Mark of the Pterren

By Melissa Stacy

Four hundred years in the future, a warrior race of winged humans called pterren have taken over the earth. Originally created by the United States military, the pterren have never considered themselves human. They are violent and brutal, worship an almighty deity that sanctifies genocide, and their kingdoms are ruled with corruption and terror. When a young pterren prince named Terrence Davin is crowned the High King of Mirador, his heretical views drive a wedge between the most powerful members of his court. Amidst the fractures and bloodshed of intrigue and rebellion, lies and betrayal, the structure of pterren society is about to be shaken, as Terrence confronts the corruption terrorizing his people, and sets the Kingdom of Mirador on a path toward civil war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melissa Stacy
• Release date: Apr 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310382901

Book preview

If surviving humans believed the worst of their horrors ended with the Pterren Wars in 2093, they were sorely mistaken.

From The Rise of the Pterren

White Lion Press, Resistance Publishing

1. Terrence

September 18, 2403 AD/CE

Pterren Year 319

Terrence Davin liked to watch executions. In pterren society, the method of death was chosen to fit the crime, and the humans to be executed today belonged to the Resistance. They would be skinned alive.

According to the Resistance, pterren were classified as humans with wings, and it was this heretical belief system that made all of Human Resistance the genmi. The damned.

The priests kept the condemned in a large metal cage, thirty feet from the elaborate stage where the men would be skinned. Executions took place in an amphitheater built with black marble, a crescent moon of dark benches anchored into the hillside. There were enough seats to hold a crowd of eight thousand, and as Terrence flew overhead, scanning the audience, he could see that the amphitheater was already full.

His seat, of course, was still empty. So was his father’s. But the King was in the north on campaign, securing the border with Vendale. And Terrence’s only friend, Rafael, never wanted to watch executions, which meant Terrence would occupy his bench alone.

He didn’t mind. To see the priests cleanse the blood of the damned was a rush, and Terrence didn’t need company to enjoy a good skinning. His father had killed his share of humans and enemy pterren, and one day, so would Terrence. Until then, watching these executions was as close to the bloodshed of war as Terrence could get.

Since he was only thirteen, Terrence still had three more years in Academy before he could be appointed an officer. Then he could fly off to war, and lead a command into battle. Once his father released power, either by death or by choice, and Terrence was crowned High King of Mirador, he would lead the whole Army. That was the day he looked forward to most.

For two hundred years, Mirador had maintained its borders, especially the fraught northern border with Vendale, but Terrence wanted more than sustaining his kingdom. He wanted expansion. He wanted to annex the entire kingdom of Vendale, as well as the free holdings where Human Resistance survived. As a final gesture of glory, he planned to fly south with his army and take over Jinnai.

He wanted to be remembered as the greatest King in all Mirador’s history. Greater than Othennex. Greater even than Bonzen.

Certainly greater than his own black-hearted father.

But first, Terrence had to grow up.

The execution grounds were a transformative place, an area where the profane blood of the enemy was purged and returned to the earth, a place where Ignithian’s blessings were received by all who bore witness to this true act of Purity. The black marble of the amphitheater had been chosen to match the Great Temple of Mirador, the holiest site in the kingdom, and Terrence felt his heart soar as he gazed over the execution grounds now. Ignithian had created the pterren to cleanse the earth of Pollution, and today was a sacred reminder of that holy duty.

Since he would need to pass through one of the entrance gates to take his seat, Terrence chose to plummet, rather than coast to a stop. He held his arms to his sides, folded his wings to his body, flattened his scales, and dropped headfirst toward the ground.

Terrence’s wing scales were solid black, one of the rarest colors, especially among men. Since Mirador soldiers painted their wings black before they flew out on campaign, having black scales meant Terrence already looked like an officer. He took the hue of his scales as a blessed sign of God, that he had been born to fight and be a great King. His destiny was written in his magnificent wings.

Terrence waited until he was within ten feet of the grass before he unfurled his wings and snapped his scales upright, stopping himself with a rush of air. He hit ground with force, and stomped his feet on the grass.

The best part of pterren wings, enhancing their overall ability to slash and cut living flesh, was the hard end at each tip, which was covered in a mass of scale tissue, so that the point of each wing could be used like a blade. Terrence loved to stab the tips of his wings in the ground when he landed, to feel them sink into mud the way they would one day sink into flesh. But today, joining the crowd walking into the amphitheater, propriety made him hold back. He needed to act like a man, not a child. So he landed without stabbing the ground, folded his wings to his back as an esteemed general would, and strode toward the main entrance.

Men bowed as he passed, women curtsied, and children copied their parents. Terrence adored the attention. These public acts of reverence were yet another reason he enjoyed executions: they were a legitimate reason to be admired by his future subjects. His father might not see Terrence, might hardly know he existed, but the people of Mirador never failed to notice their High Prince, and honor him as they should.

Terrence acknowledged the Senators and War Council members he passed with a curt nod. Several of the prettiest girls wore new gowns, and he sent a quick smile to a few who were trying to win his attention. The day was so warm that most of the men had chosen short sleeves for their tunics, which left their melas—their origin tattoos—on display.

Melas appeared an inch above the elbows of both arms, and wrapped around the skin to resemble a cuff. Like all pterren boys, Terrence had received his melas at the age of eleven. His arms bore the design of the Agni: two rows of square spirals framed and divided by thick bands of black ink. On the day Terrence was crowned, a third row of spirals would be added to each arm, to mark his ascendency to the throne.

The Agni and Krimga had the largest tattoo designs, with arm bands that were four inches tall. The melas of the Tüccar were only two inches tall, and Petites received tattoos half that size. Vettna received no markings at all, as they were born without origin, and too Impure to be inked. Most Vettna were slaves, and Terrence passed several of them shuffling along with their owners as he made his way to an entrance.

The gendarmes standing guard at each gate wore a chocolate brown uniform with their weapon of choice, usually a sword or a pair of hatchets. Like the men who flew in the King’s Army, gendarmes carried knives in the belts, boots, and sleeves of their uniforms. But unlike the King’s soldiers, the handles of the weapons used by the gendarmes were marked with jewels, the same jewels worn by the priests who commanded them.

