A rumbling from clouds off to the east tells of a coming storm, even as the sun rises to brighten the clouds into hues of orange, gold, and red, painting the sky much as a loving artist does his canvas. Such an ordinary gray highlighted by the sun to create a backdrop of spun golden splendor.

And yet, such beauty curdles my stomach. Such a spectacular view shouldn't be possible when my world is being torn apart.

Heart-pounding anger enfolds me as I watch my greatest nightmare become reality before the stately two-story white home my family lovingly calls Casa Frida Manor. It has decorative, twisted columns holding the second-story balcony aloft and a grand entryway that once had a beautiful waterfall and flowing river painted on the doors by Mother. But now, those same doors are broken and pockmarked with holes, swinging sideways on damaged hinges.

Two men shove me to my knees, their dingy purple capes over muted leather armor telling of their allegiance to the Empire as jingoist. One has a dagger poised over my ribs in warning.

I was already too late once. I hope I can salvage this situation with my family still intact.

My lips settle into a grim line. I know from experience things like this hardly tend to end well.

“These two.” The jingoist commander, his purple cape marked by a golden dragon seal, points to the two boys in Mother's arms.

I won't be late again. A low growl rips from my throat. A man jabs his knife deeper into my ribs in warning. Warmth trickles down my side, but I rise to my feet despite the threat. I rise even as the trickle becomes a rivulet. I don’t know what I’ll do, but I’ll not sit here and watch them take my siblings to that Allfather-forsaken place.

The boys struggle against their captors. Mother reaches for them, grasping at their fingers, sobs tearing from her. Pa tries to jerk free from the two men holding him back, but he is made for a different battle. Mentally, he is the strongest person I know. But physically, he isn't made to fight. That's what I was supposed to be here for, to protect my family alongside the other servants.

Guilt assails me, but I don't have time for that. Not now.

“No!” Mother wails as her children are ripped from her arms.

A jingoist butts her in the temple with the hilt of his dagger, hard enough I hear the sickening crack of hard metal on bone. Her hands fall, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. Barry and Jed are dragged to the jail wagons, cries of despair and pain wrenched from the boys as they see Mother go limp.

My mouth goes dry as I watch Mother for any sign of movement. Her head hangs, blood forming a scarlet trail down her cheek and off her chin. My nose twitches with the scent of copper mingled with the iron and steel of these men, and of wildflowers: the scent of Mother.

My heart beats frantically in my chest. A blow like that can kill.

Her chest moves with a small breath, then another.

Pa sags in his own captor's grasp, exhaling a whispered sigh of relief only I can hear.

The commander lifts Mother's chin. Snaps his fingers. “Her too.”

My muscles ripple in anticipation of tearing this soldier limb from limb for daring to threaten my pack.

“Roland, do nothing,” Pa says for my ears alone, words barely whispered into the teeming wind—but I hear them. I hear them as loud and clear as the jingoist trampling their way through the only place I’ve ever truly called home.

Rain patters down, soaking the bloody earth at our feet.

I look at Pa, questioning him with my eyes. Protecting my family is my purpose. I would fight. But his minute shake of the head stills me and I slump in the jingoist's hold.

I respect him enough to do as he says, even if I do not understand. This man who took me in as a son, when he, arguably, should've turned me over to the Empire for a healthy reward. He became my Alpha in the years that followed our chance meeting, and that means much to a Shifter such as I. I will obey my alpha and father to my last breath.

I give a single jerky nod. Relief fills his red-rimmed gaze, even as he turns to watch with unabashed tears as his two true children and the love of his life are ripped from him.

The commander stops in front of me, tapping his gauntleted fist against a chain-link covered leg. The metallic reverberation rings in my ears. My gaze follows his dark chain-link armor down, eventually settling on bloody boots, effectively hiding what would betray my Shifter heritage—my black eyes—behind my wide-brimmed straw hat.

I'm left wondering which of my friends the commander murdered in order to get those bloody stains on his boots. Warmth tingles behind my eyes, catching me by surprise. I don’t cry.

The commander grabs my jaw to lift my gaze. I feel my eyes flash with my barely restrained violence. His hardened gaze meets my own tempered steel. The hazel eyes in front of me grow wide, in fear or shock, I know not. His cheeks are sallow, almost gaunt, and there's a scruffy beard on his jaw.

“Ahhh... what do we have here?” His words are slow, methodical, and slightly gleeful. The glint in his eye doesn't bode well for me.

