¡± He says. I wrap an arm around his shoulders, pressing my cheek to the side of his head, the silky waves of his curls soft against my skin.

    ¡°You¡¯re not even leaving for another week and you already miss me?¡± I blink.

    ¡°I know, but still.¡± Seder whined. I take a sip of cider, the hot liquid running down my throat, burning a path in its wake like a snail¡¯s slime trail.

    ¡°Kinda wish I was above the drinking age.¡± I mumble.

    Seder laughs, throwing his head back, a clear, happy sound escaping his mouth. My insides turn to apple-tart jelly at it.

    ¡°Do you know what I love about you?¡± Seder brushes my hair away from my eyes, pressing a kiss to my temple, his warm lips sending shivers down my arms. His tail curls around mine, the spades clinking together in a sound of keratin and terracotta.

    ¡°No.¡± I meet his gaze, one of his hands cupping my cheek, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin right under my eye. Those golden eyes of his staring right into me.

    ¡°Everything, Delto. I love everything.¡± He pulls me into a kiss, his lips soft and sweet over mine, luring me deeper. The tension in my gut evaporates.

    Seder doesn¡¯t need to be a Magi. He has his own power. The power to melt my core with a single brush of his shoulder or fingers.

    I fold into him, hearing the sound of the ceramic mug set down, then Seder¡¯s other hand on my jaw, curling stands of my hair around his fingers.

    We stop kissing, the cold evening air taking the place of his mouth, instead pressing our foreheads together.

    ¡°You¡¯re blushing.¡± Seder notes.

    ¡°Am not.¡± I blush deeper, a hot feeling sinking its fangs into my face. Seder laughs again, my heart already feeling lighter. His breath smells like cinnamon and apples.

    ¡°How¡¯s your sister?¡± Seder¡¯s grinning, a wide smile plastered on his face.

    ¡°Doing better. Still has dizzy spells.¡± I snuggle closer to his warmth, letting Seder hold me.

    ¡°Hmm.¡± He murmurs into my ear.

    We stay like that, in a tight embrace, two boys in love wrapped around each other, protecting each other from the cold spells that waged war with the bonfires and cooking flames of the market.

    Maybe that¡¯s why this memory hurts so much.

    A massive boom blares out all other noise, the  blasting us off our feet, sending us crashing into a tent.

    I groan, staggering to my feet, head ringing, vision gray and fuzzy. Behind me, Seder grunted, pushing off the tent pole from where it¡¯d fallen on him, a wooden bar tangled in painted canvas.

    I turn from Seder to the market, a gasp tumbling out of my mouth.

    The market had turned into a titanic bonfire, red and blue flames billowing in the wind, the wagons and tents a bed of blistering wood and embers. The sky¡¯s filled with black smoke, people¡¯s screams an orchestra of high pitched shrieks and low bellows.

    ¡°What¡¯s-¡± I grab Seder¡¯s hands, cutting him off with another kiss. I feel him stiffen, his muscles contracting beneath his blue skin.

    ¡°Run to the jungle. There¡¯s an over turned log about half a league away. Wait for me there.¡± I say.

    ¡°No. I¡¯m staying with you.¡± Seder slides his hands out of mine and places them on my shoulders, the edges of his thumbs digging into my clavicles.

    ¡°You¡¯re not a fighter!¡± I protest.

    ¡°I¡¯m not leaving you. No argument.¡±

    I bit my lip. ¡°Follow me.¡±

    Now I look at the Princeling, at his harsh blue eyes.

    ¡°Cerbera, you know the bridge where we met?¡± I don¡¯t bother twisting around to see her face.

    ¡°Yes.¡± Cerbera says.

    ¡°Meet me there. Bring a cloak and hood.¡± I say.

    ¡°Alright.¡± I don¡¯t see her leave, I hear her, a light pattering of her footsteps, the air moving to fill the space where her body used to be.

