Taavi stood frozen, staring into the Elf’s blue eyes as he searched for the truth buried within them.

Vengeance was a heavy word; one Taavi had wrestled with thousands of times, still it had never taken root as a tangible urge. He considered himself far too pragmatic to harbor such a vicious emotion, knowing it would only lead to a single, inevitable end: death.

He couldn’t blame the Elf for her hatred toward Raskin. The burden of carrying an unwanted child only stoked her ever-growing resentment. Taavi would never truly comprehend the sheer magnitude of the rage coiled within Mirna’s soul, but her words of revulsion toward the unborn child struck a far deeper chord within him than the Elf’s own suffering.

That familiar elven disdain burning in Mirna’s eyes made him take a step back, attempting to pull free from her grip.

She had no right to ask that of him.

“The child is innocent. You cannot harm it.”

“That is no child; it is a half-breed! A disgrace, a dishonor, absolute filth! It deserves to die, just like the bastard who put it inside me!”

Taavi stiffened, not missing the way she recoiled as the weight of her own words caught up with her.

“I won't help you. Not because your baby is a half-breed, nor because of what you just said, but because I am no murderer.”

“Please, Taavi…”

“Guard!” he called out loudly, meeting the Elf’s resentful glare.

The Winged sentry arrived swiftly and pushed the door open.

“She needs the midwives. Right now.”

The Elf watched her desperate attempt to prove she would die with her pride intact crumble to pieces. Her fingers slipped slowly down Taavi’s wrist, grazing his fingertips before her hold finally gave way, as another contraction made her double over in agony.

“You are just like all the other half-breeds, Taavi,” she gritted out, turning her back on him. “Tainted blood. You are nothing but scum.”

That was the last image he ever had of her— nothing but her back turned to him—exactly how he had seen every other Elf in his life. The midwives rushed in, demanding he leave.

Convinced he had done what was best for the baby, Taavi walked out of the cell without a shred of remorse.

***

They were about to attack Tharsa, one of the Human kingdoms. And Humans, however weak they might be, were never to be underestimated. Despite their appearances, they possessed a cunning and warlike power capable of halting an onslaught or inflicting staggering casualties upon their enemies.

Arkros had decided they would strike from the skies under the cover of night, when the darkness was thickest. He would bring an overwhelming number of warriors to decimate both siege engines. Before the defenses could muster an effective retaliation, he would already be inside the stronghold.

To that end, he poured over every scouting report the Lords had provided regarding the Fort. It was a strategic fortress, built for territorial defense; a garrison stationed near the borders of Oceanea.

They were prepared against surprise attacks, reaping the benefits of their land’s natural ability to nullify magic. This relieved the Lords of their concern. The Peacemakers, drawing upon the testimonies of the Ancients, recounted that the Gods had forged a circle around the territory of Tharsa to protect the Humans from the Essentials. When they were cornered during the War of Ascension, the imprint of their divine energy seeped into the very earth, granting the territory the unique property of severing the flow of magic, whether within innate beings or enchanted artifacts.

But who could have imagined that the Lords, hailing from the frozen lands, would be so obstinate as to bow their heads to their great enemy merely to secure indirect access to Tharsa?

Arkros was a step away from spearheading an assault against a Human kingdom on behalf of the Lords, and the thought left a gnawing unease in the pit of his stomach.

If victorious, he would return with a small box in hand; if it was a trap, he risked suffering devastating losses among his ranks. 

There were no guarantees.

As he reviewed his tactics on the carved map resting upon the strategy table, the day slipped away. A hurried knock on the door, followed by the entrance of two young Wingeds, tore his attention away from the map.

“We heard about the summons for the new mission,” one of them said, approaching the table.

“When do you leave?” the other asked, unable to mask his eagerness.

“At dawn,” Arkros replied.

“Another mission in such a short span of time...”

“Worried about leaving your slave all alone?” the second one insinuated.

Arkros clenched his fists against the table, a vein throbbing at his temple.

“You can rest easy, because...” the first began, flashing a smirk identical to his brother's.

“...we’ll take good care of him for you.”

Arkros raised a glare that promised a slow, agonizing death to both boys.

“Stay away from my slave.”

Neither seemed fazed by the underlying threat. They carried the same brash confidence, the same complicity and casual defiance that Arkros had come to know all too well since they were children.

“But, Father, what if someone hurts him?”

“Exactly! There are those who hide their true desire for such a... vulnerable hybrid.”

Arkros narrowed his eyes.

Thanks to his leadership and social standing, Arkros had been granted the honor of keeping his bloodline pure and courting a mate from his own people. He had chosen Sahia, and with her, he sired three strong sons. The eldest were the twins standing right in front of him.

Volkyan and Seikyan.

Both possessed the same translucent silver eyes peculiar to the Wingeds. They had inherited their mother’s raven hair, wearing it in identical short, choppy cuts; and their irreverent demeanor was a mirror image of one another. Keeping them away from Taavi had never been an easy task.

