by R. T. Donlon
“I think it is time to go home.”
With a final push, a single pulse of god-strength passed from his chest. A rip in the air in front of him created a breach—one that opened the Anestra into a similar doorway he had passed so many years before. Only this time, Light shone through its windowed opening—the first Light he had seen in centuries. He turned away, wincing enough for it to hurt. The castles of the Glowing Mountain rippled from the other side of the barrier. The Western Bay shimmered, smiling as a longtime friend does when awaiting a return.
Before he stepped through, he lifted his eyes back to the Anestra.
“Goodbye,” he said, “and good riddance.”
He passed through the barrier and, immediately, the warmth of sunlight hit his face.
Nothing had ever felt so satisfying.
The cobbled stone pathways leading to the village center pained the burnt bottoms of his feet, but he realized in it a kind of pain that leaned, not towards excruciation, but something softer—mere discomfort. It sent a tingle through the nerves of his legs, up through his chest and into the bony shoulders that clung menacingly to his neck with wiry tendons and muscle. The suffering of this realm, what he could remember of it, could no longer burden him as the Anestral wild had. In fact, he was now proud to wield the pain of the Great Range. It would be an honor.
When agony feels like pleasure, he thought, you have attained ultimate power.
“Thank you, Xan,” he whispered to no one, “for showing me the truth behind the veil of this place.”
Turisic stopped at the face of the Mountain Kingdom, its inclining rock radiating the sun’s golden hue. It was the western angle of the sun’s shift that told him late afternoon had fallen from the horizon.
He peered up to the balcony of the castle. His weakened heart skipped a beat. A nervous group stood perched there, Xan foremost, taut against the railing with eyes glued to his approaching brother.
What a sight I must be, Turisic thought.
The dripping wounds across his wrists had never healed and, for centuries, since Xan had last laid eyes on his kin, every other bit of his physical appearance had changed—the pale skin, the blackened eyes, the hairless scalp, the ragged scars across his chest and back—all of it had been replaced with the morose frailty of a man riddled by endless violence. A pasty coating of white film dripped from his arms and legs—the mucous barrier of the Anestra.
“The curse has been lifted!” Turisic barked.
He was clear of hearing distance, but a resounding bell gonged from atop the mountain only seconds later. Perhaps they had heard him after all.
A warning cry, he thought. They fear what I have done.
Turisic approached the thick metal doors at the entrance of the Kingdom. He tried the handle, but it had been locked.
His mind conjured another flickering orb of god-strength between his bony fingers. It deepened its color with intensity from gold to auburn to red. Turisic pressed his hand hard against the door and the orb deepened into black. A loud snap filled the air. The castle tremored against its foundation, but eventually settled. The door, however, now fell elegantly around him in millions of snowflake-like wooden chips.
A beautiful sight, Turisic thought. How I’ve missed this.
He walked the empty halls. Only the sound of his own footsteps echoed through the winding spaces between doorways. He walked until he found the penthouse door. It had been tucked nicely behind a series of steep staircases encased in blocks of gold. He ran his fingers down the side of it.
How powerful it feels! Turisic thought. The gods have grown stronger in my absence.
He gripped the handle, broke the lock, and swung the door open. He was met with a guarded gathering of assorted men and women—all sporting unique expressions across suspicious faces. All stood in a half-circle at the center of the room. Albrien stood at the circle’s point, dressed in his usual gold robes. The nine others stood on either side of him, dressed in their own unique barrage of colors.
A dead silence filled the space.
“You must be very proud of yourself,” Xan spoke, breaking the silence. “Going where no man has ever gone before…and surviving.”
There were clear nerves present in his voice—fearful, cautious nerves.
“I would say you look well,” Xan continued, “but—”
“I do not,” Turisic murmured. “I know.”
The phrase fell from his mouth more like an exhale than spoken word.
“There is no delaying the matter. We must settle things immediately,” said Albrien, stepping forward, “before we can no longer—”
Turisic lifted one hand from his side and dispersed a bundle of god-strength in the direction of Albrien’s approaching frame. The orb collided hard with the Light god and whipped him backward, pushing his body through the air violently until it met the gold-carved throne behind him—the same throne where Albrien had sat in when he decreed Turisic’s Anestral death centuries before. He stuck there, unable to move, with eyes widened into shock.
“Albrien!” Mirioda barked angrily. “What is the meaning of this?”
Albrien merely raised a calm hand to his counterpart, ushering him to silence.
“I know too well when I am outmatched,” Albrien continued. “The Anestra has changed you. I have never seen anything like what you have just done.”
Threads of black energy orbited Turisic’s right arm.
“Centuries,” Turisic spat. “Hundreds of years I spent there, biding my chances to return, to show all of you what true power looks like.”
Saichan—the goddess of energy—sighed choppily against her nervous breath. Flowing burnt-orange robes covered every inch of her, dancing amidst the shakiness of her arms and legs. Lines of worry wrinkled the skin at the corners of her eyes.
“Ah!” Turisic roared. The patience within him had suddenly evolved into mildly apparent anger. “The Creator of Energy, Saichan herself! Where were you when Albrien and Xan were conspiring against me?”
