The sun flared across the cloudless, turquoise sky, evoking a majestic, almost divine feeling for those that sat beneath it. Birds were soaring through the air, fluttering their wings elegantly, announcing their presence through a series of pleasing chimes. The puffing of air gently jerked the tree branches, and some small birches fell graciously on the bushy clearing, bouncing back and forth like in a dance. The road from her home to the smithy was not particularly long, but it always amazed Amixia at how peaceful and serene it was. She simply could not keep her eyes from whirling around, carefully analyzing every detail about the tall forest that surrounded her, the intricate trimmed bushes that seemed to be layered, which the more you would go through them, the taller and denser they became. While predominantly bright green, the girl managed to find heaps of grass that had different hues, such as pink, red and even blue. The vast population of vylahs, buutuks and maghiki that called Faye their home, resonated between the trees harmoniously, as they sang unbothered to passing wanderers, ensnaring them with their unquestionable charm. The trees had some intriguing shapes, some were long, slim and straight, with a wide, sturdy base at their feet, with sprawling branches that moved up or down, depending on the size, while others, more commonly found, ascended spirally towards the sky, right from their trunks.

  She walked on the gravelly, solid soil that acted as a pathway, differentiating itself by its deep brown color, and allowed herself to succumb to stillness. The thought of another day filled with deafening clangs, floods of sweat, accompanied by the awful smell that came with it, which emanated from most of her partners, the preciseness she would be required to have when assembling the blades, the tiresome slinging of hammers and the occasional screams from when she would inevitably crush her fingers, made Amixia squirm slightly, as she struggled to remain mentally in the calm environment she was treading. The girl could not help it but at least hope today was going to be better, that she would prove she learned something in the two months she’s been helping at the smithy, however she knew she was fooling herself. Those hammers they were using, the metals they were manipulating, even the leather aprons they had to wear, proved to be quite heavy for her to mingle with, which she did not fully expect when she signed up for this. What gave her a little comfort was the fact that Wymmel and the other blacksmiths treated her accordingly and sought to always provide support and encouragement, whenever she needed it. They seemed to understand she could not be on their level, let alone best them in a field that was predominantly male driven, that required strength and meticulousness, and yet they did not call her out, make fun or outright humiliate her for it, which was not uncommon to happen in Faye, but it still came as a pleasant surprise.

  But all of those hardships she endured in those few months, only managed to embolden her even more, stirring within her this strong desire to prove she has what she needs to do this job well, if not flawlessly. She could tangibly feel the arousing need to prove she is strong. As she strode, her mind went back to memories from her childhood, from times when she would regularly get mocked for the way she looked, the strength she lacked, the powerlessness she embodied, the fumbling of many physical tasks she was given. She knew her body was a statement to everyone that glanced at her, a testament that physical work was not built for her, nor will it ever be. Which she could not help, but find it incredibly disheartening. There were a bunch of people in her life that urged her to find different professions that would require more of her brains, rather than her brawns. And yet, all those words managed to do was push her in the opposite direction, chasing something she was deemed incapable of doing. There were times, after a long, gruesome day at work, where she would question herself about her choice, trying to understand if she made the right call when she joined the blacksmith’s shop. There were times when she felt like quitting and tossing every single piece of metal she came in contact with in the High River that flowed through the middle of Faye, never to see them again. There were times when all she wanted to do was smash the anvils into tiny pieces, never to be assembled back again. But there were also times when Wymmel would provide the support she needed, when her peers would cheer her up and care for any wounds she would endure, when she would peep in awe at the armory and notice all the different tools and armors that they’ve crafted, with their intricate detailing and intriguing designs, their beautiful colors that gave them life and Wymmel’s notorious signature, the letter W written on them. Even though it was not easy, she simply knew she could not give up. To prove to those that doubted her, that mocked her, that shattered her heart into pieces she was never able to recover, that brought unimaginable levels of suffering to her, that turned her childhood into a nightmare that they were right all along, was completely out of the question in her eyes.