The guards Terrence passed owned weapons studded with diamonds, indicating they served the High Priests. These gendarmes were large men with faces molded by time into glares, and they watched the crowd with eyes that missed nothing.

Of all the men who greeted him once he entered the amphitheater, Terrence bowed only to White Priests and members of the High Priest-elect, or the group of six men beneath the High Priests. Lower priests, as well as Senators and the War Council, received a quick nod of his head.

As Terrence made his way toward his seat, he felt important and worshipped, even in his grey student uniform, with the embellished black collar and cuffs that signified he attended Academy. His tunic ran the length of his torso, stopping at the tops of his thighs, and his black boots covered his pants to each knee. His fine black belt hung low on his hips, and held his knives and gloves. All men wore tunics and pants, with very little difference in style beyond color, but Terrence knew he looked especially dashing in his, and felt the girls watching him, admiring him, like a blush of heat on his skin.

Terrence had the dark skin of the ceylon, which meant his body was a shade of warm brown. His black hair was tousled and loose, with bangs long enough to push away from his face. Best of all was the fact that everyone could see his black wings at a distance, and knew who he was, even if he didn’t take his place in the area reserved for the royals.

The three High Priests were not yet on stage, only four members of the High Priest-elect, who wore golden robes with white trim, long diamond necklaces, and elaborate headdresses made of white gold. They carried censers of incense and recited their prayers of purification, finishing the final acts of preparation before the ceremony began. Near the center of the stage burned a tall fire, a symbol of Ignithian and His power on earth.

The skinning would take place on the altar, a carved slab of black marble located close to the fire. This altar held ankle and wrist braces, as well as a neck bracket and an adjustable body clamp. The skinning would begin with the stomach region, and then the chest and the genitals, before the priests flayed the skin down the limbs. After that, depending upon the state of the condemned, either the face would be skinned, or the criminal would be rolled over so his backside could be flayed. Bodies reacted differently to this form of death, and some people bled out faster than others. A struggling, screaming person was harder to skin than one who had dropped into shock. The blood loss of a skinning was severe, and one of the most violent sights to behold. Terrence loved it.

There were two human men in the cage, naked and covered in bruises and cuts, and one of them was already screaming. Not wordless shrieks, but blasphemous statements that made the crowd chuckle.

"You are not the product of God! the man screamed at the crowd. You were made in a test tube more than four hundred years ago! Engineered by humans to be used as a weapon! Your god is a lie! Your history is a lie!"

Terrence scoffed at such nonsense. Humans were the creatures who worshipped lies. Ignithian was the True God, the Creator, and this human would soon be dead for his blasphemy.

Most slaves died without making a scene. Only members of Human Resistance placed any importance on expounding their heretical views before they were executed, as if the screams of the damned could hold any meaning.

These two men had been caught in the forest outside the capital, hunted down by the dogs the gendarmes used on patrol. Both had been raised as slaves in the kingdom, but had still joined the Resistance somehow. Though they’d been beaten and cut for days prior to this, Terrence doubted they’d revealed anything useful. The High Priests understood little of the network of information the humans maintained, and even torture was useless in learning much more. But the Resistance was considerably weaker than it had been a century ago. Within the next hundred years, the only humans left alive would be slaves of the pterren—not rebel heretics like these criminals, but the docile servants most human slaves were. Like Vettna, humans would learn their place in the kingdom, or, like these two men here today, they would die.

It was still Terrence’s hope to speed up that process, to rid the earth of human Pollution during his reign. His father might be afraid to attack those underground bunkers and mountain fortresses in the north, but Terrence wasn’t.

"You were a weapon of mass destruction! the human screamed. More precise than a bomb! Able to kill an entire enemy camp without collateral damage! That was why you were made! You were designed by humans to kill on command! The origins that divide your society were a human military creation! So that your flight units could be separated by speed and ability!"

Terrence laughed with the others. The creeds of the Resistance were truly absurd. The pterren had been born in God’s holy fire, given life in the world to save the earth from Pollution. Not only physical human pollution, such as the chemical and nuclear waste they had scattered all over the earth, but the innate Sin in their bodies. The humans were a wicked, corrupt people made by a foolish god, a god that the mightier Ignithian had killed with His fire. The pterren were the true children of God, and He wanted only two things in return for their lives: to be worshipped above all others, and to cleanse the earth of Pollution. And no matter what ridiculous stories Human Resistance invented, the pterren understood their absurd tales were lies, the product of a people who should be wiped from the earth.

Two gendarmes approached the cage with the humans, and tried to silence the man, but he continued to scream out his blasphemy. The gendarmes couldn’t knock him unconscious, because the High Priests needed him awake for the skinning. So he continued to yell to the crowd, The Kumara will come! He will rise up from your people! He will fight for the humans!

Terrence had no idea what the Kumara was, but this term brought the gendarmes into the cage. Two soldiers grabbed the human by the arms and held him down on the ground, slamming the back of his head with enough force that his words broke off into shrieks. A third gendarme cut off the man’s lips with a knife, and then smashed in his front teeth with a fist. Several women near Terrence tittered and laughed, but the men cheered with enthusiasm after the human was silenced, and Terrence clapped his hands along with them.

As the gendarmes finished their work and exited the cage, the human remained in a heap on the floor, panting and groaning in pain. He crawled to the bars of the cage and rested his head on the metal. His eyes rolled back in his head.

Terrence noticed the other human had already had his lips cut off and his face punched in, only the skin around his mouth was so swollen that he almost seemed normal again. Yet that second idiot had still chosen to carry on like a lunatic, spouting his lies. Humans were such repulsive creatures. So small without wings. So weak. Ignithian had been right to send the pterren to kill them. Slavery and death were all they deserved.

