Tides of Fate

by Sean J Leith

  His father’s face showed nothing. No surprise, no fear. “You choose for your survival. I choose ours. We should not worship this god of yours.” He straightened his posture, and pounded his fist to his center once more, and kept it there.

  “Then by your treason, you burn.” Obelreyon inhaled sharply and blew a column of black fire down the hall, between the stands. The inferno engulfed Greln’s unmoving body. He did not scream or cry—but stood strong in his salute until his charred bones fell from the weight the air. Only silence followed.

  Saul sat still. He did not know his fate. Fire and rage burned within him but refused to let it take claim of his body. He cared for his father—he raised Saul alone since the war ten years past and taught him nearly everything he knew. Now Saul was alone.

  His different way of teaching young Broken in the Gadora clan caught him with criticism, but he remained stalwart. He was respected and loved by his people. Saul loved him as well, despite rarely saying the words. He wondered what would happen to him, as he was the son of a traitor, now. Will I be accepted into the military, or executed? His father was no traitor to his people, but a harbinger of things to come. His marking showed victory, but this...

  Obelreyon turned his dark gaze to Saul. “What say you, boy?” he rumbled. “Are you prepared to die for your beliefs?” Every eye in the room turned to him.

  A long silence followed as Saul struggled with the thought. To him, fate was everything. Now he saw fate fail before his eyes through his father—just as his mother’s seemed false. Are the fate the gods grant us false? he wondered. No, that’s impossible. His father mediated for so long between the clans, perhaps his fate was fulfilled. But even then, he stood up to the Dragon in the name of his fate, and he burned before my eyes.

  Saul rose to his feet, staring into the dragon’s dark, abyssal eyes. My father made his choice. I told him not to commit treason. I must do what any Broken would do. I should fight and kill the Dragon if I could for what he did. But my father would curse me from the afterlife if I threw my life away. “I graduate in four days from the academy by the word of the Oracles, my Lord,” he said poignantly. “My fate lies with them, not with my father.”

  He denounced his father in front of the council. It was treason to say otherwise. This is my only option. It was, but he hated himself for it. Most of all, he hated the damned black-scaled beast who sentenced him.

  The Dragon let out a guttural chuckle. “Well said.” He turned away, looking over the barracks and the smoke of distant forges. “Your words are honorable. I will allow you to undergo the ritual. Following this, you will be exiled across the Fissure, no matter their prediction.”

  Saul flinched forward and barely restrained himself. He wanted to scream. Draw a blade and leap at the scaled abomination of a ruler.

  My words meant nothing. I chose to disregard my father to follow the Dragon, and for what? To be exiled, the highest dishonor. A Broken found their greatest honor in combat and victory, or in death for that purpose. To be exiled was to be ejected from their ways, to be disgraced publicly. It was a vile Dragon’s revenge on a man who now lay dead before them. Saul hated the Dragon’s change of their traditions as many had, but all feared Obelreyon’s power. The only way one could overthrow a leader was to defeat him in combat. Without another word, Saul stormed out of the council chamber with fire in his eyes.

  Exiled across the fissure. Only death awaited him there.

  Saul silently chose to accept his fate. He would not end his own life, as some Broken would. Saul was proud. He was proud of his father, proud of himself, and too proud to exit his current situation by his own sword like a coward. He nodded to his ruler and stormed out of the hall. As he descended the grand staircase, he heard Obelreyon yelling commands and threats to the council to trust in his orders, or they would suffer the same fate.

  Saul worried for his comrades, as the new laws restricted their worship, tactics, and beliefs. In the Neck, religion was free, but some of the seven cities were lawless.

  Despicable, Saul thought. Exiled, I cannot believe it. I hope the Oracles will bestow some fate upon me that will guide me. My father lived for many years as a mediator, and his fate was true for a time, especially during the wars. Saul even questioned the possibility of fates being false, seeing his father die. The thought of the flame made him wince; the flame that took his closest friend, his father, away.

