The Blood of the Lion

By C.D. McKenna

An Empire is rising . . . the question is, will you join?

****

Destiny is irrefutable.

And Syra, Morei, and Cyrus all have something in common: death.

The Demon Killer, once responsible for the Diyrặllian Massacre, has been found after being lost for centuries.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.D. McKenna
• Release date: Mar 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985546026

Book preview

The Undead

427 Summers Ago

Drake deflected another blow, exhausted. His muscles shook, and sweat gleamed on his brow, coating the skin underneath his bashed and bloodied armor. Comrades fell before him, blood-soaked and covered in ashen mud where the falling soot had met water. A thick, metallic stench filled the air, and ash coated Drake’s lips.

The city was on fire.

Heart slamming against his chest, he turned to run but found himself facing the Death Seeker, his skin pale blue as if half-frozen, his eyes dipped in crimson. Drake dropped his gloved hand to the hilt of the Demon Killer protectively. He had to keep this relic safe. In the wrong hands, it could cost thousands of lives, if not millions.

The Death Seeker tilted his head and smirked coldly. You have something of mine.

Drake’s responsibilities, his promises, all of it flooded his mind in an instant. He had given his word to the king that he would transfer the Demon Killer safely into the hands of the Assane soldiers who waited for him outside their falling city. They had promised to keep it safe, to hide it from the claws of this monster.

Red armor flashed to his left as more of their wretched undead men rushed into the city. His city. It had once been grand, an icon in the Diyrặllian country. Now it was in flames, crippled, and falling apart.

Rage filled Drake and he lunged with his sword, bellowing a war cry with all the strength he could muster, but the Death Seeker pushed the sword aside with a flick of his own. Drake stumbled and tried to regain himself, but he was assailed with a series of blows. The Death Seeker’s handguard was crested with intricately woven steel to protect his gloved hand from the attempts to disarm him.

Drake defended himself as best as he could, but he could feel his strength waning rapidly. The monster was toying with him. He grappled to find a gap where he could place a wounding blow, but alas, none came. The Death Seeker was far too skilled, and Drake was exhausted. He hadn’t rested since dawn, hours ago, and now it was catching up with him. His muscles shook in a last outcry as he deflected another blow.

With a final flick, Drake’s sword flew away out of reach, leaving him weaponless. Somewhere behind him, a woman screamed. Ash coated his tongue when he inhaled sharply. His lungs begged for clean air.

The Death Seeker looked upon Drake as if for the first time, his own sword covered in blood from the countless he had slain. His slick armor was blacker than midnight, devoid of any crest. He wore no helmet—perhaps he had decided it was useless against them, or perhaps he wanted everyone who fell before him to see his face. The Death Seeker’s short, jet-black hair was dusted with ash. It spilled down over his features, giving him a ghostly look.

You have fought well, soldier, he complimented, voice smooth and calm.

What have you done with your soldiers? Drake cried, gesturing at the calamity of red that swarmed around them. They will not die!

"They’ve been given . . . abilities, he answered, and jerked his blade closer, making Drake shy away. The legends will speak of your heroic act, young man. The storytellers will sing your name for summers to come."

Drake shook his head, revolted. No story would be told of him or his people. They would only be known as a few of the many fallen to this massacre. Why do you do this? Why taint your name and bloody your soul with these cruel acts?

The Death Seeker laughed, letting a wicked smile touch his lips. Fear clawed its way into Drake’s heart as he spoke. My dear soldier, you know nothing of me and who I am. And you never will. Now— He stretched his hand out with a gleam in his cold eyes. The blade.

Desperate to delay him, Drake took another step back but felt his boot sink into mud and twist. He inhaled sharply, feeling the strain of his weight crack the ankle with a snap. Pain flooded his foot and he dropped to his knee, unable to bear his own weight. Realizing running was no longer possible, Drake kicked out with his good leg. The Death Seeker sidestepped him with ease, never shifting his bloody gaze.

The brave soldier, the Death Seeker teased. If only your king could see you now.

You don’t have to do this, Drake gasped, shaking his head. Tears burned in his eyes, and he blinked them away. He had failed his king and everyone in his city.

The Death Seeker knelt next to him, his breath hot against Drake’s skin. This close, Drake could practically taste the venom in his response. I already have.

Drake lashed out, hoping to catch him by surprise, but the Death Seeker lifted his hand and caught Drake’s fist without flinching. In an instant, bones cracked as the monster crushed his hand. Fiery pain rushed up Drake’s arm, and he screamed in agony.