  In what felt like an instant, she found herself in the busy crossways of Faye during mornings, where people of all ages wandered around, eyeing the market curiously in an effort to find the most deliciously looking fruits and vegetables, where children of all ages ran around, screamed and shouted, completely absolved of any responsibility an adult faced, where cats jumped from building to building, trying to find the most suitable meal to indulge in, where dogs followed their masters around, eagerly anticipating the next stop they would make so they could do urinate or play or eat, or probably all three. The vibrant, lively main square jolted Amixia back to the present and as the realization kicked in, she whirled around aimlessly, her eyes widened with surprise. In a corner, where it looked like the sun shone the brightest, there was a small stony shack, colored in bright pale blue. From where she stood, it was almost impossible to see inside, the place being completely enshrouded, but she did not need to see to know what it was. She approached purposefully and walked in the shaded enclosure, since there was no door protecting it, just a counter that sat underneath a protruding canopy, supported on two angular aging wooden pillars. The moment she entered, her ears were invaded by a rattling sound that made the girl squint her eyes and duck her head slightly. The men were hard at work, just as usual.

  For the moment, they seemed oblivious to her presence, barely lifting their heads up to look around the place and see if something’s changed. It was quite a miracle how when people came to buy, they were actually being served. She strode behind the wooden counter and placed her trusty pouch on it. Amixia dug her hand inside, and emerged with a pair of brown leather gloves, a rusty but reliable hammer and her worn off leathery apron. The girl proceeded to tie her hair delicately with a red hairnet, pulled the gloves on her palms, tied the apron in a rush, grabbed the hammer, swiveling it in the air as she always did before starting and turned around to meet Wymmel, sitting with his arms crossed, leaning against a wall and smiling.

  She stopped in her tracks, startled. Sometimes she wondered who was the bigger clown between him and Nakol and how came men always had this childishness about them, even when some, presently Wymmel, were already halfway a man’s usual lifespan. But then again, she was not really complaining about their goofiness, after all that was the main driving factor of why she loved spending time with them and felt comfortable in their presence.

  She gave off a slight smirk and strode past him, greeting the others in the process. Glancing to her right, the girl saw a wide white wall, on which there were written instructions on how they were supposed to craft armaments, the tools needed and their purpose, the exact temperature iron melted at and how long it must be kept in the forge to ensure proper handling and a schedule, that split the tasks between every blacksmith working there. She gawked at the wall, aimlessly looking for her name and found it under the “Forging” section. Amixia’s face brightened, as a strong feeling of excitement flooded her. She recalled how forging sounded like the most interesting task a blacksmith could undertake, because it didn’t involve as much physicality and it allowed for an interesting sight. Watching the metal turn from grey to this bright, fiery red, which sometimes even dropped if kept for too long, stunned the girl. It occurred to her that she’s never actually done it before, only watched the others, which gave her an even stronger urge to do it herself.

  Wymmel gestured to the girl to follow him and she agreed, strutting fast-paced behind him. Reaching the forge, she took in the sight of the thing, its size double if not triple her own, with an arch that traversed its entire opening. Inside, it was completely dark from all the coal that was being heated and if she were to squint her eyes and lean in for a better look, she knew she would find molten pieces of metal lost inside. Besides it stood an anvil, chipped around the edges, its coloring a blend between grey and white, and a cylindrical basin filled with water. Amixia scratched her temple as she thought about how to proceed and gave Wymmel a confused look. He snorted.

  

  
• That’s right, you’ve never done this, have you?


  
• No. I did not. she answered, biting on her bottom lip


  
• It’s alright, I’ll walk you through it. First, we need to heat up the forge. I’ll do it for you, you grab a few iron ores from the stockpile in the back and bring them over here.


