Three hundred years ago, the Earth split and the sky trembled. And then the monsters came.
The island of Lowynn is cursed. The Veil between worlds has torn, and now, monsters come with vengeance. They can only be placated by the blood of sorcerers...
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A jeweled sunrise had already begun to crest over the hills when the Skaara reached the palace. Celnaer castle was barely two hours' ride from the Byrne manor, and he had likely made the trip in half that.
But, to the Skaara, that interminable journey may have been the longest of his life. His legs ached from spurring the horse onwards, and he had seemingly flown the entire distance, heart pattering against the confines of his throat.
He had soon lost the riders on his tail, but there were times when it was difficult to discern hoofbeats from his own heart.
So, it was a relief when he finally reached the palace gates. "Let me through," the Skaara croaked, voice surprisingly dry. "I must talk to the king-- let me through!"
"He's back," someone called. "Open the gates!"
"Quickly," the Skaara said, as though that was a necessary command. Not a moment too soon, the gates were wretched open, and he sailed into the courtyard.
The path to the castle was lined with boorte trees that stretched towards the heavens. Once, their boughs had overflowed with lush green leaves and starlight. But, they had long since died, and now their skeletal branches beckoned the Skaara like twisted fingers.
When he was a little boy, he often had nightmares about those gnarled limbs picking him from his horse and dashing him on the pavement. Sometimes, riding late at night, he still felt an uncomfortable twinge at the base of his spine.
But now, their twisted shadows were like an old friend. Safe. He was safe.
That wasn't entirely true, of course. The Skaara hadn't experienced true safety in almost ten years. He didn't remember what it was like to take a completely deep breath, or to watch a sunset without wondering if it would be his last.
But, he was at least separated from a regiment of axe-wielding madmen. The Skaara considered that a major improvement.
It was difficult for him to get an audience with the High King. The King was still abed, and none of the heralds wished to be the one to disturb him. A great of "I am not jesting!" and "this is urgent-- can't you get that through your thick skull!"'s were exchanged. "Your odds of dying if you wake him now are likely. Your odds of dying if you wait are certain," the Skaara finally snarled.
Within minutes, he was escorted into the throneroom to attend to His Royal Majesty, Diamat Tyrrbach Celnaer, Moriganía.
The man was just as delightful as his title, though the Skaara kept this thought to himself.
In the pale dawn, the throne room glowed. The caved ceiling stretched two-hundred feet high, and stained glass renderings of the Celnaer Kings adorned the walls.
As soon as he heard the King's footfalls, the Skaara lowered his gaze. Stained red light rippled across the marble floor. The Skaara was told that one of his kind, overflowing with polluted blood, would be unable to look the King's purity in the face and survive. It was the reason he had spent so much of his childhood blindfolded, unworthy to even peek at the sovereign face.
He had snuck a glance once, out of the corner of his eye. The Skaara didn't remember much, other than a flash of sandy hair. It was enough for him to realize that all of their warnings were a bunch of bullshit.
As if he couldn't have figured that out for himself. The Skaara admittedly believed in many things. Still, he did not believe that his impure eyes would melt away as his body burst into flames.
The way Dom described the King wasn't particularly impressive. Though he knew he was supposed to imagine His Majesty Diamat Tyrrbach...etc. as a radiant being, the Skaara preferred picturing someone pockmarked and hobbled. He wasn't sure where a prominent, twisted jaw had come from, but it was a permanent feature of these fantasies. Somehow, it made it easier to cower on the ground.
If the Skaara didn't keep his head down for superstitious reasons, he did it for survival. He had learned to keep the mocking part of his mind quiet. He filled his mind with pleasant, loyal thoughts instead, terrified that any dissent would creep into his gaze. The Skaara was afraid that if he lifted his face and looked his ruler in the eyes, all of his secret anger, every inch of his twisted dreams, would be revealed.
If he wasn't in danger of magic, the Skaara could encounter something far worse-- a man with steel in his heart and the unwavering belief that he was a god.
The Skaara had long since learned that if he wanted to keep his head attached, he had best keep it down.
"What is it?" the King asked. "My son said you were attending that Byrne girl's whoring party... I didn't expect you back so early."
"I was there, your majesty. It was there that I discovered something. General Byrne is a traitor to your most illustrious crown--"
As if in response, the air in the room grew warm. Though the Skaara couldn't see a thing, he imagined a flame growing at the end of the King's fingers, spurred on by fury and disbelief. General Byrne was the King's best Hunter. He had put down rebellions, extinguished entire families. He had killed more draodih than any other hunter, and perhaps all of them combined. "I suggest you consider your words carefully, boy," the king snarled. "We both know the general and you share no friendship. If you were mistaken about this--"
"I'm not. I saw it with my own eyes. His daughter, Lady Ciara... she's like me. A draodih, and a powerful one."
"Do you think I could have overlooked a draodih in my inner circle for all these years?"
"I don't know," the Skaara said. "A thousand pardons, but we must have missed something. I didn't sense anything from her. She seemed ordinary, until we touched, and suddenly..." he shuddered, remembering the feeling of her power. She was overwhelming.
"Think of the accusation you are making. If this is true, it is war between us. Consider your next words carefully. Is Lady Ciara a draodih?"
The Skaara hesitated, just for a moment. He knew it with all his soul, certain as the stars above. But to say it would be to invite pain and bloodshed. It would mean waging war on a young woman with silver jewels in her hair and a shy smile.
"I'm afraid I don't know your name."
"You didn't leave the womb with the name Skaara."
"You know, it's my eighteenth birthday."
The Skaara closed his eyes, and behind them, he could almost see her smiling at him. She had dared to talk to him, dared to dance with him, dared.... to treat him like anything other than a beast.
And yet, she was a draodih, the very reason why monsters were attacking and the trees outside died. As long as her kind-- their kind-- existed, the world would continue to wither away.
And besides, how could he rescind his testimony from the king? He could not relent, not now, not ever. He would be accused of lying, to save her or to frame the General. His life-- his terrible, treasonous, treacherous life-- would be over in an instant.
Though the King's question had been phrased to suggest otherwise, the Skaara knew that there was never a choice.
