All of Umbrin had come to watch their prodigal son die. They stood motionless and silent, their gazes transfixed by the drama unfolding on the sands of the arena. They were a people used to violence, but this was much more horrifying than simple violence.

It was a statement.

Jakinthus Rex Umbrin rose to his feet on trembling knees, his fingers barely able to maintain his grip on the spear. Blood ran from his shattered nose and from the corners of his mouth. His blue eyes, usually so clear and determined, were clouded red from burst periorbital veins. Even his blonde curls had turned crimson from multiple skull fractures and repeated blows to the head. What a beautiful man he had been only minutes earlier as he had walked into the arena, his golden weapons and armor glinting in the afternoon glow, his smile still charming and full of teeth. To the crowd he had probably looked like a hero from a story book, a proverbial David facing his Goliath.

Now he looked liked a pulped blood orange on toothpicks.

It was impressive, and conversely, more than a little pathetic.

On some level it hurt Hadrian to see his big brother like this, but on another level this was what he had wanted.

“I won’t lose,” Jakinthus rasped. “I won’t lose to you…” He planted the butt of his spear into the ground and used it for balance as he forced himself to a standing position. With his free hand, he fumbled at the clasps on his cuirass to no avail. The breastplate was so dented and banged up that it was probably inhibiting his breathing.

Hadrian said nothing. As far as he was concerned, the fight was already over, not that it had been much of a contest. His mouth twisted down as he looked around the arena, everywhere except towards his brother. From the statesmen and revered warriors in the front rows, all the way to the basest peasants in the back, every last one of them was responsible for what was about to happen. Hadrian’s gaze halted on the queen, on his mother, and for a moment the world stood still. She was seated along with Lissan, his sister, and even though her expression was taciturn, there was a plea in her eyes.

“Answer me brother!” cried Jakinthus, a haze of bloody spittle flying from him mouth. Hadrian turned, brushing his dark curls from his eyes and sighing.

“You didn’t ask a question,” replied Hadrian, his voice low and cold. Despite how swollen his face was, Jakinthus managed something along the lines of an angry glare.

“Are you mocking me?”

“Never you, brother.”

Jakinthus screamed, his voice cracking with rage and frustration as he lunged forward. Hadrian knew that the last of his brother’s strength was channeled into this single killing strike. The spear tip sang as Jakinthus lunged, extending his body to get as much reach and power as possible. The air whistled as if cut, the sharp point moving so fast as to be almost invisible. Almost…

Hadrian stepped to the side of the strike in one smooth movement, bringing himself parallel to the haft. Reaching out with one hand, he grabbed the spear and yanked it from his brothers grasp before tossing it careless over his shoulder. Jakinthus looked down at his empty grip as if he could scarcely believe what he was seeing. Shock slowly turned to fear as the full weight of his failure descended.

“Brother I…” before Jakinthus could finish his sentence, Hadrian stepped in and grabbed him by the throat. Even though they were the same height, Hadrian hoisted him off the ground with ease.

Jakinthus, chosen scion and prince of the people, kicked and sputtered like a fish on a hook. He clawed and scratched at the hands wrapped around his neck like an iron vice, his breathing growing quicker as his fear turned to panic. His mouth moved as it tried to form words, but the only sound he made was a low wheeze. Hadrian drew Jakinthus in closer, oblivious to the blows and strikes raining down upon him. Softly, Hadrian whispered into his brother’s ear.

“Thank you for loving me.”

Leaning forward, Hadrian pressed his lips to Jakinthus’s. For a brief moment, a look of hope flitted across his brothers gaze, and then Hadrian squeezed. He squeezed as hard as he could, crushing flesh and mulching spine, wringing his brothers throat between his fingers as if it were a towel. Blood gushed from Jakinthus, flowing unto Hadrian’s face and bare chest in a torrent. It poured unto his legs and feet, coating him like fresh paint. Jakinthus twitched once, twice, and then was still. He would never move again.

Hadrian released the kiss, but continued to hold his brother aloft. Turning towards the queen, he grinned, his features a death mask.

“Shield,” was all he said.