On the stage, the High Priest-elect retreated from sight, descending the stairs on the back of the platform, and the three High Priests arrived. They wore more sumptuous golden robes than their Priest-elect, robes trimmed in black to indicate their much higher status, and their jewelry and headdresses were far more elaborate. As the High Priests took their places on stage, the audience rose and clasped their hands in prayer.

Of the three High Priests, a man named Verik Nocen was the leader, and he stood in the center, close to Ignithian’s fire. Verik was fifty years old, a formidable man with the pale skin of an argent, a sign of his Purity. He had the muscled build of a general, broad-shouldered and trim, with a face dominated by a prominent nose with a slight curve in the bridge. Deep scowl lines marked his cheeks and his brow, shaded darker in places where his veins cast a spider web under his skin. The rough pink and red coloring toughened his features like a permanent wind chap. He was over six feet tall, with large knuckled hands, and diamond rings on his fingers as wide around as sword grips. Verik’s wings were a deep, murky teal, a color that changed to dark violet near the tips. His long white hair was drawn back in a braid, and the firelight sparkled across his glittering robes.

Verik possessed a low, heavy voice as penetrating as his dark hazel eyes, and his words filled the amphitheater. "O Ignithian! Hear us! Your children have gathered to honor Your name! To serve our great God! To answer our call to cleanse the earth of Pollution!"

The audience echoed his words, magnifying the volume by eight thousand people, and Terrence called out with fervor. It was always an honor to be in the presence of the High Priests, who were so much more regal and formidable than anyone else in the kingdom, so much more impressive and striking than even their own Priest-elect. Terrence felt his blood stir with reverence.

As Verik recited several prayers from the holy book, Terrence turned jittery with eagerness and kept glancing toward the cage. The humans huddled like dogs, and when the gendarmes gave the signal to bring up the first condemned man to the stage, Terrence smiled in anticipation, feeling as close to his own glorious future as King as he was to the High Priests right now.

The gendarmes strapped the first human down on the altar. He was not the man who’d been screaming earlier, but the one who had not made a sound. When the High Priests started their work, the human shrieked like a woman while the skin of his stomach was cut away, followed by the skin of his chest and his genitals. The High Priests did not rush their work, but drew out the pain, as skilled with their knives as reciting Ignithian’s prayers.

The human screamed the entire time the High Priests flayed his limbs, and he was still screaming when they sliced the skin off his face. Verik stabbed out the man’s eyes with his knife before the other High Priests rolled him over. And still this human didn’t die, even after they finished cutting all the skin from his back. The High Priests rolled him over again, so Verik could raise his knife high above the man’s chest, and plunge the blade through his heart.

It was a perfect execution, and the audience burst into applause. Terrence hadn’t seen a skinning that complete since he was a young child, when his father first ordered him to attend executions. Terrence clapped his hands and cheered with the others, as exuberant as he’d been as a boy.

Verik picked up the man’s skin and walked to the edge of the stage. Verik’s hands and golden robes were now coated in blood, and he held the skin high, which jiggled and trembled like a mass of intestine.

Terrence rose to his feet with everyone else. When Verik opened his mouth, the crowd roared the words of God along with him: "The earth shall be cleansed by the blood of the humans! You shall follow the Lord as you purge them of Sin! Release the blood of the body, and cleanse the world of Pollution!"

Verik tossed the skin on Ignithian’s fire. As the flames dried the blood and consumed the man’s flesh, his corpse was removed from the altar and carried away by the gendarmes.

Terrence’s attention returned to the cage, and he watched the gendarmes remove the second man from the pen. This human was harder to strap into place, as the altar was slick now with blood, and the man struggled and slipped the hold twice. But the gendarmes had done this before, and soon they had the human secured.

But once the High Priests started to flay him, this human didn’t shriek like the first one. An eerie silence descended, so that Terrence could hear the rasp of the blades in his skin. The quiet made him wonder if the human had already died.

Verik cut off the man’s genitals, and when the human still didn’t scream, Verik stabbed his knife through the human’s right eye. The human finally shrieked, but not with an indistinct sound. His lipless mouth, his broken teeth, somehow made his words more intelligible than Terrence would have ever believed possible.

"The Kumara will come!"

Verik jammed his knife into the man’s mouth, and cut off his tongue. The audience cheered to have such blasphemy silenced, and the men around Terrence were especially ardent to call out their appreciation, but Terrence felt strange, almost numb, as he clapped along with them.

An hour later, after both human skins had burned and the corpses had been taken away, after the High Priests finished the final prayers to Ignithian, and said their blessings for everyone in the audience, Terrence remained in his seat, still thinking about the Resistance and all of their lies. How had that human not screamed in pain when he died? And what was this nonsense about the Kumara? Did the humans honestly believe in some sort of savior? Or did they have a new weapon to use against pterren?

The first skinning had been so terrific, so perfect. An exquisite tribute to God. So why couldn’t that second human have died as he should? The irritation Terrence felt left him unsettled, as if something was wrong. But of course, nothing was wrong. Those humans were dead, and their corpses would soon bloat and decay in the sun. Ignithian was All Powerful, All Mighty, All Wise and All Just, and the pterren had upheld their duty to purge Sin from the earth. The glory of this day still belonged to the pterren, no matter how that second human had died.

When Terrence walked out of the amphitheater, he stopped at one of the holy fires monitored by the White Priests. These small fire pits were ringed by white stone, and the flames were much smaller than the fire that had been burning on stage. Terrence bowed his head in prayer and received his blessing of ash, which the priest smeared with his thumb over both of Terrence’s cheeks.

Then Terrence cleared away from the crowd, ran a few steps and launched into the sky, eager to fly off and see Rafael. He wanted to tell him about this strange human who hadn’t screamed as he’d died, and ask if he knew anything about the Kumara. Rafael’s thoughts were often so strange and unorthodox, there was no telling what he would say.

But even this thought could not quite banish the unsettled feeling that made Terrence so keen to put the second execution behind him.

Damn those humans. Damn them all.