  

  He spoke in a low, gentle voice and pointed with one finger towards the girl’s back, where the stock of iron lay, hidden behind a jagged curtain. She swiftly went, lifted a few heavy pieces from the dusty ground, struggling to keep them stable in her arms, and returned to him. He pointed to a square iron table and she placed them on it, a few pieces falling clumsily, sending off a rattling sound, making the girl plant her palm on her forehead aggressively. Wymmel could not help himself but chuckle as he brought a clump of coals and tossed it inside the forge.

  With it now operational, Amixia grabbed the iron tongs, carefully pinched the ore and held it into the flames, watching it slowly disintegrate and melt, turning hot red. Right besides her stood Wymmel, watching her curiously, with a soft grin on his face. With the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of him and turned around to meet his face.

  

  
• You are weirdly enjoying this, are you not?


  

  The man nodded slowly and whispered “Yes, I do”. It struck Amixia in that moment, that the gaze in his intensely black eyes resembled that of a parent, watching his child proudly. And judging by his white, medium sized spiky hair and moustache, he could very well have been her father. There was this care emanating from him, this affection towards Amixia that Wymmel did not share with the others, presumably because they were men and therefore treated less carefully, but she felt like that was not the full reason behind it. Her mind recalled a few instances where he stepped up, almost instantly, without even caring if he had another important thing to do at that moment, to provide support, guidance and help to her. From the moment she joined the blacksmith’s shop, he’s mostly been the one to teach her the intricacies this job required and he always did it patiently, walking her slowly through every single detail in order to make sure she understood it all. Exactly like a good parent would towards his child. She gave off a bright smile, visibly excited about the work she was presently doing and focused her eyes on the flames, closely examining the redness of the ore that seemed to be getting more intense with each passing moment.

  ~

  Shaded by the chilled concrete, far away from the melting sun, sitting on his knees on the cold dusty floor in complete stillness, Zykon was praying. With his fingers intertwined, placed above his legs and his head slightly tilted upwards, he spoke with Hrrysthoo, the one, true, pure divine being that oversaw mankind. The creator of all, the bringer of justice, the embodiment of love, as Master Delemon taught him. After everything that happened, the boy felt himself lacking clarity, unable to move on from the devastation they endured or to understand why something like this was bestowed upon them, which made him susceptible to the corrupting, devious thoughts of the flesh.

  The teachings of Hrrysthoo made very clear that humanity cannot rely on itself, simply because the heart clouded the mind, twisting it in unimaginable ways, beyond comprehension. In more basic terms, Zykon understood mankind was worse than a child, lacking any direction, purpose or guidance, vulnerable to any sort of damage that could be inflicted upon it, be it mentally, physically or spiritually. Even though he was still an apprentice, not fully grasping the complexities of the teachings that Master Delemon spoke about without breaking a sweat, the boy felt that through prayer, through the intervention of It, he would be healed from any iniquity. And he felt it, in his prayer he was able to feel this tidal wave cleansing him from the inside, washing away any doubts or worries, filling him with serenity.

  The boy asked for a reason behind it all, but there was no voice that responded back. Why would their people among all, the very nation that belonged to It, be subject to such atrocity, brought to its knees and destroyed so brutally, so devoid of any remorse, without any clear reasoning? He found this question reverberating in his mind, struggling deeply to understand, squinting his face as he spoke to It, but yet no answer came. Hrrysthoo was silent. Or maybe he was unable to understand him. Or maybe he was asking the wrong question. Or maybe he never heard or felt It in the first place and simply lied to himself that he did. Nevertheless, he accepted his defeat and sighed profoundly, ending his prayer by thanking It for the fact that at least he was breathing and his mother, although still under treatment, was alive.

