Orion Grey I

Eating outside on a balcony was different. But it was certainly a good change. The chair
he sat on was carved and crafted from bones of great beasts that towered over his race.
The table on his right was sculpted from marble and black stone and supported a large
bowl of fresh baked bread, a plate of a roasted chicken the size of a child, a larger bowl
of newly harvested vegetation and fruits and a ceramic jug of pale blue ale. Candles
were lit, expectant of the coming night. A woman draped in a red cloak stood on the
side of the chair. In front of them carried a wonderful view of the open sky. It was
nearing end of the day, the sun still clutching on the horizon.
Thank you for cooking. I know it does not properly showcase your skills. He said to the
woman in red.
It is one of my duties as your protector, my ser. Although, I have been cooking for you
long before that. She replied with a simple smile and a half-curtsy.
Still, I cannot express my gratitude enough. He returned the smile but his attention did
not leave the sleeping sun. A knock came from the open wooden door behind them.
The woman draped in the red cloak turned her gaze to the door, It is ser Norman of
the Smith.
Send him in. The woman in red motioned for the ser to make his presence known. The
visitor walked across the balcony and stood himself between the view of the sun
draining the color of the sky and the table. Ser Norman Smith wore an iron chainmail
over a dirty shirt that used to be white and bronze plated legs. Ah, ser Smith, what a
surprise. What brings you all the way out here?
Ser, I came to ask for a favor. My family, you see, we are not doing so well. Ser Smith
lowered his head, his face pinking.
Ser Smith, you came here to ask a favor from me? The man sitting let a smirk loose
but quickly hid it before ser Smith could notice.
Yes, ser. Im sorry to trouble you, in the middle of your dinner. Ser Smith hungrily eyed
the food in front of him, his stomach betraying his humility.
Oh, its no trouble at all! I rarely share my meals with anyone. Theres barely anyone
able to afford such luxury. This was the truth. Between the schism of the clans and
warlords with their self-proclaimed warrior bands ravaging and raping all, there were
hardly any luxuries left.

Smith altered his gaze towards the man he was asking a favor from. Ser, will you give
my family aid? Were down to the last coin and were starving. Please, good ser, Im
begging you. Spare us some food. Even scraps from your meal right now will do.
No. The man in the chair answered instantly. Norman chuckled in disbelief.
But kind ser, youre eating a meal befitting for at least five! Surely you can spare
some!
I say no because you did not give my family aid when they needed it. Dear ser, it
seems like you fail to recognize me.
But this is the first time weve met! Id remember anyone as wonderful and glorious as
you, good ser. Ser Norman Smith went on his knees and began crawling on his knees
closer but the woman draped in red shook her head as a warning and flashed her
sheathed weapon.
Dear ser, you must think hard. Look into the depths of your memories. As prestigious
as I am now, I had to shed blood and flesh, both mine and mine enemies. He took a sip
from the jug of pale blue ale. We met two sets of years ago. You see, ser Smith, my
father had trusted your grandfather and asked for a favor. But your grandfather, your
dear old grandfather, turned him over to the Last King. And we all heard the stories of
what becomes of those who incur the wrath of the Last King. My mother was forced to
sell me to slavers to survive. Broke her heart, I like to tell myself. But it was not enough.
Raiders got to her, I hear. Slit her throat after they raped her. Then they raped her
corpse. Thats if the stories are to be believed.
I am not at fault, kind ser! You must believe me! My grandfather is long dead, and may
his soul burn with the Last King! If I knew that was to be the end result, I would have
pleaded my grandfather to help you!
Are you saying that if you knew that you would be here, begging for scraps of my
dinner one day, you would have given me help in hopes that I remember to return the
generosity? That is folly, ser Smith. A human must help because the human wants to,
not for some underlying motive. We are not demons! I worked hard after being sold to
the slavers, ser Smith. Do you know what it is like to live as a slave?
No, ser. My family has never owned any slaves. Its illegal in this region.
That is the truth. I was a lucky child. Not as lucky as those sold into a coven or a
religion, and not as unfortunate as those sold to research or science or some pervert
nobleman. I was bought into a war before I had seen an entire set of years. Bought to
learn how to fight and kill for my owner. And I learned. I learned expertly, made an effort
of tens of thousands of hours to hone what was needed of me. I became famous in my