“I know exactly who desires my hybrid,” Arkros said dryly. “Which is why you are both assigned to this mission.”

“What?!” they exclaimed in unison.

A sly smirk touched Arkros’s lips. As he walked between his sons, he clapped them on their shoulders.

“Arm yourselves. You’ll be in the vanguard.” 

***

“Fort Fieri hides secret chambers beneath the structure of its central keep. That is where our prize is concealed: a small, black octagonal box, devoid of any markings or keyholes.”

Moments before launching the assault, Arkros recalled the words of Exclam’s emissary.

The Lords had made no effort to accompany them, nor to rendezvous once the Fort was taken. Who could blame the sorcerers? The Wingeds were not known for acts of justice or benevolence. Once upon terrain that nullified their powers, the Lords knew they would be running a lethal risk.

Arkros smirked as he glided through the sky, rapidly closing in on the stronghold.

The blast of a horn shattered the nocturnal silence.

In his original form, Arkros unleashed a bestial roar, signaling his warriors to descend.

Flaming arrows loosed by the Human warriors found their marks, but the difficulty of halting a Winged in its beastly form was immense.

The creatures plummeting from the sky clove through their opponents' flesh with battleaxes and tore out their entrails with bare claws.

Blood bathed the battlements of the fortress.

The slaughter on the battlefield stoked their most primal instincts. It was a singular pleasure that made them feel whole.

Once they breached the first line of archers, the ground battle commenced. Standing over eight feet tall in their original forms, they held a massive advantage over the Humans.

Arkros gave the Humans no chance to live longer than an instant. Those who dared stand in his path were gifted with death.

Still on the upper levels of the stronghold, Arkros hurled two more lifeless bodies over the ramparts.

He vaulted down into the main courtyard, rushing toward the gateway that led to the inner keep. From there, he would descend to his goal. But mere paces from the massive iron doors, he stopped.

Right in front of him, resolutely blocking the entrance, a warrior stood gripping a sword.

He looked no different from any other Human, and like all of them, appeared fragile at first glance. He was not tall. A scar marred the side of his neck and face, the puckered skin bearing the unmistakable mark of an old burn. His short, choppy hair was a vivid shade of crimson. His deep blue eyes carried a bellicose promise that amused Arkros amidst the echoing violence unfolding all around them.

The man said nothing, but his sudden movement proved to Arkros that he had underestimated him. His speed was astonishing. The sword he brandished sliced through the air, and had the Winged not dodged with equal agility, it would have slit his throat.

Spurred on by his rival's prowess, Arkros defended against a second strike. He parried the blow by catching the blade with his bare right hand, uncaring of the cut. Shoving its trajectory aside, he slammed his left fist right into the Human's gut.

The redhead's boots skidded across the stone floor as the impact threw him several feet back. Gripping his sword and clutching his battered midsection, he glared at the Winged with derision.

“You are quite resilient.” Arkros smirked. “It is not every Human who can stay on their feet after taking a punch from me.”

“Or maybe you’re just weak.” The redhead lifted his chin.

Amused by his audacity, Arkros advanced without mercy.

His opponent yanked something from the bandolier across his chest and hurled it at him. Arkros dodged. The man would have to be far more skilled than that to hit him with any weapon. To his surprise, the moment the object bounced on the stone floor behind him, a blast tore through the air and slammed into his back.

The Human vaulted upwards, using the walls as footholds as if he were weightless. Dodging the flying debris, he rose above the smoke, tossing four more spheres downward.

The booming explosions shook the Fort to its foundations.

Amidst the smokescreen, Arkros's tail lashed out, coiling around the Human's ankle and yanking him down, slamming him into the ground.

The redhead grunted on impact, while Arkros rose to his full height.

Despite his own wounds from the blast, the Winged stood tall. He tightened his tail's coil around the redhead's leg, making the man grit his teeth in agony. He was going to crush his calf to a pulp.

The adversary's movement was sudden; a dagger plunged into the tail, forcing Arkros to recoil.

Freed, the Human sprang up, retreating swiftly, though he faltered whenever he placed weight on his injured leg.

Arkros ripped the dagger from his tail, tossing it into the rubble left by the blasts.

“Your people must be proud to have a warrior like you,” Arkros commended.

The man kept whatever hostile retort he had to himself. Without bothering to locate his sword, which had slipped from his grasp during the fray, he hurled more explosive orbs.

Fresh explosions rocked the structure of the keep.

The smokescreen rose once more. Before the Human could make another move, Arkros took flight through the ashen cloud, jaws unhinged and ready to tear him apart in murderous fury.

Executing a backflip, followed by another, the redhead lost his balance. Arkros's claws raked across his abdomen, leaving deep gouges in the armor meant to protect him.

These new wounds, compounded by his hindered agility from his injured leg, should have condemned the man to death. Yet, before the sentence could be carried out, he was yanked out of Arkros's line of attack, and the last of his orbs tumbled from his hands.

The chain of explosions left Arkros reeling.

The Human had vanished.