His mother, Jakartha stood up from her gold embossed chair and held out her arms as if to embrace the crowd. She, ever the showman, hid it well, but Hadrian could see it. It boiled beneath the surface of her composure like grime beneath clear water.

“People of Umbrin,” she proclaimed, her authority carrying itself effortlessly over the hundreds of rows of stunned citizens. No matter how much Hadrian loathed her, he had to admit that she knew how to impress.

Jakartha was a large and muscular woman with a tangled mass of curly blonde hair that made her look like a lion. It was the only visible trait she had shared with Jakinthus, and the only thing about his brother that he had found unsightly. The rest of her features had been passed on to Hadrian. She was broad shouldered, with a strong defined jaw and piercing gray eyes. Even though she had not fought in many years she always wore her golden scaled cuirass as if she had just walked off the battlefield. The cuirass had been a matching set with Jakinthus’s, a gift for his sixteenth birthday not that long ago. Hadrian had received a beating for his.

“My people. This day we have witnessed the birth of a new Redshield. He represents our justice and our divine lineage. He shall walk the six realms of Diadem and show them that we are the strongest nation still. Our Redshield shall be a force unto himself for he is as unbound as the wind, and as untouchable by law as… ”

“Shield!” Hadrian bellowed, his voice booming over the crowd. Jakartha lowered her hands and stared. Usually, interrupting the queen was a crime punishable by death. However, as she had just stated, he was now untouchable by law.

“Patience, Redshield,” said Jakartha. “Patience.”

“My arms are tired,” said Hadrian, swinging Jakinthus’s corpse from side to side to illustrate his point.

Lissan burst to her feet suddenly, her face red with emotion.

“You bastard!” She screamed, “how dare you defile our brother’s corpse like this!”

Lissan was considered by many to be a rare beauty, but right now she looked bestial in her fury. Like Jakinthus, Lissan leaned more towards grace than power, to the extent that she barely resembled a member of their lineage at all. She had soft round features and big blue eyes that could stop anyone in their tracks. At eighteen years of age, she bore all the signs of a beautiful and regal queen in the making.

“Calm yourself sister. Your lack of decorum is unbecoming of the heir to Umbrin’s laurel.”

Even from a distance of thirty strides or more, Hadrian fancied he could hear her teeth grinding. Hands clutching the rail, fingernails digging into the sandstone, Lissan was barely holding herself back. Hadrian had never seen so much hate in her eyes, and until now he had never felt such empathy for her. Of course she hated him. She hated him because she had loved Jakinthus. Everyone had loved Jakinthus, Hadrian most of all.

Jakartha held out one arm before Lissan as if to stop her from leaping onto the sands. The queen evidently didn’t want to lose a second child this day.

“You speak of things unbecoming, Hadrian, yet you are the Redshield now.”

“So give me the shield.”

Jakartha turned her back to him, her long red cape whipping with the movement. One of her attendants passed her a cloth bundle with a bow and then scurried away. Jakartha eyed the bundle for a long moment, then looked at Hadrian, then back at the bundle. There was no doubt in Hadrian’s mind that she was weighing her desire to kill him with her duty to uphold tradition. He knew that she would choose tradition. She would always choose tradition, and that was why he hated her, and why his brother was dead. That being said, if she did choose to kill him, there wouldn’t be much he could do about it. As strong as Hadrian was for a boy of sixteen, he knew that Jakartha was in a league of her own, for now.

Unwrapping the bundle with slow deliberate ceremony, Jakartha grimaced at the priceless artifact in her hands. The shield, the eponymous Red Shield, was their families namesake, and their most precious heirloom. It was worth a hundred times it’s weight in precious stones, and bore a history so storied as to be legend.

And she was going to give it to Hadrian, of all people.

Jakartha hurled the shield into the arena like someone might throw scraps to a beggar. It landed at Hadrian’s feet, making a wet squelching noise as it buried itself in the blood dampened sand. The shield wasn’t all the remarkable to look at. It was about a forearm in width, round, and made of some silver like metal who’s make had been lost to time. It was bulky and pragmatic, save for the strange etchings on it’s front and the red orb at it’s center. As Hadrian watched, the shield began to drink.