exploits. Surely you heard talk of who I am, in the warring regions, ser Norman Smith.
You also hold a respectable reputation, dear ser. Norman from the clan of Smith, killer
of thirteen thousand in the riot of the philistines, and murderer for the Last King. Ser
Norman Smith stuttered to respond, fumbling his hands as if his reply would be found
there.
Kind ser! I apologize for any wrongs my family has done you. He bent down so that his
forehead touched the floor. I truly, truly apologize! From the bottom of my heart and
may the dead gods and Last King rip my soul out of my body if I am lying to you. But
please, ser. My family has done you no wrong. I was not a father at the time. I know
now what it means to struggle and starve for your next meal. And my children, my
children have not sinned against you in any way. Please, ser, help us.
Ser Smith, your tenacity and words have moved me. Madame Red, my appetite is full.
Please take the untouched chicken, tear off a thigh and place it on a plate for ser Smith.
Feed the rest to the pets.
Yes, my ser. She replied.
But kind ser, would you not grant me the entire chicken? The man who sat in the chair
shifted forward from his seat, a stern look surfaced on his face.
My, ser Smith, how audacious are you! His voice thundering over the balcony. Here I
am, teary-eyed from your plea, already giving you much more than you deserve. I am
appalled! Be happy, damned ser, to be receiving such a bountiful piece! This chicken
was from my own stock, and it was the fattest one! Now, you will accept my token of
kind gesture and leave. You have insulted me, Norman Smith! This piece of chicken is
more than you deserve. Madame Red ripped the chicken thigh and it took to the air,
landing by the begging visitors head. There, you have what you came for. Now, be
gone! Get out of my sight, Norman, you ungrateful bastard! Madame Red, please see
this insect out of my house.
Yes, ser! Im sorry, ser! Please forgive me, ser! Thank you, ser. I will not forget this,
ser. Thank you! Norman Smith cupped the chicken thigh, almost fell attempting to get
up and followed Madame Red out of the balcony.
My ser? Madame Red asked when she returned from escorting.
What is it, Madame Red?
May I ask you something? If it is not too much trouble, my ser.
Of course, Madame Red. You are my most precious friend, you need not ask.

I apologize, my ser. But why did you bother to give a piece to ser Smith? If he has
wronged your family, why even give him scraps from your table?
Madame Red, how much courage did he have to gain in order to come to me? Did he
not throw away his pride as a ser and as a Smith to beg me for aid? He came groveling
on his knees in hopes for a satisfying meal or enough money for one. He is a dead man,
as most in this region. I gave him an ear for him to speak into, that is the equivalent of
enough money for a satisfying meal. I gave him a piece of the chicken, a tiny portion in
exchange for the admiration I had for him to ask another for help. His begging granted
him less than what he would have gotten if he sold his eldest daughter. He is still
prideful enough not to sell his daughters. I reminded him that of what he had and let him
a taste. His family will not be satiated with that small portion. I doubt hell even be able
to feed his entire family with that slice. His stomach will rumble stronger once he has
tasted meat again. His family will starve worse with that tiny portion. And most
importantly, I made his pride worth a thigh of a chicken.
You are a frightening person indeed, my ser. I am glad I am serving under you.
As am I, Madame Red. You are a gem in my arsenal of weapons. Now, before you
retire for the evening, I have one last order for you.
Yes, my ser. What is it, my ser?
Wake up Lady Black. I understand that it is quite late in the evening, and she must
have already retired. But wake Lady Black regardless. Tell her to gather her shadows
and pay thorough visit to the Smith household. Ill be retiring for the night now.
Yes, my ser. It will be done, my ser.
-ch endAyva Silversmith I
We have broth made from chicken and the last of our rice to sup on tonight. Take what
will ease the pain of your stomachs. There are too many mouths to feed and not enough
food. And make sure you lot feed that bitch, Ayva. I will not have our neighbors
gossiping that I did not care for my sisters daughter. That is the kindness her uncle
makes her endure.
Ayva Silversmith and her father lost their own house to raiders and outlaws. He had
resorted to begging his deceased wifes brother for shelter. Her brother only said yes
when the begging started bringing curious eyes from neighbors out of their hovels. Her
uncle would say that if her father wasnt so big and full of winter fat, he couldve fended
for himself. She had suspicions that her uncle sold her father to slavers or fed the meat