Crimson eyes paralyzed him in his spot. He took a sharp inhale, watching as the Death Seeker reached over for the Demon Killer. With a tug against Drake’s belt, the blade’s sheath was unclipped. Drake struggled against the weight of the gaze, feeling an icy sensation start in his limbs, wiggling through his chest and into his bones. He was paralyzed, unable to move from whatever magic the Death Seeker had called upon.

Lip curling up, the Death Seeker spat, Let me tell you this, brave soldier, I have walked this world between the dead and living far longer than you could imagine. I’ve watched empires rise and fall, watched fate twist and contort into something unrecognizable, and now I too shall watch this city fall.

Then he stood and raised his sword. The metal shimmered from the light of the flames in an otherworldly fashion, captivating Drake as he watched his life dance behind his eyes for the last time.

The Death Seeker struck.

Born to Bleed

Present Day

Morei had never forgotten what it was like to die.

Death was cold. She had embraced him like a winter’s night touched with the chill of a slight breeze. Ever so gently, Death had caressed a finger down Morei’s cheek, trailing with her the last remnants of warmth—but with it, a sense of calm had come over him. The burning pain was cast aside as a numbness washed over him, prefacing the dark abyss that had followed.

The night was still crystal clear in his mind, no matter how hard he tried to forget it. Morei had been foolish and gullible enough to befriend some men. He was a bit of an introvert and an only child, never getting along great with other children his age, especially the boys. They were all brutes and dimwitted, wrestling in the mud, while Morei spent the better half of his childhood with his nose in a book.

There had been a festival that night, celebrating something Morei hadn’t cared enough to pay attention to. That lack of care was a bad habit for the heir to the Geral throne, but knowing every detail that went on in the kingdom wasn’t interesting to him. Not then, at least.

They were all drinking in Wilk’s Pub, Morei and the three men he had befriended. Coltyn said they ought to try another pub in the area and that he knew a way to cut through the side streets without running into all the people crowding about. Drunk out of his mind, Morei didn’t think anything of it—not until they were all alone in an abandoned home way out of sight from the street.

Morei should have left then. The deep feeling that something was wrong itched his skin and alerted his senses, clearing his head in a heartbeat. But he was slow to react, and Coltyn’s friends tackled him. When Morei tried to fight back, they tied his hands and feet with thick rope, and the next thing he knew, he was facing Coltyn, who held a curved blade in his hand.

The dark ritual had required a blood sacrifice to summon up the demon from the underworld, but to ensure soul bondage, death was required of the host. Coltyn had slit his own forearms and smeared the blood over Morei. The thought repulsed him to this day. He could still remember how warm it was against his skin and the rich scent of metal as Coltyn and his friends began their chant in the Old Tongue of the Vorelians. At the height of their chant, Coltyn had sunk the curved blade into Morei’s chest with a maddened grin.

Morei winced at the memory and lifted the glass of Kendell’s Milk to his lips. The agony of that night endured relentlessly in his thoughts. He took a large drink, hoping to rid himself of the ache that filled his chest. It was an ache he had dared hope would one day be gone, but it still crawled out of its cave buried deep within his heart.

Deep down, he blamed himself for the death of his parents.

When Morei had awakened the next day, alone in the abandoned home, he had found himself covered in dried blood. Next to him, Coltyn lay dead. Disoriented and afraid, Morei stumbled out of the home and ran to the palace, unaware that he looked like a wild animal to the people. But it hadn’t mattered.

The images flashed violently behind his eyes and the king flinched.

The blood was everywhere. It had been a violent death, without question. His mother had died reaching for his father, who must have been stabbed over a dozen times. Bloody footprints and handprints were everywhere, inked in red on the floors and walls. The devastation that ripped through his soul in that moment had been enough to bring him to his knees and rip the air from his lungs.

Shaking his head of the memory, Morei drank the rest of Kendell’s Milk, choking down the intense wave of rage that swept through his body. Denial had been first to come, knocking on his door and helping him avoid the reality he had been thrust into, but it had been short-lived. His scream had alerted the guards, who dragged him out in a haste despite Morei pleading to go back.

At the time, separated from the commotion buzzing around his parents’ murder, he hadn’t heard the rumor that began.

The rumor that he had done it. That he had killed his own parents for the throne. He had no siblings and was the sole heir to the Geral throne. Morei Geral, traitor, murderer, monster—he had heard it all.

People had asked questions that he couldn’t answer. Where had the blood on him come from? Why was he there? Questions that would have exposed the monster that now lived inside him. Morei had to lie and make himself look like a fool to persuade the council and staff members that he hadn’t been the one to drive a blade into the hearts of his parents. With all this commotion, Morei never had proper time to grieve, because once they had cleared him, he was placed as the new king of Geral.

