The morning dew, accumulative beads of sugar-water, had gathered on the blades of grass that dominated surrounding area of the Hapling field, turning it into a multitude of dark jade hues. The sun up above, blessed by the Gods- which apparently have not abandoned even the most misfortune of mortals- still beamed rays of benevolence, embellishing the soil’s viscosity below his heels.

Like the morning dew below him, Damien Fang’s forehead had amassed droplets of sweat, that lined his jawline and traced the bridge of his broken nose. His hands, which gripped the hilt of the wooden sword tightly, still harboured scuff marks, and deep cuts of disturbed malformation; the dried blood clotting crisply on the surface of his dark skin. His right eye stung unbearably, not from the piercing light above- that now sheepishly pierced through the canopy of deciduous giants- but rather from the jagged gouge that ran a few millimetres across his right cheek, breaching his broken nose, covered by a plaster and some cheap Braal fresh mint.

His left foot swerved backwards, jousting with his invisible opponent, as his legwork became more and more rushed, his skin heated, and his glare became grimmer, mouth turning from neutral to a snarl. His mind raced.

Why me? Why is it always me; who they follow? Mock. The household; the Fangs.

His other hand jumped to join his other hand, gripping the hilt tightly- so hard, that his fingertips (still mocked by last night’s cuts) burned with smouldering invigoration. His form wavered at the last second, and the downwards swipe which intended to be drove from his shoulder, instead came from his shoulder plate. His body recoiled, and the sword jumped from his hand, and skidded on the floor.

“Shit,” he muttered in-between pants of pain and embarrassment.

“Damnit. Damnit, damnit; damnit!” He cursed aloud, driving his head into his hands, crouched on the floor, still heaving.

He tried keeping it away; it. But it always prevailed, it always won: even if he tried to push it away, the goddamn thing would always return. Always there.

“Damien?” A familiar voice called out.

His gut clenched and he froze. Dark brown- almost heresy black- hair covered his brown eyes which stared to the ground in embarrassment and shock. His cheeks burned and he bit his lip slowly.

Why are you so goddamned weak, boy?

He picked up the sword, and swivelled on a leather-boot, not even attempting to look at her as he strode onwards.

Fingers grasped his sleeve.

He bit his lip.

“Whats~” she started with a soft voice.

“Just, leave me,” he muttered, somewhere half between a growl and a whimper.

Juliet Fang’s lips pursed, and she looked up; “Why do you do this?”

Damien looked at his younger sister’s face, her skin a snow-feather pale, unlike his bark wood brown, auburn hair spilling around her small frame. Hazel eyes, a tinge of grey mixed in, stared with a dubious form of self-doubt, issued from the uncanny behaviour of Damien.

“It’s nothing; just tired,” he forced his shoulders to slump.

“You’ve been out for four hours, brother, of course you’d be tired!” She groaned, her grip on his sleeve loosening slightly, but her eyes strengthening their invisible grip.

“Your nose; does it still hurt, do you need me to~” she started.

“No!” He pulled away from her, looking away, back towards the Manor. “You…” he paused, thinking strongly, overthinking, “you don’t need to waste your time on me.”

He walked off, and didn’t bother concentrating on the shortening of his half-sister’s figure.

*

“He’s a fucking bastard, you moron, of course his cosmic valves are disabled beyond repair. He is of no pure lineage!” The voice curdled in the air, poising the claustrophobic walls of the Manor’s hallways.

A younger woman, maybe a few years older than he, walked past in the corridor perpendicular to the entrance one. His older cousin, Maria, looked at him- for a moment her eyes darkening- before she bore a smile, and walked on, not speaking to him. The creaking of the floorboards in her quake indicated a speeding of pace.

A clattering of books.

“Ser Knight, I’d appreciate it, if you did not speak about my son that way.” He heard his father, Howard Fang, say in a low voice.

“His sister, Julia? Juliet. She’s a special one, adept in the forces of manipulation. She’s an asset, Lord Fang. We could use her; the Spine Familia- put her to good use.”

“You’re suggesting I… I, what? Sell you my fucking daughter?” He scoffed, muffled slightly by the thick wooden walls.

“At seventeen her cosmic valves are already opening fully, within a couple of years- and extensive training- she’ll be a fully-fledged war maiden! Not some pompous rich whore for another family, but a recruit of the Galgorian Army.”

A few moments of silence.

“You have only half a minute to leave these grounds, before I call the guards.”

“Guards? They are as loyal to you, as a Death Gnarl to a Wyvern, Lord Fang. They will not touch a Knight of the Spine Familia.” He returned, getting from his seat.

“Then I will myself, Mr Knight. Leave.”

The door opened, and the Knight stepped out, clad in dark silver Amyeurite armour, a pristine amber cape in his quake. His helmet was held loosely in his right arm, his left gauntleted hand resting upon the hilt of his sheathed sword. He smiled grimly, his eyes tracing the figure of the much smaller boy.