on his bones to his own family, though her uncle claims that he lost the will to live and
left in the middle of the night to feed the wolves. But what was she to do? Only reason
why she hasnt been sold off yet was because her uncles two youngest daughters had
taken a liking to beating their anger at her.
Her uncle, Norman Smith, was a great-general for the Last King, and a close advisor.
He was well paid and his family lived in luxury. He had fattened wild pigs, a stocked
armory, added with a couple dozen extra hands working the smith, maintaining the
property and fighting for Norman Smith as a small personal army on occasion. He had
three daughters with the woman he wedded, but there were rumors that she was a
slave, given as a prize from the Last King. She took her own life after her youngest was
born, or so her uncle tells her.
Geraldyn Smith had seen seventeen years, and was the most attractive woman in the
court of the Last King. Her hair felt like silk and colored like fires from the sun. Her skin
is white as snow and as smooth as ice. Her blue eyes glimmered like a cool river on a
hot day, a smile that could melt stone hearts and a temptation about her that would
break a eunuchs chastity. There might be some truth to that because Norman Smith
hired some distant cousins, Jeremy Smithson and Jeffrey Smithson, to protect her from
lustful eyes that would dare steal away the Geraldyn and break her innocence. But her
innocence has long been broken by the kings son. Geraldyn would often brag that fact
to Ayva. But recently, and frequently, the distant cousins that were sworn to protect her
innocence. That fact did not need Geraldyn to confirm the story to Ayva, as she shared
a room with her.
Unlike their eldest sister, Sylvia and Casey, twelve and eight, were ugly as sin. They
unfortunately inherited most of their appearance from their father. The two youngest
sisters had long, brown and oily hair with broad shoulders and large hands. Their skin
was the color of the earth with dark spots that resembled fresh burned flesh. Their
noses were too large on their small faces and their eyes were too far apart. One cold
night, her drunken uncle shared with Ayva that many slavers refused to buy Sylvia and
Casey. Even an infamous bandit, infamous to be relaxed with his choice of sexual
partners, refused to purchase them. These two youngest had taken a liking to her, but
not in the good way. They would pull her hair, slap her face for reasons unknown to her,
and a number of times, burned her with the hot iron rods from the smith. This abuse
was the reason why she shares with a room with Geraldyn now, but that did not stop
Sylvia and Casey from abusing her.
The house of the Smith was a simple one, after having to sell the materials of their more
luxurious house. They slept in the clay and stone building that used to house the armory
and the blacksmith. The rooms that once held a stocked storage of armors and
weapons were now being used as separate bedrooms, with a makeshift bed with a