Three months . . . Three months of rumors since he had ascended the throne. And no matter how hard he tried to destroy their origins, another arose—stronger, darker, and more sinister than the last. The rumor that he was the prophesized Demon King—a legend older than time itself. A prophecy about destruction, chaos, and new beginnings. An old tale that gave life to the God of Darkness, Sekar, and bred fear into the hearts of the Vorelians.

Stories. That was all they were, but Morei was chilled by them all. He was still himself, but the more time that passed, the more Morei wondered if he was destined to become the villain everyone gossiped him to be. Not because he didn’t want to, but because sometimes destiny was cruel. A man destined to fulfill a prophecy, a fate—but he always scolded himself for thinking this. There was nothing to do but keep his chin up and his head high, for his father had not raised him to be a coward.

And now, it would seem that was more important than ever before.

Morei lowered his gaze from the sandstone walls that surrounded him in his study to the weathered letter before him. Slowly, he took a deep breath to steady himself, but his thoughts raged like a desert storm.

Strange things were occurring in the country. Rumors of possessions, dark ailments, and dead crops, and glimpses of weird creatures along The Dark Forest to the east, behind Ferguson, were spreading like wildfire. Frightened whispers of the demons running rampant in the land had also met the king’s ears, but he had cast them aside quickly for the citizens of Geral. People were easily afraid, and frankly, Morei was too. He had a duty to uphold, and that was to protect the people of Geral—but how could he do that when he didn’t know what he was fighting? The thought left him sleepless on many nights, and it was starting to drag him down.

Over three months ago, word had reached his ear of a Dragon Rider. At first, Morei had laughed it off. A Dragon Rider hadn’t been spotted in nye eight centuries, with the last one falling during the Great War. The idea seemed so preposterous that Morei didn’t believe it until one of his soldiers came running toward him, throwing his hands up wildly and squealing like a little child. The soldier exclaimed that he had seen the man they were calling Silver Eyes along the banks of the Sorréleian River east of here. The certainty in the soldier’s eyes had crushed every doubt that this upcoming Rider was real. Stories of old spoke of Dragon Riders possessing the sharpest and brightest silver eyes, a trademark for their namesake. It was an unquestionable fact that had been passed down from generation to generation.

As the gossip of the Dragon Rider grew louder, so too did the volatility of Morei’s once-stable rule in his city, Geral. Citizens prophesized that with the first Dragon Rider in eight centuries, a new era was beginning—and with it, the end of current rule. That was bad. Crime had increased since then, and it was becoming increasingly impossible to snub out naysayers who preached that the end of times was upon the country, Sorréle—that a grander future would rise from the ashes of the past.

With this, Morei did the only thing he could justify—he put a bounty on the Rider’s head, to have him brought to the city.

It had worked, though not without some irony. The Rider—named Cyrus, as Morei had learned—simply walked right into his city.

Morei had him drugged to break communication with his dragon, then brought him to the dungeons, away from the public eye. The king could still remember meeting him, and thinking of it left a chill along his skin. The young man was, in so many words, strange. Never had Morei met a man’s eyes and been uncomfortable, but he had with Cyrus. It was as if the Rider had the eyes of a thousand souls locked in the silver abyss of his gaze.

But Morei’s true mistake was leaving on a mandatory trip for Diemon. It was all politics. Diemon had pledged fealty a month prior, and he was simply doing his duty, visiting to ensure that Queen Reaza of Diemon was upholding her responsibilities.

While Morei was gone, Cyrus had shown just how dangerous he was, strangling a guard, killing three more, and fleeing the city. When he returned, Morei practically ripped the heads off of every soldier on duty that day, and demanded three search parties embark to look for any sight of him. If they thought they had something, they needed to follow the track until they either dropped dead or ran into a dead end.

Six days ago, one group had successfully identified Cyrus and his dragon, and were cornering them against the Releuthian Mountains.

But the damage was already done. The incident had erupted what little peace remained among the citizens. It had taken everything to silence the people and keep them in place, but as the land grew more dangerous, Morei now faced an even bigger problem. A problem that he thought might be the reason behind all these disturbing incidents. It was this letter before him that stared mockingly at him like some twisted joke. Morei reached forward and slid the yellowed parchment closer, the noise awfully loud against the mahogany desk. He forced his eyes down at the cursive, which was elegantly and intricately written, though the message itself was clear. The entire country was in danger.

Biting back a string of curses to the Gods, he read the letter over again in the silence of his study.