She stood silent against the question. A slight retreat balanced her right leg against the left.
Turisic approached her, holding his god-strength arm in front of him as though it were a weapon. The black swirls of energy wrapped tightly to his forearm.
“You are a coward,” Turisic pushed through gritted teeth, “and a bitch.”
He had spoken those last three words with a powerful thrust of air so that Mirioda could hear. The god of anger bubbled with rage.
“You will not speak to my wife like that,” Mirioda grimaced.
This is what Turisic wanted—a battle—something to prove that he deserved more than a second chance. He demanded respect. He demanded power.
The deep red glow of Mirioda’s anger pushed from the pores of skin like flame, enveloping him from head to foot.
“Please,” Turisic urged. “Please allow me to end you.”
Saichan placed a cool hand against Mirioda’s shoulder. He flinched at first, but the calming touch of his wife evaporated the tides of anger building within.
“What do you want?” Xan asked. “If it is blood, there are other ways…”
“THERE ARE ALWAYS OTHER WAYS!” Turisic snapped.
He had not meant to, but the focus of the moment had stretched his patience to its thinnest breaking point.
“Why are you here?” Albrien asked.
“There are so many reasons,” Turisic laughed. “Where to start…”
“Certainly you cannot believe that we will surrender—” barked Mirioda.
But Turisic had heard enough. He whisked a bundle of god-strength toward the god of anger, crushing him into the wall behind him. The castle stone splintered and bent, cracking under the immense pressure of Mirioda’s body and god-strength. No matter how hard Mirioda tried, Turisic’s strength kept him searching for breath, suffocating him against his crushing power.
“Let it be known,” Turisic continued. “I could end all of you right now. With a flick of my
wrist, I can end anyone I want.”
The gathering kept still.
“You have asked me why I have returned,” he continued. “I assure you. It is not to rule.”
Turisic ceased the stream of god-strength. Mirioda fell to the floor in a crumple of limbs.
“Then what is it?” Albrien asked. “Surely we can accommodate.”
Another bout of annoyance flooded Turisic’s mind, but he swallowed hard against it.
“I wish only to live in peace,” said Turisic, “…and to see my brother suffer.”
Xan bowed against the weight of his brother’s words.
“What will it be then?” Xan spoke. “Execution by the Eldest Sword? To the Anestra?”
Turisic shook his head, smiling.
“No,” he said. “You shall return Taezel to me from the Dead Lands, then you shall remain there for the rest of your days.”
“Banishment?” Xan scoffed.
“Never to return to the Great Range again.” Turisic turned his gaze toward Albrien. “Decree it.”
“Albrien, surely you can’t—” Xan barked, but Albrien raised a strong palm to hush him.
“Turisic,” Albrien began. He spoke as if he were speaking to his son. “I have always wanted the best for you, but your actions before the Anestra were not something we, as your family, could allow to continue. It is clear to all of us that you have found your identity in the Anestra, but it was also clear that you had lost yourself here.”
Another bout of anger rose to the base of Turisic’s throat. This was not what he wanted to hear.
“However,” Albrien continued, “your newfound strength is not something I can ignore. You have made your point. Your god-strength is beyond what I ever could have imagined for you. It is something known only to you.”
Black strands of god-strength had begun wrapping like ribbon around Turisic’s arms once more.
“I must ask you a question of the sincerest order,” Albrien continued. “Will you allow me to do that?”
Turisic did not answer, simply pulsed the joint of his jaw with gritted teeth.
“Are you sure revenge is what you seek?”
Turisic had never felt more powerful than he did in that moment, never more in control.
“I will forgive you for what you felt was necessary, Albrien,” said Turisic, “but blood is blood. My brother betrayed me above all else. He must be punished for his actions.”
“You cannot be serious,” Xan snapped, hands clenched into fists.
Albrien turned to him with stern eyes.
“You have made your choice, Xan. You understood that, some day, this moment may have come. You were the first to come to me with Turisic’s transgressions. You were the first to approach the council with your concerns. Just because Turisic has outdone you does not mean you have the right to avoid a similar punishment. It is time to reap what you have sown.”
Turisic, sensing vindication, grinned to relax his tightened shoulders.
“You will leave Taezel to me before you leave for good,” Turisic said, “and if my wishes are granted, I will live out my days in peace, far from these lands. You have my word.”
Xan fidgeted against the weight of his brother’s sway. His eyes told of his loss.
“Very well,” Albrien spoke. “It is done.”
“No!” Xan screamed. “Don’t do this!”
Xan lunged forward at the leader of the gods, but Albrien snapped a set of fingers and he was no more. In his place, the thin, fragile frame of Taezel Raelsch appeared, barely able to stand on her own feet.
“My love,” Turisic whispered. “You have never left my mind.”
The hollow glow in her green eyes sent a shiver down his spine—one chillier than anything he had ever felt in the Anestra.
“Hundreds of years,” she said, “but now you are here.”
“I am here,” he whispered, “and I have found you.”
Albrien stood from his golden throne and approached Turisic.