Slowly, the pool of blood began to disappear as every grain of sand was sucked dry. It might have been Hadrian’s imagination, but he felt like the orb was shimmering with pleasure. Prodding the shield flat with his foot, Hadrian spun Jakinthus’s corpse around so that his head dangled directly above the shield. Holding him by his ankles, Hadrian began to shake Jakinthus, trying to get every last drop of blood that he could from the body. He could hear the disgusted gasps and angry cries starting up in the stands, but tried his best to ignore them. No matter how much they reviled him, no matter how much they hated him, it was a small price to pay for his ambition.

As Hadrian stood there shaking the corpse like a bully looking for loose coins, he stared down and into the emptiness of his older brother’s gaze. Jakinthus’s eyes had rolled into the back of his skull so only the whites were visible. That, combined with the odd wobble of his head from his broken neck, was more than a little comical.

In killing his brother a part of him had died as well. The people of Umbrin would call him a monster and spin tall tales about his behavior on the sands, but they would never truly understand why.

Hadrian was a free man now, free of borders or allegiances, free of his family and country, and most importantly, free of the sickness.

Looking at his brother, it was hard not to think about what a good Redshield he would have been.

Since time immemorial, any children after the first of Umbrin blood would fight to the death in the grand arena. They would murder one another upon the sands until only one remained. That winner would be rewarded with the legendary title and the eponymous red shield. That winner would drain every drop of blood from his siblings that he could get. That was the tradition. So it had always been, but so it could not remain. How many generations of Umbrin children had been bled unto the shield Hadrian hadn’t a clue, nor did he really care.

It was all stupid and pointless.

Hadrian had loved Jakinthus, and Jakinthus had been the only one to love Hadrian. The only one…

And it hadn’t saved him. It hadn’t saved either of them.

Jakinthus was little more than a blood bag made of skin now, and soon he wouldn’t even be that. Jakinthus had been too good for Hadrian, and too good for Umbrin. He would have been better off born anywhere else to any other family. He had been too filled with love, laughter, and hope to be a spawn of Rex Umbrin.

As the final drops of blood drained from Jakinthus, Hadrian’s thoughts were interrupted when a tomato struck him in the cheek. A second tomato landed close to his feet, and then an apple managed to reach his thigh. Vegetables and fruit, mostly rotten, began to rain down around him as the derisive shouts of the crowd rose in volume. Calls of “monster,” and “abomination” could be heard within the din. The people of Umbrin were angry, and Hadrian understood.

He didn’t move, or try to avoid the projectiles. He just stood stoically as they vented their frustration upon him. None of these people had known Jakinthus, so they couldn’t possibly have understood the beautiful person that had been taken from them. Jakinthus had loved birds and the feel of the morning sun. He had loved parlor games and he had loved his family, even though his family didn’t deserve it.

“Silence!” boomed Jakartha with the authority to move mountains.

His mothers shout carried effortlessly over the cries of the crowd like a tidal wave, and the gathered audience quickly grew silent. Hands stopped moving mid throw, vegetables still clutched between fingers. From Hadrian’s vantage at the center of it all, it was almost as if she had stopped time.

“Hadrian,” continued his mother, her tones measured and controlled as if she were reading a script. “Well done.”

Her words were intended to sound congratulatory, but they sounded anything but. She didn’t even look at Hadrian as she spoke them, instead keeping her gaze on the middle distance. Jakartha had wanted Hadrian to die on the sands. She had wanted him to die like so many of her line before him.

“It was a splendid battle. One that I am sure will go down in the histories of Umbrin.”

It had not been a splendid battle. It had been quick and to the point. Hadrian had come out on the sands without armor, or weapons, and had proceeded to smack his brother senseless with his bare hands. It had been like watching a grown man beat a toddler in front of a crowd of ten thousand people. Entertaining, perhaps, but hardly a splendid battle. “My people, on this day…”

Hadrian sighed and shook his head. Jakartha was about to try her speech for the second time. His mother had never been able to pass on a long winded oration, but Hadrian was tired.