  Pacing through the wrecked landscape, he made for the Primary, which only through the grace of It was still standing. Its multiple, sphere shaped upper floors were beyond ruination and no one in their right mind could attribute any usage to them. However, the base was still standing and for the moment, it acted as a gathering space for the leaders. Presently, the boy could vaguely make out behind the broken iron door that there were already people inside, possibly speaking about the very subject with which he struggled. He picked up the pace, and found himself inside, bowing to show his respect and apology for the intrusion and quickly positioning himself behind Master Delemon. Around a tall, oblong marble table, a group of six individuals stood up, discussing calmly about how to best approach the situation. He glanced around the room, recognizing everyone that was present, from Primal Zehn to Taz’honn, the leader of the guard (or what remained of it at least), to even Ekal, the treasurer. At first, they were peaceful, each sharing their ideas respectfully, but Zykon noticed the mood shifting a little, as the discussion turned into a disagreement.

  

  
• We need to respond using force! yelled Taz’hoon, pressing his bulging finger hard against the table


  
• Do we even have a remaining force to use? (queried Ekal in a pitched voice, rubbing his chin) Last I remembered, what remained of the guard was in shambles, Taz’hoon. We don’t have the strength to launch an offensive.


  
• Then what? Are we supposed to bow to them and ask for mercy? After everything they’ve done?


  

  Through his words, a few droplets of saliva were tossed around by Taz’hoon, as he violently shook himself left and right, watching everyone’s faces. His gaze fixated on Primal Zehn, trying to discern what the old, wrinkly man was thinking.

  

  
• You don’t seriously consider us surrender, do you Primal?


  

  The Primal muttered no word. Zykon stared at the man, sensing this strong, powerful energy emanating from him, which puzzled him. There was nothing remotely interesting about the man, he was elderly, with a large white beard grasping his chin as it reached close to his belly, and a receding short mullet. His white robe with golden tiny dots sprinkled around, hung around his crooked shoulders like there was actually no one wearing it. His curved spine made him sit slightly forward, although he did not wish that. He rested his palms on a golden cane, which had a white diamond shaped pattern that ran across its whole surface. With a sudden, gracious movement, he lifted one hand and proceeded to carefully pull at his thick right eyebrow.

  

  
• What good would retaliation bring? inquired the Primal, steadily shifting his gaze towards Taz’hoon


  

  The Primal spoke in a hearty, refined, yet authoritative voice, which added to his distinguished aura. Everyone in the room focused on him, anticipating to hear more of what he had to say. Zykon’s neck suddenly tipped back in awe as he felt the sheer amount of power the elder seemed to possess, even if at first glance he looked harmless, downright incapable. Taz’hoon’s words suddenly could not make sense, as he struggled to find a good explanation for his plan of attack.

  

  
• I will save you the trouble, my dear. It would bring nothing of value to us.


  

  The Primal began pacing around slowly, pushing himself in the cane in an effort to advance. The two, tall, golden robed guards that sat behind him offered to help, but he dismissed them rapidly with a sign of the hand. The only sound that anyone was able to hear was that of the cane touching the marble floor beneath them.

  

  
• Famah’ugh. San’temonio. Hrrysthoo. The three beliefs of Bahar. Always fighting each other, trying to impose themselves as being the one, true faith, always failing in understanding one simple, essential truth. That violence is obsolete, archaic, of a bygone era that has succumbed to its age.


  

  The elder circled around the table sluggishly, ensnaring those present. Mostly because of the fact that he actually moved around, but also because of the way he was speaking, his tone of voice, the careful choice of words, his elegant mannerisms, which Zykon could not remember seeing someone his age portray in his whole entire life. But realizing the position he held, the boy managed to stop staring so intently at the elder and he readjusted himself, shifting his eyes on his master.

  

  
• Violence is fuel, my dear Taz’hoon. Violence perpetuates more violence, in a vicious, bloody, unending cycle. Now I ask you, my dear, what do we stand for?


  

  The elder stopped in an instant, whirled around graciously and fixed his gaze on Taz’hoon. The man’s head fell downwards as a sign of defeat and he sighed, allowing his body to release all the tension it accumulated before.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  

  
• Peace, Primal. Taz’hoon acknowledged, lowering his voice down to a whisper and readjusting his posture to sit straight


  
• Very well, my dear, very well. (the elder beamed, nodding slowly) Peace. We have managed to generate an impact on those white sands we’ve lived on for hundreds of generations, through our perception of conflict and our ways of dealing with it. And that is the way we should tread with our current situation as well.