The key to pterren creation was the invention of oxyprotelyn tissue. Dubbed the miracle molecule by the United States military, this organic compound had its beginnings as a cocktail of rhinoceros, cobra and shark DNA, a combination that led to the growth of pterren wing scales. Distinctly reptilian, but also feather-like in appearance, as light as their avian counterpart, and able to withstand incredible amounts of pressure and heat, pterren wing scales created an evolution in thinking about what could be expected from an organic molecule, and a new arms race was born.

From The Rise of the Pterren

White Lion Press, Resistance Publishing

2. Terrence

Terrence flew twenty miles east, from the execution grounds to the great wall of Mirador, which surrounded the capital. The great wall echoed the shape of the valley, undulating with the curve of the surrounding mountains, an edifice of white marble and stone over two hundred feet tall, and marked every forty feet by guard eyries, towers lit with holy fire. Guards walked the pathway connecting the eyries, watching the commerce below.

Just outside the great wall, flanking the south side of the capital, lay the city of Tenmill. Tenmill was crowded and dirty, three times the size of the capital, and full of the businesses, brothels, tenements, taverns, traders, and street stalls that serviced the residents of both cities. Terrence loathed Tenmill, an area he compared to a hideous goiter attached to the neck of a beautiful woman. He wished he could raze Tenmill and force everyone who lived there to move forty miles south, out of sight.

But Mirador couldn’t exist without Tenmill, which provided the residents of the capital with a wide array of goods and services, and Terrence couldn’t eliminate the city’s presence from the south wall. The most powerful White Temple was located in Tenmill, epicenter of the priests hoping to earn positions in the Great Temple of Mirador. While Terrence admitted the White Temple was beautiful, and had certainly been constructed with care, the building was like a pearled brooch pinned to a torn, shabby gown, something jeweled and lovely that only lent more attention to the unchecked monstrosity that swelled all around it. Tenmill had a smattering of decent areas, places where the Agni resided, along with rich Krimga merchants and other men of means in the lower origins. But outside a handful of inns built to impress visiting dignitaries, there were so few examples of decent architecture in the business centers of Tenmill that Terrence marveled so many people could live in a place so crowded and dirty.

Worse than anything else about Tenmill was the fact humans lived there. Not only captured slaves sold for profit, but those born to their fate, like the men who’d been executed today. Some humans were even employed inside brothels, and Terrence had overheard classmates bragging about having sex with them—with humans!

Terrence reeled with the idea of anyone engaging in such an act of Pollution—such filthy behavior!—and these were capital residents!

Of course, those boys always visited a temple the next morning, paid for a prayer of purification, and received a blessing of ash from the priests. But still. Terrence would never Pollute his body like that. To taint himself so severely with human Sin, even if a special prayer the next morning could remove such a stain, was an act as repugnant as the city of Tenmill itself. Only a place of Pollution would offer up human whores—and no Pure man of God would ever consider spending time in a brothel, whether the women on offer were human or not.

But as ugly and vile as Tenmill was, full of Pollution and Sin, the City of Mirador was a place of Purity, all beauty and grace. The capital bore the name of the kingdom, as well as the valley inside the great wall. Mirador brimmed with trees and green spaces, mighty buildings of white or black marble, and mansions and schools built with peach-colored stone. Two sizeable lakes reflected the sky, shimmering blue diamonds in sunlight. Paved stone roads and boulevards separated rows of majestic homes, and an atmosphere of peace and wealth made the air cleaner, made the people more beautiful, and filled Terrence with contentment each time he took in the view.

Pterren were not allowed to enter the capital city by air, but only through one of the gates after passing inspection. No one was exempt from this rule, not even the High Priests, and so Terrence landed and walked past the King’s soldiers on guard. Then he launched again and flew toward the Academy lake.

As Terrence passed over the sculptured walls of the palace, a cream and white building far more exquisite than any built inside Tenmill, his gaze drifted over the capital. His eyes lingered a moment on the Great Temple, which was close to the palace, on the other side of the plaza. Gendarmes guarded the doors, as vigilant at their posts as the guards at the palace.

Then Terrence faced north once again, and glanced over the Compass, the command building of the King’s Army and War Council. The Great Temple and Compass had been built with black marble, and both gleamed like obsidian in the afternoon light. Black marble was a sacred material, like diamonds and gold, and though the palace was beautiful, more of an architectural wonder than any building in Mirador, Terrence felt the most awe when he saw the Great Temple and Compass. War and prayer were equally holy activities, and the reason why only rulers and priests were Pure enough to be Agni.

One day, Terrence would be the Chief Commander of the Pterren Order, in charge of the Compass, the Warrior of Faith charged with protecting all of this land and the people who lived here, and they would love him more than they had loved any King.

• • •

The Academy’s lake wasn’t far from the palace, and Terrence arrived within moments of passing through the great wall. The leafy green trees of late summer made a vibrant contrast to the glittering blue jewel of the water. While most students were spending their free day strolling through town in search of amusement, Rafael Rennon was at the lake by himself, diving into the water and trying to fly out again. Rafael thought it was possible to perform a water launch, a maneuver no pterren in history had ever managed before.

Even Terrence doubted Rafael could pull off this move. Rafael had broken several school records, but a water launch was impossible—everyone knew that. Rafael was undaunted. He flew into the water and resurfaced two seconds later, beating his massive gold wings like he was starting a hurricane. He never quite cleared the water before he dropped down again, and was forced to swim to the shore.

Terrence landed on the shoreline and waited, watching as Rafael stepped from the water. For his work at the lake, Rafael wore only a pair of black shorts, even though the lake water was cold, and the breeze felt cool despite the heat of the day. His long blond hair clung to his shoulders, and water sluiced down his back when he opened his wings. Rafael was not a ceylon like Terrence, but he wasn’t pale enough to be an argent, either. His skin held a golden brown shade, a light tan, what pterren called bronzen or fuscous, which was common enough.