    Skylar shifts, his chains clanking together in soft clinks. I unlock them, sliding the key into one of the pouches on my belt, letting the Princeling fall forward, seemingly boneless without the support of the chains.

    ¡°You¡¯ll need clothes.¡± I cross the room to the low set of drawers sitting nestled under an eave in the mosaic wall.

    This building hadn¡¯t been here when I¡¯d first arrived, half blind and numb with the pain of having lost Seder. It was a circular building, with one singular wide archway door, exposing the room to the elements. The ceiling was domed, the manacles Skylar had been chained with hanging from the dome¡¯s zenith. The floor was a shallow divot, covered with sand except for the rim and the raised wooden dais in the center.

    It was the walls that stirred something raw inside me, mosaics of dragons and Shur¡¯tyr and Lore made of twigs and bark and bone, a scattered net of whites and browns. A kind of altar to the jungle, in a way.

    ¡°Can I have my sword?¡± Skylar asks. I whip around to face him. He¡¯s on his knees, massaging his wrists, bright red circles around the joints. Even from three whole meters away from him, I can see the thin scars from the wounds Cerbera inflicted on him. Long narrow strips of ash covering his naked, muscular torso.

    ¡°What, so you can murder us with it?¡± I snap. ¡°Feel more comfortable with a blade in the home of your greatest enemy?¡± I yank the bottom drawer out with enough force to snap someone¡¯s neck, the entire armoire rattling with it.

    ¡°No.¡± Skylar¡¯s words are soft, like a feather grazing my neck.

    ¡°Doubtful.¡± I pull out a green tunic and loose gray pants. tucking them over my arm.

    ¡°Hmm. Bet I can change your mind.¡± He says. It sounds almost seductive, the way he phrases it.

    I give him the clothes, watching his gaze go to my eyepatch. ¡°Also doubtful.¡±

    ¡°How¡¯d you lose it.¡± The question goes all the way to my core, a  as strong as the one that had ripped through me when Seder had drawn his last breath. Skylar lowers his head when I don¡¯t respond. ¡°Sorry, shouldn¡¯t have asked.¡± He stands, a whole tower of looming skin and muscle, a war machine trained to kill and kill and kill.

    ¡°Get dressed, Princeling, don¡¯t make me do it for you.¡±

    ¡°That a threat?¡±

    ¡°Are you trying to flirt with me?¡± I cross my arms over my chest, raising a brow at the Princeling.

    ¡°Nope.¡± He¡¯s grinning, a broad smile splitting his freckled face from ear to ear. I growl, rolling my eyes.

    ¡°Get dressed before I gut you and use your entrails as Shur¡¯tyr bait.¡± The conversation ends on that note, the Princeling slipping on the shirt, a dash of green on his copper complexion.

    I give him privacy, twisted my back to him when he begins unlacing his breeches, small almond brown cord coming undone.

    ¡°Finished. Where are we going?¡±

    The market was just how I remembered it, a loose jumble of wagons and tents, pavilions and longhouses pressed up against a small village in a slight clearing. There was Lore and Dwrfish milling around, dressed in cloaks and scarves, just like the last one I¡¯d been to. The air was a haven to the scents of soup and meat, coal and cider, spices and seasonings.

    ¡°What are the Shapeless doing here?¡± Cerbera points, a man with twisting horns and a serpent¡¯s scaled tail standing at the tip of her finger.

    ¡°If my father attacks and a Shapeless is killed in the crossfire, then they lose their neutrality. It¡¯s a risky move on both my father¡¯s and Purge¡¯s parts.¡± Skylar says. I swing my head to glare at him.

    Of course the Princeling had to state the obvious.

    The world was balancing on a knife¡¯s tip, perched on the edge of a cliff, hanging by a noose with the bolt halfway pulled, all because of Randor. All because of some twisted vision of his where the Lore were gone.

    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    ¡°Just because we live in the jungle doesn¡¯t mean we aren¡¯t aware of politics, Weakling.¡± Cerbera says.