The Gods won’t help you, and neither will the sharpest sword. Sorréle will fall before the next summer, and in the ashes that remain, a new empire will rise. An empire that will be greater than anyone has ever seen. This isn’t a warning—this is your chance to say goodbye to the world you’ve known.

–The Nameless One

Morei let go of the letter and reached for another drink. What he was really trying to do was drink his way into an answer, but so far, it hadn’t worked. It was foolish, yes, but under the circumstances, he needed some way to relax. Just yesterday, a woman had run into the town square, screaming that her floor was cracking open and demons were crawling out by the hundreds. Soldiers had tackled her and dragged her into the dungeons. Within the hour, she had suffocated herself by wrapping the shackles around her neck when no one was looking. But the damage had been done, and his citizens were freaked out. All throughout the city, Morei heard reports of wooden posts being erected with sage tied to the tips and written prayers nailed to the wood. Hordes of people were amassing in the town center, engaging in group prayer sessions and crossing their hearts with their fingers in a traditional fashion. All cried out to Greve, their God of Strength.

So far, it hadn’t worked. Morei wished he could say he was surprised, but he wasn’t. The Gods hadn’t been there for him when he lay dying on some old dusty floor, so why would they show now? It was a bitter thought, one shadowed in shame, because to doubt the Gods meant to doubt the very culture he lived in. But how else was he supposed to justify the abandonment of them when he needed them most?

It was his duty and his alone to protect the citizens, not that of the Gods.

Morei wanted nothing more than to cast this letter aside in a fire and watch it burn. He wanted to laugh it off and accept it as joke that someone had pulled to try to scare him. But it wasn’t, and deep down in the pit of his stomach, he knew that. This was a threat to the entire country—but from who, he didn’t know. Morei didn’t know anyone who wielded that kind of power, but he surely wasn’t calling their bluff either. Given the circumstances of the last five weeks, it would have been foolish to think that this letter wasn’t somehow tied to it all.

But that was what worried him the most. Was this Nameless One responsible for what was happening in Sorréle? And if so, why?

When Peter, his chancellor, had handed him the rolled letter and said that it was addressed for him, Morei had asked the obvious question of who it was from. Peter hadn’t been able to give him an answer. In that moment, a cold hand had reached into Morei’s chest and gripped his heart so tightly, he had been certain it would burst. The information that followed had been enough to make his skin crawl.

The letter had been delivered from a strange man, emaciated from likely weeks of travel on foot. When he had handed the letter to the nearest soldier, the man’s eyes had rolled back and he had dropped dead—a sign of a cruel energy bond. It was an unsettling revelation because it meant whoever The Nameless One was could break a man’s will and warp their mind. It was a dark practice and forbidden in Sorréle. But it was the kind of energy manipulation Morei was fascinated by and spent countless nights reading on.

The commoners called that kind of work black magic along the streets, a manifestation of one’s pledge to Sekar, the Dark Lord himself. The proper name was Dark Energy, and to wield such power didn’t take a sacrifice to the Gods—it took a sacrifice of one’s sanity. Wielding Dark Energy and conquering it could give one the ability to manipulate the raw elements of the world—fire, water, wind, and the metals within the ground. Such a strength would make one indestructible. A king of kings. A God to mortals. A God to the divine, for not even the Gods would touch power so dangerous.

It would make the wielder untouchable.

A knock on the door pulled Morei out of the depths of his thoughts. Who is it?

Peter, Your Majesty.

Nodding to himself, Morei called back, Come on in, and poured another glass of Kendell’s Milk. The sweet liquor was strong and could bring any man to his knees, but for Morei, it did nothing except remind him that he wasn’t entirely human anymore. Ever since that awful night, he had changed. He was stronger than any warrior, and faster; he healed at an increased speed, and could drink for six men without feeling anything. With this, his ability to harvest energy had also increased. No longer did he feel the wave of fatigue strike him when he manipulated energy to his bidding. While the feeling was exhilarating, it was terrifying. Morei didn’t know the limits of his new strength, and all these changes were only reminders that his body wasn’t entirely his anymore.

The door opened. Peter stepped in, but kept it cracked behind him. The large man brushed a red lock of hair out from his eye and blinked a couple of times. A bit dark in here, don’t you think?

Morei sipped on the liquor, drinking down the nerves that always flared when he was in the presence of someone else who didn’t know his secret. Fine by my standards. Truth was, he could see crystal clear down to the scratch that faintly lined the right edge of his desk. Someone had unsuccessfully tried to buff it out when his father had ruled.