“You shall never return to the Glowing Mountain and never again interfere with the biddings of the gods. Your brother will remain in the Dead Lands forever and Taezel Raelsch will never leave you side. These are our terms,” Albrien spoke. “Do we have a deal?”
“Yes,” he said. “We have a deal.”
And so the line was drawn, separating Turisic from the rest of the gods of the Glowing Mountain, but he had found solace in this and happily lived out the remainder of his days by the side of his only love.
“And that is why Turisic has never been considered one of the Ancients,” Jae Laeth explained. “All because of the love between a god and a woman.”
“But Father,” Kyrah said, “is that how—”
Jae raised an open palm to signal a pause.
“The story is not yet complete,” he continued. “There is another reason why the gods disowned Turisic.”
Taris Laeth wrapped an arm around her daughter—an action forbidden by the Portizu Warrior training—but a mother is a mother and cannot deny the sanctity of warmth in such a moment as this.
“You see,” Jae began, “when Turisic opened the Anestral pathway to escape, Xan’s curse lifted. The god-strength that had kept the Great Range safe for so long suddenly disappeared, leaving the Range vulnerable to the Anestral monsters that lurked from the other side. Turisic had killed almost all of the Shadows in the city, but one in particular had survived the onslaught. The Shadow that tortured Turisic for the duration of those hundreds of years? His name was Brax and he vowed to finish what Turisic had started in the war for his city. He vowed to find Turisic and destroy his world just as Turisic had destroyed his. He vowed to never stop until he did just that and that is how Brax became known as the Finisher to his people—the savior who would lead them to a new land, a new home where they could build anew.”
Kyrah stared blankly at her father, who ceased his talking and lowered his eyes to the floor.
“Turisic released Brax the Finisher from the Anestra?” Kyrah asked.
Suddenly she felt ashamed, as though the weight of everything she had ever known had finally collapsed on top of her. How could the god she had grown up worshipping be the reason that Shadows exist in her world? How could Turisic let this happen?
“The Light peoples have been fighting them ever since,” her mother said.
She squeezed Kyrah’s shoulder a bit tighter.
“How could this have happened?” said Kyrah, frustration rising to the crest of her voice. “Turisic is good.”
“Turisic is good,” confirmed Jae, “but even good people make mistakes…even gods.”
“So what happened next?” asked Kyrah.
“Well,” Jae continued, “the Shadows breached the portal and hid for most of their time in the Range, waiting for the perfect time to ambush. No one knew until it was too late.”
“Turisic shoulders the blame,” Kyrah’s mother said. “He always shoulders the blame.”
“Kyrah,” Jae spoke, falling to his knees in front of her, “listen to me carefully. We are Portizu for a reason. Turisic takes care of us because we are his children. He may not be able to change the past, vanquish Brax the Finisher as he should have, but he can choose to make the lives of his people better. We, like him, do not follow the rules of the Range. We have been suppressed for far too long. We worship Turisic because we are like him—alone, strong, and dangerous. We have more power within us than the world can ever hope to gain.”
Taris turned to her daughter now, angling so that her palms reached for her hands.
“It is at this point that every Portizu child is offered a choice. You must decide if the Portizu way of life is something you wish to follow, something that you believe in. If it is not, then you must leave,” he mother spoke.
“You may never return, Kyrah. Never,” said her father.
Kyrah spent a moment staring into the eyes of her mother. They only glistened with a distant flicker—candlelight dancing against the weight of a hur
ricane. There had always been something in the windows of her mother’s eyes that drew Kyrah closer—not physically, but in more of a familial way—enough to break the frustrating doubt harboring deep in her chest.
It was then—in that moment of genuine calm—that Kyrah understood exactly what she needed to say.
“The Portizu life is all I have ever known,” she said. “It is all I will ever know for as long as I breathe. I will stay here where I belong…with my family.”
Had they really believed she would leave the Portizu Tribes forever? Had they really given thought to the idea that she would abandon the only people she had ever loved?
Her mother squeezed at her hands —a rare smile running across her rigid Portizu face.
“I am so proud of you, Kyrah,” her father said.
Her mother finally rose from her position in front of her daughter.
“So very proud,” she added. “Get your rest. Velc will not take it easy on you tomorrow simply because you have sworn your name.”
She remembered watching her mother and father leave them room. She could hear the relief her mother and the pride of her father. She reached for the amulet dangling from her neck and held it tightly between her fingers.
I will remember this night forever, Kyrah thought. The night I made my parents proud.
And before she could utter another word, the depths of her dreams swept her mind far away from conscious thought.
THE KILLING FLOOR (PRESENT)
Kyrah lifted her eyes. She attempted to steady her breathing, but felt completely vulnerable now, lost to the will of her surroundings falling into stillness around her. Time creaked slower until each second clicked into a strange, frozen oblivion upon the world.
“I know what you are thinking,” her father spoke, but it was not her father. The blue eyes confessed to that. “You are worried for your father’s life.”
“You,” barked Kyrah through clenched teeth. “You killed Velc. You killed my teacher.”
Jae dismissed Kyrah’s angry tone, brightening the flickering blue flecks swimming in his irises.