Chapter 11

Oricalum (Present Forgotten Lands), Eons ago, after Daidric’s banishment

Thorne Pierce, son of Moron the Captain of the Dragonkin, had been in the expansive courtyard of his father’s manor, in solemn silence, cross-legged and thinking. He looked just like his father, with curls of black hair-midnight black, bearing no glint nor gloss in the pale sunlight; just impenetrable darkness. His eyes snapped open, the hazed florid grass brushing softly at his feet, the scent of death soft in the air. Thorne’s eyes were not of a child; his stormed grey eyes lacked vigour and instead swirled indefinitely, shallow pools of stone-formed stillness. His small frame shivered slightly in the breeze that swept once again, filling his nose with the curdling distaste.

“What could be on a child’s mind to make him meditate?” Karnos asked, walking leisurely into the courtyard, red cape flickering behind him, auburn hair floating past his shoulders. Eyes of darkness and red, fire and fury like his father’s sat on a sharply chiselled face. Thin and tall he glided elegantly, although his form did not lack rigidity. He stopped a couple meters away, leaning against a warped tree trunk, gnarled and malformed, like Karnos’ sneer.

“Father told me not to speak to you, Uncle,” Thorne said, his voice quiet, flickering, eyes watching him.

Karnos’ eyebrow rose at that, his face remaining still.

“And where is your father, Thorne?” Karnos asked, contempt creeping into his voice.

Thorne’s gaze flickered, and his eyes snapped from the ground in front of him, travelling to Karnos. He stumbled over his own voice.

“He’s offshore, purging human scum. He’s not here…looking after you,” Karnos’ words died in his mouth, and his hair fluttered behind him in the wind.

The eyes between the two faced each other, the scuttling of leaves across the paved ground sounding eerie.

“Have you come to remind me?” The boy said after a while, looking down to his feet in a solemn stance.

Karnos breathed in, his eyes burning, his face curling slightly, as if he had tasted something bitter, “I came,” he leaned against a nearby tree, and crossed his arms, “There’s no point in me telling you again. You’ve already heard enough from Lord Daidric’s council I’m sure.”

“Every day,” Thorne said under his breath.

Karnos brow twitched, “You can’t help it- that your father, Moros, violated the rules. Treason. But be happy that the Lord didn’t rip out his throat, or your mother’s, when he found out. He let you exist, Thorne.”

“I know that. I know my father made a mistake. But why?”

“He was stupid; he was a fool who got caught up in his own emotions, he~” he caught the last word in his mouth as Thorne shouted out, cheeks ablaze, a red, and his fists curled.

“No! Why was it a crime; why was it a crime to have a child?!”

Karnos paused, his eyes gazing up to the storm clouds congregating high above. And then he sighed, getting from his leaning position to walking round the width of the massive grass strip of the courtyard.

“The Dragonkin- they are supposed to be pure. But beyond that, way more important, they cannot reproduce, they cannot further the Dragonkin bloodline; especially cross-breeding with another. A Vampyre- your mother.”

Thorne glanced to the window behind Karnos, high up, darkly-tinted. His mother’s room.

Karnos caught him looking and turned.

“No!” Thorne stopped forward, tears welling in his eyes.

Karnos turned back, a sly grin across his face, eyes blazing again, “Relax. I’m not going to do anything to her.”

He continued, his tone quieter now, “Moros, your father, even though he’s the captain of the Dragonkin, the three of us, the Dragon riders, he wasn’t supposed to bear a child.”

“Why?”

“Because the more Dragonkin there is, the more of Daidric’s power is distributed; it is said that Daidric gave a portion of his soul to create me, Moros and our brother Horus. Passing even more of the Lord’s power down, meaning even more of his energy has been exerted. To you.”

“I-it can’t be that,” Thorne stumbled over his words, mind tracking back.

“Hm?” He tilted his head.

“I heard father shouting at mother, earlier, a few months ago. A-about…”

“About what?” Something rose in Karnos’ voice, his inquisitiveness getting the best of him.