The chancellor pursed his lips and nodded. Very well. Peter cleared his throat then, and Morei recognized the behavior as nerves. Whatever he was about to say was not good. As promised, I told you I would fetch you . . .

Morei slowly nodded, his thoughts racing. Was it another madwoman running about like yesterday? Go ahead.

Soldiers have already contained the situation, but they have not approached the woman, Peter began. The chancellor always had a way of trying to start a bad conversation with a positive perspective. It drove Morei crazy, but he bit his tongue for the moment, waiting for the rest. The woman has conducted a blood sacrifice to Sekar.

Morei’s muscles tensed at the mention of the God of Darkness. Are you sure? It was a dumb question, but he couldn’t help himself. There were strange occurrences plaguing the lands—anything pertaining to that, he could wrap his head around, but this was different. This was against Geral law and the practice of Drügale, the Vorelian religion.

Peter met his eyes and gave a curt nod. Yes, Your Majesty, I am sure. The woman looks mad and was speaking in some strange tongue I have not heard before, likely part of whatever she’s touched with. It was a goat that was slaughtered.

Morei stood, forgetting all else. How many people saw?

A few hundred, and they are still there, the chancellor said solemnly.

Cursing, Morei drank down the rest of the liquor in a clean sweep and set the glass down with a deafening ring. He checked his belt, ensuring he had his sword, and stepped around the desk. Why didn’t you kill her already? Something like this shouldn’t be put on display. His words were harsher than he intended, but he didn’t apologize. What they were dealing with was evil and rancid; it would spread like an illness over the city. It needed to be eradicated as quickly as possible.

Peter cleared his throat. As you requested, I am to come for you if anything like this happens.

There was no animosity in his words, but Morei still felt them as a stab. He chose to ignore it though, biting his tongue instead. Then let’s be off before the rest of the city sees this. As he approached the chancellor, the large man didn’t move out of the way. Instead, he dropped his eyes to the letter on the desk behind Morei.

You’ve been drinking, Peter noted. The letter must be good if you’ve pulled out Kendell’s Milk.

There were times when the chancellor’s observations were useful, but now was not one of those. It’s an endearing letter to the people of Geral. They wish us a good season, he replied with a cold sarcasm as he met the redhead’s bright-blue eyes.

But the damn chancellor didn’t move. He knew Morei too well. How bad is it? His voice had dropped three levels to near a whisper.

There was no way of escaping this. Morei had had full intentions of speaking to Peter about the letter, but not right at this moment. Stepping out of the way, he gestured at the haunting letter from behind and let Peter sweep it up and read the beautiful cursive.

A handful of heartbeats passed. Too long for one read over, so Morei knew Peter must have been rereading it to ensure he had seen those threatening words right. Finally, the chancellor dropped the letter as if the paper had burned him to the touch and met Morei’s gaze with a somber look. Do you think . . .? He trailed off.

That this Nameless One perhaps is responsible for what’s been happening? Morei finished the question and shrugged, but remained tense. His shoulders bothered him from how tightly wound up he was these days. The muscles would lock up if he sat for too long or hunched over a book. Possibly, but there’s no way to prove it. Still, we should take extra precautions around the city.

The chancellor motioned to the door, and Morei gladly stepped out, though the act was accompanied by a fleeting sense of anxiety. Staff members and soldiers walked about his halls, and as always, that meant the potential that one of them could see what he was hiding, what he really was. As Peter closed the door behind them, four Geral soldiers took up positions behind the pair, and they began to walk down one of the grand halls.

Generations of Geral crests stared back at Morei along the stone wall, each one modified to be slightly different. The generation before had given the rearing lion red eyes, while the one before that had elongated the beast slightly, making it almost disproportionate. Now, the proud animal reared with a fierceness that resembled what the Geral family had built the city on: strength and resilience. And without the cartoonish red eyes. Morei would go to his grave ensuring the current lion—engraved in black with a sketched artistic style—stayed as long as it possibly could.

The sound of scraping metal and boots echoed behind them as they walked. Peter spoke first, his voice weighted by the daunting letter. You will have to tell the council about this at the meeting today.

One thing Peter was good at was following rules—he’d been born and raised that way, and felt they were necessary to keep order. Morei disagreed with this philosophy. Some rules were good, others unnecessary, and some meant to be broken. This was a case where he would have avoided telling the council about the letter, at least until he had more information. But if that were discovered, he could be considered as having acted against the good of the people, and that could get him voted out. Right now, all this letter would do would stir the pot and get everyone scared. It was a reality he had to live with, though, especially with Peter on his heels. I know.