    ¡°Sorry.¡± The Princeling lowers his head, resting his chin on his chest, hiding his eyes beneath his copper bangs.

    ¡°Right,¡± I say. ¡°Doubtful.¡±

    ¡°Oh please.¡± Cerbera rolls her eyes, putting her hands on her broad hips. Skylar frowned, testing the restraints I¡¯d put on his wrists.

    I didn¡¯t trust him as far as I could throw him; which wasn¡¯t very far, considering how close in height we were.

    ¡°Come on. You haven¡¯t lived until you¡¯ve seen a Loric drinking contest.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m confused, what is this?¡± Cerbera cocks her head to the side, one hand resting under her chin, the other gesturing to the low table covered in beer tankards.

    ¡°Lots of rum?¡± Skylar blinks. I roll my eye.

    ¡°You people are hopeless.¡± I shake my head.

    ¡°Hopeless?¡± Now Skylar¡¯s cocking his head too, coppery rust bangs falling away from the side of his head.

    ¡°Yes, hopeless. As hopeless as a Shur¡¯tyr drenched in hot sauce.¡±

    Cerbera starts laughing, wrapping her arms around her midsection and doubling over, her face cracked by chuckles.

    ¡°Now I¡¯m confused.¡± Skylar raises a brow, rubbing his wrists together.

    ¡°Loric humor, Weakling, Loric humor.¡± Cerbera wipes a tear out of the corner of her right eye, her chest shaking with laughter.

    ¡°A Shur¡¯tyr drenched in hot sauce?¡± Skylar wrinkled his nose, the shiny, smooth, freckled skin between his brows wrinkling and folding in small divots.

    ¡°Yes, Princeling. Not that you would like to see it, though.¡± I worry my lower lip, watching the drinking contest unfold.

    There were two men sitting opposite each other across the table. The man on the left was Lore, his skin a dark orange, eyes flames of murky brown. He was large, with a full beer belly and a large bulb for a chin, his neck a thick column of meat supporting a round face and drooping red hair tied back in a tail that ran down his nape in cherry streaks.

    It was his opponent I was worried about.

    The other man was Dwrfish, his skin a light bronze and stretched over a narrow frame that funneled into the massive sphere of his belly. His back was bare, a row of sharp black spikes following the shallow divot of his spine, each one connecting to one of his vertebrae. Long black hair that cascaded to his shoulders, tight features, similar to a weasel¡¯s, covered in dirt and smile wrinkles around beady gold eyes with silted pupils. Two horns made circles the size of barrel lids, the tips curling down to his pointed jaw, feathers in pastel colors hanging off leather braids dangling from the upward facing tips.

    Both men wore greens and grays, scarves hiding chests and collarbones. The Dwrfish wore trappers¡¯ leathers and furs, his forearms wrapped in deer hide and sinew-corded bracers. The Lore in traditional Loric clothes in woven shades of greens and browns.

    The pavilion we were under was made of two oak wood pillars supporting a vast dirty canvas that loomed over our head, the far wall belonging to the side of a large wagon, the dirt floor covered with furs and rugs, long strips of animal hides and skins in furry patterns of pale beige and brown.

    ¡°Explanation please.¡± Skylar demands.

    ¡°Oh gods.¡± Cerbera groans.

    I explain the rules, watching the Lore and the Dwrfish men down tankard after tankard, the brown, frothy liquid leaking out their lips, running down their faces and dripping into their laps.

    ¡°Okay. So basically, whoever wins is the one who outdrinks the other?¡± Skylar cocks his head to the side, pale blue eyes glittering like frosty sky under the torchlight.

    ¡°Essentially yeah. Loser has to scoop horse poop with their dagger.¡± Cerbera says. There¡¯s a light note to her words, and I turn to see her grinning, a wide smile plastered on her yellow orange freckled face, splitting it in two. It¡¯s strange, to see someone smiling in a place where so much blood has been spilled. To see them standing in a place, laughing, where someone you had loved had fallen, a place where they¡¯d last been alive.