“That the Lord was angry because of… something about his generals? Something about a repeated…repeated betrayal?” Thorne finished, his eyes slowly looking up at Karnos, whose eyes were wide-eyed.

Thorne had never seen such horror; such panic hit a Dragon rider before; but Karnos’ eyes alit with a flame that danced vividly, like a panicked animal.

“H-have you told anyone, Thorne? Have you?!” He stepped forward, his voice louder.

“A-about~”

“About the fucking Generals, boy. The Generals!” He snarled in a hushed voice.

“N-no. No one. They don’t know I know. No one does, Uncle, but~”

Karnos gripped Thorne’s shoulder, “If the Lord found out you knew…he would kill you, and your father, probably me and Horus as well.”

Confusion wracked Thorne’s face.

Karnos spun on his heel, “You know how Lord Daidric came to Luthadel, yes?”

Thorne nodded quickly.

“How?”

“H-his fellow Gods, they attacked him. They ganged up on him, just for fulfilling his sole purpose; the one he couldn’t control.”

“Well it’s a lie; a part of it anyway. It wasn’t just the Gods. The Septum of Generals had fought him as well, helped the Gods banish him to Luthadel.”

“What do you mean?” Thorne’s heart raced; the story of their King, was false?

“The Generals were Daidric’s friends, they helped him fight the war against the angels!”

Karnos grimaced, “Yes he had created the Generals to help him keep guard of Hell. But he was too honest, to keen to keep others safe. The Generals didn’t like that. That’s when she did it. The head General, Helen, the black-haired witch, Daidric called her. She did the worse thing imaginable.

She teamed up with the head of the angels, the Alatus, Damarus. And she helped her fellow Generals banish the one who had created them.”

A harsh silence hit them both.

Finally, lips quivering, Thorne spoke, “So Lord Daidric’s scared if there’s more Dragon riders, they’ll~”

“They’ll betray him too. Again.”

“I won’t.” Thorne stood up again, puffing out his chest, stepping forwards.

“You have to be the ultimate rider, Thorne. You have to command a Dragon, a beast of unfathomable power, to fight for Lord Daidric. You have to succeed your father, drive back these foolish humans who follow their foolish Gods- the same ones who banished and betrayed Daidric, now convince the humans that Daidric is a Devil.”

“The humans are the ones who did this- who caused my father so much pain; why he comes back from battle with wounds?”

Karnos nodded, eyes darkening.

His fists curled, a snarl spreading across his face. He looked up, black hair fluttering back in the wind, stormy eyes harbouring a darkness that was similar to his father’s. “What do I do?”

“First,” Karnos reached out a hand, and in it, a long spear formed, a spiralling cloud of amber dust forming a golden lance weapon. “We find you your Dragon. And then you kill him. You kill him, and become the best.”

“W-what? Kill who?”

“Your father, Moros of course. Lord Daidric instructed that you do it as soon as possible; within the year if possible.”

*

The Upper Realm, Present day

Pain rolled over Zaros’ body like the flames of an enraged Wyvern, waves of crushing heat that pulsed, tearing his body apart from the inside out, leaving him in frozen, perpetual agony. He grunted, teeth grinding against each other, golden blood staining his robes round the lower right of his chest; he drew a deep breath, arching his neck back, and then a spasm shook his body, a hacking cough shuddering through, a sharp, stabbing pain erupting across his chest. He tired to roll to his right, his vision blurred and blackened, but he couldn’t twist his body without a pain pulsing across his body. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move.

He had no damned idea where he was.

Then, a shout. Excited and exhilarated- Zaros’ hearing was faded, the voice sounded horribly warped, but he could make out the words:

“Fallen one!” His voice rumbled, and others followed, excited, hushed as they approached. The sound of footsteps on harsh, cavernous rock, echoing- not a narrow, winding tunnel but a large cavern.