They were a country on the verge of war. A country that reeked of distrust and violence. Ever since the rumors of the demons, dying crops, and strange creatures, the royal families of Sorréle had begun pointing fingers at each other. Diemon, in the north, had gone as far as to believe that King Drexis of Caster was the Demon King conducting all this madness. It was comical given the king’s older age and long reign already, but Morei didn’t laugh. The accusations only reflected the darkness that was sweeping through the lands.

And now a letter from this Nameless One threatened the very existence of Sorréle. How could Morei even begin to amass an army to protect themselves and the other three royal families if they were too busy pointing fingers at each other? If he presented this letter to them, they would turn on him and say he forged it in an attempt to trick them into pledging fealty, so that he could raise an empire and rule the entire country.

The last thing he wanted was to cause war, but if war kept his city alive and thriving, then he’d do it. Sometimes sacrifices were necessary. As a king, Morei knew that, but he wasn’t sure he was ready for the task at hand if it meant his secret being revealed. Though, the thought had tickled his mind on occasion in the late hours. If the royal families turned on him and his city was threatened, he’d reveal himself. He’d have to. The revelation would likely cripple Geral, but only momentarily, because once the citizens realized he wasn’t some monster with horns, but simply a man trying to keep the city alive, they’d stand with him. That was what he wanted to tell himself, at least, but the thought still made his stomach turn in knots. There was also a massive chance the city would revolt against him.

No matter how he approached this, Morei knew there would be steep consequences. Yet it seemed regardless of how he felt, the certainty that he would have to tell the people the truth of himself loomed closer every day. The only thing that gave him confidence was that people were survivalists. They wanted to stay alive, and if they believed he could guarantee that—not that he knew how to guarantee a future at this point—then they’d have to trust him, and he could prove himself along the way.

Even if he had to bleed to do it.

A Walk with Fate

The Demon Killer. The most-wanted dagger in history. And Syra had it, tucked in its midnight-black sheath that was scripted with strange runes no one could even dare try to read. The hilt was embedded with rubies, so she had wrapped it with a red cloth to protect the blade from unwanted eyes. Then she had hidden it underneath her cloak, so that even the most curious person didn’t notice the ancient sheath. She had not asked for the blade, but fate had chosen differently.

Syra tugged at her black hood, pulling it farther down and hiding her features from the majority of the public as they passed a small group of laughing women wringing clothes out. It was safer that way. With the most dangerous weapon in the world, Syra had to be cautious, no matter where she was. There was no one she trusted, save for the two who had accompanied her on this journey. The blade could destroy cities and make a king an emperor.

That meant one thing: don’t get caught. Syra had a bounty on her head. It had carried over from Sorréle in the west after they had run into a couple who recognized her from sketches in Whale Village just north of here. It was bad news. Syra had really believed that once they landed in Diyrặ, things would be calmer, but they hadn’t been. King Drexis must have sent ships with her sketches east toward the neighboring country after she fled on horse.

The question now was how many people here knew of her and the Demon Killer. The bounty sketches didn’t outright state the nature of the relic; that would cause mayhem. All they said from the few Syra had seen was that she was armed with a weapon, dangerous, and owed a large sum to Caster. The bounty for capture alive would be large enough to sustain a family for four generations. It was all the reason in the world to cast aside day jobs and go hunting for the girl with fire-red hair and green eyes. It wasn’t like she was hard to miss with those features— hence the cloak.

The dirt crunched underneath Syra’s boots, creating a methodical tune that captivated her thoughts. The sun was high in the sky, close to midday, and just off to the right, the water lapped lazily along the shore. The Gulf of Beritisian was crystal blue, a hidden gem tucked away from the fierce ocean waters of the Merrél Sea. The air smelled like back home in Sorréle—salty, moist, just like the sea. It triggered hints of Syra’s childhood, of a time simpler and purer, when her biggest worry had been what she would eat for dinner.

They walked along the outskirts of the infamous Nighthunter Federation, away from the majority of the public. Rumor had it that the Nighthunters were black market assassins and some of the best in the world, striking deals with the highest bidder. Based on the look Kar had given her when she brought that up, it was true. They were a dangerous group because no one was protected, not even royalty. If someone paid enough, anyone was a target. But they covered their trail by being a sanctuary for anyone who needed clemency. No crime could be committed on the Federation’s ground. Doing so resulted in death by execution, no exceptions. It was this law that Syra and her friends hoped to lean on when they were being hunted.

Friends, she pondered, letting the thought dig its claws into her mind.

They were more than that. They had saved her life. Friends were inconsistent and never there when she had needed them the most. Kar and Dryl were different.