“You’ve grown,” he remarked, adjusting his helmet, face straightening, eyes looking to the open door behind Damien.

“Training’s helped,” Damien retorted quietly, his eyes instinctively casted downwards.

Howard followed the Knight through, and was now standing beside the tall man, glancing between the two fellow occupants of the grand hallway.

“The Lord’s bastard knows well not to speak out of tone,” he pointed out with a promiscuous smirk.

His father said nothing, remaining stubbornly quiet.

The Knight, his name of insignificant importance, strolled forward to the exit, yet on his way he stopped, resting his free arm on Damien’s shoulder.

“Tell your teacher I said greetings,” he whispered with a discreet smirk.

With that, he left, and Damien stood silent, his fingers noticeably colder and his face bearing a grim contortion.

The sun had set below the horizon of treacherous spots of mountainous valleys, the light scattering upon the frosted surface of the river Gal. The specks of leaves descended from the tree canopy, floating in conspicuous trails predetermined by the gales of wind, which now caused a raucous within the borders of the southern city of Undis. A dilapidated state; battleground for the four households of Galgador, serving under the King, and a shadow of its former self.

Riveren crows had gathered, perching on branches that skirted the Mansion’s sides, staring with an ominous sense of disturbed perplexity. Inside the clustered sides of his room, Damien sat on his bed, draped in shambled sheep-skin and water-back Growlers- whose fur had suited the great magnitude of the creature- rather than a bed. Candlelight flickered shyly- despite the presence of the sun- and in that light, Damien loaded his sword onto a wooden drawer-set, clumsily letting itself clunk to a silent rest.

The garden keepers started to dismantle their tools, and moved in drones of impartial clusters, back to the stables and the end dorms of the massive Manor. Their faces offering nothing of note, Damien’s eyes retracted from the window, and back to his hands which stared back in solemn fortitude.

He clasped them. And then unclasped them. He could no longer hold a proper fist with his left arm; the house doctor mentioning an insubordinate ligament, that he had lied about its origin. Not from the clambering of moping trees, but rather the outcome of a poorly placed strike. The face of his opponent, Camilius Dagger, had resurfaced, accompanied by a snarl of promiscuous nature. Damien had brought it upon himself to loathe that face, yet the rage that subsided was impossible to brew, as his dedication withered easily.

Three light knocks on the door.

“Piss off,” Damien groaned.

His sister entered despite this. She wore a pretty dress, with rose embroideries, that matched the lilac linings of her white bed-gown. Her hair had been tied, with discriminate detail, into two braids, that fluttered halfway down her back in a comical fashion, similar to snakes.

Her face, was one of perturbed anonymity, and this in itself, worried Damien. Her discomfort was not hidden, but rather painted on her face.

Sitting beside him on the bedsheets, he could smell the faint scent of water-lilies, the fragrance permeating the burned-wood aroma of his room. She paused, opened her mouth in a silent fashion, paused once more, and then finally spoke, “The Knight came today.”

She continued, noticing his silence, “From the Spine familia; chatting nonsense about me joining the opposition. What ignorance- something which isn’t too surprising to me, considering the nature of those people…” She left off awkwardly, her eyes examining the ruptured bridge of his nose.

“You still haven’t told me how you broke your nose,” she exclaimed.

“I told you; I hurt it during sparring. Wooden swords hurt a fuck-tonne,” he smiled reassuringly, yet his sister pushed.

“Why are you lying? No one at the sword fighting Academia is as proficient at the sword as you, and even if they were able to land a hit, on-site medics would’ve sorted out the healing by now.” She hesitated, looking at the sword on the desk, and then turned back, “The only person able to even touch you was Blem! He’s~” She stopped when Damien’s eyes turned cold. He did it often; reoccurring transitions of warped feelings. He never used to do it- hence the flood of worry that entered her eyes when she saw him do it again.

“Ahh~” she trailed quietly, her hand reaching out to touch Damien.

But he flinched when she touched him.

The candles flickered ominously now, and the darkness in the room seemed to crawl in dreadfully close- she withdrew her hands

“I… I don’t know what its like for you, being a prodigy. Being somewhat decent in nature. But for me; it is nothing like that. I have nothing. So I beg of you sister, do not tarnish the name of my teacher, my friend, leave me with that.” He managed to plead.

Juliet’s brows creased, and she recoiled in phantom pain. “Fuck! I’m… I’m so stupid- I didn’t even stop to think about you properly, and I know you don’t think it, but I do care. I’m your sister for Heathen’s sake; despite what any other Knight or General states, you’re more important than any,” she stopped to point to an invisible place, “any imaginary position in this damned army. Father, mother too- they want the best for you, for me.”

She breathed in. “Damien, I love you. I love you as a sister, as a friend. As a~errr, maybe not a lover,” she smiled sheepishly, her cheeks burning slightly.