But Rafael was far from ordinary. He had bright yellow wings, a color as rare among men as Terrence’s black ones, and those golden scales brought him a lot of attention. Especially from girls. When Rafael entered the palace, heads always turned, followed by the fluttery sound of giggles and sighs. Terrence would have been jealous, except Rafael never made use of his looks. Unlike other Academy students, who also had ample opportunity to enjoy the young women of Mirador, Rafael preferred to keep to himself. He practiced his flight skills, sparred with his weapons, or read books in his free time, but he did not enjoy flirting. He and Terrence were opposites that way.

Rafael was also a Krimga. Beneath Terrence. Rafael’s melas were the same size as an Agni’s, but instead of the square spirals that Terrence possessed, Rafael had a swirling design between those three bands of black ink.

Terrence had been taught he was superior to the Krimga, and all the origins beneath them, only Terrence didn’t feel superior to Rafael. They were friends. They were equals. And Terrence felt an irrational anger toward God for making Rafael Krimga rather than Agni. Terrence’s rage, like his father’s, could scorch and consume him sometimes, and nothing made him more furious than the difference in origin between himself and Rafael.

But he’d found a way to channel his wrath into his own call to action, part of his unspoken drive to be a great king.

On the day after Terrence was crowned, he would appoint Rafael a general. Mirador hadn’t seen a Krimga general in over one hundred years, and Terrence thought the time had come to change that. He knew the appointment would inspire War Council censure, and perhaps condemnation from the High Priests, but he was already determined to follow his instinct and make this promotion, criticism be damned.

The fact that Rafael had no idea of this plan did not worry Terrence. Rafael would take the position in stride, and of course he’d be honored to carry the title. Rafael had no illusions about war. His knowledge concerning battle tactics and strategy often surpassed that of the Academy teachers, an astonishing trait that seemed linked to the superior fighting skills he possessed. Rafael moved with precision and power, and he’d taught Terrence how to fight the way he did, with close, fluid movements that minimized exposure, anticipated attacks, and seemed to read an enemy’s mind. Rafael had shown Terrence how to focus on the core of his enemy, rather than his blades or his wings, and to allow his own body to react without forcing his thoughts.

Before any fight, Rafael had trained Terrence to visualize the defeat of his foe, even if that image lasted only an instant, in the split second before any sparring began. Then Terrence had to let his body and mind win the victory. Rafael called this a mental space of true power, or the truth of the battle, or the harmony of true action, and though it was hard to understand Rafael sometimes, as he often groped for words to explain how he fought as he did, Terrence knew when his mind found the harmony of true action, because that was when he fought the way Rafael did: with precision, with power, with a strength that flowed in and out of him like an unstoppable force.

Whenever Terrence fought like that, he felt Pure. A Purity more concentrated and real than being inside a Great Temple. Stronger than a blessing of ash. That was why he felt so resentful of God, and why he felt Rafael should have been born as an Agni. No one who understood how to manifest such Purity could ever have been born with Pollution. Rafael carried no Sin, and Terrence didn’t care that Rafael’s melas said otherwise.

As Rafael stepped from the water to join him, Terrence’s thoughts returned to those damned humans who’d been skinned, and why the second one hadn’t screamed.

Hey, Rafael said, snapping his scales to dry off his wings.

Hey.

What is it? Something happen?

Terrence shrugged his shoulders, but Rafael didn’t see. He’d turned his gaze over the lake for a moment, as if gauging how much daylight he had left, how much practice time he might get in before dark.

Well? Rafael asked, glancing at Terrence again.

Sometimes it bothered Terrence that Rafael was two years older than he was, and a foot taller. Always looking up to him didn’t make Terrence feel very princely. At least by the time he was grown, he would probably stand with a height of six-five, like his father, with a wingspan that stretched twenty feet. But at thirteen, Terrence was small for his age, only five feet, though his wings already spanned sixteen feet. His wing size helped make him the fastest student in his Academy class, and he knew he would be named an Iraja, a student able to fly faster than seventy-five miles an hour, before he was sixteen.

Rafael was already an Iraja, and his wingspan of nineteen feet would probably reach more than twenty by the time he was grown.

Terrence followed Rafael’s gaze out over the water. I was just wondering… about something.

Rafael studied Terrence with an open expression.

Do you remember— Terrence began, and then cleared his throat. Do you remember what the humans used to call this place?

You mean all of Mirador? Or just the capital here?

Both, Terrence said.

Rafael had permission to read books in the advanced library, an area of the school off-limits to most Academy students, and he knew a lot of arcane information. Centuries ago, the first High Priests of Mirador had forbidden the pterren to use human place names, until those labels had died out. Rafael said the priests had intended to change the words of the human calendar as well, but then they must’ve changed their minds, because the terms for the months were all the same in the books. Terrence didn’t understand why Rafael cared so much about human names, but he had an amazing memory for them, and Terrence wanted to take advantage of that now.

Mirador covers what humans called Central America, Rafael said. Part of North America, too. Our capital lies in the former state of Oaxaca, in the country of Mexico. The climate has changed since then. We get more rain now. Winters are colder. And the vegetation is different, thicker and denser. But the mountains are the same. Rafael nodded his head toward the peaks in the west that filled part of the sky, and gestured with his hand toward the east to include that range as well.

Terrence smiled and shook his head in amusement, pleased Rafael could rattle that off. What did the people look like?

Like you, Rafael said with a smile. Black hair, dark skin, and he wrapped his arm around Terrence’s neck for a moment, gripping him in a rough headlock before letting him go.

Was there ever a place called Kumara? Terrence asked, keeping his distance now. He didn’t like to wrestle with Rafael, as Rafael always won, and Terrence wanted to stay focused on his questions.

Kumara’s a human word, but I don’t know what it means.

The last human they executed today, Terrence said. "He didn’t scream when they cut him. Not once. He just yelled, The Kumara will come. I thought that might be a tribe or something. Some group of humans who plan to attack us. Or a weapon they have. Like a nuclear bomb."

Rafael began to consider this, but Terrence asked another question before he could respond.

How can a human be skinned alive without screaming? They always scream when they die. Don’t they?

People die in all different ways, Rafael said. Some scream. Some don’t. I imagine that man simply made up his mind he wouldn’t.