quality depending on who owned it. Ayvas was made from worn cloths that were owned
by the dogs the Smith clan used to own. She was still on her makeshift bed when
Norman Smith shouted that there was food ready. Geraldyn and her protectors were
lying in their more comfortable bed, tired from a round of pleasurable activities. Ayva
took to hiding in her room while her uncle was out, to hide from the younger sisters. But
that was also the time when Geraldyn and her two lovers need not hide their passions
for one another and she chose to listen to the moans and groans of her uncles eldest
daughter over the abuse she would be put through with her uncles youngest.
Ayva, get up, Geraldyn was stood up naked, searching for clothes to put on. Ayva
noticed that Jeremy and Jeffrey had already left, to hide the fact that they just slept with
their distant uncles daughter. Geraldyn was kinder to Ayva than anyone else in the
home. Sylvia and Casey would laugh and smile when she walks by, like Ayva was
plagued and ripe for deaths picking. She hated them. Her uncle would threaten to sell
her off or swing to the back of his hand to slap her but would stop just as Ayva flinches.
He never followed through with the swing. Yet. And the two Smithson brothers would
just avoid looking at her. Ayva felt that they were good people, but she hated them for
their inaction.
What for? There will be scraps for me left at the table, if there are even any. Geraldyn
was putting on a grey robe when a shriek pierced the air followed by a sharper shriek.
They belonged to Sylvia and Casey. Voices in a heated argument could be heard from
outside. Ayva and Geraldyn made for the window. Outside, Norman Smith and the
Smithson brothers had their backs to the window, weapons drawn. They stood in front
of four strangers. Three had a black cloth tied beneath their right shoulder, one with a
black robe that covered her face from the view of the window. Geraldyns younger
sisters lie motionless on the ground between their father and the strangers, blood
pooling beneath them. Caseys face was eating dirt but Sylvias gaze was towards the
window. Ayva stared at Sylvia and felt no remorse. No satisfaction either. She often
dreamt of staring into Sylvias cold eyes as signs of life vanish from her face but this
was different than she ever could imagine. Geraldyns eyes began swelling with tears as
she pulled herself from the window and bolted from the room and down the stairs. Ayva
could feel the anger in Geraldyns every step.
Leon, kill the two in the house, the lady in the black cloak commanded. One of the
three made his way to the house, ignoring the three who stood in his way. Ayva stood to
lock the door when Geraldyn ran in holding a crossbow and a handful of bolts.
My father may have been useless and clueless my whole life, Geraldyn blurted out as
she was trying to barricade the door quickly, but he was right about one thing. Only
livestock wait quietly for their butchers.

-ch endZakarahya Collier I

Draw! Hold! Loose! Nock! Draw! Hold! Loose! The masters were hard at work, as
always. Shouting orders earlier than the roosters, it seemed odd to be training archery
prior sun rise while facing the direction where sun breaks. The masters boast that they
have the best archery curriculum and train the best regiment. And they had every right
to boast. A master archer could fire an arrow between an infants eyes while still in
womb, or so they say. Every early morn, the archers and their masters would set up and
ravage the range with arrows in the dark up until the sun climbs the horizon. The
trainees with less than ten shafts buried in the target would have the honor of cleaning
the range and breaking fast last. They were only given ten arrows in their quiver.
The archers are at their fifth arrow, the sun stretching over the horizon now. Zakarahya
Collier rolled out of his cot, half-smiling from the knowledge that his comrades will break
their fast together as he will have zero arrows protruding from the hay targets. He
clothed himself with a worn leather plate over his shirt and an unclean white wool cloak
given to all conscripts. Zakarahya had no intention of joining the border but he did not
want to seem uncaring towards the war with the Emblem either.
Zakarahya used to be a cook in a nearby town. Most of the locals earned their keep
from the mines, shoveling out iron, steel, gold and whatever else the mountains held. As
an infant, Zakarahya spent watching and helping the cooks outside the mines. His
parents would rise and head to the mines, leaving their only son in the care of the
cooks. The cooks would gather their tools and set up shop by the entrances of the
mines. There, in the plains of the mountains, would be hundreds and thousands of
miners satiating their hunger.
Outside, the sun veiled behind the clouds. Zakarahya could see the other trainees
walking carelessly towards the make-shift kitchen tents. He began making his way to
the range to fulfil the role he volunteered for. He could overhear their voices insulting
him but they werent trying to keep it discreet.
Looks like Zakarahya slept in again. Maybe it took him all morning to get off his bed.
The group snickered in response. Zakarahya shrugged off the insult. He tried to walk
past them but they blocked his path.
Will you never learn? Were supposed to be practicing, not dreaming of food. The
instigator of the verbal abuses was always a man named Vincent Alban. Vincent was
muscular but thin. He had come from a military family and grew up in an eastern city.
The Alban family had produced some of the finest soldiers, second only to the Solidus
family. The Albans was the main driving force against the Emblem.