Even Damien couldn’t resist smiling weakly, and he grappled his sister round the shoulders, playing softly. “You’re really good at this,” he remarked.

“At what?” She asked.

“Making me not feel shit.”

She blew air out her nose, and fell back onto the bed smirking, eagle spread. “Damn right! I’m Juliet Fang, conqueror of armies, and harbinger of beauty, apostle of~”

“Annoying, yeah I figured that,” he interrupted her, laughing lightly.

Pouting, she rolled her eyes, and stared to the ceiling.

After a compromised silence, she started, “Hey, how do you think dad’s coping.”

He didn’t have to ask what he could be coping with. The vigorous bombardment- from all directions- from the Spine, the Talon and the Daggers, they were all waiting silently, like Skull-Crawlers, beaks still moist from the last scavenging. Although father was of considerable companionship with King Origis II himself, the royal protection of insubordinate weakness was a drain of resources, and instigated great dispute between the members of the upper hierarchy. Since the birth of an illegitimate bastard, it was only time before the rest closed in for the kill.

“I saw him the other day. He was shit-faced.” A short but truthful answer.

Juliet laughed quietly, “That sure does sound like him. I’m sure mum gave him ‘a good ol’ beatin’,”, she impersonated his mother’s voice too well, causing another spur of laughter.

“In all seriousness though, its worrying. His attachment to the clan’s heirloom has only grown. His presence there is fading. The other options are too enticing, apparently.” His sister stated with a grimace that matched the scowling face of Prince Origis himself.

“Half-wits,” Damien quipped.

“How?” His sister replied, laughing.

“Kana right? Part of the Karatis islands? It’s a place dedicated for the Lightings; the true practioners. It’s too valuable for the Empire to lose. Talon’s fighting for it with us, but they don’t realise the consequence of the spiritual lands.” He remarked, recalling knowledge that was stored betwixt sword-technique.

“You mean the King’s courts going to claim it?” She asked, sitting up now.

Damien smiled meekly, “No. The Knightshood.”

Her face became dark, and she pursed her lips with a solemn refutation. She imposed her posture now, and opened her mouth ever so slightly.

“Damien,” she began, speaking coarsly. “Do not speak of them: do not speak of them, ever.”

“Don’t patronise me, sister,” Damien waved his hand looking away.

“ I am not patronising you. I am warning you, not to speak the name of the sect. It’s an insult.”

“An insult? To who? The King? You don’t think he realises too? The way they operate: they’re not foolish sister, they know exactly what they’re doing- they’re keeping the King in line. The prince too. They indoctrinate their fallacies; introduce their politics; and inform their occupants.” He leaned in. “And if you think they don’t exit: then they’ve got you too, younger Sister.” His voice perished with this, and he retracted, his eyes still cool despite the agitated stature of his body.

“You delve too deep into conspiracies for a child,” Juliet remarked, standing.

“I may be without magic, but I’m not blind,” he waved.

Pausing only at the incline of the door, she stopped, looking back, “Your friend, the tall one. He said he wanted to talk to you. He looked like he was urgent about it too.”

“Shit! What did you tell him?” He responded quickly.

“That you were making out with your sword somewhere,” she left with this, smiling and waving condolences.

He cursed over and over in his mind, forcing himself to sleep, unaware of what he would do the next moon cycle.

*

The repertoire which was his mind was scattered with fragments of recollections of the past. His history, a dark one, was best kept secret to even himself, for his unanswered intrigue often resulted in the worst of outcomes.

“Chin up, boy,” Master Blem prodded Damien’s face with a wooden sword, and the disgruntled boy looked up again, at the towering mast of his teacher.

“The ethics of sword fighting are absolute; act first, with swiftness and aggression, nullifying any chance of opposition. The art of the blade is that of sacred origins, which means the devastation resultant of a sword’s swipe is minimal. Your opponent’s death must be quick and painless, for if you oppose this rule, you are disgracing honour of the sword.”

Damien remained silent, but his mind did not defer from retaliation; what his master had just stated was wrong- ridiculously wrong, that to an extent, it almost turned his scorn into a lopsided smile. Dignity? Honour? I would fight without either, instead opting for-

“Damien!” Master Blem spoke, his figure leering in.

“S-sir?” Damien stuttered.

“Keep the body clean and the mind clearer; no despicable thoughts from my disciple,” he said with inert dignity.

The garden of the Excalibus Academis was only amplified by the courtyard it laid in, the sunlight illuminating the green grass, the songs of Pitcher birds propagating the background clutter of students and masters across the Empire. The Undis Academis was one of the largest magic institutes in the Galgorian Empire, designated and owned by the Spine family to teach the most adept of magic. However, Damien’s presence was expectedly not welcomed there. Yet, behind the massive structure of the main Academis, was the smaller backdrop of the military swordsmanship. Despite the name, swords were perhaps the most niche of categories, many students partaking in other close quartered weaponry.