A human mind isn’t that strong.

Rafael quirked a brow. The High Priests and the War Council might have you believe that. But it isn’t the truth.

Of course it’s the truth. Just because humans are stubborn enough to still use velocity weapons doesn’t mean they’re intelligent. The term velocity weapons included guns and artillery, helicopters, gas bombs, and any other human weaponry pterren were forbidden to use. Ignithian wanted His children to kill with purpose and meaning. As recorded in the holy book, it was possible to kill someone by accident using a gun or a bomb, but much harder to make that mistake with a sword or a battle axe. Velocity weapons were another form of Pollution, machinery Ignithian wanted cleansed from the earth.

Humans invented those weapons, Rafael said. And a great many other things. Only an intelligent mind can participate in an act of creation.

Because of their Sin, Terrence said. Their evil god gave them the ideas for those guns, and everything else they created. It’s the only reason they have them.

Rafael turned and started walking away. He spoke with heat in his voice. If you already know all the answers, why ask?

Terrence bolted to catch up. Ah, Rafe. It’s not like that. Don’t be mad.

I’ve warned you before not to underestimate humans. There’s a reason the kings of Mirador haven’t eliminated the free holdings. There’s a reason Vendale leaves those mountain fortresses alone.

Terrence stomped as he moved. I know that!

Then don’t spew this stuff at me about how weak humans are. If you want to sound like the Council, go back to the palace.

Rafael so rarely showed his temper about anything, Terrence didn’t know what to say. I don’t want to be in the palace! he cried. As if Rafael didn’t already know that. Terrence hated to sit around talking, which was all that ever went on at court. Gossip, gossip, and more stupid gossip. How could anyone put up with that?

Rafael stopped walking and nudged Terrence’s arm with his elbow. Then practice your water launch with me.

"There is no such thing as a water launch!"

But Rafael would have none of it. He ran a few steps and jumped, beating his wings fast enough to lift into the air, the same way Terrence did. Last year, Rafael had been the youngest boy in Academy to ever launch from the ground, a skill that was difficult for even a grown man to learn. Not only had Rafael proved pterren could launch from the ground at the age of fourteen, he’d found a way to teach Terrence that trick, which meant a month ago, at the age of thirteen, Terrence had beaten Rafael’s record by a year.

Rafael could have kept the record himself. But he’d taught Terrence the skill in the same way he’d taught him how to fight, with a great deal of patience and rare moments of praise. Rafael had always told Terrence he wanted to be a teacher one day, and when Terrence finally launched from the ground the first time, Rafael had smiled with as much satisfaction as if he still held the record himself.

But Terrence didn’t want Rafael to be an instructor. Just the idea of it made Terrence wince. Rafael didn’t belong in a classroom, or outside with students on a practice field somewhere. He belonged on a battlefield, as a general. Winning battles.

Terrence also didn’t want to dive in the lake and work on something everyone had dismissed as impossible, although a standing launch before the age of fifteen had also been dismissed as impossible. So he stripped off his school uniform and joined Rafael.

The exercise required so much concentration and physical strain, that any thoughts of the Kumara or Human Resistance were forgotten. Terrence had to figure out how to manage a shallow dive when he hit the lake water at speed, and then how to rise high enough to flap his wings when he surfaced again. It was difficult work, outright exhausting, and left no time for distraction.

Hours later, after sunset, Terrence called it quits and collapsed on the shore. He lay on his back for a while, on his wings, trying to summon the strength to stand and walk to his room for the night. But his thoughts soon returned to that strange execution. He sat up.

Terrence reviewed what he knew of the Pterren Wars, when the humans had possessed far more weaponry than they did now. Over three hundred years ago, the humans had entire defense walls mounted with cannons, hangars full of helicopters and jets, drones loaded with bombs, robots and rockets, hovercraft armed with missiles. Pterren had flown into skies full of shrapnel, heavy artillery, heat-seeking missiles, clouds of gas, winds full of explosives—and none of that had been enough to save the humans from slaughter. The pterren had massacred the humans despite all their weapons, and Terrence would not be afraid.

I’ll wipe out the last of them, he told Rafael, who sat beside him now, elbows propped on his knees, watching the moon rise. And whatever this Kumara is, Terrence added, a tribe, a new weapon, or one man, I swear to God I will kill him. I’ll eliminate the Resistance one day. Every last filthy one of them.

Rafael tilted his head a small fraction to acknowledge those words, and Terrence felt his heart pound with the force of a temple drum. This new resolution gave him a mission, transformed the confusion he’d felt into certitude, a precise plan for action. He would be the great King of Mirador who killed the Kumara, the last hope of the humans, and when Terrence obliterated the final members of the Resistance, he would savor their screams as they died.

The god Ignithian is always depicted the same way, as a giant pterren male with wings and eyes made of fire, wearing black scale armor and holding a battle axe covered in flames. The majority of pterren fight with swords, hatchets, battle axes, atlatls and spears, as well as with a weapon called khadga. Similar to the martial arts weapon sai, khadga are held in each hand, and possess a fanned, jagged blade at one end, for prying beneath scales and tearing through the under-layer of armor.

From The Rise of the Pterren

White Lion Press, Resistance Publishing

3. Terrence

In the next year and a half, Rafael never did figure out how to launch from the water. At sixteen, he graduated from Academy at the top of his class, joined the King’s Army, moved into the capital barracks, and applied for a post in the north as a scout. Scouts ran border patrol, spied in enemy territory, and searched for human encampments. It was dangerous work, with the highest casualty rate in the Army. Not a position men volunteered for. Especially not men who graduated at the top of their class.

Rafael’s teachers and friends were stunned, some of them openly horrified, but not Terrence. Terrence had always known Rafael wanted that job, the same way he knew Rafael wanted to teach. If anyone could survive being a scout, Rafael could, though Terrence still worried. He found himself in the Great Temple at dawn every morning, reciting the prayers to Ignithian for protection in war. Scouts were often captured and tortured to death in unspeakable ways, images Terrence had to push from his mind while he prayed. God wouldn’t let that happen to Rafael. Ignithian would keep Rafael safe until the day Terrence needed him as a general.