I jerk my head from his hands, tempted to bite his fingers, but refrain from snapping like a cornered dog.

That’s basically what you are, my subconsciousness whispers. I shy from it and the truth it reveals.

I am more than a monster, I respond futilely. Both the voice and I know better. But still I fight—perhaps because I know nothing else.

My subconscious chuckles, lining up with the cruel bark of laughter from the hard-eyed man before me, grating on my being like sandpaper against skin.

“A warrior—Kursk Scum—but a warrior nonetheless. You would do well in the arenas, training men to defend against monsters.” It's almost as if he read my mind. He leans closer in a taunt when he whispers, "Freaks like you."

“I'm not the monster you are,” sneaks out my mouth before I can bite my tongue.

His rage boils hotter than a kettle on a stove. My nose catches the rotten egg stench of an evil man, the sulphureous scent making it hard to breathe. The truth oft brings out the greatest anger in a man consumed with his thirst for power.

“Bow.” He leans closer, a scant finger length from my nose. It's slightly amusing that his forehead is my nose height. “BOW!”

I neither twitch nor give any sign that I heard him, despite the spittle that lands on my neck, making my stomach crawl.

I brace as his gauntlet strikes my ribs. My side thoroughly protests the rough treatment as I straighten despite the cold pain flaring across my middle. My wide-brimmed straw hat shakes loose, and I watch it tumble to the ground, meeting softly with the ground in a poof of dust. The commander grinds the straw hat beneath his foot.

I watch as pristine straw vanishes, mixing with blood and muck beneath the boot, much like the dreams of finding my true home have collided and disappeared in the truth.

The sad part is—I knew better than to hope. Yet I hoped anyway, especially after years of being left in peace. It felt as if I'd finally escaped, and I didn't wish to leave the happiness I'd found. That was idiotic—especially knowing exactly who and what would pay good money for my head.

Looking back up, I meet his eyes with the stone cold visage famous among my kind. It betrays neither pain nor emotion. His eyes narrow and brows lower. His cheek twitches and his nostrils flare in anger, releasing a billow that smells of tobacco smoke, ash, and something rotten, as if he hadn't brushed with mint leaves in quite some time.

I can do nothing as his fist once again meets that same side; same place. Once more, I dare straighten and meet his gaze. The third catches me unaware. It rips the breath from my lungs in a gasping wheeze when my rib gives with a pop that casts stars across my vision. Each breath brings fresh agony. Despite myself, I drop to one knee, cradling my broken and bruised bones. One more blow such as that and the rib could pierce a lung, bringing an agonizing death, something I have watched far too often.

Once again, hands cold as steel and just as hard clench my jaw. Sweat beads upon my brow when I meet my tormentor’s gaze. I force my face to remain impassive, even while I take shallow breaths to ease the break.

“Don’t mess with me, Kursk. Fighters less frail have broken beneath my reign.” His eyes gleam as he takes in the pain he caused.

He sickens me. People like him, who enjoy being the cause of suffering, shouldn’t be allowed to roam free on any planet.

I remain still and impassive, although I want to sneeze from the stench coming off the man. Knowing the pain that would come from that sneeze almost draws a morbid chuckle from my lips. His stench is going to kill me before his fist can. The humor makes me second guess my sanity.

If monsters even have sanity to begin with, my mind whispers.

... I don't have a defense for that one.

The commander once again searches my eyes, my defiance throwing oil on a raging inferno.

“Take him to the pits.” His grin darkens the harsh planes of his gaunt face and distorts a jagged J-shaped scar across his cheek.

I’m wrenched from the ground and dragged toward a jail wagon. It's a part of the large caravan that rolled into Casa Frida Manor, upsetting our happiness and upending our lives. There are five large wagons, set with bars of metal wedged between weathered gray planks of wood. Light can scarcely pierce the deep darkness within. It looks for all purposes like a steel trap wrapped in weathered wood.

The outside is stamped with a fading golden dragon seal of the Emperor, the leader of this fine and oh-so-welcoming nation. The First Emperor named this country the Empire. Original, eh? Now his grand-grand-grand someone is leading, keeping the people of the Empire well aware of his power through the jingoist and cruel taxes to fund his golden glass throne.

I can’t hide a wince as my ribs feel every jostle from the two jingoists forcing me ever closer to the wagons. Another prods me along with a steel and silver tipped lance.