The cold biting of the air around him was erased by the lapping of a fire. The voices quietened, and he ceased all movement, and held his breadth; listening to the heartbeats of those around him. Strong; rhythmic, like beating of drums. The Viris, like the Altus and the Origis, the three original creations of the gods. But he knew their kind, like the Origis and the Alatus; they were never satisfied with the immense power Valnaar had gifted them. The Alatus, the angels, the first to be gifted with flight; the Origis, the ones who were responsible for creating the humans in their image; and then the Viris, the most powerful: the ones who had created magic.

A flickering fragrance latched onto Zaros, his encumbered body suddenly lifted, the faded blackness in his eyes retreating, the sensations of numbness on his skin replaced with the reality of the pain. Zaros craned his head up, and shock bred in his eyes.

Damarus knelt there, smiling, green orbs of eyes like blistering emeralds, his pale skin compromised by the whiteness of his hair; the platinum vigour shone harshly in the light of the torches nearby, where fellow Viris stood, draped in cloths obscuring their faces. His teeth were sharp, his eyebrows arched wickedly, his pointed nose and ears strikingly prominent in the cast of light around them. Black garments is all he wore; and in his hand, a pale, flickering green.

“Long time no see, Zaros,” he lurched backwards, eyes sticking onto Zaros’, his smile never vanishing.

“Damned traitor,” Zaros spat, surprised at the rage in his voice.

His smile remained, his eyes wide and exhilaration filled, “I betrayed no one. It was Valnaar, the King of Gods, and his weak allies who betrayed us all, Zaros,” he leant forwards again to whisper, the flame in his hand growing greener, “It was them who did it all.”

“Raglamor killed you. Centuries ago, before you,” he spat blood onto the floor, “before you defected from the Viris.”

“Raglamor? The bloody butcher king? The Gargoyle?” He lurched backwards, horrendous laughter filling the cavern, eyes filled with potent excitement. “He failed miserably. I know your uncle, Solice sent him; some pathetic alliance. I crushed his army; he fled like a rat.”

He stood up, and flicked his fingers the fire extinguishing from his hands. He signalled to the Viris around him with the nod of his head.

Quickly, two of them coursed either side of Damarus, grabbing Zaros’ arms roughly, his body nearly tilting into unconsciousness from the pain of his broken arms. They pinned him against the wall of the cavern.

“Who broke your arms?” Damarus nodded to them, genuine inquisitiveness on his face.

Damarus let his head drop, hair covering his eyes.

Damarus’ eyes lit at that and he snarled, something long and metal shooting from his palm, flying forwards, impaling Zaros’ left arm at the elbow. Zaros’ head craned back and he let out a pathetic scream, the wound round the puncture swelling a horrid colour, his entire left side pinned to the wall. It was a metal pipe- a crudely assembled manifestation.

Viris’ didn’t need triggers to expel magic; their bodies were connected with the magical cosmos from creation.

“Who. Broke. Them, my friend?” He asked again.

“My…Father,” Zaros managed, wheezing.

Damarus pedalled back slightly, raising his immaculate eyebrows, “Ah, I guess after a century and a half of time, the keeper of knowledge still manages to live.”

“Unfortunately,” Zaros mumbled.

“Valnaar thought you retreated; left it all to Helen and the remainder of Daidric’s Generals. He thought the Infernum was under strife.”

“Strife? Not much so; I’ve been here, for long Zaros. Me and Helen, we’re rebuilding the pile of shit Daidric left behind. The armies are weak- were weak. But Helen’s not stupid, neither are the Generals.”

Zaros grinned, teeth stained gold from blood, “Why are you telling me this?”

A crooked smile spread across Damarus’ thin face, “No one will believe you. Even a fool knows your ignored in the upper reaches of Heaven.”

The truth behind that stung more than Zaros realised, and he recoiled from something other than the pain.

“What do you want, Virisian?” Zaros mumbled, the pain gathering at his head now.

