Planet: unknown
Year: AP 925
Black sinew cut through the darkened clouds, which contrasted only slightly against the ebony sky.
Beat.
Beat.
Beat.
Each pulse of his mighty scaled wings sliced through the night air, churning the wind and propelling his gargantuan form through the darkness. Not that he needed wings to fly. He recalled a time when physicality was irrelevant. Even now, if he so desired, he could effortlessly tear his way into the Veil and move about freely, unseen by those ever-watchful eyes.
“Always watching,” the formidable beast lamented, ten thousand feet above the planet’s surface, yet still feeling their gazes upon him. “Those incessant threads!” He could always see them, feel them clinging to him, groping him like a thousand clutching hands, never losing their grasp on his presence. He despised them all with a hatred so profound that it mirrored the blackness of his heart. “You think you can leash me? Who do you think I am that your kind can command mine?”
Beat.
Beat.
Beat.
Ancient muscles drummed the invisible elements of nature. The atmosphere seemed to part before the colossal body. Despite his otherworldly size, the beast soared through the night sky with the grace and elegance of a bird of prey.
“Bird?” the dragon scoffed. “Bones... and flesh... and blood... and skin... what vile weaknesses make up the vessels of this world? If it were my will, we would render them all to oblivion!” The thought brought a snarl across one side of the monster’s fang-filled maw. A sound that mimicked laughter but was utterly devoid of joy rumbled between those wicked teeth. “Burn them all, I say! All that bleeds! All that breathes! All that is a slave to the flesh! Burn them all to ash!”
Beat.
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Beat.
Thumped the empty heart contained within the arcane folds of tissues, tendons, and ligaments. No blood coursed through that organ. No oxygen fed his members. He was dead to this world, and all that lived in it was equally dead to him. Only one thing mattered... Vigor.
Lines of light still clung to him. Watching him. Monitoring him. And he, them...
“I see you,” said the dragon. “I see all of you. And someday...” The snarl reappeared, but the beast did not finish his thought, for it was not his thought to finish. He had a task to perform; they all did. But someday, when this was all over, then, and only then, would this world genuinely know what was on his mind.
Beat.
Beat.
Be—
Ten thousand feet below, obscured by the ever-present darkness of the planet’s surface, thirty-two hearts stopped beating.
“Oooh,” said the dragon. “He’s at it again...” His hatred for those below had no exceptions. However, throughout the eons, there have been some whom he has found interesting and more than a few entertaining. Lately, he had discovered one of the latter. “Yes, Champion of Ceymon, burn them. Burn them all!” For a moment, just a moment, the abhorrent creature contemplated reaching out through the Shade to speak to the boy. “Just a small encouragement,” he tempted himself. But he knew better. It was forbidden, even for one of his color.
“No, best to watch and wait, and...” the dragon snarled again.
Beat.
Beat.
Beat.
In the abyss far below stood a tower unlike any other on the planet. It reached for the sky, overseeing the inhabitants of a once great city and extending its gaze even further to the rest of the oppressed and dying planet. Like a vigilant sentinel, it pierced the hearts of every man, woman, and child under the Erini sword. No one could elude its watchful eye.
Atop this daunting structure, where the wind mourned, and clouds dared not intrude, a boy with raven-black hair stood firm. Clutching the haft of a blood-drenched halberd, he appeared no older than eighteen. Nearly six feet tall, he was average height for an Erini warrior, yet amidst the lifeless bodies strewn across the rooftop, he felt like a giant among ants. The weapon in his grasp was as menacing as the resolve in his heart. Forged from dark, enigmatic steel, its shaft spanned six feet, adorned with scarlet patterns of thorns and flames. The blade, extending another three feet, was a foot wide and three inches thick, its heft formidable beyond measure. Yet, in its wielder’s hands, it moved with the fluidity of smoke—a dark, heavy, suffocating smoke that extinguished life with every touch. The weapon emanated a dim red glow, visible against the night sky but not bright enough to actually give off light.
Content, the boy rested the massive blade on his shoulder, his gaze sweeping over the motionless bodies before him. The scent of charred flesh lingered, a smell he had become accustomed to as it was the aftermath of all who opposed him. With a swift flick of his wrist, the nine-foot-long halberd twirled in his hand before plunging into the one body that still drew breath. The victim’s life was extinguished before a final scream could escape. Once again, the air filled with the stench of death.
Beat.
Beat.
Be—
Thirty-three. It was the count of that day’s execution. Thirty-three souls silenced by his blade. Thirty-three men and women who dared to rebel against the society. Thirty-three heretics who would no longer sow discord. The boy did not bother to withdraw his weapon from his latest quarry. There was no need. With a mere release of his grip, the sinister Kidokane vanished in a flash of ruby light.
“Well done, Connor,” a voice echoed from the shadows. Connor remained silent; he never engaged with the other three who witnessed the executions. He harbored no fondness for them, a sentiment mutual among the Erini, where mistrust and contempt were rampant. Knowing his duty for the day was complete, Connor turned towards the doors leading back into the Tower without acknowledging the men.
“Wait!” another voice commanded. Connor halted, but did not turn around. “Taehor has issued another order for you,” the voice continued, invoking the name of the Primlord, which caused Connor’s expression to harden further. “He wishes to see you immediately following the executions, which means now.” Although Connor detested taking orders from men lurking in shadows, he kept silent, opting to leave before the body count became thirty-six.
The shadowy figures remained hidden until the door closed behind the raven-haired boy. Once alone, the three men walked out of the darkness and into the night, their black hooded robes seemingly swallowing any light that touched them. Even under the moon’s glow, darkness clung to them as if tethered to their very presence. One of them gestured, summoning a dozen more cloaked figures to the roof to collect the bodies of the executed.
