Journal of Fire: Embers

Chapter 6, The Retreat

Journal of Fire Entry 3, continued (Atrein Diablon)

Year 0 A.D., The First Day of Winter, Afternoon

The Line of Krotrean, Ertore

"Retreat boy, you did well," commanded the deep voice. He sounded tired, but the burden of the seal was no longer holding him back. Since I had no better ideas, I did just that. I turned towards Krotrean, and I ran for the hills.

I continued forward through adrenaline and willpower alone. I put my remaining soul into my strides as I held a hand over my right eye. Blood and tears ran freely from the cracks in my fingers as I struggled to keep my breathing under control. I maintained a hobbling jog for nearly an hour as I escaped the army that had just slaughtered my only friend. I was powerless to stop the surge of the Donanians. Before them, all I could do was run. I focused on navigating the changed terrain of The Line, which had shifted only minutes after the invasion began.

Thousands of traps that once sat idle sprang into life, powered by soul and arcane energy, and to my amazement, the pathways of The Line were caving in upon themselves at irregular intervals. Both sides of the winding pathways brought their spiked sides together to impale anyone unfortunate enough to be present. The systematic slamming of the paths made an odd, rhythmic beat that pulsated through the air. My legs burned as I approached my physical limits. Every part of my body felt used, including my mind. Now, I would be without a single friend due to these idiotic wars. I was without any family, without a home, and without a kingdom, all in a single day because of the gods.

"Do not forget, we are here," many voices said.

I simply ignored it, unwilling to have that conversation now. I did not want to dwell on the voices within my chest. I still considered it possible that the Others were some form of illness, of the likes I had never heard.

"Would an illness warn you of oncoming attacks from behind you?" one of the voices questioned.

Good point, I thought.

After this, however, they left me alone for a while. With every step, my head pounded. I knew now that I hated the gods. I had too many grievances against the system of Rania to ever receive true justice. My war clan all lost their lives because of the gods. My whole creation was controlled by these invisible beings who gave no regard to their subjects. A burning hatred, a fire unlike any other, was growing and sparking, funneling right into my soul and heart. The hatred burned bright like the sun.

My rage was trapped within me, for I was powerless against the march of the troops. I was also powerless against the societies around me, which the gods controlled. They drained the people of their energy and turned men against anyone wise enough to resist. They caused all of us to lead a life of hatred against people we never met, save for on the battlefield. The worst part was that they did it all for a little extra soul.

I realized then what the voice from earlier meant. "Do they hate me?" it asked. Well, if they had not before, they surely would now. The Donillir watched me wipe out thousands of their friends and family. When they fought now, what would they see upon the face of a man of Ertore? Indeed, they'd see my face. They would use it as fuel. I would be the cause of further hatred and violence between kingdoms, and all I had done was defend myself.

"He begins to understand," another voice murmured.

Then, as I was running through the Krotrean Line, an idea formed. I realized that I, a single man without any combat experience, had taken out damn near an entire regiment. I was an unpolished gem of war. My potential power could perhaps be limitless through training and more absorption. I could grow to defy the armies of man, and I could make them change their ways. Then, I could finally stop the flow of energy to these gods. The first thought brought with it a second, more beautiful one.