Shattered Line

Chapter 0: Unnamed

Water dampened and blotched the frail parchment on the table. The hand-crafted map had the lines and names running to the edge. Isla pulled her sleeve, dabbing the brown and jagged cut paper dry.

For Heaven's sake, she'd dedicated these last years with condensing her knowledge into this masterpiece. The ancient language scribbled on the damp sheet locked her secrets from prying eyes. Simplistic and primal without a defined sentence structure, but enough to thwart the majority.

She sighed, glaring at the serving wench flaunting her half-covered bosom. Intelligence be damned, who slams a tankard of dirty water on the table next to a map? Yeah, she had huddled herself into the cobweb-infested corner of the bar, but still, decency, please.

Her hideaway granted a panoramic view of the backwoods inn. From the creaking floorboards to the ale crusted tabletops, Isla opted for the forest instead. Granted, acquiring two gold coins bolstered her pockets. An infrequent occurrence unless she ransacked a drunkard who stole a pinch. He deserved it. Still, he'd proved again how dirt-covered this world Detra was. A smug, arrogant, incorrigible population, what a great impression.

She tapped the table, glowering at her map. Perhaps leaving Detra and the Mortal realm for another would lead to a discovery. Her search narrowed with each life. Where would she find natural ice-blue haired residents? Add the whitest skin—a sun's untouchable foe—and no wonder she fascinated creeps.

No matter the search, she would find him. She had no choice.

Which world did her father inhabit? Where did he manipulate his cronies from the shadows, ordering them to maim, torture, and kill her? The endless list of questions never ceased to amaze her. She rubbed her eyes, scratching her head.

The hushed murmurs of two seated men huddled in the bar's opposite corner flew towards her. "Tis the second town."

"That soon?" questioned the second but raspy voice.

"Yeah, the offerings be weak."

Isla concentrated on their conversation, keeping her gaze trained on her map. Offerings? The word carried one stinging attachment—Gods.

"Fools. They need ta look around." His scratchy voice elevated accompanied by shuffling.

"Quiet. Y'all be the fool if those rich knaves hear ya."

"Who cares. They be suckin' the life out of us," he hissed.

Isla tapped her mug's rim. She gave them credit. The residents still retained common sense. They had two options to survive: deliver the Gods yearly offerings in exchange for flimsy protection against hungry Demons, or refuse, and risk death by said Demons. But Detra's nobility, like other worlds, held the purse strings. Did the Gods care? No, they only executed their laws.

"Leave Maron, go to da cities, the capital even."

"Don' ya lie. Ya can't escape them."

"Be more coin there."

He clicked his tongue. "It'll catch up; it always does. Look at Lil Reed: boy's lame and retarded. Blame his ma; she had the same idea ya had, go to da city an' the city ate him alive. Who cares if they hear ya, the rich can see ya there. They use and abuse their toys then toss them aside."

His companion sighed. "What d'ya want, then? Life's tough."

"Nothin'. Detra be dyin'."

"Aye, I can drink to that."

They tapped mugs, the froth gushing over.

They were wrong. Detra was already dead.

A world full of weak, mortal Castions bordering the Chaos Realm, what choice did they have? Human survival without magic became brutal against man-eating Demons.