  He was furious at the decision. His face showed no kindness any longer, only furrowed brow and bared teeth. He bumped into the guards on his way out, uncaring. It was not worth his effort, nor his time. He stormed back to the Vale barracks to gather his things. He packed a massive rucksack filled with rations, supplies, and other necessities for travel. In the military they learned survival skills.

  An initiate was taken to the middle of the deep Vale and left there with none but their wits for a fortnight. They either survived, or they didn’t.

  “Damn it, damn it, damn it!” Saul yelled, pounding the stone wall with his maul, cracking and breaking the bricks. “You wretch, why did you have to go against him?” he cursed his father. Now that his father was dead, his bloodline ended when Saul did. He slammed at the wall again and didn’t stop until his lungs were burning. Do I go to learn my fate?

  Will it be false? He dropped the maul with a clatter of stone and wood, and heard movement in the next room.

  “What’s goin’ on over there?” a gruff voice asked. Grenneth, his training partner, appeared at his door. Multiple scars shone in the flickering torchlight, showing the past, and their sparring. He was a hard bastard, but respectful as all hell. He had no markings from the Oracles yet.

  “My father addressed Obelreyon, the bloody idiot. Challenged his ways, and was burned for it. Now, I’m getting exiled after my graduation.” In the Vale, there were only Broken. His people. Across the fissure, there were a multitude of peoples. Past that laid the Serpent’s Plateau—where the vicious, traitorous enemy of his people lived. The Hydris.

  “Quit bein’ a whelp about it. You want me to pity you?” Gren asked, stone-faced.

  The Broken showed little emotion, especially those such as fear, despair, and sadness. If one revealed it, they were seen as weak. Saul’s father rejected that view in recent years, and he was only met with contention.

  “No, I do not. You asked. I told. Don’t make assumptions, or I’ll make those training sessions real,” Saul growled. Grenneth was a damned good training partner, and a good ally to have in battle, but he was no friend.

  Grenneth was taken aback. He relented. “Guess yer right.”

  Saul’s mind was somewhere else, and his curiosity could not be tamed. “What do you know about this ‘Lornak?’” Saul asked. The Dragon spoke of him, yet Saul knew nothing about the deity. He knew the Dragon would press Lornak’s ways on them, and Saul refused to give up his own beliefs.

  Grenneth grumbled and shrugged. “New god. People say he’s from Renalia across the sea. Tried to take over for his own glory but failed.”

  Saul did not know anything about the Renalian gods. He preferred gods of the Vale, who favored fair combat. Why did Obelreyon go to such great lengths to gain his favor? He did not know what Obelreyon’s plans were—and did not wish to find out.

  “His power was sealed away ‘cross the sea, but the Dragon’s sudden worship says different.”

  Power does not mean conquering, his father told him. The greatest warriors protect rather than rule the weak. His father was adamant that killing wasn’t the only honorable deed. I won’t forget your wisdom, father. I won’t.

  “Dunno what to think. Don’t like it. The tribes don’t like it, none of ‘em. But they fear Dragons more. My clan’ll fight to the end—our god and ways are our biggest assets.”

  “I’m not afraid of him,” Saul boasted.

  “Should be. He burned yer father alive.” Grenneth’s words were without honey.

  Saul cringed at the comment. “Don’t make me cut you down.” No one insults
my father.

  Grenneth’s dark almond eyes didn’t shift, nor did his face. “If ya can’t handle it, that’s not my problem. Ready for the Oracles?”

  “I am.” Their word determined a broken’s fate in battle. It gave Saul guidance and purpose, and the thought soothed him.

  “What’d’you think they’ll predict?” Grenneth asked.

  Many felt their fate before they went to the Oracles. Saul knew what he wanted—the Dragon’s head. He steeled himself for the audience. He knew his father was subject to fate, but he now felt the recent event determined his. He was still furious. In his anger, he thought, I will be a slayer, and I will slay Obelreyon myself. Live to do it, or die trying. “I don’t know.” He wished for the fate of a Dragon slayer, chosen for victory.

  “Guess we’ll find out. Gods be with ya,” Gren said, saluting Saul.

  “And with you.” Saul returned the salute.