“Here,” Blem tossed a light wooden rapier, and Damien barely managed to grasp it in his hands.

Master Blem was a man of dignified age, perhaps fifty or older, and despite the menacing appearance of his character, he was tolerable in ethics and actions. He was blissfully malicious, his actions determined by the reflection of his mood. Yet, he instructed with duty-bound determination, and a somewhat meagre form of mutual-respect had been built between him and his master.

Master Blem’s brown eyes stopped in their traction, all movement ceasing, as he gazed into the sky, not focusing on clouds, but staring right through them.

Damien’s hands adjusted their sweaty grip on the sword’s hilt.

Damien’s body staggered sideways, as he felt the harsh smack of wood in the side of his skull. The blade had been flattened so it was a mere bruise, but it was enough to turn his eyesight blurry and his ears ringing. Another jab, and Damien keeled over, shuffling backwards, lifting the sword to block a slash.

“Never take your eyes off the opponent.” Master Blem uttered, as he sidestepped in, sweeping with the blade. Damien aptly responded with a block, raising his wooden rapier, but he then realised it was a feint. Suddenly, the trajectory of the swing diverted, and it thwacked him in the shoulder.

“The rapier is a one-handed sword, optimised for thrusting. Because it’s one handed, movements are rapid and precise, and most suited for flesh and skin.” He paused, and looked down on the boy, who could barely support the weight of the sword in his two hands. Optimally, one was supposed to draw the sword from a body that was sideways from the opponent. However, the kid’s drawing hand wasn’t strong enough to deal any sort of reliable damage from one arm. The boy constantly twitched, and his stare faltered with unease only matched by a paranoid old man. His posture and form was unbelievably rigid and weak.

“You, me. We’re both almost useless in comparison to a Mage. In order to limit the possibility of dying instantly, there’s a couple of rules you have to follow.”

Damien, his head still throbbing with pain, listened intently.

Master Blem held the flat of his sword in a palm, showing it to Damien.

“Forget great swords, and longswords. No skilled warrior can draw such a heavy blade and kill his opponent, before they cast a simple magic attack and obliterate your existence. Let alone someone who can’t even tap into Psyons present in the Affluence. Considering this, pick only the fastest, and lightest swords. Ones with good reach, yet good stability and cutting power.” He paused to demonstrate a sword strike, an arc cutting down through the air,

“Use its speed to your advantage, and cleave the flesh of the opponent, not bludgeon his bloody face in! You want to kill him quick as possible; aim for the face, neck, armpit, groin or even heart if you can pierce his armour. One jab inwards, drag the blade through his flesh, and then reap it outwards, in a sleek movement. That, is how you kill.”

Damien was surprised at the fidelity of it all. ‘The ease of killing’, his master called it. If one was trained enough, he could end a man’s life without a hesitation.

“Bringing your sword out in the first place is the issue in the face of a proper enemy. A proper mage will cut you down in seconds if they wanted. A spoken or wordless incantation could deliver the killing blow. The secret is to get as close as possible within that time. Draw your sword only at the last moment; holding in the element of surprise. The moment you draw it, is the moment you declare you’re about to fight to the death. Stall: waste time, do whatever to get within striking distance of your enemy.” He scoffed, “It’s considered dirty, but surely using spiritual powers against an unarmed opponent is cowardly too?”

“Bring the sword out in one clean arc, and aim for a single strike: the quickest one in that singular fragment of time. Deliver it cleanly, without hesitation. If you miss, step back, avoid a physical parry; and then be prepared to fight for your last breath, or get the hell out of there.”

He turned to a stationary target, a fairly humanoid dummy, held to the ground by a singular pole. Blem, stepped back slightly, placing left foot in front of his right, and rested his right palm atop the hilt of the sheathed light sword. His torso rotated to the left, accompanying his sheathed sword. He paused, and then struck. It was too fast for Damien; and he stared in awe, at the five-inch gap in the opponent’s neck, Blem’s posture still frozen, with his sword pointed in the air, way past the dummy’s head.

“S-something else,” Damien stuttered.

“What is it?” Blem, turned on his heel, sheathing his sword.

“How can you just…kill someone?”

“That,” Blem began, staring into the sky, “is something I cannot teach.”

*

Damien awoke with severe pain, as he often did. The blinding numbness which pulsated frequently at the back of his head lurked with vicious intent, awoken only at the times of complete paranoia. Whether it was from his nightmares, or from his physical injuries, his mood reflected this sour feeling, and he got up with dreaded content.

His mother, Rula Fang, greeted him with a normal method of any mother.

“Don’t hug me so early in the morning,” Damien groaned, pushing his reluctant mother off him.