Of course hes dreaming of food, Vincent. Graham Orchard hailed from a family who
raised olives, oranges, grapes and apples. Their family mastered agriculture and
economics, quickly becoming the richest family in the Philistine cities. Graham was tall.
He towered a foot taller than the rest of the group.
Has a vipercat got your toungue, Zak? Or are you as dumb as you are fat? Vincent
poked at Zakarahyas weight at every opportunity. Zakarahya wasnt obese but he
wasnt the fittest out of the regiment of conscripts. Being fed and growing large was one
of unfortunate benefits of being a cook for a couple of years. The group always went out
of their way to taunt Zak.
Zakarahya continued his path to the range. Taking your anger out on the targets
again? Lia Olur called out.
Just practicing. We know the Patrol needs it. Creator knows I need the practice too.
Emblems been aggressive over the river.
The commanders been itching to see us in a real battle. I can smell the feast from
here. Down the road, the conscripts were enjoying the time-honored tradition of a flurry
of food. There was porridge that began cooking in the middle of the night to break down
the meat. The blood of oranges were stomped in makeshift wooden tubs, strained and
filtered through gravity, pressure and a bed of old chainmail links. The chicken was
shredded and soaked in a broth of seasonings and vegetables and flowers. Whole pigs
wrapped in damaged armor and lowered in trenches of fire and smoke.
More reason for me to practice. Zakarahya said as he nocked an arrow, pulled on the
bow string and let loose.
-ch endLeon Hunt I
No matter how many times hes tracked down and hunted, the excitement is always the
same. Leon Hunt was kneeling behind some unkempt foliage, looking for signs of his
companions. He listened to the tranquility and serenity of the wind inaudibly whispering,
the grace and elegance of the forest dancing in the dark, the humming and singing of
the earth. The forest was buzzing with life but only to a seasoned hunter. The Philistine
Forest is abundant with game, if not overcrowded. But the thicket of the oaks, birches,
cedars and overgrown shrubs provided excellent shadows and nooks to hide behind
against gluttonous and voracious predators. And hunting in the shade of nightfall
significantly added to the difficulty.
But Leon is unlike most hunters. He came from a clan that passed down generations of
hunting skills that have had centuries of fine tuning. His father was an expert hunter,

though not better than his mum. His grandfather continued to track, trap, and hunt for
the family until his eternal sojourn in slumber. His numerous siblings were on their way
to an elite level of hunting until the Last King set fire to the villages in the countryside.
The King was wary and paranoid that the countryside families, the Hunts, the Snares,
the Hounds, and the Arcs were gathering to usurp him and his lineage.
The Last King was not a great ruler. He was distrustful. He was wrathful. Most of all, he
was not wise. He segregated the providers of sustenance to the kingdom and
condemned them to hang for no other reason than paranoia. The Last King was not a
great ruler in the slightest definition of it.
Leons train of thought was interrupted by his canines senses picking up a scent.
Someones approaching. Leon positioned himself closer to the ground and drew his
dagger. But his canine darted forward and the greenery swallowed her whole. Leon
waited for sounds of barking or a struggle. Instead he heard a voice calling, down,
Behr, down.
Behr, come. Leons canine ran quickly to his side, with another canine, Rus. Felix
Hound was not far behind.
Behrs sharp as ever. Behr and Rus and their sister Kuhr belonged to the Hounds, a
long renowned family that raised large canines meant for warfare. Behr, Rus and Kuhr
were runts in the litter, but Felix kept them and raised them.
Did you spot the steel-tusk boars? Leon sheathed his dagger and relaxed his legs.
There are twelve, close to here. Why do we need to prepare traps for just twelve?
You took a good gander at those beasts, right? You took note of their height and
length? Did you notice their tusks made out of dense steel?
Were more than capable of dodging and outmaneuvering a dozen pigs.
Theyre very agile for their weight. Id even wager money that the swine will dig its tusk
into your leg before you move your whole body out of the way.
Youre scared of a bunch of pigs? Felix tapped his sheath.
Proper hunting protocol on one fully grown steel-tusk male requires three veterans.
A bunch of pigs wont kill me, Leon.
Ill make sure to etch those as your final words in your gravestone.
But were upwind of the boars. The tusks probably noticed our scent.