“When I helped Helen Daidrus and the other Generals betray Lord Daidric, I realised something. I realised that his way of thinking the three realms could stay separate, but his help could prevent unbalance was foolish. I realised that, only with authoritarianism, I can bring power that the Viris always deserved.”

“You helped Helen overthrow Daidric?” Zaros asked.

“More,” he smiled, “I helped set him up. Surely you must know that? It was us who released the Hell Mynths into the mortal realm, all that time ago, days before Daidric’s banishment. We cut the last thing that prevented Daidric from leaving, forever.”

Sombre realisation filled Zaros’ eyes. He wasn’t surprised to be honest, but the cruelty of it, the detailed machinations that went into making Daidric appear he was a crazed evil to the guild of Gods, to his lover Alecias.

“With Daidric gone, it enabled the abandoned Generals of Hell, and the forgotten leaders of the Viris to cooperate, to build something tremendous. Something that you can help make.”

Glee filled his eyes, and he licked his lips, bending down again, his palm brushing Zaros’ cheek, “None of the Gods love you, Zaros. Your own father hates you. Your brothers are on Luthadel, perverting the true meaning of Godship. Me and Helen; when we build a new kingdom to conquer the mortal fools, we would appreciate you.”

A soft touch lingered within those words, and dreaded sense filled Zaros. What he had said about the Gods not caring for him? It was true; but what wasn’t true, is the centuries, and centuries worth of decrepit lies that rotted on top of Daidric’s name. The fact that he tried to prevent the releasement of Hell’s hordes so long ago. And the fact that the Oracles mentioned of his return.

If the Gods wouldn’t help Zaros; nor his father or his selfish brothers, then he would resort to Daidric himself if he had to.

Not that this Virisian fool knew of it though.

Damarus had leant forward now, his ice-cold breadth glazing Zaros’ cheek, eyes so softly malicious and melted that Zaros felt convinced. And then, with grit teeth, and the incantation of his internal spell- a final resort used in dire emergencies, his right arm bubbled with a profound magic that envigorated his body long enough to move. He shot his hand forward, his face contorting in pain as the steel rod’s jagged circumference sprayed blood everywhere, until he came off the tip, a gaping hole in his hand revealed. Quicker than a bolt of lightening, he slammed his outspread fingers into the side of Damarus’ face who didn’t even see it coming. He had mustered enough force to crack open the side of a mountain; the internalised spell in question being the Crakenheim spell, one Zaros had spent five centuries mastering and perfecting. It gathered any remaining affluence in the body and generated it one tiny area of a Cosmic valve for explosive power.

Damarus didn’t even flinch as Zaros slowly looked up, smoke curling from his hand, which was held in Damarus’ steel grip. Damarus’ eyes shone blood red, glittering horrificly, and a wide smile creeped upon his face, like a grinning shark.

“Tsk tsk,” he tutted, chuckling along with the Virisians behind him.

Shock, and soon fear, crept upon Zaros’ face.

“How…?” He gasped, his free hand dropping to his side.

“A simple Archmagic annunciation. I converted the physical capabilities of your meagre attack into magic, and then nullified it with a counteracting manifestation.”

“That much magic would kill anyone.”

“Not a Virisian of my fortitude. I’m invulnerable, boy.” Suddenly his smile vanished and his hand shot out, gripping Zaros by his hair, dragging him forwards, forcing the God to crane his neck up.

“Bastard,” he hissed.

“I’m going to kill you Zaros. When I do, I shall bring your head to your father- already defiled.”

“He doesn’t care,” Zaros grunted.

“It’s the message behind it, God. The message behind your pathetic death. It will symbolise a new beginning.”

“You’re gonna start a war. It’s going to kill everything. Here and down there,” his eyes flashed to his right, to the wall beside him.

Damarus grinned, “It’s not going to be a war. It’s going to be domination.”

“Maybe so, but I’ll be damned if the Gods let you.”

