“There are far better things ahead than any we leave behind.”

~C.S Lewis

Days turned to weeks. Weeks turned to months. Yet every day was the same. I awoke to a blinding pain in my stomach as every fiber of my being ached for even the tiniest taste of blood. The guards quickly realized that it was better to keep my arms tied and a muzzle firmly fitted to my jaw, lest I give in to my cravings. Every day, every moment that passed the demand for another taste grew. Even now as I lay on the cold stone of my cell I can feel it calling to me. 

I lay unmoving trying to focus on anything else but my hunger. Yet even with my eyes closed I can see the passing mages pause in front of my cell. I can see their hearts fluttering in their chests, I can see the blood flowing through their veins. The now familiar fire lights behind my eyes and I know that my irises are changing to the devil’s red that comes with my magic. Clenching my eyes closed even tighter than before I count the seconds until they move along. Only when their footsteps fade out do I finally let out the breath I was holding. 

Four months, that was how long I had been kept in this cell. Four months since my family had abandoned me to the Forsaken. Four months of fighting a hunger that I feared would never stop. 

Even the Forsaken, who held the archives on everything mage related, didn’t know what to do with me. The Forsaken were a military faction of mages. Sold by their peers to protect our civilization from outside forces. They operated out of a small isle off the coast of Porthca. By King and Council orders, the Forsaken were to be separated from “normal” civilization. The only way in or out was by ship, only the truly desperate would dare try to swim off the isle. Those that were stupid enough to try, never made it very far before the horrors below would drag them under. 

The elders of the Forsaken were tasked with keeping the new recruits in line, in return they wouldn’t have to see the carnage of battle again. Those still young enough to go to war were tortured and tested until they either died, or could hold their own in a fight. If you lived long enough you could find yourself in small comforts, counting the days until it was your turn to keep the fresh meat in line. 

The bite of metal from my cuffs bit into my wrists as I struggled to push myself to a sitting position. Soon the guards would be here and my daily torture would begin. My cuffs would be removed and my muzzle discarded. I’d fight every urge I had to lash out and take my fill. 

On que the clank of the cell door rang out and my guards entered the room. Years of fighting hardened their bodies, resulting in masses two to three times the size of my own. The larger of the two guards held back, weapon aimed and ready to strike if needed. The smaller of the two, who held my daily ration of bread and ten day old meat, set the plate of food down and moved to release me from my restraints. His overwhelming scent of cedar and spices filled my nostrils and I felt my mouth water in response. I found myself pulled into the thoughts of what he would taste like. Would he taste of sugar like I did? Or would his blood be a heavier, smoked taste? 

A familiar wash of shame filled me, temporarily drawing my attention away from the guard in front of me. Closing my eyes again, I slowly counted to ten, trying to focus on the repelling smell of rot, rather than the sweet sins that called out to me. 

“You know the deal Isturn, eat your food, and your food ONLY and we won't have to hurt you,” the guard taunted. 

“I have a name,” I whispered. 

“I have a name,” mocked the guard, “Oh the little Isturn thinks he is special. Guess what? You don’t have a name here until you earn it, you little shit.”

Isturn, meaning unwanted one, was what the elders called the new mage recruits. A burning reminder that each and every one of us was sold. That each one of our families thought money was more important than we were. At least the other recruits were worth a sum of money. My family had thrown me away for free. 

Looking down at the moldy floor, I reached forward to the meager ration of food that was supposed to sate me for the day. A faint scraping filled the cell as I dragged the tray closer. The bread had a dusting of mold across the top. Wincing, I forced the stale, crusty bread down my throat and moved to the cold rancid meat. Ten days old was the understatement of the century as the smell finally hit me. The meat dripped with rot and I gagged. 

“What are you waiting for, Isturn?” The guard bellowed, “Eat it already.”