She was a tall woman, taller than him, whose hair was dark mahogany, her eyes a silver pearlescent. She had a lopsided smile, which often confused strangers, but brought a familiar feeling to Damien.

“Juliet’s been telling me you’ve been overtraining.” She muttered, turning to address the adjustment of cutlery on the table.

“She’s obviously lying, I was sleeping for the majority of the day,” he quipped, going to the room opposite where his younger cousin, Amelia, was playing.

Rula rolled her eyes, and scoffed, “Your sister lying? She’s way too good for that- you on the other hand…”

Damien ruffled the small girl’s hair, and she jumped, peering behind her to see Damien, sitting on lavish couching.

Attempting to handle the writhing mass of child upon his chest, his mother walked into the room, and sat on the couch opposite, drinking something.

“Where’s father gone?” Damien asked, dodging from getting a small slap to the face.

“He said he had an arrangement with the Spine familia- more trouble with Kana’s land distribution.”

“Shit”, he whispered.

“Naughty!” Amelia gurgled, and prodded him in the face as punishment.

His mother looked at the two silently for a few seconds, and when she spotted Damien returning the glance, she forced a smile, tilting her head slightly.

“He’s… He’s not, here is he?” Damien asked across the room.

“I’m… I don’t think so; he mentioned he was going with your father. Didn’t say much else. Except to~”

“Keep me away from, her,” Damien suddenly moved her off his lap, and got up, with a grim contortion. He swayed slightly, and placed his palm on the bridge of his nose.

A chambermaid hovered at the door entrance, nearly invisibly, but his mother quickly dismissed her with a wave of her hand.

“I… I need to leave for a sec.”

His mother nodded, but the worried look remained on her face, until he left.

*

Stopping outside the Manor’s grounds, glancing at the line of mountains at the distance, all that went through his mind is the simple thought:

He’s planning something.

Damien Fang found it within himself to loathe the very existence of Kal Morphis, Kal Fang, who existed within a contrived nature. If not for the relations which held their feeble family together, he would’ve snapped- yet his calm composure still natured an irrational rage from the others. Twisted, calculating and popular is what made him dangerous, more so than his brother, Howard Fang.

The morning sun had just awoken from its slumber, yet the sky leaked a disturbed fog, that permeated the land of the free as quickly as it engulfed the plains of the Heathens. The air was getting thick with the scent of premature rain, so his pace quickened.

After reaching the border town of Misknaarl, only twenty minutes by carriage, the fresh scent of the river Gal winded its way towards the town’s front. It was a fairly insignificant town, in the broader side of things, except for the fact it accommodated the Jalas family, Nobilia stretched thin by the brewing conflict of the King and its oligarchy. Jalas’ head, Mistress Ekma, had managed to bring some form of stability to the area, and under the leadership of the Spine familia, forked its influence through the streets. From what Damien knew, she was a dangerous woman, someone whose allegiance was tied in closely with the head Father of Spine, Murdoch, and even their Magate. She put that before everything; her friends, her own son, Raphael Jalas.

The family’s mansion was split to several different congregations of buildings, each of enriched tropical origin. The marble walls and the sun-chequered slate roofs were only accentuated further by the sharp inclines of the hill it sat upon, bathing in the beach sun, a kaleidoscope of pale shimmering in the background to admire. Most of the outer wall’s archways were sharp and rigid, like the Mistress’ personality, even the guards wearing amber drapes over silver armour.

Damien’s thoughts were interrupted by the abrupt appearance of the Domain-Guard’s captain, Vorr. He was a man of disgruntled nature, his face never lit by a smile, yet his eyes blistered with an unfathomable discouragement, that seemed to grimace in the sight of Damien. He did not voice this, and disregarding the social etiquette which differentiated the two, he did not kneel in the name of the Fang household. It was no longer a requirement, and therefore he did not find it within his will to indulge in the unnecessary action.

Captain Vorr wore light clothing, the only sign of him being a trained soldier was the sheathed Nasaguul heavy sword floating lightly by his hips. He crossed his arms, and with a gloomy face, pronounced his self-disinterest already. The sword, in reality, was useless considering the Captain’s proficiency in magic; so instead, it was used as a deterrent.

“What is it, son of Fang?” He asked, his figure blocking the archway.

“Raphael contacted me a couple hours back by raven. Urgent, he said,” Damien told the truth, feigning confidence.

“The Mistress doesn’t appreciate your being here. You bring,” he pauses, trying to find the right words, “you bring pestilence. It’s bad reputation for the Jalas family.”

“I~” Damien started.

“The past is etched in stone, boy. Don’t try and deny it- it only makes you more of a fool. If that’s even possible,” he scowled with a promiscuous face, turning away slightly.

Damien grit his teeth, and adjusted his collar, realising his skin was flushing. He stepped forward slightly, as if tempted to square up to the giant who stood still in front of him.