Zaros’ eyes were starting to roll back into his head, his vision fading. He had to do it quickly. Before he lost his life. He glanced to it: a small crack in the wall, although looking faint, he could tell that it had arched back extensively.

“Impressive you managed that, just from recoil.” Damarus noted, glancing to the crack as well.

“You diverted the gust of air from your swipe’s shockwave, and concentrated it to the wall,” he pointed out, exactly right, “Although you failed to bring the entirety of the caverns side on us. A noble last effort, though.”

Damarus turned to one of his comrades asking for something. When he turned around he held a wicked looking piece of blade, massive and thin, with a short handle, like a butcher’s cleave. It’s golden curved hilt and diamond encrusted rim shined nicely in the low light of the torch.

“I could kill you with my hands, but I don’t want my fist sodden with your wretched fluids.” He shrugged his shoulders, feeling the side of the blade with the palm of his hands.

“You Gods are pathetic; here I am. Your creation; yours! And yet you kneel like some decrepit, fucking…mutt!” He spat, glee on his face, eyes bulging with pleasure.

“I kneel for no one coward. Especially a deformed creation such as yourself,” Zaros snarled, looking up.

Rage flashed on his face and he brought back the blade, ready to arch down.

If you’re hearing this, you dumb, blind bastard. Come. Come and get him; its your chance to show Valnaar who you are. Come, I beg of you.

Zaros gulped, reared back his head, and smashed it back against the wall, as hard as he could.

A moment of nothingness, and Zaros’ face dropped. And then a cloud of dust fell, followed by a tidefall of rock specks. The tiny crack had largened, only by a fraction, but a small line of sunlight filled the crack, spilling over the floor, part of it covering Damarus’ foot. He looked down at the thin slice of light that had shed itself, and he smiled smugly, eyes alighting, teeth bared, and swept back his free hand, the brilliant blackness of his coat shimmering like a tornado amidst the night sky. Golden flickers resonated around him, body imbued with even more powerful magic.

“I will decimate you,” he spoke simply, in a voice deeper and more pronounced, “I will eviscerate you- there will be no corpse left for your father to mourn. Just ashes.”

And then with a thundering boom he struck his hand down.

*

Present time, Galgador, Southern Citadel Undis, Maximus’ Supreme Court

Lord Fang, and the entirety of the Fang familia betrayed by a bastard member of their own, Kal Morphis, have been captured and sentenced to judgment in the Maxis supreme court, under vision of Supreme Judge Maximus. Damien Fang has been tortured for vital information in the dungeons, and is taken to judgment.

(Refer to beginning of chapter 8 for reminding).

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vzDPIrEiS-U (listen whilst reading for immersion).

Maximus’ hands curled round the golden armrests of his seat; he stared down upon his audience, upon the three house’s Lords whose backs were turned from him, whose eyes were fixed on the set of doors.

For Dagger, in their congregation was Helten Dagger and his wife Lydia Dagger; son, Camilius Dagger there too, his face contorted in some sort of twisted happiness, Maximus thought. For house Talon, the vassals of the Origis state, the supporters- the lapdogs.

Jeroen Kent and his wife, Kathrina Origis, sister to King Origis II, and auntie of Princess Amber. She sat there, surrounded by Knightshood, her posture as if she didn’t care, her presence a gift upon the court. Pathetic. Maximus was disgruntled by the uncanniness of the Origis family; his sources informed him of the Knightshood’s presence on them- it bothered him greatly. He had heard of her niece’s role in the ordeal of the Fang bastard’s capture. These wicked children were able to do so much with contempt that Maximus’ mind couldn’t comprehend. A sour face must’ve rippled across him, as members of the final family stared up at him with returned disgruntlement. It was the Spine family: Siegfried Spine and his wife Vafara. None of their children, including the warped boy, Kaladin.

All powerful; all loathsome to the decrepit Fang-men.

Relative silence of the court filled the room. The two massive doors creaked open.