I brought the meat to my lips and paused as another shiver of nausea washed over me. I’d rather eat dirt than put this rotting carcass in my mouth. But I knew better than to refuse what was given to me. Breathing hard, I opened my mouth again intending to swallow the chunk of meat whole. Rot dripped onto my tongue causing my body to heave in response. Thick bile rose in my throat and tears formed in my eyes. The guards eyed me impatiently. Closing my eyes I swallowed the bile and took another deep breath. Once again bringing the meat to my tongue. As quick as I could I swallowed the chunk of meat, the rot sliding down my throat. I groaned in disgust as the bile rose higher in my throat.  

“See that wasn’t so fucking hard now was it,” the guard said sinking his hands in my hair and yanking my head back, “I’m so tired of waiting on your pathetic ass. Do you think that just because you came from regal seed that means you get some sort of special treatment? Let me explain something to you, Isturn, there isn’t a soul on this isle that would think twice about getting to make some blue blooded fuck scream.” 

Releasing my hair the guard furiously kicked me backwards. Falling over, I braced myself for what was next to come. Everyday it was the same. Everyday they fed me. Everyday they would get angry at how long it would take me to consume the trash they called my food. Everyday they would beat me until they grew bored. 

The guards' hard kicks landed in my stomach and unable to contain myself any longer, I found myself vomiting what little bit of food I had been given. Revolted, the guard stepped back and left me to lie in the warm pool of my stomach acid. The larger of the two guards chuckled at his partner as the smaller guard stared at his now soiled boots. Flicking his boot he attempted to remove the vomit from them.

“Fucking disgusting,” he sneered.

“Shouldn’t have kicked him in the stomach then. I would have aimed for the head,” replied the larger guard.

“Yeah well next time I’ll let you feed the little shit then. Here give me that sword, you tie him back up. I’m not fucking touching him,” the smaller guard ordered.

Shaking his head the larger guard handed his weapon off to his partner and moved to return my restraints to me. The guard paused, looking at the mess of myself that I had made. Curling his lip, the guard carefully grabbed the dry spots of my arms and closed the shackles back around my wrists. Leaning down he moved to grab my muzzle. For a single second his neck lay exposed to me. Open. Inviting. Unlike the smaller guard, he didn’t smell of cedar. Rather he smelled sweet and tantalizing. Like a warm pear pie dusted with a helping of ginger. My now empty stomach cried out in response to the scent of his skin. Time slowed and I became suddenly aware of every molecule in his body. I could sense the cuts and bruises that marred his skin. I could smell the hormonal makeup of his blood. Feel the sultry rhythm of his heart beat. Even from the foot of distance between us I could feel how warm his skin was. The need to taste the sweet sin of his blood washed over me like a tsunami. The rational part of me said no, that by lashing out I was only going to get hurt more. But the part of me consumed with my desire to ease my affliction, reacted far faster than the rational side could try to stop me. 

The guard yelled out as I sunk my fangs into his throat. Saccharine liquid poured down my throat. I moaned as my ache dulled and for a brief moment the pain disappeared. My bliss was short-lived as the guard ripped my teeth from his throat, and threw me across the cell. Pain exploded in my shoulder as it connected with the sharp stone of the wall. I fell to the floor in a heap. 

“What the hell! You are supposed to watch him while I restrain him so he doesn’t try shit like that!” The guard shouted at his partner. 

Pissed off to a new level, the larger guard pulled a syringe from the pouch on his hip. Fear gripped me and I moved further into the corner of the cell. Anything other than that horrendous drug. I’d rather face their beatings than be drugged again. On one hand the drugs eradicated my hunger, but on the other hand it left me imobile and weak. I would be powerless, a willing victim to the others' sick and twisted desires. Like the guard had nicely reminded me not even five minutes before, there was not a single soul here who would waste an opportunity to take out their well deserved aggression on me. The monarchy had given everybody here the short end of the stick, and those tortured souls screamed for retribution. To drug me was to give them their retribution on a silver platter. 