  

  The Primal lifted his cane slowly and sunk it in the floor aggressively, and everyone bowed their heads. Zykon noticed what the others did and fumbled as he followed the signal. The elder saw the boy’s awkward reaction and chuckled slightly, approaching him.

  

  
• I take you as the newest member of the covenant, my dear?


  

  Zykon found it difficult to find the best words to give a response and kept looking in his master’s direction, all in an effort to catch his attention, but to no avail.

  

  
• He is, Primal. clarified Master Delemon, slowly turning to meet the boy’s face


  
• Ah, very well, my dear, very well. You strike me as a competent young lad.


  

  The Primal leaned in slowly, taking a better look at Zykon, analyzing his facial features, his physique, even his body language. The boy stood still and muttered no word, choosing to gaze into nothingness. Out of nowhere, the elder’s brows furrowed and he remained still for a brief moment. The boy slowly moved his eyes onto the Primal and saw a look of confusion on his face, but the moment the elder noticed the boy watching him, he gave off a half-smile and twirled towards Master Delemon.

  

  
• Delemon, I inquire to speak to you privately about the matter at hand in regards to Famah’ugh. Taz’hoon, I task you with reinforcing our defenses and rebuilding the guard to provide protection to our walls. Ekal, I give you access to use our treasury to restore as much of our Kaluh’a’jul as possible. Start off with the walls first, then focus on the housing situation. The Primary comes last, after everyone is safe and sound. You all know your missions. See that they are done.


  

  With another cane thump into the floor, Zykon bowed his head just as everyone else did. The elder and Master Delemon strode past the boy and exited, allowing them all to lift their heads. In an instant, the members of the council began carrying out the tasks barely given to them a few moments ago. The boy raised his eyebrows as he whirled his head around, trying his best to make sense of what was happening. It came as a shock to him just how much impact the Primal made to everyone, how much of an imposing figure he was and how much respect he commanded, even if he was probably older than even the eldest of Kaluh’a’jul. The boy could not help himself but feel admiration towards such a great demonstration of strength.

  He walked outside the primary and wandered through the wreckage, his mind focusing on both Primal Zehn and Master Delemon. The boy sensed this feeling of powerlessness in comparison to these figures, like he did not belong in the same place with them, or even worse, like he did not deserve to breathe the same air as them. There was a certain allure they had, the way they acted in the face of peril and destruction, the way they walked around, asserting dominance without even giving it that much thought, the way the spoke so sure of themselves, and the sheer amount of respect they demanded, just by simply existing in an enclosure as multiple other individuals. And there was he, a small, young boy, incapable of controlling his emotions when the situation got out of hand, unable to be a figure on which people can rely, because he’s too busy being the one that relies on others. Even his mother, his own giver of life, had to save him when Kaluh’a’jul got attacked. Zykon clenched his jaw, released it and kept doing it again multiple times, as his frustration grew. He glanced around, noticed the rubble that suffocated him and the ones that were still alive, and could sense anger stirring within him. Their city was destroyed, multiple dead and the ones alive, seemingly had no hope left in them. They cared for their wounds and the wounds of others, fed their dirty small kids that laid on the ruins, the elderly had no house to rest their frail bodies, all while the ones that were healthy struggled to aid in restoring the city in a way that it was livable. No one dared muster a faint smile. And what was he doing? Being protected by older figures than him, because he lacked the necessary strength? Being saved by Master Delemon, because he did not yet grasp sword fighting? Crying instead of saving those in need? Suddenly, his body started shaking and his eyes allowed a few tears to drop on his young, lumpy face. Why did he have to be like this? Why couldn’t he be strong like the others? Why couldn’t he be the protector, rather than the protected? Zykon found a new clump of bricks and sunk into them, giving himself time to cry. The lack of power the boy felt gave him no peace, eating away at what little confidence he believed he had.