    ¡°Why not a shovel?¡± Skylar blinks. I try not to laugh at his face, at the very chicken-like way he¡¯s watching the drinking contest, his head back, chin tucked forward, face scrunched in a scowl-like expression.

    ¡°Makes for a more interesting match, since no decent person wants to dirty his blade in horse manure.¡±

    ¡°Or hers.¡± Cerbera crosses her arms over her chest, glaring at me. All the joy in her features has leaked out, taken over by the cold resolve left in the wake of violence.

    ¡°Right.¡± Not many people were used to seeing women in combat. Myself included, probably because both the women I was familiar with at Ribena weren¡¯t fighters. And that most of the people I¡¯d fought and killed had been of the male gender.

    ¡°Hmm.¡± Cerbera frowns.

    ¡°I apologize.¡± I say.

    ¡°Not you. Him.¡± She gestures with her chin to Skylar, who¡¯s staring at the Dwrfish man as he chugs another tankard, rubbing his wrists together, straining against his bounds.

    ¡°What about him?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t trust him. It felt so easy finding him. Who¡¯s to say he wasn¡¯t some sort of point man in some sort of operation he didn¡¯t know about?¡± She has a point. A very good one that even I hadn¡¯t considered.

    ¡°Guess we¡¯ll have to see. Just watch your back around him. It¡¯s hard to stab someone in the back with a sword. Not impossible, but hard.¡±

    ¡°Right.¡±

    ¡°Yet another reason I hate swords.¡± I shake my head. Cerbera snorts, gloomy green eyes wide, looking as baffled as a fish in a trap.

    ¡°If you say so.¡± She says. I let out a small chuckle, surprised at the sheer giddiness of the sound. How long had it been since I¡¯d heard myself laugh?

    ¡°You okay?¡± She eyes me, one of her yellow-orange brows raised.

    ¡°I¡¯m fine. Just-¡± I gesture to the market behind us, at a tall Loric woman and her children in front of a tent across the lane from us.

    ¡°Just what?¡± Cerbera prompts.

    ¡°It¡¯s hard, coming back to this place.¡± I manage to say, the words tumbling off my tongue like rocks in a mud patch on a cliff.

    ¡°Why?¡± Why. Such a weird question. A question that I hated. A question I loathed with every fiber in my being.

    ¡°Randor killed him.¡±

    ¡°Him?¡±

    ¡°Aye.¡±

    ¡°Your father?¡± Cerbera shoves her hands into the pockets sewn on her pants, thumbs hanging over the length of her leather belt.

    ¡°No. Xandyr¡¯s my father.¡±

    ¡°Oh.¡± Cerbera says.

    ¡°Yeah.¡± I mutter. Most people didn¡¯t know that, that Xandyr was my father. We looked nothing alike, and yet his blood flowed in my veins.

    ¡°Who was it, then?¡±

    ¡°Someone I loved. Someone I couldn¡¯t bare to lose.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± Cerbera bows her head, chin tucked into the collar of the gray hip length cloak she wore.

    ¡°Don¡¯t be. Like I told the Princeling, I don¡¯t need your condolences.¡± I snap, harsher than I meant, a sharp streak across a rusty plane on a metal plate or blade.

    ¡°I¡¯m guessing it¡¯s also how you lost your eye.¡± Cerbera says. I stiffen, feeling a slight twinge of phantom pain horizontally across my left eye.

    ¡°Aye.¡± I leave her, taking three long strides over to the Princeling. Skylar looks up when I clear my throat, his eyes widening a little.

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s something I-¡± Something tugs on the edge of my mind, a distant thumping behind my ears. A sixth sense born of paranoia and having to constantly look over my shoulder.

    ¡°What-¡± I grab the Princeling by his collar, yanking him under the table in a flourish of limbs.

    ¡°Cerbera!¡± I hiss, crossing the short distance to her. She whirls around to face me, her dagger already drawn, held inverted in her left hand.

    ¡°You hear it?¡± She says. I nod.