Three weeks before Rafael was scheduled to post out of the capital, he met Terrence after school. Terrence smiled to see him, since Rafael was often too busy now for extra practice every day. But instead of sparring, Rafael said, There are some soldiers I’d like you to meet—at the Compass. The palatial building that held Mirador’s military headquarters.

The Compass served multiple purposes. It was a place of high ceremony, decorated with large, lavish rooms where the War Council convened, spaces where awards were presented and prayers recited, but it was also a building for mundane matters and paperwork. There were mess halls and classrooms, cluttered offices and equipment racks, closets full of records and files—everything necessary for the day-to-day management of the King’s Army.

Terrence had only visited the Compass before with his father. While he liked to be admired in public, soldiers weren’t the same as the people at court. Terrence might be the son of the King, but he was an Academy student—untested in war—and he had no real power inside the King’s Army. At fourteen, he was old enough to know the difference between mindless subservience at court and true respect paid to men, and the soldiers who flew for his father had no reason to hold Terrence in any regard. He hadn’t even come into his strength yet. Terrence was only five-eight, his shoulders hadn’t filled out completely, and he was waiting for another growth spurt to hit. Compared to the men in the Compass, Terrence was an adolescent, not a man. The King’s Army probably viewed him exactly as his father still did—as an ineffectual child—and the idea of prancing around in their midst made his stomach drop. Strolling through the stark halls of the Compass did not sound appealing at all.

He didn’t want to refuse Rafael though, so he scowled at the ground.

We can avoid going inside, if you’d rather, Rafael said.

Terrence sighed, and then nodded. He would never have displayed such a reluctance to visit the Compass to anyone but Rafael. Princes weren’t raised to be weak. The High Kings of Mirador held the strength of their kingdom, shed their blood in great battles, and honored God for their triumph. Kings didn’t snivel or whine. They certainly never felt anxious or small.

So Terrence followed Rafael to the Compass, and they walked past the gleaming behemoth of marble, out onto the massive back lawn, where various groups of men were at drill. There were plenty of soldiers around, and some would surely take note of their presence, but at least being out on the yard was much more innocuous than walking into the building.

How long will this take? Terrence asked.

Not sure, Rafael said, scanning the distance. He bowed to Terrence and added, Wait here, before leaving Terrence’s side to approach a small cluster of men.

Terrence swallowed, blinking in the harsh sunlight, and felt sweaty with nerves.

Three more weeks, and Rafael would be gone. They should have been sparring together, or flying off to the mountains. As Terrence stood gazing at the soldiers around him, he felt deeply inadequate. These men flew to war with the King. The mighty warrior. Not his son.

Terrence had to remind himself that was only part of the story. One day, he would be crowned as High King, and these men would be his to command. He would watch soldiers die, ripped apart in bloodbaths of carnage—and the thought of these future battles was enough to banish his nerves.

Be the strength, Terrence thought, envisioning the greatness he would achieve, his destiny as High King, and he was no longer a boy, but a man. He squared his shoulders, kept his jaw firmly set, and projected solemnity, resolve, and absolute confidence in every aspect of his demeanor.

Terrence was power. Even as a High Prince. This was his Army, and these soldiers were his. Promised and waiting for the day he was King.

Rafael returned, followed by two massive men. Both soldiers possessed the same sharp lines in their cheekbones, the same wide sweep in their brows, and an identical flare in their noses and lips, so Terrence could guess they were brothers. They had the black skin of nightshades, and wore the silver insignia of officers on their tunics. Their uniforms were sable, marked with the deep blue and silver embellishments accenting their rank, and as they drew closer, Terrence counted the bars across their insignia that marked them as captains. One rank below colonel, and Terrence drew in his breath. Their arms bore the melas of the Agni, of course.

Rafael bowed to Terrence, and the officers gave curt bows as well. Terrence tipped his head to the captains, a sign of respect he wasn’t required to give, since he was a High Prince and beyond such strictures of deference, but Terrence did so for Rafael’s sake. If Rafael thought these men were important enough for Terrence to meet, then Terrence could afford to be gracious.

Prince Davin, Rafael said. This is Captain Hlinka Atone, and Captain Quinn Atone. Hlinka serves in General Descomb’s command. Quinn serves under General Pierson.

Quinn narrowed his eyes at Rafael, and Rafael added, We met in sectionals four years ago.

Sectionals were advanced sparring courses for boys in Academy, which meant these men were only a few years older than Rafael. They seemed ancient to Terrence though; old as his father.

Hlinka was a sixth-year at the time, Rafael said. Quinn was one year behind. Which meant Hlinka was twenty, and Quinn was nineteen. And they were already captains. Terrence felt his heartbeat pick up as he studied these men.

Hlinka had crimson scales bright as freshly-shed blood, and wore his black hair in a mohawk. Hlinka’s hair was longest at the top of his head, about three inches tall, but became shorter and shorter the closer it was to his neck.

Quinn shaved his head, and his scales were a shimmery, pearled pink. He stood like a formidable twin to his older brother, his black eyes as cold and menacing as Hlinka’s.

Rafael said, They’ve agreed to a khadga match, and Terrence lifted his brows. For two Agni captains to spar an infantry Krimga defied all logic of rank.

Terrence glanced at Hlinka and Quinn once again, wondering if they would comment on their odd decision, but they were as forbidding and silent as generals. Whatever their reasons for granting this request, they obviously had no intention of sharing. Rafael gestured for them to follow, and led them toward an open patch of grass.

Terrence moved with the others, and remained outwardly calm, but his heart began racing, and blood rushed in his ears.

I’ll fight Hlinka first, Rafael said, facing off.

Terrence watched Hlinka step into position, and wanted to shout, This is insane! as Rafael and Hlinka both gripped their khadga. They were out here in the open, where anyone could witness them spar, and everyone knew this was wrong. Krimga didn’t challenge officers, especially not Agni superiors. Rafael was being so foolish right now—so incredibly foolish. Did he think Terrence wanted to see him fight in a match he was forbidden to win? What would that possibly prove?