  His sobbing got interrupted when his name was shouted from outside a building. He lifted his eyes and looked in the direction of the sound, and through his blurry vision noticed a tall man, with long, blonde hair and a goatee, gesturing for him to come. Zykon wiped his eyes and noticed that the figure wore a tightly fitted, canary yellow robe, with white accents sprinkled around. The boy stumbled back on his feet and hurried to the figure, putting on a serious face.

  

  
• Zykon, we need to discuss your mother.


  

  Examining the man’s facial expression, he noticed it was blank, with no trace of any emotion whatsoever. The boy’s eyes shifted on the man’s palms and noticed the golden gloves he wore, which could mean only one thing. He was a healer. Zykon’s eyebrows drew together and stuttered in an effort to ask him what was wrong.

  

  
• She’s awake. the healer whispered as he invited him inside


  

  ~

  Gakeh stood silently in Kalah’s chambers, awaiting new instructions. He gazed outside the small, rectangular window, and took in the sight of the busy camp below. His fellow markins were hard at work, carrying out their tasks without breaking a sweat, forging new weapons and armor tirelessly, bringing large carcasses of bears for food, all while the carriages pulled by balmaks and horses strode in the camp eagerly, bringing with them all sorts minerals, metals and wood. Although faint, he managed to catch a glimpse of moon light that struggled to find a suitable entrance through the already narrow window, and he allowed his face to be touched by it. The landscape before him filled Gakeh with a faint sense of joy, making him desire to feel it stronger than he could.

  The captain rested unbothered on his throne, viciously eating away at a large piece of meat, cooked and brought to him by Gakeh. He bit on it fiercely, chewing like an animal chews its prey, his eyes widened exaggeratedly, the corners of his mouth dripping with succulent juice released by the flesh. In what seemed like an instant, the captain already finished eating it, tossing the bones away like pieces of junk, sucking on his fingers to not let any remains escape his lustful belly. He belched loudly, the harsh sound echoing in the small chamber like the rage of a beast, releasing a reeking, deadly smell. Kalah stumbled up to his feet, visibly struggling due to his enormous belly and gestured for Gakeh to rise to his feet.

  

  
• I’m in the mood. the captain blustered, waving dismissively towards Gakeh and pacing towards the window to peep outside


  

  Without even a minimal amount of effort to understand what he meant, he already knew what the captain wanted, which made his dark eyes struggle to frown, as his body stiffened. He felt like protesting and trying to make him reconsider his choice, but he knew better than to test the captain’s rapidly switching mood swings. Now he may be content after indulging in his precious dinner, but who knows what may come next? This unpredictability made Gakeh contain himself, not willing to attract any negative attention towards him, especially from the captain himself.

  

  
• As you command, my lord. I shall gather a small band and leave for the nearest human settlement.


  
• Do not bore me with your details, markin! Kalah shouted, turning savagely towards him


  

  He did not lift his gaze, but he could almost picture the look on the captain’s face. His sharp teeth clenching, revealed by the thick, dark lips, his pitch black eyes, with purple intertwining veins in them narrowed, staring at him intently, his massive tensed body, ready to lash out at him any moment. Gakeh kept bowing, not moving a single inch of his body.

  

  
• Apologies, my lord. I will see to it. he whispered


  
• Out of my chambers!


  

  He lifted himself up and made for the exit. As he marched through the main hall, he could not ignore a feeling that bickered him, growing intensely with each passing moment. What Kalah desired, what he always wanted, was humans. Most specifically, human women, which he found intriguing. As far as Gakeh knew, the captain never used them for sexual purposes, and he strictly forbade the markins from ever engaging in such acts with humans. The captain loved to preach about the markin race as being far superior and that they should never taint their esteemed, pure blood of warriors with the cursed one of mankind. Instead, Kalah used them to satisfy his need for violence. Everytime Gakeh was tasked with carrying out what remained of the women after a night spent in the captain’s chambers, he would notice how they all looked beyond recognition, bruised, beaten and maimed to death with such brutality, one could mistake them as being devoured by a pack of unsatiated red wolves. And now, the cycle was to be repeated once again, and Gakeh was tasked with carrying out the captain’s vicious plans. He struggled to press his lips together, as the conflict within him grew, but was unable to. He knew within him that this was not the way mankind was supposed to be used, and yet felt helpless, since he could not simply tell that to anyone and not expect to be called out.