    ¡°Come on. We need to get behind cover.¡± I pull her under the table, much to the Dwrfish man¡¯s protests. The Loric man stands up abruptly, knocking his stool back with a clatter, spilling a few tankards that still held beer.

    ¡°What¡¯s happening?¡± Skylar asks. I glare at him.

    ¡°Make a sound and I slit your throat, understand?¡± I snap.

    ¡°You kids playing hide-and-go-seek?¡± The Dwrfish says. He goes to the edge of the pavilion, peering out. I can feel my heart in my chest, pounding, threatening to climb up out of my throat and spill on the ground in a gory, bloody mess.

    The Dwrfish takes three steps out of the pavilion, turning back to glance at us.

    ¡°It¡¯s perfectly safe, come o-¡± Blood splatters across the ground, the Dwrfish man cut to pieces by a volley of arrows, chunks of flesh and sprayed blood painting the grass. He collapses. Skylar opens his mouth to scream, and I clamp a hand over it, my arm wrapped around his neck, his sharp blue eyes tearing up, wide and fear-filled.

    ¡°Make a sound and all of us are dead, got it?¡± I hiss into his ear, just loud enough for him to hear. Skylar nods his head several times, lips brushing the palm of my hand.

    The Lore man makes a break for it, running in a zigzag pattern towards the nearest tent, some fifteen meters away.

    He doesn¡¯t get very far.

    An arrow as long as I am tall skewers him to the ground, slicing his head from his shoulders, sending his body toppling over, neck a bloody stump. The Princeling screams again, a much higher pitched one from the first. I grit my teeth, doing all I can to keep the terrified human from bolting.

    I know how this will end.

    How the men from Argona would massacre the Lore.

    Arrows.

    Swords.

    No warning or even a reason.

    Just blind obedience and no moral compass what so ever.

    ¡°Cerbera, can you take out the archers?¡±

    ¡°Yes. Why?¡± Her eyes are hard, dark pits of green. She¡¯s seen this kind of violence before. She had the will and instincts to stay alive. I could see it in the way she set her shoulders, the way her fingers tightened around the hilt of her dagger. The way her voice became devoid of emotion.

    ¡°If the archers are . . . removed, then we don¡¯t have to worry about getting shot in the back.¡± I whisper. Cerbera nods.

    ¡°Rin Due¡¯ty dray en¡¯mou.¡± She taps her sternum lightly with a closed fist, rising up to a crouch.

    Their lives are forsaken.

    ¡°Ran Ill¡¯dy.¡± Yours is not. I mutter. An old saying. An old way to wish good luck. To make a promise. To ready the mind for war.

    Cerbera gives me a nod, the bottom half of her face hidden by the collar of her cloak. Then she¡¯s gone, a yellow blur streaking away. Skylar shudders, a tremor racing through his body.

    ¡°Why¡¯d you send her away?¡± He starts to get up, trying to go after Cerbera. I feel something in me snap, something kept buried that¡¯s broken out, flooding into me. I grab the Princeling by the throat, slamming him to the ground, aware of his heavy breath on my face, lips only inches from mine. Of my body trapping his, separated only by a few thin layers of cloth.

    ¡°Listen to me, you fool. Cerbera doesn¡¯t need your help. What makes you think you could help her after she put you on your pampered ass when she wasn¡¯t even trying to kill you?¡± I keep my eyes on his, waiting for him to drop his gaze. He doesn¡¯t, the stubborn, royal idiot.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t-¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t care for your excuses. I saw you thinking about it. You think you can turn yourself in and get away, get taken back to Argona. You think Randor will take you back under his wing?¡± I put more of my weight on him, readjusting my grip on his slender, finely-muscled neck. Skylar shakes his head, his sweaty fingers curling around my wrists.

    ¡°I¡¯m his son.¡± He arches his back, a halfhearted attempt to throw me off. I push harder, his hips digging into mine.

    It takes everything in me not to laugh.