Another series of soldiers had walked in, but this time, dragging in a small figure hobbling at an inconsistent pace, draped in brown cloth, covering it completely, as if he was too repulsive to be glanced at. The footsteps echoed in the now completely silent courtroom, until eventually, the soldiers took the figure a sharp right, pushing it onto a separate chair, where they were immediately tied up, arms, legs, even neck, to the spine of the chair. And then, a guard whipped the cover off completely, discarding it onto the floor, and glanced down at the boy. The soldier backpedalled quickly, the sword nearly clattering out of his hand, his eyes bulging, and his lips curled in disdain.

“My God,” a closer noble whispered.

Maximus saw Lord Fang look up at his son, horror sprawled across his face. Maximus himself paled, his voice catching in his throat, a cold sweat breaking out. He nearly stumbled over his own words. Brutalised; brutalised was the only word Maximus would dare use. His face was bruised; horrifically cut, his skin soaked wet with blood, vomit, and sweat. His hair was burnt irregularly, bloody residue all over his soiled pants. His right arm was horrifically contorted, limp by his side.

It was the newly charred, black brand that was scorched across the right cheek of his face which caused Maximus to hesitate. They had branded him. They had branded him with the signia of Traitorus: The False One. It was an enflamed Nightmayre head; jaw agape, teeth showing, black flames sprouting out. His right eye above was so badly damaged that even the torturer had to bandage it with makeshift cloth.

“W-where’s the rest?” Maximus whispered to his apostle.

“Imprisoned. They are awaiting separate judgments.”

Coughing, Maximus spoke with as steady as a voice he could muster, “Lord Fang, leading elders of the Fang familia,” he paused to stare at the new people being escorted into the room; “Damien Fang.”

A couple of his apostles shifted uncomfortably- uttering such a name in the house of ultimate decision and gods? Blasphemous surely.

“Taking into account that the rest of the Fang house is not present, and will be awaiting separate judgment, I will determine your actions as such.”

He turned to Howard Fang, knelt, bloodied- defeated.

“Now under the fifth jurisdiction of legion’s decree, your various acts of treachery and revolting acts of defiance against not only word of the Urmis agreement of 740 ADA, but also warning of the king. This can only lead to ultimate judgment by me, direct punisher of the heathen’s themselves. You Lord Fang, you have disgraced the name of your family; you have stained what was left over from your province.”

Maximus paused to stare at the degraded man who kneeled by his feet, grovelling at the floor. His posture was hunched in a ghoulish sort of manner, and in all honesty, he felt shame for this man. A great ruler forced to the ground.

Howard Fang’s eyes traced Maximus’ body upwards, slowly, sluggishly like some sludgeworm found on a marsh-swamp. He opened his mouth, but spoke nothing, quickly slumping again, not bothering to instigate a defence.

“You have no defence? No obligatory articulation of resistance?” An apostle asked startled, almost disgusted, at the lack of self-perseveration in this man.

Damien had quickly lurched forward, but before even uttering a word, a guard slammed his fist into the boy’s nape, shunning him, “Quiet, worm!”

“Do you, Howard Fang, account all responsibility of the house’s acts of desolation upon Galgador?”

“I do… I do not.”

“Coward,” Nawrack, Magate of Spine belittled the man with such nonchalance, that it could’ve been deemed as wit or banter between old friends. Beside him, sat smirking, were the powerful entities of the family.

The leading Lord- the forefather; the wife; the lord’s concubines; the sons, daughters, cousins. All insignificant to Damien. All smaller kinks of a massive chain which swung from the hands of Gods who did not care. The same Gods who had led Damien down this deteriorating fate. All three families had a similar hierarchy, consisting of a prominent leader, only second to the Magate, and a series of other insignificant specs who manifested themselves as influential gatherings.

Howard snarled and lurched forward, almost like a gnawing crow, trying to claw at the much more powerful Magate. “Scrounger! Infidel!” Pure fury ruptured Howard’s face, contorting to that of a wild beast, dishevelled and completely uncomplacent. His demeanour twisted itself into something despicable. Silence struck the room, as the savage man tried to tear at the Magate.