  His internal struggle had no effect besides making his mind wander aimlessly, distracting him from the path he ought to take. He felt sorry for the poor souls that would be lost, but a job had to be done nonetheless. He gathered a select few markins he deemed were easier to talk to than others, hopped on a black, wooden carriage, took the reins and signaled the pair of balmaks that pulled it to move. In an instant, the carriage was violently shaken, as the monstrous animals used their six long legs, with their wide, strong, sharp paws latching into the ground, to carry them rapidly to their destination. It occurred to Gakeh in that moment just how much more effective balmaks were in traveling long distances than horses or other species. Their flexible legs stretched incredibly wide and their big, musculous paws had the capacity of digging into the ground and launching their whole body forward, like in a violent dance, which was sure to not be the most comfortable of rides, but it would definitely be the fastest one.

  Gakeh pulled out a map from a black leathery satchel he often carried with him, and analyzed the settlements mapped on it. Most of the ones he’s already been to where marked with a cross, the ones he saw from afar but did not intrude were circled and the spots where he heard or seen people travel on and off were left with a question mark on them, to remind himself that there could be a settlement in those areas. He was just about to choose their location, but stopped and lifted his head slowly, thinking about including his brethren into it. He tossed the map behind him and it fell on one of the warriors’ laps. The soldier tossed it back, unsure if the map fell out of his satchel or if he actually was the one to throw it, but Gakeh gave it back.

  

  
• You make the call. Where do you think we should go?


  

  His low, guttural voice echoed in the darkened forest they rode through, disturbing the nearby birds that seemed desperate to escape. For a brief moment, the markins said nothing, opting instead to gaze into nothingness. They did not even look at one another, not even asked each other’s opinion on the matter, they simply chose to think on it for themselves.

  

  
• You are the second in command. You call the shots. objected one of the warriors, hitting Gakeh on the back with the map in an effort to return it


  
• Precisely. Being the second in command entrusts me with the ability of delegating. I propose you discuss the matter between you four and choose where we ought to go.


  

  The warrior steadily withdrew his arm from Gakeh’s back and slowly turned to meet his brethren’s blank faces. If they were feeling something in that moment, it was hard to decipher, even for Gakeh.

  

  
• We don’t make choices, Gakeh, we follow orders. protested another markin, his deep, harsh voice capable of scraping a human’s ears and make them bleed out


  

  Indeed, they do not take choices on their own, they follow orders. Gakeh already knew that. The captain was the leader and when he had no interest in taking care of things around the markin camp, he would be tasked with leading and commanding them around. But the markins were never given the possibility of choosing for themselves, not even Gakeh had that luxury, abiding to the captain’s rules unwillingly.

  

  
• That (Gakeh pointed his sharp, muscular finger to the map) is an order.


  

  The warriors were left perplexed and wanted to keep protesting more, but Gakeh swiftly made it known to stop asking questions and to follow his command. Together, they awkwardly proceeded to look on the map and examine where they were currently heading and what were the nearest settlements around. While slow at first, in time they even started discussing among themselves, arguing about the best course of action they should take which filled Gakeh with a vague feeling of pride, as he tried to muster a smile but to no avail.