There is a stabbing pain every time I breathe, much less move, so being dragged is probably against healer's orders. But I'm no ordinary person. I feel the itchy, aching, almost hot pain of the blood rushing to the break to stitch the bone back into place. A boon from my ancestors is a blessing of quick recovery… I only hope I heal sufficiently and in time to get my family back where they belong.

I glance back to see my pa gazing after us with deep sorrow in his shining blue eyes.

He doesn't deserve this, not when he welcomed a stray into his home with warmth and love, despite the consequences. He's a bleeding heart with a set of values that makes him braver than I've ever been. Someday, I wish to be so brave as to follow his example.

I try to convey with my eyes; I will do whatever it takes to bring his family back to him... or die trying. His eyes communicate a gratitude I'm unsure I can live up to. Hope shines from his gaze, warring with deep pain, as all our lives are torn asunder. Despair and hope wrestle as I consider the enormity of the task before me.

As I look back, my eyes rove between the tears of my father to the jingoist still checking the area for survivors, running swords through the bodies on the brown dirt. The blood beneath the men and women who fought for their kind masters is stark burgundy before it’s stomped into the mud by the soldiers. They fought hard, despite not being warriors.

Guilt tries to regain its hold. I was absent from this fight when I was needed most. I disregarded my instincts warning me of trouble for the family because my anger ran deep after an argument with Mother.

The dreaded warning tolls of the bell told me I was too late, even as I ran home on four legs... barely remembering to shift in time. More can be done with two legs than four, but I was still helpless.

They had already captured my family before I arrived... leaving me with only surrender when they put a dagger to Jed's throat, even after I’d taken down six of them before they forced me to choose between fighting and Jed’s life. It was not a choice. Surrender is hardly ever a good option. It is a word that makes my palms slick with sweat. Yet, sometimes, it is the only choice.

I should have been there. I should have fought with my friends and fellow servants in the battle for Casa Frida and our lives. But I didn’t stay. I was too late. And because of my anger... My friends are dead and my family is being torn apart.

Could I do it over again... my choices would be vastly different. Now, the reasons for my anger mean nothing. Who cares if Mother wished me to stop telling the boys stories about my homeland? I don't. Not any longer. Funny how things of such seeming importance are mere trifles of the wind when one’s reminded of what’s worth dying for. Had I been there, this wouldn't have happened.

But I wasn't. And now it's time to face the consequences of my anger. My hope is I can make it right, at least for those who still live.

The wagon train rattles along the rural road. We have seen only one other civilian wagon on this stretch of rural road. It was packed with produce on the way to Whitecastle; we passed through the city proper a few miles back.

It tore at my heart to see the gaunt cheeks of the people in the city, mostly mothers and children who shoved through market, pushing grimy fingers into pockets when the crowd was focused on the wagon train.

A drought over recent years caused the crops to dry up despite the watering schedule of the city watch, making the people increasingly desperate. Produce is still top dollar, despite Pa's efforts to flood the market with needed products. He's looked far and wide for produce at reasonable prices to be brought in so his people won't starve over winter.

For me, after a lifetime of taking, helping to harvest this year was a way to give back. Life was looking up. My family accepted me as if I were blood, despite my... differences. Pure black irises and multiple scars are not exactly normal, and having a furry side made life interesting in a human city.

I don't know what will become of the people now. The soldiers of the Empire raided the main cellar behind my father’s home, smashing the produce, killing my friends, and slaughtering our rabbits for road meat as a tax.

So much for the jingoist's so-called protection the tax should pay for. The people need protection from the peace-keepers themselves—and the Emperor who allows it.

Another civilian wagon languidly plods by. The gray mammoth donkey holds his head listlessly near the ground, pulling his load with consistent, if not enthusiastic, steps. His ears swivel and his nostrils flare as he passes, scenting me in the air. His eyes meet mine through a hole. He jumps straight up, showing the most life I'd seen in the old guy. I kinda feel bad about scaring him.

The life in the old donkey surprises his handlers. His honking bray startles a yelp out of the younger man. That I can grin about.

The elderly man and his grandson glance away after getting their donkey under control, pretending to be more interested in the identical shrubbery and forest which lines this woodland path for miles.

I won't be able to depend on help from citizens. Not that any would dare. The consequences for assisting my kind in the Empire are not kind. Far from it.

My family knows this well. I wonder if they regret meeting a Cursed Kursk.