“It’s pathetic- what this family has been reduced to,” Lord Siegfried spat.

“Indeed, horrific.”

“Heresy surely?!”

“Cowardice!”

Maximus shouted for silence, his fist slamming against his table, rattling it, anger across his face.

And then in that gap of silence, Damien spouted before the guard managed to silence him, “Where are they? Where…where are~” his voice was quiet, hushed and weak, but Maximus heard him. The court heard him.

The boy’s head dropped down.

The Apostle next to Maximus spoke, his voice gravelly and monotone, “The accused questions for the specifics of his family. Maximus, the Spine, Dagger and Talon families are not obligated to answer in the~”

“Your sister put up a good fight, boy. Juliet, her name was, right?” Nawrack turned to the boy.

The blood drained from Damien’s face. He looked up, blood-drenched hair covering his eyes, his breath ragged. His eyes straightened on Nawrack, the people around him blurs, faded obscurities. His head swam, and deep gulps of air became shallow gasps.

“What did you say?”

“Your sister,” Nawrack chuckled, leaning back, his crimson eyes reflecting light from the windows, “I knew she was strong, but I’m surprised she was able to last a while fighting two Magates.”

The world seemed to slow down, the voices around him slowing down to a slur; panic filled his eyes, the moisture gone from his mouth, and the pain from his body gone, anguish crawling across his face.

You know what the funniest thing was, Damien?

The voice mocked him; but no one spoke. Damien’s eyes crossed the stands who watched him. The sneers of Helten Dagger, his son, Camilius. The others in the other families, the ones who had mocked him, made his life hell; belittled him.

But apart from the idle chat of noblemen, no one spoke to Damien.

The voice chuckled in his head, sending him spiralling in a torrent of fear and confusion, a frenzy of incoherent spasms across his mind.

And then Damien’s eyes caught Nawrack the Dragon-eater’s, a smile across his face. His red eyes froze the two in eye contact,

The funniest thing was when your whore of a mother tried to help, when she threw down what she was holding, when Thaddaus the Siren Slayer was pinning down Juliet and her torrent of fists. When your mother ran into me.

His heart stopped.

Well not into me. My sword.

The air caught in his throat, and he buckled, the voices of Maximus, who had resumed talking with a steel voice, shattered into a million fragments, like glass. The faded visage of Damien’s own blood splattered on the floor below him; the throbbing pain that echoed across his entire body, ransacking him of his numbness. He couldn’t feel whatever had plagued him before now. It had vanished.

She screamed like a bloody cat, that woman.

His father cried out, the words indistinct- everything hazy, the grip of the guards around him, warped.

Your sister, she gave Thaddaus a good scar on his eye, she was strong. One of the strongest I’ve seen. I reckon even Magate Lancifer the Pure would’ve had trouble fighting her.

Damien’s vision refocused on the face of his mother’s murderer.

But after I broke both her arms, she submitted rather quickly.

But the boy’s scream was caught in his throat, an iciness catching within it, his neck freezing over in unbearable pain, like the pain he felt years ago, when his sword was broken.

Maximus winced, watching the boy scream in perpetual silence- the pain having gotten to his head. What he had seen in his eyes- eye- was pure fear, one unrecognisable.

“The decree of the court states that your judgment will be ultimate, and final in the name of the Gods, and the Elite Pope Francifis.” Maximus paused, and turned to a high balcony, “Andris, do you, and the Small Council, agree and accept all responsibility to act on behalf of the King and his wisdom, to provide witness to this judgment?”

Andris turned to answer but he was interrupted.

Suddenly, the doors blasted over which such ferocity, that it had immediately silenced the commotion of the room, and in doing so, Maximus’ attention was drawn immediately forward.