  Eventually they chose a spot, a potential village that Gakeh left out with a question mark, carefully searched for it and finally arrived on the premises. The balmaks came to a standstill trudging, their long feet swollen from all the effort they endured. He forcefully ripped a few pieces of apples from a nearby tree, and a few thick branches by mistake, and rewarded them for their service, their wide mouths unveiling a set of six large, tiny canines clumped together, surrounded by an array of molars scattered all around its sharp jaw. The village was quiet, the close moon shining above it, painting the settlement a faint yellow color. They stood quite far from the main entrance, crouching their massive bodies behind a bunch of tall, spiky bushes. From where they stood, they could make out a high wooden wall that enclosed the village, as well as two ragged guard towers placed up front, in which 4 archers stood, keeping an eye out for intruders. While they were unable to see what lay inside, the settlement looked rather small, with maybe a few hundred people to a thousand living in it.

  

  
• Why are we not advancing? asked a markin behind Gakeh


  
• You propose we bust in like we own the place, steal and pillage and we leave for the camp, right?


  

  Gakeh whirled to meet the markin’s eyes and he noticed him nodding. Of course that’s how he or any other markin would think when it came to such situations, unable to understand that drawing too much attention will, in due time, make humans grow a force that could withstand them. And yet, to try and explain this to another one of his kin could prove incredibly difficult, not to mention dangerous for his future plans.

  

  
• That would be an easy way of doing things. But I’m not in the mood for too much of a fight, therefore we go in quietly. If you want to act as a distraction, getting chased by humans and growing tired of swinging your weapon around, killing all of them and finding yourself scarred from their tiny weapons, be my guest.


  

  For a brief moment, Gakeh saw the markin thinking about his words. He most probably had a feeling inside him, probably upset because he did not get to slaughter innocent lives, or angry because he would not get the chance to burn down a few buildings for the sake of it, or maybe sad that he won’t experience the thrill of a good fight, but no one could tell, his face unable to muster even the vaguest of emotions. He chose instead to not mutter another word and follow Gakeh’s command, like everyone else.

  With the corner of his eye, he noticed to the right of the wall, in the farthest point from where they stood, a few pieces of wood protruding from the wall. They shifted to take a better look at it, and saw the clump of wood, with bite marks on, clasping desperately to the rest of the wall, in an effort to not fall on the muddied ground. They silently approached, cautiously tore down what remained of it and entered the settlement. Right when they stepped inside, they were met by rows of small, rectangle shaped yellow wooden houses organized chaotically, with their roofs made out of thick columns of lemon colored birches, glued together to prevent any rain from slipping inside. He glanced to his left, taking into account the archers that stood guard, which seemingly had no idea the village they were tasked with protecting was now being invaded.

  With a shake of the palm, Gakeh split up the group and proceeded to enter the houses of the residents, tying about a dozen women and murdering the husbands and children in the process with the stab of a sword, the sling of a mace and the slice of an axe. Gakeh allowed the other two markins that split up with him to grab them, while he did most of the killing in their wake. He saw it as a less conflicting way of dealing with Kalah’s commands, liberating those poor souls from the mortal realm they inhabited came easier for him to do than watching the scared, widened eyes and the frantic movements of a struggling woman, desperately trying to escape their grasp.

  In what seemed like an instant, they were already back at the balmaks, placing the squirming humans in the carriage, leaving behind them a trail of blood that would not be discovered until morning, when it would already be too late. Gakeh stared back at the settlement, his face unable to muster any emotion, but inside a weird, dim sensation throbbed, unable to give him peace. Guilt. Not only did he massacre innocent individuals, who went to sleep in an attempt to rest their bodies after a laboring day, unbeknownst to them that it would be their last day of roaming these lands, but he was also bringing even more people to a fate far worse than death. In Kalah’s monstrous hands.

  What gave him at least a little consolation, was the fact that soon, all of this will end. The markins would stop hunting people in an effort please a ravaging captain, someone so unable of building something of importance that would last and that would give the markins something better to strive for. With him at the helm, markins will become a force to be reckoned with, not just merely a band of warriors, hunting and pillaging without remorse, but a glorious empire. But for the moment, the captain must be pleased, they must abide by his command without asking questions. Such was the markin way.