Terrence glared at Rafael, but Rafael wasn’t looking at him. He was bowing to Hlinka, preparing to fight, and Terrence crossed his arms, resigning himself to this madness.

The match began, and Hlinka moved first. Rafael defended, and defended again. He took a long time, nearly half an eternity, to execute any offensive maneuvers, and it was obvious he wanted Terrence to see how Hlinka fought, what a ruthless combatant he was.

They lashed out with their wings as they stabbed with their khadga, moving each time with speed and precision, and there was the scream of scales scraping scales, filling the air with the raw sound of battle.

Rafael fell to his knees, and allowed Hlinka to win a killing position—with one of his khadga pressed into Rafael’s armpit, and the edge of Hlinka’s wing at Rafael’s throat. End match. Hlinka released him, Rafael stood, and they bowed to each other.

Then Rafael fought Quinn. Rafael was so drenched in sweat by that point, he could barely hold onto his weapons. Regardless, he still prolonged the match, defending and defending long after most men would’ve dropped from exhaustion. There was no question Quinn was a magnificent warrior, with a level of savagery that had clearly earned him his rank as a captain.

When Rafael ended the match, he gave Quinn the win the same way he’d lost against Hlinka—down on his knees—and Terrence felt his heart thump with bitterness.

Though he couldn’t deny there was also an awe he’d surrendered to, watching Hlinka and Quinn make Rafael struggle, because hardly anyone made Rafael work so hard in a fight.

But Terrence couldn’t banish the irritation he felt. The sense of unfairness overpowered his awe, because Rafael had allowed both those men to take killing holds, had given away victories that should have been his.

Terrence felt a molten pit of disgust flame to life in his gut, but it couldn’t be helped. Hlinka and Quinn were both Pure, and Rafael was Polluted. This wasn’t a classroom, a place where origin was ignored for the purpose of training. This was the King’s Army, and the law was the law.

Rafael was still the best fighter. Hlinka and Quinn were exceptional, but they weren’t Rafael.

After the second match ended, Terrence exchanged a few words with Hlinka and Quinn. He thanked them for their time and voiced his appreciation for their talents, and with each word he spoke, Terrence conjured every bit of the power and authority his father wielded so well—which was easy to do because he was angry. Frustrated. Resentful. Not of them, but of everything. The entire world offended Terrence right now. Insulted every sensibility he possessed.

Terrence tipped his head to dismiss Hlinka and Quinn, and as the two captains walked out of earshot, Terrence squinted at Rafael. There weren’t words strong enough to express how much Terrence wanted to leave, so he let his face do it for him.

Rafael only smiled, even though he was covered in sweat and his blond hair was messy and wet from his efforts. He wiped his brow with his sleeve and asked, Well?

Terrence stepped away, wishing he could storm off. But he knew Rafael wasn’t ready to leave—was still standing there, smiling at him—so Terrence spun back around. He tried to rein in his temper, but failed. "You should have beaten them. Terrence regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth, but that didn’t inspire him to silence his tongue. He wasn’t yelling, wasn’t speaking loud enough for anyone but Rafael to hear, but his words carried plenty of venom. You were the better fighter. You threw the fight. You brought me here to watch you lose—and you think I can’t tell the difference?"

Rafael’s smile disappeared. A shadow fell over his face, his eyes lost their shine, and he lowered his voice. I want to know what you think of them. And I would appreciate a response that isn’t insulting.

"Insulting? What about watching the better man lose? You don’t think that’s insulting?"

Rafael drew back, as shocked by those words as if Terrence had spit in his face, and then Rafael dropped his head, the unmistakable signal Terrence needed to stop.

Pterren didn’t talk about origin. God’s law was God’s law, and the holy book wasn’t up for debate. To question the law brought condemnation, censure, sometimes direct punishment—and for the lower origins, such behavior brought death.

Origin was a system of order created by God, and to counter God’s Law was heretical. Even a Prince could be publicly chastised for blasphemy. If the High Priests had heard what Terrence had said, proclaiming a Krimga a better man than an Agni, he would be punished inside the Great Temple. And if Terrence’s father could hear him right now, King Davin would hit him and choke him until he collapsed. Not once, but twice. The first time would take place here on the grass, in the immediate aftermath of his Sin. And the second time would be in the palace, in front of Terrence’s tutors and the King’s friends at court—because humiliation was a much stronger deterrent than physical pain.

But Terrence wasn’t addressing the King. This was Rafael, and Rafael never struck Terrence, or ever threatened to hurt him, and because of that safety, Terrence’s words stormed with thunder.

"You should have been able to win. He clenched his hands into fists, appalled by the force of his temper, but still unable to stop. You were the better fighter. Not Hlinka. Not Quinn. And don’t you dare try to tell me none of it matters. It matters. It all matters."

Rafael took a deep breath without lifting his head, and he seemed so distant right now, so sad and defeated, that Terrence had an urge to embrace him and say he was sorry, but the force of his wrath held him back. "I know why you brought me here. You think I need someone to spar with after you’re gone. You think I have to replace you. And my answer is no. No to both of them. No to everyone."

Terrence was a High Prince. He didn’t need other people. Didn’t need any of these men at the Compass. Terrence had his tutors, his Academy teachers, and his classmates at school. Rafael would come home on his one-week furloughs, every five months like clockwork, and Terrence would wait for him. He would be fine. You’re not going to die.

Rafael picked his head up and laughed, a bitter sound that matched Terrence’s fury. I wish it was that easy.

Terrence glowered at him. Then don’t go.

Rafael gave him a hard look, and Terrence suddenly hated himself. Hated the depth of his Sin and his terrible blasphemy. But more than that, he hated himself for speaking to Rafael like a child.

As the bright heat of his fury transformed into shame, Terrence’s remorse must have shown on his face, because Rafael sighed, scanned the lawn, and the tension in his body