“Make way for King Origis VII,” a powerful voice domineered all others in the room, and lines of cloaked soldiers marched inwards in perfect unison, followed by the King himself. In young age, the King had vigour and bronzed skin, but now, his sunken eyes, puckered face and a grubby appearance instead further insinuated discrepancy. The staff in which he supported himself was gold, like his cloak, and completely opposed the white colour of his hair. His eyes slowly traversed the room, and flashed with alarm, and he ushered for the soldiers to accelerate. He made way to Lord Fang, and knelt slowly, reaching an arm out, as he attempted to speak.

“Holy King, with upmost respect, law of the court orders you to stay away from the accused, despite any previous… relations.” Maximus warned

Damien’s mind reached out at that; his father and the King had been acquaintances, even if the Princess had betrayed Damien, the King’s and his father’s friendship had to mean something?

King Origis backpedalled slightly, startled at the words of Maximus. “Elite Judge, it seems you miscomprehend your role in this situation; it is me, the King, who is present in the decision of sentencing the accused, not Andris! In fact who~”

A steel cold grip encircled the King’s shoulder. The audience gasped; even Maximus noticeably flinching. Damien’s eye narrowed immediately, and he felt himself crease inwardly, a convulsion of recognisable fear controlling his body.

The man who had gripped the King of Galgador wore Dirithium armour, sleekly forged which encircled his body, covered by cloaks of pure white embroidery; long, curved helm which sat upon a covered face, where only his eyes were visible. By his waist, a sword of incomparable strength, etched with sigils which glowed softly with imbued energy.

Upon this man’s breast, lay a signia of a golden cross, with stakes pointed upwards, Gorgon tails wrapped around both. Behind him, others stood in similar attire, their mere presence creating such pressure in the air that even Andris of the Small council, on his perch, shifted slowly, eyes never leaving the Magates and men.

It was Lancifer- he could tell immediately- Lord Magate, and Captain of the Knightshood.

Maximus waited for an outburst of unmeasurable anger against this foolish man who had just grabbed the King. Yet nothing came.

Instead, what crept upon the King’s face, was unparalleled fear, undeniable and uncontrolled petrification.

“Enough.” Is all the Knight Magate said, with a voice so discreetly horrific that the air itself seemed to broil. The king, shaking, backpedalled and was forcefully escorted to a spot in the corner, where soon after, the same Knight exited, walking towards Howard Fang, stopping only by the Spine section.

Damien shook with horror- his eyes stared in distraught silence, his upper lip trembling slightly, the rest of his body completely stiff.

Howard watched slowly, blood trickling down his face, as his friend walked away.

No.

“You,” the Knight Magate began, “are a shame to everything we stand for.”

“What are you doing, Lord Magate?” Maximus asked quietly, afraid.

No! Disaster! Disgust; betrayal!

“You, as a failure to everything, as a giver of this bastard; you must atone. You bred this pathetic feud between the families; when we need attention on the hordes of barbarians and the machine heretics in the east, you bear…bear this.” He waved his gauntleted hand over Damien.

Slowly, the Knight Magate unsheathed his sword, liquid magic trickling out, black smoke curdling in the air.

The world slowed down; a distortion of time, as Damien’s entire body lurched forward, painstakingly. Immediately, his body was grappled by a soldier, but still he pursued, determined.

“Leave him! Leave him be!” Damien screeched. Tears welled in Damien’s eyes, as his he continued to scream, still shouting out after the soldier clamped his hand over Damien’s gaping mouth.

No. Not now. Please, Gods. Not now.

Lancifer roughly gripped a handful of Howard Fang’s hair, and pulled it up, forcing his face to stare at the audience. He did not scream, nor shout, nor protest. Simply staring forwards, eyes glazed over, a crooked smile painted upon the man’s face. Slowly his dark, green eyes traced over to Damien’s, and his weak smile refortified itself, a tear rolling down his scuffed cheek.

I’m sorry he mouthed.

And then Lancifer sneered as he drove the sword through Howard Fang's heart.

.

..

…

….

*