  “I’m sure I’ll see ya again, you stubborn wretch. If exile won’t kill you, I might have to.” Grenneth was a man of his word, and Saul wasn’t sure how to take the comment. Gren was not the most humorous Broken around.

  “You can dream. Remember, in training, I went easy.” Saul chuckled in his face. He walked by him in his armor and a rucksack over his shoulder.

  Grenneth laughed back, “So did I.” He gave a sly grin.

  Stay alive, Gren, Saul thought, as he headed to the stables to ride to Hero’s Fall. Without his father, fate was all Saul felt he had left. Saul clenched his fists, thinking of his father overtaken by black flame once more. He wanted revenge. What he needed was a means to get it. Perhaps the gods will give me guidance, or a way to bring vengeance. He would get it no matter the cost.

  He was ready to learn his fate.

  Chapter Four

  The Failed Hero

  Lira Kaar

  The putrid smell of rats and defecate caused Lira to cringe in disgust. Focusing her eyes, iron bars surrounded her, along with the vague small frame of Kayden and her mane of hair. “Ugh, what happened?” she said aloud. Her mind was foggy and throbbing with pain. She noticed her head was bandaged from wounds she gained during the one-sided battle they fought.

  Kayden leaned against the bars, arms crossed, mouth drawn in displeasure. “About time you woke up, princess,” she scoffed. “We got the shit kicked out of us, that’s what happened.”

  Lira glanced around to the dark walls of surrounding her. Is it a prison? Looking around, she recognized the walls for some reason. They were blank, near-black stones, only lit by the dim torches at either end of the hall. Slow drops of water trickled down the walls, and the air sweeping through the chamber seemed to howl.

  She touched her head, feeling it ache from the club still. She wondered how much time passed. It seemed like less than a day. “I had the strangest dream.” Within moments the vision was gone; she only remembered one thing: a figure with violet eyes saying one thing, over and over: forget your brother.

  “Well good for you for having a nice dream. We’ve been here awhile. Must’ve used magic to keep us under for travel.”

  Lira frowned. “I happen to think dreams mean something.”

  Her rough-willed friend returned with her own sharp eye. “I don’t know what you saw, but we were knocked out at Rogan’s manor, and woke up here. As far as I’m concerned, dreams mean nothing.” She crossed her arms and sighed.

  “But a voice told me—”

  “Do you have any proof?” Kayden said with a hint of disdain. She rubbed her thumb along her forefinger, asking for more than beliefs.

  “No, but I—”

  “Then stop worrying about it. We have bigger problems right now,” Kayden cut Lira off.

  Lira rubbed her head, feeling it fire with pain once more. With the information we found, I can only wonder what we’re in for. “What’s going to happen to us?” Vesper, Domika, and Magnus were nowhere to be found in the hall.

  During the mission, it was almost as if Asheron waited for them to arrive. She thought they were dead for sure, but Asheron wanted them alive. “Where are the others?” she asked.

  “Stop asking stupid questions. Do I look like I know?” she snapped. Her sharp amber eyes glared at Lira for a moment, then went back to scanning the hall.

  After giving Lira a moment, with a softer glance, she said, “I’ve heard screams from upstairs. We’re probably gonna get tortured,” Kayden said. She blew her hair from her face, revealing olive skin streaked with bloodstains that shone in the torchlight. “Miggen’s dead.”

  Lira gasped. She barely remembered the spray of blood from Miggen’s neck. His dry blood still covered her arms. She wondered if he had family, or if it could have been avoided. Since the others weren’t there, she wondered where they were, fearing the worst.

  Having witnessed the death of her ally, Lira slightly regretted joining the rebellion. One mission and she was already in jail, and one of them died. She didn’t know much about combat, and her healing was less than satisfactory. Kayden was battle-hardened and tough; Lira felt they had nothing in common at all.

  She looked around to the plain, damp stones of the prison wall, missing the forests outside. She tried to forget the jail for a moment and thought of the peaceful chirping of birds, the calm winds, and the light rustling of leaves in her hometown of Ordana. It was hidden among the deep forest further north in the Loughran region.

