Emphyreal Divide

Chapter Four

The air was painfully still, the only sound to be heard the labored intakes of breath and the crunch of the dirt underfoot as those who still stood shifted in place. Those gathered could be grouped into two distinct forces- those who stood, weapons drawn, bloodied but successful- and those who knelt, swords at their throats, wholly defeated. At the forefront of the victors stood a man in yellow robes, dark leather armor scuffed, grip tight on the sword that hung at his side. He regarded those on their knees almost blithely, though the pride shone through in the stance he took and the square of his shoulders- another battle won.

Three men were knelt in front of the others, their armor covered in mud and dirt that caked and crumbled in the agonizingly dry air. The man in yellow regarded these three with special interest, gaze growing sharper and more critical as it finally landed on them. Of the three men, only two lowered their heads in the shame and self-loathing of defeat. The man in the middle refused to show submission, carrying his head high despite the many swords that lay at his throat, ready to put an end to him should he show any inclination towards resistance or disrespect. Though he carried his head high, his eyes were lowered in faux deference, gaze glued to the pale, cracked earth that he had been forced down upon, regarding it with an expression of great disdain- disdain and anger that he kept locked away in his chest as carefully as he could, for those feelings would do him no good in the moment should they rise to the surface, though they simmered in the blood underneath.

The careful silence they had cultivated was broken abruptly as a man in cracked, red armor was thrown down in front of the man in yellow, sending up a cloud of dirt as he fell, the clanking of chains the only sound that betrayed the terse grip silence had on the scene before them. As the man in red lifted himself up, limbs shaking from exhaustion and contempt, face upturned in unchecked rage, the man in yellow merely raised his brows and unsheathed his sword, lifting it high above them as he prepared to deal a fatal blow.

The barest few feet away from the unfolding scene, the three men kept their gaze glued firmly on the ground, frozen in place as the sword was summarily brought down, cleaving a dark red line between shoulder and neck. The divide was as great as that between the darkness of the past and the evershifting uncertainty of the future, as it held the three of them carefully in her grip.

The sword was sheathed once more with a resounding, metallic clang, as the man in red fell to the dirt with a terrible, dull thud that would resound in the minds of the three for years to come. The dry, cracked earth grew wet once more, this time bathed in the dark colors of crimson. The three men dared not flinch at the sound, nor at the sight of the growing pool of blood as it creeped ever closer to where they knelt. There were greater forces acting against them, preventing any act of agony, of responding to the heart wrenching horror they felt at the sight before them. They dared not look at the man in yellow, nor could they bring themselves to lay eyes upon the figure that lay in a puddle of his own blood, for fear of what may result from the sight of either.

"I will extend the same offer to the three of you as I did your father," The man in yellow turned to the three gathered at the forefront of the group, deep voice carrying weight that extended beyond the words he said, carrying an unspoken threat that was loudly heard by those gathered, "You may live. If you bow to my rule, you may stay- but if you will not, you must leave. I care not where you go, but once you leave this place, you may never return."

He nodded to the men by his side, almost casually, and wordlessly they lowered their swords, retreating a step- allowing them room to stand without giving space for them to act- a wise decision, the man in the middle thought as he pulled himself to a stand, ignoring the pain from the wounds littering his body. His gaze never left the cracked ground, never left the blood that had been spilt. The sight would never leave his vision, a ghost of past mistakes determined to haunt the rest of his days.