They also weren’t entirely human.

As the stories went, Guardians of Death were once mortal boys, taken from their families at a young age. Usually it happened when a boy was abandoned by his family due to unforeseen causes, but rarely, the boy was taken when he still had a family. These boys, like Kar and Dryl, were brought to the Soul Realm—the underworld—and trained for countless summers until they were nineteen summers. Then they underwent the excruciating Commitment Ceremony, which bonded them with a weaker demon and gave them extraordinary abilities, like immortality, enhanced strength and healing properties. If a Guardian in training was an exceptional Energy Harvester and lived through the ceremony, that ability too was enhanced. But all at a cost.

Their skin turned to pale blue, and once normal-colored irises shifted to a crimson red. Their bodies became etched in what was simply deemed the Marking, an ancient tribal symbol of their Guardianship. The process to get the Marking was a secret to Syra, and no matter how many times she asked, Kar or Dryl never gave her an answer. They would not speak of it.

They were dressed in their own long black coats, but these were marked with charcoal-gray sigils of the Old Tongue along the sleeves and down the center of their backs, representing strength, courage, loyalty, and the dead. It was their responsibility to protect the souls in the underworld and ensure safe passage to the Afterlife. It was also their duty to right the wicked wrongs of the world, but all of that had halted when their leader went mad. Kar had left first, and Dryl had followed closely after, slipping into the world of the living.

Guardians were welcomed by some and feared by others. They were a reflection that Death was living and constantly moving. In Sorréle, where even the use of magic was taboo, Guardians were a symbol of bad luck, but in Diyrặ, they were revered as symbols of rebirth and good tidings, for they were Ve’hem, the burdened ones.

They were a trio of misfits and rebels, brought together by the strange hands of fate and they all knew that. They were hunted and had somehow continued to escape capture. Call it luck, but Syra liked to think the Gods were on her side, especially the God of Luck himself, Eazon. Drügale religion told her to trust in the Gods, even if she could not see them, but given recent events, she felt like she was reaching for ghosts, and maybe she was.

Ahead, the home was visible. Its rust-colored shingles contrasted warmly against gray stone walls. Next to it stood a barn, also made of stone. The home belonged to an old friend of Kar and Dryl’s, Jared, a medicine man who specialized in herbal healing. They went decades back, and Dryl insisted he could be a trusted ally after Syra had challenged this idea of seeking refuge with a stranger. After some persuasion, she had finally agreed.

Although Syra wouldn’t outright admit to it, she still didn’t trust Jared, no matter what Kar or Dryl said, and she had every reason to feel that way.

Her entire life had been uprooted three months ago when King Drexis of Caster had learned her father was a spy for the northern kingdom, Ferguson. It was believed by many that King Drexis was breaking the Royal Treaty and conspiring against the other families of Sorréle. Never in her life did she think her father would get caught—Syra had always known of his dangerous job. Fate had other plans though, and Caster soldiers had ambushed her father in their own home and stabbed him, leaving him to die as they set the home on fire.

Syra had been supposed to be there when the attack happened, but she had stormed out after an argument between them had escalated. A petty argument about marriage—one that would haunt her for the rest of her life. If she hadn’t left, maybe she could have saved him.

A blade dipped in midnight.

Those words—forged from old stories passed down from generation to generation—had stained Syra’s thoughts when she had been given a blade wrapped in red. Clutched in her father’s dying hands was the Demon Killer. How he had come across such a potent blade, she would never know, and she hadn’t had time to ask. In an instant, her entire life had been shattered into a thousand shards.

She knew of no family of hers that lived still—the life she’d known had been destroyed by the cruel hands of fate.

Now, Kar fell into step next to her, leaving Dryl a few steps ahead. How are you doing? he asked, his voice low.

Syra smirked. The Guardian had a way of sensing her thoughts when they turned toward troubling things, like what had happened in Caster. I’m fine. Just ready to rest my feet. You?

Kar had been the first to help her when Syra had found herself cornered by a madwoman seeking compensation for the bounty King Drexis had placed on Syra’s head. It was because of him that she was here today. Without his help, Syra was certain that she would have ended up shackled in the dungeons of Caster, likely starved and beaten. It was a debt she wasn’t sure she could ever repay.

About the same, he chuckled.

Dryl’s quiet, Syra observed, dropping her voice even lower. Is he alright? The Guardian had grown withdrawn over the last handful of hours.

He’s never shared it with me, but I think this is where he lost her, Kar replied. He won’t ever talk about it with me, though.