“But,” the guard grunted, “The Mistress’ boy needs to see you. He mentioned it was a matter of great urgency, something to do with the higherups. Even I do not stand to him, I’m sure his mother wouldn’t be pleased,” some form of self-humour lit on the man’s face, before he led Damien into the building.

The hallways of the Jalas mansion always reminded Damien of a bakery, perhaps because of the slight burned scent of wood, or the sweet intoxication of the stalk flowers within the centre-garden.

After realising that Vorr had stopped tailing him, he turned around to Raphael who had just exited a miniature armoury.

“D, you got here quick,” the much bigger boy remarked, displaying a lopsided smirk.

“You said it was urgent,” he shrugged.

“Yeah, I just finished training so I’m still out of wind slightly,” he held his hands by his waist, still unashamedly topless, like some sort of statue, forged in the image of the Golden Titans.

“What’d you do today? Beat some more idiots half to death?” Damien smirked slightly.

Raphael shrugged it off, “I told you already, they were pissing me off so I showed them I wasn’t someone you could fuck with.”

“Should the Mistress’ boy really be speaking like that?” He quipped.

“I don’t know, should the Lord’s Bastid be in foreign lands mocking an important man?”

Damien chuckled quietly, and followed the scrutinising boy into the centre-garden. Pillars of grand white stone sat in the massive courtyard, with strips of hedge that coursed throughout, lit by the sun. Vines had entwined their lengths across these pillars, and arched upwards, similar to coiled pit vipers vying for fresh venison.

The marble fountain in the garden’s centre, spat a continuous flow of crystal sapphire water, the constant splashing reminiscent of a waterfall. By the luxurious fountain, were a cluster of benches, one of them occupied by a tall and slender girl, similar to the pale appearance of Raphael.

“I thought you went practice, Mel,” Raphael advanced, throwing on a shirt that was seemingly laying random.

“I’m looking after Apa,” she pointed to the large Lindwurm, a domesticated species of Drakon, two thick legs under a serpent, wingless type body. Its neck curled upwards, and under the reflection of the sun, its skin appeared a dark grey, like the inner-bowels of a thunderstorm. Sharp, rigid streaks of golden-white ran on its underbelly. Its lips curled into a snarl, at the sight of Raphael.

“Why the fuck is that rodent here, god damnit,” he cursed rather lividly.

The girl scowled, and rested her hand upon its spiked head.

The intolerable atmosphere between the two almost made it apparent that the two were rivals, yet it is quite the opposite, the two’s behaviour non-reflective of the fact that they were siblings.

“Why is the dark-skin here?” She waved her hand towards Damien in nonchalance.

“Just ignore her,” Raphael whispered through grit teeth.

Yet he didn’t ignore her. He often regarded the countless insults he received as mere accusations; but in the grander scheme of things, the ease of which they are disposed was uncanny. Disturbingly accurate- but despite this, people were able to throw them around like banter. To insult his entire family’s lineage was the norm: the façade which he presented was slowly crumbling.

His fists clenched.

With a mechanical walk, he managed to move past her, the girl- his best friend’s sister- who had just insulted not only himself, but also his mother and her lineage.

They turned the corner and reached an adjacent garden, this one considerably smaller, the ground consisting of sand. They stopped, his heart still thumping hard within his chest, with unsatisfied fury.

“Where’s your sword? Num custos Juramento- the Oathkeeper?” Raphael asked, bending to pick up a spear.

“It’s,” Damien hesitated to respond for a few seconds. He feigned ignorance- not for good-will, or selfishness, but in consideration for Raphael himself. He knew what lengths his friend would do if he found out.

“I gave it to Ragar for sharpening.”

Raphael started forwards, only stopping a foot away from Damien, towering him.

Eyes glinting with doubt, he pursed his lips. “Don’t think for one godammned second, that lying for the good of others is a wise choice. It don’t work for me.”

Damien struggled to get his heart under control. “I ain’t bullshittin’ Raph,” he retorted, a little too quickly.

His eyes phased for a second, and the reality crashed into him, head first.

He spluttered, “W-what?”

“What?! You goddamned fool! You… You did it didn’t you?” His father roared, his forehead creased with rage. His hands trembled.

Damien pushed himself back into a wall, casting his eyes upward, afraid.

His father saw this, and hesitated for a few moments, and then pursued, this time with a quieter voice, “Do you understand what you’ve done?”

Damien grimaced and turned his sight to the side of the room. Despite this, his father’s fingers grappled his chin and dragged them back towards his face.

“You drew your sword, to another member of the four households, within sacred ground?! That’s a fucking act of war Damien!”

Howard Fang backtracked, grasping the back of his scalp tightly, cradling his chin in a thinking manner. He paced towards the window of the Fang garrison.

“They’ve all gone; the Guards- it’s their awakening ceremony today,” he stopped to glance back at his son with a hidden disgust in his eyes, and then turned back- albeit softening slightly- with a shameful stature; “We have shit all. What happened to your sword?”