“Evander, Lexion! We have new orders for the blood whore,” bellowed a commanding voice from the far end of the hall. 

Footsteps grew louder as an aphiel approached my cell. Aphiels were the highest ranking officials in the Forsaken. The only people that held a higher authority were the elders. The elders moved all of the pieces on the game board, the aphiels executed the plays.

Her hair was pulled tight into an array of braids that fell down her back. Heavy gold armor shimmered as it passed through thin rays of light that escaped through the cracks in the stone cells. An intricate pattern of vines wove across her breast plate and circled around her aphiel emblem. She stood a hair shorter than the guards that currently occupied my cell, but her dominating presence had them cower ever so slightly as she entered the room. She chuckled softly upon seeing the mess that had been made of my cell. Blood and vomit painted the floor. Both guards, whose silver armor was now sullied, looked to be in a state of disarray. Meanwhile I sat pressed as far into a corner as I could. The rags that I called my clothes, hung loosely off my malnourished bones. My hair, that lay thick with blood and dirt, was standing up in all sorts of directions. Thick drying blood dripped off my chin.

“It appears that my men can’t hold their own against a child,” she said in a chiding tone, “In a way it gives me a flicker of respect for you, Isturn. Alas you are no longer assigned to our faction. Evander, Lexion, put yourselves together. The Isturn moves to Palaemon’s team tonight. Apparently he wanted to try his hand at taming this little beast.”

The guards looked at me and chuckled to themselves. Satisfaction gleamed in their eyes as they locked the muzzle onto my jaw. 

“Prep him for transport and when you are done walk him down to his new barracks,” the aphiel ordered. 

“Should we drug him for transport or…?” The guards questioned.

Disappointment shrouded the Aphiel’s eyes, “Do you pathetic worms need to drug him in order to walk him to his new barracks. Do you fear this sack of bones that much?”

Now faintly blushing with embarrassment the guards shook their heads. They stood and bowed to the aphiel, trying to gain back what little respect she could give them. Shaking her head she left the cell and took off back the way she came. Straightening up the guards looked at each other and then back at me to rake me with a shriveling stare. Reaching out, each guard took hold of one of my arms and pulled me to my feet. My legs, numb from sitting cramped on the stone floor for so long, tried to give way but the guards kept pulling me forward. 

I struggled to match their hurried pace as they pulled me through the stone corridors where they held their rowdiest recruits. Each cell we passed told the same story as my own. Shackled mages who struggled to contain their newfound abilities. Some sat in large tanks to keep their fires out, others flanked with roaring flames to stop them from freezing the room. The occasional rubber cell held a lightning mage that they desperately tried to keep grounded lest they meet an early end. Each one suffering alone as they tried to understand what was happening to them. Eventually when they grew to recognize the signs of their abilities or they understood what triggers would make them lose control, the mages would be moved to their assigned barracks. They would meet those that would fight alongside them and their testing would start. From there things only got worse. Until you earned the rank of saerahin, the lowest rank in the Forsaken, your neighbor was not your friend. The body that stood next to you was an obstacle that stood between surviving, or being left to die. Moving to a barracks was moving into a free for all. Your food, your bedding, your clothes, everything could be taken by your fellow mage and the guards would stand by and let it happen. Forsaken barrack life and testing was designed not to train your abilities, but to weed out the weak. And I was being marched into the lion’s den.

The walk to Palaemon’s barracks was a long one.  Not known to play well with others, Palaemon liked to camp as far away from the other aphiel’s as possible. The woods surrounding his camp were thick. Thorns and rocks tore into my feet and ankles as the guards dragged me deeper into the trees. The torchlights of the jails quickly faded from view and soon only the light of the moon lit our way. 

“Evander, what kind of mood do you think Palaemon is in tonight?” Lexion asked his partner.

“Beats me, I just hope we don’t get caught up in anything. Let's just dump him and high tail it out of there,” Evander responded.

“Agreed,” sighed Lexion.