    ¡°Randor¡¯s a lot of things. Forgiving isn¡¯t one of them. What makes you think he¡¯ll pardon you just because you¡¯re related by blood? He¡¯ll gut you himself and put your head on a pike, same as he does to us. I don¡¯t have any obligations to keep you alive.¡± I say. ¡°Whether you live or die, I don¡¯t give a single fucking care in the world. All I care about is whether you¡¯re willing to fight in this war, because, believe it or not, you¡¯re in it. So I¡¯ll ask you once, and only once. Will you fight, or will you be a coward and add yet another corpse to the body count?¡± I shake him once, studying him for reactions. His bottom lip is trembling, heart thumping beneath me in a fast tempo. I can feel his pulse under my fingers, through his tan skin. It¡¯s almost satisfying, knowing that his life is quite literally in my hands.

    ¡°I¡¯ll fight.¡± He says. I snort.

    ¡°Congratulations. You just got promoted to the rank of cannon fodder.¡± I get off him, doing my best not to wipe my hands on the sides of my gray trousers.

    ¡°Really?¡±

    ¡°Shut up.¡± I tell him.

    ¡°Does Ribena even have a cannon?¡±

    ¡°No. And if you say anything about a cannon, I will use you as target practice with tomahawks.¡± Yanking the Princeling to his feet, I take the risk of peeking around the corner of the wagon, fully aware of how I might get shot in the face with arrows. ¡°Come on.¡± Dragging him out, I work my way across the bloodstained path, stepping around the bodies of the Dwrfish and Loric men, keeping one hand on Skylar¡¯s ropes.

    ¡°This is-¡± Skylar inhales sharply, a small whimper tumbling out of his mouth.

    ¡°I need you to do something for me.¡± I pull out my knife, sawing the serrated edge along Skylar¡¯s bound, freeing his hands.

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°Get as many people as you can out of here. If anyone stops you, show them this;¡± I hand him one of my pendants, my fingers brushing his. The Princeling blinks twice then nods, taking a step back.

    ¡°What about you?¡± He asks. I roll my neck, feeling the bones pop.

    ¡°I think it¡¯s time for them to get a taste of their own medicine.¡± Two orbs of fire ignite in my hands, the feeling of power running through me in rivers of a primal craving. Skylar gulps, the red and orange flames reflected in his frosty sky blue eyes. It¡¯d been so long since I¡¯d felt this free, this powerful. I fed the flames with more, until they towered, great beacons of red and orange misery.

    Skylar nods again, before turning on his heels, breaking out into a sprint, soon disappearing into the unfolding chaos of the burning market.

    I set my jaw.

    Time to end this.

    I find Cerbera towards the center of the market, fighting three men on horseback. They circled around her, keeping the small Lore pinned in.

    ¡°CERBERA!¡± I bellow her name, seeing her look over her shoulder just as I launched a fireball at the men. The ground at their feet ignited, the horses and men engulfed in fire, their screams and the sounds of burning, crackling flesh rising above the treetops, a shrill orchestra of suffering.

    ¡°Aha!¡± Something tugs at my stomach, and I turn, the world narrowing to the silver tip of a lance streaking past my face. I feel it slice open my cheek, the world speeding up as soon as it passes. I whirl, summoning a gust of wind, bright yellow light shooting up my veins.

    Unlike Wildfire, Wind was gentler. More a cool breeze then roaring fire. Like feathers running through my blood instead of rocks or boiling water.

    This was magic, in its purest, rawest, form.

    This was freedom.

    It crackled in the back of my head, a deep rustling. A heavy buzzing, like cymbals ringing behind my ears.

    ¡°Monster.¡± A brush of air tickles my face, and I look down to see the bloodied tip of a sword sticking out from my belly, right below my sternum. The pain hits then, a sharp needle of it. I gasp, my head wrenched backward, a black, gloved hand holding it back, pressure on my throat.