“That boy needs to learn respect,” the tallest of the three remarked.
“And who will teach him? You, Moran?” retorted the one who had first addressed Connor. “He was the Firstborn of his kin at twelve and became Chief of his clan at fifteen. Now, he’s the youngest to hold the title of High Executioner. If I’m not mistaken, that makes him your superior, doesn’t it, Moran?” Moran, the largest of the three men, turned away and spat on one of the bodies yet to be removed.
“Jonas is right,” the third figure chimed in. “He’s incredibly strong for his age, but his youth is a glaring weakness.”
“Then the sooner we remove him, the better,” Moran argued, watching the last of the bodies being dragged away.
“Not necessary,” Jonas countered. “He could prove quite useful to us. Don’t you agree, Ahab?”
“Yes, his clan is gaining considerable strength within his tribe. Perhaps that’s why Moran sees the boy as a threat.” Moran remained silent at the accusation. “You and Connor share the same tribe. It’s only natural that you’d want to eliminate a rival, especially one as formidable as Connor. In time, and not much of it, that boy could challenge even Taehor.” Again, Moran said nothing. “I can see why you’d view him as a threat, especially now that your tribe’s Primlord has requested his presence and not yours.”
This time, Moran responded, “It doesn’t matter if Taehor wants to see him or me. In the end, the strongest rules. I will crush that boy, sooner or later.” His words were laced with exasperation.
“I think it should be later,” Ahab interjected coldly. “For too long, the Blood Tribe has held the title of Honor Tribe. Taehor has been a powerful leader, but his reign is nearing its end, and Connor is the perfect tool to expedite that.”
“I see,” said Janus, understanding dawning. “The boy is nearly strong enough to defeat Taehor and become the Blood Tribe’s Primlord, but he’s too young to lead. This will work to our advantage.” A sinister smile crept across his hidden face. “Yes, this will benefit all of us.”
“How does this benefit me?” Moran demanded, his voice rising with anger as his hand began to glow with the onset of his Kidokane.
“You fool!” Ahab retorted, halting Moran’s summoning. “Consider what’s better for you: maintaining your tribe’s honor or becoming its Primlord? Only a warrior from your tribe can challenge Taehor, and you lack the strength to defeat him. Connor is the only one with that potential. With the right push, he could challenge Taehor in a Rite to Rule and, with some assistance, emerge victorious. However, Connor’s youth makes him ill-suited to lead a tribe. Under his command, the Blood Tribe will fall from their position as Honor Tribe—”
“Get to the part where this benefits me!” Moran’s anger was a simmering cauldron, barely contained. Invisible threads of red and purple seeped from the surrounding darkness, weaving into his formidable physique accentuating his growing agitation.
Unfazed and undeterred by his ill-tempered companion’s interruption, Ahab continued, his voice steady and calculated. “Once Connor challenges Taehor and emerges victorious, the Blood Tribe’s decline from their position will be inevitable. Connor’s inexperience will accelerate the tribe’s descent, and that’s when you will seize your moment.”
“This is how you stand to gain,” Ahab explained. “When your tribe loses its grip on power due to Connor’s weakness to lead, they will turn against him. With the tribe’s support behind you, Connor will have no choice but to cede the title of Primlord to you... if you do not kill him first, that is?” Moran, not one to express pleasure with a smile, grunted in acknowledgment instead. Around him, the lines of Vigor evaporated just as suddenly as they had appeared.
“Yes, this is favorable,” Moran admitted. “But once I assume control of the Blood Tribe, I will bow to no one. My actions as Primlord are my own. And I warn you; I will elevate the Blood to reclaim its status as the Honor Tribe.”
“Understood,” Ahab replied. “If and when you become the Primlord of the Blood Tribe, and you choose to challenge us to reassert your tribe’s honor, that will be your right. Our alliance will remain intact until that time.”
“But first, which tribe will ascend to replace the Blood Tribe?” Janus inquired, his gaze piercing through the darkness of Ahab’s hood as if trying to lock eyes with the man. “Will it be my Ravens or your Seekers?”
Ahab knew better than to give a direct answer to such a question. Naturally, if this plot to undermine the Blood Tribe were genuine, he would favor his own Seekers to claim the title of Honor Tribe. However, that was not his true intention. Ahab chuckled inwardly. In time, he believed, all the tribes would fall, but that time was not now. Meeting Janus’s gaze, he said, “When the time comes for us to decide, we will make that decision. But for now, we must focus on ensuring Connor’s victory over Taehor. That is our immediate priority.”
An uneasy tension hung in the air among the three. The fragile and uncertain alliance they had just forged was the closest thing to trust among the Erini. Yet it was not trust but rather a pact of convenience, built on a shared hunger for power—a hallmark of the Erini way. Perhaps the only thing the Erini distrusted more than their foes was each other.
“Is it settled then?” Ahab said, more as a declaration than a question.
“Yes,” Janus confirmed. “We will maintain this... alliance.”
Moran remained silent, offering no objection. Ahab interpreted this as consent.
“Very well,” he declared. “We will aid the boy in toppling Taehor, and once he leads the Blood Tribe to its downfall, either the Ravens or the Seekers will rise unchallenged. And you, Moran, will become the new Primlord of the Blood Tribe.”
“We all win?” Moran questioned skeptically. “But how can you be certain that Connor will triumph over Taehor?”
Ahab turned away from the others and headed towards the large door leading back into the Tower. Reaching the threshold, he said, “Unlike us, he doesn’t conceal his eyes. An Erini who can lower his hood without fear possesses the strength to become Primlord. And that boy... harbors no fear.” With that, Ahab pushed back his own hood and allowed the darkness of the Tower to engulf him.
Beat.
Beat.
Beat.
Endlessly goes the war drum of the Malus.
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