Damien’s heart raced as he managed to utter the words. “The Magate…” he trailed off, quietly.

His father’s face light up with pure horror, not at the indescribable nature of what his son had just uttered, but rather what had manifested itself in the front courtyard.

“S-stay here,” he pushed his palm outwards, signalling him. He paced out.

Damien was left in painful silence; in a silence that basked him in doubt and petrification. The nature of what crimes he had just committed still didn’t fully reach him. Yet his reasoning, his motive, did. Camilius Dagger, of the Dagger Familia. The wretched son of Helten Dagger and inheritor to the Dagger familia was pompous in arrival, but like his cousins (of equal disturbed equilibrium) was twisted in discourse. Damien bore scars of unparalleled ugliness due to the actions of Camilius- whether direct or inherent. Perhaps an outsider would deem the relationship between the two as a simple competitivefued; but in fact, it was the opposite.

Initially it was the gentle pitter-patter of rain that was echoed into the garrison. It soon faded out into the cacophonous slamming of boots into mud. Damien, crawling forwards, peered through the misted windows, dread clinging to his heart. The marching continued, yet through this distorted vision, he saw nothing. The chimes on the flat-roof of the garrison cawed, various tinkering’s of idle-minded soldiers swung in rhythmic patterns, in some ill-fashioned synchrony. Synchronised to what though?

Muffled speaking. The two conversing in a manner that seemed confused; distorted. A panicked one followed. Damien’s cowardice was unmatched in its resolve; it was infamous- but even his cowardice retreated to make way for his curiosity. He was lurking in the shadows; like a rat, whilst his old man attempted to resolve the shit he had laid.

Hands curling around the coldness of the handle, he opened it.

And then was blown back.

The initial impact nearly wiped him from consciousness; his fall onto the concrete also attempted to push him into mental disparity. Yet here he was, like a bloodworm, mouth opening and shutting silently, his eyes bloodshot and staring into the black and blurred distortion of his vision. Spread-eagled on the floor, he attempted to move something: anything. Instead a more vigorous pain bit down onto him.

Broken glass laid around him like autumn leaves; the wooden door in front of him splintered and split in half. Ignoring the destruction, what got him was the unbearable sound; like the constant screeching of sirens, the blearing in his ears made his head whirl in patterns unconceivable by logic.

“You tell me he is not here; yet what other parasite could grow this large?” A voice quiet like the pricking of ice-dust; malicious, yet lacking the coldness of a brooding man’s anger, spoke. But quaking in its resonance was an unfamiliar feeling of dread: as if pestilence, had gathered itself around Damien, and started to swarm inwards.

The bastard’s heart froze. He was here. He, the-

The Magate picked up Damien by the collar and slammed him onto the garrison’s wall, dragging him a few feet higher. Through blitzed eyes he stared forwards, pale in face, his lips trembling in the cold breeze.

Others had congregated, all just dark shadows of each other. Some of Dagger, some of Fang. But all was irrelevant as all Damien felt was the harsh coldness; the icy thorniness that stabbed his body over and over.

Frost spread over his chest, crawling like Anarichs.

“Leave the poor boy alone; he’s learnt his lesson, Master Magate,” Tutor Glarr called out, somewhere betwixt the spectators.

“He hasn’t learnt anything: touching the son of Irus Fang is a class-Heresy. Forbidden by the Holy Church.” The Magate’s eyes didn’t leave Damien’s.

“I crippled his father; I’ll do the same to him, if I damned well pleased Glarr,” he spat, his blonde hair stuck to his forehead in the downpour of rain.

A few gasps at that. Yet no one ran to help him outside.

“Speak for yourself, young’un. Testify in front of your literature Tutor, or in the face of Friar Rich. The guards of Dagger isn’t here to listen to your pleas; but the members of your own,” he used his free hand to point with shaking fingers, “your own… your own family- if you can call it that.”

Damien, a young boy filled with foolish assumptions, smiled a slurred smile, cocky in his own territory. Or perhaps that was the result of the falling of consciousness. “Your… Your wolves and lapdogs do not~”

“W-what? Do not tell me you dare to; you dare to, insult my honour?” The Magate spoke through grit teeth, his anger daring to escape his bowels.

Damien stared at the arched brows of the monstrous man, and forced the words through his trembling lips, “H-honour? I dream you do not possess the thing.”

“Preposterous!” A young scribe uttered, etching words into a Dagger scroll.

A Daggersman Scouthead, brushed forward, his hand laying on the pommel of his sword, “He dare?”

The Magate’s hand signalled all to stop. All listened.

“Your Master’s son, Camilius, showed me the Signia of the Crow. He insulted me.”

“The signia of the Crow?” The Scouthead scoffed. “Such barbarism was banned years prior to now, you fool- he would not bring a declaration of personal violent endowment within sacred lands.”