Thats the point. Felix threw Leon a whimsical look. Well lead the steel-tusk boars
down to the traps. Theyre deadly, but theyre not aggressive. Theyll try to outrun us
before they fight us. If you set the traps properly
I did. Felix interrupted.
If you set them properly, Leon continued, then well have some boars tonight.
I hope youre right. I dont think I can go another night eating boiled eggs and cheese.
Rus and Behr took off in a sprint, barking and growling, as if they understood Leons
plan through before Felix did. Leon trailed behind them, clanging his dagger with his
steel short sword, sprinting, staying at the heel of the canines. Felix followed, making as
much noise as his voice would let him, with the broad side of his blade banging on
every tree it could find. The tusks reacted, dashing away from the noise. Two of the
boars swerved to their left. Leave those two! Leon shouted, Keep on the rest of
them! Leon continued to jump over large, protruding roots, bobbing underneath the
branches, and weaving through the foliage.
The traps are coming up! But theyre too spread out!
Get the canines to their flank, Felix! Close the gap!
Felix pulled out a silver whistle and blew air into it. The whistle made noise that only the
canines could hear. They veered and vanished into the foliage. Leon couldnt hear or
see the canines but the boars have a sharper nose. The tusks made the according
adjustments. Leon and Felix kept at their tail. Two of the boars on the right of the horde
squealed as they broke the thin covering of leaves and twigs covering the deep ditch.
The rest of the pack ignored the two, focused on their individual survival. A little ways
later, four boars were impeded by snares.
Six is more than enough, Leon said. The four caught in the snares were thrashing,
trying to sink their tusks into their captors.
Energetic, are they not?
Everything gets as animated when they smell their own death approaching.
-ch endZaleekah the Orphan I
It is said that the race of arakvlks were born out of hate and strength. They are distinctly
reddish brown skinned with a strong overjet of their lower jaw. They are thick skinned,
strong resistance to the elements and a higher pain threshold. Because of this

hardened tolerance to pain, it became common knowledge to behead an arakvlk to

impose death on one.
An arakvlk rarely leaves their home island, but not for a lack of marine navigation. The
arakvlk had strong traditions they observe. For example, criminal deviance adheres to
an escalating scale of punishment. The first offence of an individual is rewarded with a
branding iron of the sigil of the local guard. At the second offence, another brand is
added, as well as a whole day of whipping from the local authorities. The third offence is
beheading. In the past, large settlements handled its execution separately. Now the
evildoers are brought to the City of Heads to count down their final days. But the
concentration of executions in one specialized city caused overcrowding. To prevent the
chance of an arakvlk breaking out and assimilating back into society, the criminals are
branded one more time, to signify that they are awaiting execution.
Arakvlks await execution in the City of Guillotines, aptly nicknamed City of Heads. A
fortress positioned in the most southern point of the island is blanketed with towering
walls. The walls of this particular city are decorated with a unique ornament, threads of
decapitated heads dangling from the top of the walls. Its purpose is to deter the whole
race of arakvlks from committing crime.
There is no arakvlk that is outside the reaches of this universal rule and Zaleekah the
Orphan knows first-hand that this fact is held true at every turn. He witnessed his peer,
who only saw five years pass punished for stealing a fruit. As it was his second offence,
he was sentenced to the corresponding punishment. He died at the brutality of the
whipping. Zaleekah experienced an arakvlk girl refusing the company of a guard at the
cost of her head. Those arakvlks with two offences are subjected to constantly living in
fear for the rest of their lives.
Zaleekah was one of those arakvlks. He earned his two brandings in the same week,
one for theft and another for a protest he spearheaded. Zaleekah advocated against
the use of capital punishment on minor crimes. His protest involved ten thousand souls
and that forced the government to publicize his second branding and whipping. They
punished him with a whip with two distinct strands of rope from plaited thin steel. At the
end of the wisps were barbed spikes, meant to dig and rip into his skin. A whip
specifically designed for troublemakers who may incite a revolution.
Open the gate! the sound came from the driver. The hood over Zaleekahs head
stunted his sight in silence but his other senses sang loudly. His hands were cuffed in
metal chains. He was sitting on wood with wheels, which meant a cart. The animal
pulling the cart was a bruin, tamed by the driver. The driver sat at the edge of the cart,
holding onto leather reigns. His rationality and deductive reasoning made up for the lost
sense of sight.