  She remembered spending her days with her brother, running about and playing swordsmen with sticks—although, she was never very good at it. As an adult, she moved to Solmarsh in the south with Noren, to live close to her dad living in Orinde Monastery. She missed her brother. Gods, keep him safe.

  It had only been a little longer than a fortnight since he was arrested and moved from the jail. I hope he isn’t involved with what we discovered at the manor.

  She shook her head and ran her fingers along her hair, trying to keep her mood up. She thought of the places she wanted to travel. She had been sheltered for most of her life, unaware of what was outside of the forests. The northern lands were behind the border—frigid, but supposedly beautiful. Strong cities built with stone that were filled with orderly citizens.

  The southern bonebound gate led to the eastern deserts of Zenato, an expanse of golden-white sands with cities filled with every kind of people one could imagine. There were so many places in the land Lira wished to see, but she was stuck in the prison of Loughran. She never felt alone, until her brother passed. Now, she felt truly alone. Kayden hadn’t said much of anything since they met in Wolf Camp.

  “Are you worried?” Lira asked.

  Kayden didn’t seem worried; her personality was adamant to begin with. “Stop badgering me. I don’t know you, so stop asking me questions.” Her eyes didn’t stop flashing from place to place. The cell. The guard at the back. The stairwell. The door of their cell. Lira. The Lock.

  Lira didn’t know what to say. Usually, people were more open where she came from, and she was just trying to be polite. Kayden was a bit hurtful. Lira wasn’t used to these kinds of situations; after all, this was her first mission as a Scion of Fire.

  For a moment, a smirk perked at the edges of Kayden’s lips. Then it vanished. “Damn it, we need to get the hell out of here. I don’t like the dark, I don’t like shitty stone floors, and I don’t like being caged up!” She bashed her arms on the bars. The clattering bellowed through the halls. Her eyes looked toward the guard at the end, as if watching for a reaction.

  “Hey! Will you shut up down there, or do I have to come and teach you how to?” the guard yelled from his desk by the spiral stairwell to the upper jails. It was a newly repurposed prison, it seemed. The walls were weak and cracked, and it almost felt like the ceiling was going to collapse.

  “Hmph. Drake,” Kayden mumbled.

  Lira hadn’t heard many use such a word where she came from, as it was a serious insult. Ever since the Draconia enslaved the realm over two millennia ago, to call someone a drake was to imply that the
y were a horrible being. Lira wouldn’t dare use it.

  “Why are you so angry? I was only trying to be polite.” Lira pouted. Kayden just scowled back, arms still crossed. Lira was concerned for the others, but Kayden didn’t seem to care. How could she be so self-focused? Lira pondered. Doesn’t she worry about the others, especially while they’re being tortured? Lira scowled at her this time, but quickly lost the look when Kayden’s eyes met hers.

  “Listen, princess, I have more to worry about than being in this jail. We have three missing, and someone set us up. It could have been you. Was it? Huh?” Kayden grabbed Lira by the neckline, and quickly let her fall to the floor as she stared back to the other cells.

  She may be right, Lira thought. It was awfully coincidental that they knew where and when to strike. Kayden couldn’t possibly have thought it was me, could she?

  “It wasn’t me, I swear! I wouldn’t do such a thing!” Lira rose to her feet and leaned forward.

  Kayden mocked her with a laugh. “Take it easy, princess. You’re way too innocent to be a traitor. If you are, you’re one damn good actor.” She curtsied daintily.

  Lira kept her mouth shut. She was trying to be nice, but Kayden only rejected her words. How could she be so mean? she wondered. Kayden came from the deserts of the east. Lira didn’t know anything else of her past, but she knew people from there were a little less than well mannered.

  The screams above stopped. Powerful, steeled footsteps and the dragging of cloth could be heard from the stairwell. Asheron emerged clad in his dark armor. She barely remembered the fight, but recalled him moving across the battlefield at a rapid pace, using the shadows as his aide. He would walk into darkness, disappear and reappear behind them, making swift strikes with the flat of his blade, while they all swung at nothing but air. The power of the shadows was surely with him. He came to them with three knights, who brought Lira’s allies in tow. The knights dragged them into separate cells before returning to the stairs.