“Y-yet he showed it to me, Guardsman.” Damien slurred, his eyes drifting downwards.

The Magate didn’t speak as he traced his finger from under Damien’s right eye, coursing downwards around the cheek and to his lip. The boy screamed in agony as the fiery ice chewed through his (now pale) flesh, writhing in indescribable coldness.

The Magate leaned in close to speak with his cold voice, “Remember the name of Dagger. Remember the voice of order: and more importantly, the name of its Magate: Luzrack the Icebearer.”

Damien’s head whirled as if struck by a thousand bludgeons of clubs.

“Damien!” Raphael beckoned, not for the first time.

“What?” he replied, his mouth sour.”

“Your sword?”

“Its being sharpened,” he retorted.

Big Raphael’s stare burned for a few moments, before turning over to another random sword, flinging it towards Damien who caught it with sweating palms.

Raphael swung a short-staff from right hand to left, buzzing like a hummingbird. He stopped the trajectory of its spin with a single swipe, and slammed its end into the dirt, leaning onto it lazily, his smirk persistent. “You see the deadfolk at the Bog’s end, by Undis’ graveyard?”

“You smirk as if it’s a jest.”

“Is it not?” he replied, Damien not sure if he was joking or not.

“Why the bodies piling?”

Raphael shrugged, “Dunno- either there’s been a brawl or…there’s a war brewing.”

“You talk of past fallacies brother,” Damien stated as he lunged forward, jabbing at Raphael’s side.

“Ah,” he muttered as he whipped to the side, swing round the staff so quick it was like a mystical blur.

“The Church has been passing on whispers of the elders. Not the town elders, but Elders of the Creed; the ones ordering the big boys around.”

Elders of the Creed, Knightshood same thing, different misconception.

“What business do the Elders have, fighting a war? And with whom?”

Raphael twirled rightwards, feinting a swipe, but really opting for an overhead axe-swing that was parried inches from Damien’s face.

“Simpleton. You should know, it’s for your family’s land. The Karatis Islands; up west across the Vast Ocean.”

Damien’s sword hand swung only by instinct, no longer by conscious thought- each swipe kissing Raphael’s staff with a metallic clang that resonated. “You mean Kana; the northern one?”

“Lightling territory, yeah,” Raphael chuckled.

“I don’t remember the Monarchy contacting Fang, considering we’re at knives-end with Talon over Kana, and its colony.”

“You think the King would bother contacting you when they can just get Talon’s agreement? You think a bit too much of your familia, brother,” Raphael smirked.

The large man had a way with his inequities, the way he tricked and deceived: but talking of such grave prospects, his face alit with the same fire that his hands swung. Soul of a soldier, one would call it. Insulting his friend’s lineage was no new thing to both.

Damian grimaced, and backpedalled dropping the sword to his side, panting. “You’re right; it’s a piss in the wind it is…Fuck. Why didn’t father tell us?”

“Why didn’t he tell you? Probably cause all the little shits to cry, no doubt.”

All he could do was twinge at that; it was no easy feat hearing the cold truth uttered so easily. Raph was good at that.

“There’s rats running in the hen’s crib, Raph.” Damien placed the sword on its respective stand, and cracked his knuckles, awing in sight of a flock of birds.

Raphael prodded the staff-end into Damian’s shoulder. “Damned well there is- there’s a rat runnin’ in every rich son-of-a-whore’s family nowadays.”

He had a way with words.

“It’s closer than you or I think. I reckon it’s my Father’s brother.”

“You reckon?” Raphael scoffed, lurching over; “Reckoning ain’t enough brother- either you know, or you don’t. Even if it is Kal, he wouldn’t be working alone: he’d be scrounging with others, not the dumb ones. The smartest of the bunch. Not many people can fool your father.”

“I gathered by now my father’s figured it out. Not much goes unsaid by the family’s members. Though my mother is continuing to refuse the realisation that someone so close could be planning something so grim.”

Raphael grunted and began to walk down the pathway with Damien, into the building’s main celebratory hall. “You’d ought to tell the King this, you know.”

“King Origis? Apparently, father’s been considering it, but he doesn’t want to contribute to needless strife and tribulations within the Monarchy- especially if they’re dealing with a war.” In his heart, yes this was the right thing to do, but self-preservation beckoned him to call out.

“I didn’t say for your father to tell him, I said for you.” He patted Damien’s chest, and rolled his eyes in a dismissive manner.

“I can’t.” Damien responded, his voice quieter in self-reflection.

“Why?” Raphael turned around, partially.

“Because I’d be joining the Bog dead, if I were to go near the Palace again.”

Yes, Morphis- his uncle- is a nasty man: but the son of King Origis II, and brother to Princess Amber is harsher. Prince Origis I, or Marthax Origis, the Nightmare-Seeker.