Lightening fast, Hadrian spun on his heals in a full circle, his hands still wrapped around Jakinthus’s ankles. He had gotten all the blood he was going to get, and figured he might as well get one last use out of the body. Planting his feet, Hadrian allowed the power in his blood to surge. He could feel it boiling as he focused his will. Every necessary muscle tensed with the ache of expectation at what he was about to do. The arena sand spun around his feet as if drawn to the vector of his rising strength.

Then he let go.

Jakinthus’s body sailed the distance between himself and Jakartha, and for the briefest moment Hadrian was happy to see a look of shock on her face. He mentally tucked the image away, promising himself that he would savor it later.

Jakinthus’s body flew past Jakartha by a hand span before slamming into her ornate viewing chair. Even from where he was standing Hadrian heard the sickening crunch of meat and bone shattering against metal. With ponderous slowness, the massive chair tilted and then toppled. Lissan stared at the mangled and twisted corpse of her favorite brother before turning her back and vomiting. Jakartha didn’t even look at it, her eyes were fixed on Hadrian.

Hadrian grinned like a wolf.

The silence in the stadium was his now.

It started as a chuckle in Hadrian’s belly, rising up his esophagus into a full throated laugh. The laugh reverberated throughout the coliseum.

“You call me the Redshield,” Hadrian cackled, “but there is no justice in Umbrin!” If his mother’s voice bore the authority to move mountains, Hadrian’s carried the hatred to shatter nations. He locked eyes with Jakartha, and did not look away. He was speaking to the crowd, but his words were for her. “You and your traditions are shit beneath my boot heel. You are sick, and you are twisted, and you are soulless. I may have killed Jakinthus, but I was not alone. Someday I will pay the price, but so will you.” Hadrian raised his hands to the sky. “Each and every one among you will suffer for your crimes. Umbrin shall become ash, and ash shall becomes dirt. You wanted justice, and you will have it!”

Slowly, Hadrian bowed at the waist. He bowed like a stage performer after a play, and in his mind, it was appropriate.

Jakartha did not respond. She stood there, silent as the grave, statuesque and powerful, wreathed in her hatred of him. She was smart enough to know that engaging him in anger would only make her seem petty. Like any great leader, Jakartha would be able to postpone her emotions until he could be dealt with. Yet, she did not look away from him either. Her gaze stayed fixed on his, and it promised retribution.

Bending down, Hadrian picked up Jakinthus’s spear, along with the Red Shield.

Though Hadrian was not particularly fond of spears, he wanted a memento of his brother. The only way Hadrian knew to honor Jakinthus’s memory was by using his spear to carve out their mothers heart, and serve as a stake for her severed head. Midst the deafening silence of the crowd, Hadrian turned his back on everything he had ever known.

He was a free man now, and he would use that freedom to seek his own brand of justice. No one stopped him as he left the arena and gathered his things. He knew it was only a matter of time until they started coming for him though.

The Crescent moon was bright as Hadrian left the city of Antium behind. He knew that he would see it again someday. Silhouetted against the night sky, the city was larger than he had expected. Much too large to house the few remaining fools who called themselves citizens of Umbrin. Having spent his days a prisoner in the palace, this was Hadrian’s first time actually seeing it from the outside. It was all hard edges and perfect corners, like a giant had dropped a stone block unto a flat, boring horizon. Hadrian couldn’t help but think it was ugly. It was the perfect home for his people.

In the back of his mind he wondered if the nation of Umbrin had ever been good at anything besides killing. Maybe they had been fisherman, or farmers. They definitely hadn’t been architects…

Reaching over his shoulder, Hadrian affectionately stroked the metal of the shield. It felt unnaturally cool to the touch, despite the moderate heat of the evening.

“Say goodbye, brother. We won’t be returning here for some time.” The shield warmed to his touch, and somehow he knew it was acknowledging his words. Hadrian smiled, his features softening as the tension finally left him. He took a deep breath and shrugged his shoulders. Turning his back against the city, he began to walk towards the horizon, a skip in his step.