Syra slowly nodded. The few things she knew about Dryl were that he was stubborn, sarcastic, had friends in the weirdest of places, and had lost the love of his life a century ago. But he didn’t have to explain himself. Syra could see the pain—it crept through the twinkle of his red eyes with black tendrils every time he looked at her.

Changing the subject, she asked, You really think some old law is going to keep the Guardians at bay? The three of them were targets of the Soul Realm, hunted by the Guardians of Death that still served the underworld’s leader. These hunters would stop at nothing to have their trio dragged back down to the realm of the dead. Kar and Dryl had committed treason by leaving their order, and with Syra in tow, she was inherently guilty.

It is engrained in our order, Kar answered with a slight nod. To break this law is to break the very order of our kind.

She’d heard it before but still wasn’t convinced. Walking into some territory didn’t just suddenly protect one from the forces of another. Syra had high doubts that the three of them could cozy up in this territory and kick back.

Hey. Kar nudged her arm. It’s going to be alright. It has been thus far, right?

I know, Syra sighed, and stole a glance up at him. His rich, red eyes were studying her. You say this Grit is going to help us?

Grit, the leader of the Nighthunters, was their key to absolute safety. Grit knew underground passageways and could help the three of them escape to somewhere secluded right underneath everyone’s nose without being tracked. This was freedom. This was their only chance at escaping their life on the run.

Grit and I go way back, Kar reminded her. How many times do I have to tell you that? It wasn’t out of irritation he asked, but rather teasing.

The bond they shared was invaluable. There was no awkwardness or unfamiliarity. They might as well have been lifelong friends catching up after a long break apart. She basked herself in that comfort Kar offered her, and in response to his question, raised an eyebrow.

Hey, you guys going to catch up or not? Dryl called back.

Syra looked ahead. She and Kar had fallen behind without realizing it. Waving at him, she yelled back, Ahoy, mate!

Dryl laughed and shook his head. The water’s clear up here, he joked.

They caught up to him and as they all fell back into step, Dryl said, While we’re here, we need to make an effort to stay together. Got it?

Satisfied with her concerns being validated, Syra elbowed Kar in the arm. See? Not safe.

Hang me for having too much confidence, Kar remarked.

It’s called being cautious, Dryl corrected, looking at them both. I don’t want to die from being an ignorant fool.

I couldn’t agree more, Syra agreed. Kar shook his head, but he didn’t argue.

They stopped before Jared’s door. Alright team, act alive. Dryl gave four hard knocks. The lacquered wood shimmered under the sun, seemingly brand new. Let’s hope Jared is feeling nice today, he added with a wink.

Syra felt the familiar anxiety bubble up in her chest. Sure, she had expressed her concerns and initially argued, but she’d done her best to see the light of the situation. A place to stay that was safe, warm, and offered protection. She could get her feet up and take these worn-out boots off for once and peel her clothes off with a nice bath. Food, too. She could eat a proper meal in peace without looking over her shoulder. That was how she had lived for months now. Even in the inns they had snuck into (or on occasion bribed the owners), they had still slept light and with one person always awake.

The sound of boots against the floor got louder and then stopped. Syra’s heartbeat increased in anticipation, slamming against her chest and fueling her nerves. What if Jared knew they were coming and was already working with someone who wanted the Demon Killer? What if there were Guardians inside already and the three of them were walking into an ambush?

This was all a mistake. Syra couldn’t help but come to that conclusion. In the deepest parts of her heart, she knew something wasn’t right, but she had yet to figure out why. Perhaps it was fate hinting at a horrible end, or maybe it was the Gods trying to reach her. Whatever it was, it had been growing like a weed in a garden of flowers, slowly choking out her remaining hope, leaving only uncertainty and impending doom.

The door opened. It was too late.

The ebony-skinned man smiled, dressed in purple. Gold rings held his neatly braided dreads together, and more decorated his hands as he spread his arms wide, amber eyes brightening. In the center of one ring, Syra saw a large chunk of sapphire, engraved with a simple silhouette of an ivory rose. It looked stunning—and in a heartbeat, it was gone as Jared turned his hand.

Well, look who has decided to show after all this time. Jared’s voice was thick with an accent Syra didn’t recognize, but assumed had to be of a region in Diyrặ somewhere. His words were warm, soft, and kind, washing away her anxiety in a single heartbeat.

Dryl bared his hands. It’s good to see you, my friend.

Drügalism

Morei’s boot crunched underneath the gravel as he approached the small home. All around him, a crowd of onlookers had already gathered. He knew he should order them away, but he didn’t. Morei wanted them to see what happened, though he couldn’t say why. Maybe he wanted the people