September 30th, 1628, Mt. Velgrin, 4:03 PM
Ingressus is a madman. If he really believes that sending only 100 men into a country that killed nearly the lot of our population will work he's insane. These same men failed to save my mother, my father, my sisters, and my cousins who spent their lives making sure I wasn't the 'poor boy in a slum' that usually comes out of making men out of little boys. Now what? Now everything is too quiet. Now the only thing I hear is the Deathsinger's footsteps leading me to whatever errand or slice of boredom he forces me through. Why should I stand over his shoulder and wait and watch as my brothers at war die at the hands of his stupidity?
September 30th, 1628, Mt. Velgrin, 4:33 PM
Some time ago, I recently asked Ingressus to let me lead the militia into Sendaria, at first, he told me I was too young, too much of a follower. If I weren't to follow him I would be seen as insubordinate, I had no other choice but to follow him. The Deathsinger is pitied across the mountain because of his past. But I am not a fool. If being a follower is what it takes to live to tell stories of my people and their fight through wrongful exile, I'll do it. But it is my chance to lead, and that's the only thing I let him know. I suppose an impoverished 18-year-old can have a voice, can't he?
September 30th, 1628, St. Renmuis, Sendaria, 8:00 PM
I never want to be part of any war ever again. The Gods should kill us all and start over with mortality. I went to Sendaria with 100 men and myself. I'm now waiting for more guns and weapons, hidden in a trench by the Sendarian border in St. Renmuis, with 63 men. We left for Sendaria at 5:15 arrived at 6:45, and lost 37 men by 8:00. We lost nearly half of our men in an hour and fifteen minutes. I've failed my people and failed my motherland. Maybe Ingressus was right, maybe the only thing I'm good at is being a failure.
April 20th, 1782, Mt. Velgrin, 5:30 AM
Never in a millennia would I expect the Deathsinger to return. I'm not sure what dark magic happened for him to be with us years after his death, but I am more cross at that fact. When Ingressus was claimed to be dead and the war was over, I was respected more than I could ever dream of being. In an Ardoni's life, it's only been a year or two, but to the world, I've been King for human generations. But Ingressus' return would mean I would be abdicated and back working as his slave. Luckily, I'm a man now, and if he takes my crown, I will be beside him, not behind him.
April 25th, 1782, Sulia, Ataraxia, 7:30 PM
I'll never understand what makes Ingressus so different when he's around that child. His excuse for not killing or enslaving her was that she's a child and has nothing to do with the war. If only that were true. Not only is she a part of a revolutionary group dedicated to stopping us from reaching The Prime Songs, but we were the same age when I joined my first war. So what makes us so different? Why does he hate me when I've been bending over backward to serve him?
May 12th, 1782, Meridian, Cydonia, 12:00 PM
My family didn't die for me to be killed this easily. Unfortunately, my body wasn't made for war, which is probably the reason our attempt to attack Sendaria failed so long ago. Albeit this is the most pain I've been in in my entire life, the pain of seeing Ingressus see me disappoint this country would be worse.
~~~~~~~~
A gunshot in the chest took Tygren from Meridian, Cydonia, near the coast, to Northern Cydonia where heat never leaves people. How he walked miles and miles half-dead, he'll never know. Because of all the chaos of war and news of Ingressus' death, no Cydonian officer or even The King himself heard about Tygren wandering around Cydonia as nothing but a lifeless corpse. After days and days, he collapsed inside of a building he didn't know the contents of.
When he woke up, his eyes felt like hellfire. He woke up to the piercing sun in the middle of the day shining directly into his eyes. Per reflex, Tygren slammed his eyelids shut and turned around. When he came to, he was in someone's bedroom, shirt off, and his wound bandaged. Confused and anxiety surged through him, Tygren looked around the room and stopped at photos on the dresser. One was awedding photo of a human man with dark olive skin, black hair, and a scruffy beard with a woman with a Christian veil with the same tone. The other was of children Tygren assumed to be theirs. A family had taken pity on him. Half of him was a bit annoyed. They should have just let him die. But the other half remembered where he had blacked out. Poor Tygren would die of embarrassment if he fainted in someone's home. Not willing to dread, Tygren found his shirt at the end of the bed traced his fingers over the bullet wound to remind himself of what happened, and left before he could be spotted. There was only one thing wrong with this; he had no idea where the hell he was.
YOU ARE READING
The Dawn of Red
FantasyAs soon as the tip of Senn's sword got an inch close to The Deathsinger's throat, he froze. Ingressus pulled a face of confusion even though his breathing was still heavy. Slowly but surely, Senn dropped his sword. "Enough of this," he whispered. "E...