    ¡°I have no reason not to capture you, scum.¡± The voice is soft, lithe, inviting. I can see Seder in front of me, his outline blurred, leaning towards me, whispering in my ear to give in.

    It¡¯s not worth fighting for, Delto. Can¡¯t you see that?

    I would rather die than see Randor win.

    Then don¡¯t let him win.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Seder.¡± I whisper, feeling my hands pulled behind me, my knees pressing into the damp, blood-soaked earth. My body tips to the side, vision going cloudy and foggy.

    ¡°You have the Ironglass?¡±

    ¡°No, sir. We-¡±

    ¡°You fools! How do you expect to capture a Magi without Ironglass?¡± I manage to see a man with a short buzz-cut of pale silver hair standing over me, an open collar hanging off a long chain in his black gloved hands. Every line in his well-pressed navy blue leather suit is etched with cruelty and anguish.

    ¡°Go . . . to . . . hell.¡± I pant, searching for something I could use as a weapon.

    ¡°Can¡¯t do that. The King needs me.¡± The man places a hand under my chin, lifting my head up. ¡°Hmm.¡± He runs his gloved thumb over my eyepatch.

    ¡°You . . . want . . . me. You . . . need . . . me.¡± What am I saying? I can feel my control over my mind slipping, the firm hold on sanity cracking, tearing, leaving something raw and tender in its place.

    ¡°Why would I need anything from you?¡± The man tightens his grip, fingers and fingernails digging into my jawbone.

    ¡°Don¡¯t . . . hurt . . . him . . . I . . . beg . . . you.¡± I close my eye, wanting, longing, to leave the world behind.

    ¡°Him?¡± I feel my head moved sideways.

    ¡°I¡¯d . . . rather . . . die.¡± I groan.

    Something sharp and narrow wedged itself against the inside of my throat, a blade made of cold steel.

    ¡°Then die.¡± The blade began to move, slicing open my skin like a fissure torn in the earth from some massive scythe.

    So this is where it ends. Killed like a pig in a slaughter house.

    Killed and butchered like a monster.

    ¡°You¡¯re terrible at this, you know.¡± Seder chuckled, offering me a hand. I grunted, swatting it away.

    ¡°I¡¯m fine. It¡¯s you who¡¯s terrible.¡± I rolled to my feet, picking up the iron poker I was using to spar with. Seder gave his a flourish with his wrist, his light blue skin oily with sweat.

    ¡°Terrible at what? Falling on my face?¡± It¡¯s easy to lose my gaze in Seder¡¯s muscles. He¡¯s a blacksmith, his muscles long and hard, forged like hot iron over an anvil.

    ¡°No. Terrible at being honest.¡± I said, holding the poker up and out, leveling the hooked tip with the flat surface of Seder¡¯s breastbone. Seder lifted his as well, and then we had them crossed, a ringing of steel against steel. He had a scar over his sternum, a white mark that ran from the base of his neck to his navel, like someone had cut him open.

    ¡°You know how easy it is to make you squirm?¡± Seder pulled me against him, his sweaty body eclipsing mine.

    ¡°No.¡± I pushed at him, my arms twisted at weird angles between us, his wound around my back, his iron poker pressed into the sensitive skin between my shoulder blades. Seder smirked.

    ¡°You really aren¡¯t the brightest.¡± Then his mouth was on mine, his breath smelled of ash and cedar wood, one hand reaching up to hold the back of my head. I felt his fingers curl into my hair. Hunger roared in my belly, fueled by Seder¡¯s body and the passion he used. The iron pokers fall and hit the ground, clattering and clanking against each other.

    ¡°Why . . .¡± I gasped.

    ¡°I had hoped it was obvious.¡±

    ¡°Hoped what was obvious?¡± I blinked.

    Seder began kissing my throat, working his way down to my collarbones, each kiss a feather brush, traveling the tendons in my neck. Then he lifted his head, his glowing, golden eyes meeting mine.

    ¡°I love you.¡±

 11- Woodland

    <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¡ªus.¡± 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¡ª 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.¡±