Who you got? the gate-keeper shouted down. The proficiency of the grammar and
proper sentence structure eluded most arakvlk. The arakvlk once had their unique
phonetic language, but it had assimilated with the dialect of man.
Does it matter?
You right. Open gate! The gigantic doors swung slowly and the carriage continued its
slow trot.
Kahrath, are we in the city? Zaleekah asks.
Yes, Za. Are you sure about this? This is the city of heads.
Stop! Four varg-riders formed a blockade. Vargs are canines, larger and taller than
ordinary wolves, standing as tall as arakvlks. They are fierce and hard to tame. One of
the riders was carrying the banner of the city, a grey cloth with an inverted red triangle
inside a white circle. What business you got here? The rider asking the question was
wearing a gold cape attached to a red mantle sitting on his shoulder. He was unarmored
unlike his companions who had chainmail underneath their layman clothing and a
matching chainmail hood.
I am Kahrath the Huntress, from the Hunting Grounds. Might you introduce yourself as
well?
The arakvlk in the gold cape circled around the carriage. He halted his horse near
Zaleekah and spat on the side of the carriage, You talk like man. You cursed. Who
under hood? He stretches his hand to unveil the hood. Kahrath quickly drew her short
blade and swung. He tucked his fingers in, dodging the blade. Kahrath follows the
momentum of the sword and switched her grip. Her steel found his throat and gently
drew blood. Two of the riders drew their steel curved blades, an entire rotation slower in
comparison to Kahrath.
Its very rude to open anothers gift. She growled.
Who gift for? He motioned for his riders to sheath their steel but his companions
ignored his order. You quick for woman. You drew my blood. You give me gift.
This gift isnt for you, Kahrath insisted, pressing on the blade a little harder. More
blood streamed from it.
You give me body for gift. Not his. Yours. Trade for my blood.
I will behead you right here, you pompous peon.
You behead headmaster? I Dapo. Headmaster of city. Dapo the Headmaster.

And I am getting impatient with you.

I am Dapo. Headmaster.
I will make sure that is engraved on your forehead when I put your head on a spear.
Kahrath pressed her blade, skin made way for the steel. The headmasters blood
spewing out, his eyes were perpetually frozen wide open. Kahrath followed through and
pulled her steel out of Dapo. She switched her grip on the blade again, holding it by the
end. The smell of blood drives the vargs into frenzy. The varg that Dapo was riding
shook his bleeding corpse off and fed on him. The varg of the banner jumps and clamps
on the throat of the nearest arakvlk, causing the rider to fall. Kahrath threw the blade
and the steel dug itself into the skull of the last arakvlk.
The vargs were ripping meat off the deceased when a loud whistle sounded off. The
vargs picked up their share of the carcasses and scampered off, leaving behind Dapos
head and the the body that Kahrath threw the blade at and the banner carrier. An
arakvlk was standing ahead the previously blockaded path.
I Zado. New headmaster. He turned his gaze to a soldier armed with a crossbow. His
follower nodded, jogged up to the arakvlk who held the banner. The soldier held him by
the neck and pointed the crossbow between his eyes.
Mercy, the banner carrier asked, merc- the bolt went.
I am Kahrath the Huntress. From the Hunting Grounds.
Who under cloak?
A gift, from the Hunting Grounds.
Gift? Who gift for?
For the ruler of this city.
For Aakiri? Aakiri only accept shiny gold. Aakiri own many slaves. Aakiri ruler of
prison city.
It is not a slave I give the queen of the guillotines. The Hunting Grounds are gifting her
Zaleekah the Orphan.
Zados eyes widened. Impossible!
But it is, and I am hoping that presenting the infamous Zaleekah will gain favor from
Aakiri.
-ch end-