MALIN DRASWIST IS TOO YOUNG. With the advent of the new king of Cardina and the control of the state relinquished to Synketros, a covert organization bent on harnessing power, things took the turn for the worse. When soldiers start a siege against t...
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"Ymbril!" he screamed, feeling the High Priestess' weight crash against him on her way down. He grasped at the blood flowing out of her form, attempting to put it back in. "No. Please, no."
Shaky hands grappled against his hold, stilling him. "Malin. Malin, listen to me," she rasped. Urgency flashed across her features as she tightened her hold on his hands. "I will be alright. Do not worry about me. Run."
Malin summoned his magic and sent all of it into Ymbril's wound. Nothing happened. The world was unfair like that. The same wound that killed his father now snuffed out the life of the only person who seemed to care for him as if he's her own. "I will not burn you in a pyre today," he sobbed. "I promised."
This happened because he was young. Too young to know the ways of the world. And because he was weak. Youth and weakness always went hand-in-hand, and Malin was dealt with the most horrible way of coming to terms with it. Now, he realized this must be what his sister felt when she watched their father take his last breath, fighting for a cause that never fought back for him.
The noise of the battle blurred in his ears. Nothing mattered. Not anymore. It was all a cycle of hunt or be hunted, earn or die without a grena to one's name. For the pursuit of wealth and the desire to survive, it's always the weak who were preyed upon. Those who couldn't fight for themselves, those who dared exist without a grain of power, influence, or luck—they were always found at the sharp end of fate's stick.
Why fight it? Why bother standing up when all the world could do was to push them down?
Ymbril smiled at him and eased out of his grip, bringing herself to the ground as if defying the heavens' will one last time and choosing how she would meet Pidmena. "Run, Malin," she urged. "I will be alright."
Malin wiped against the tears blurring his vision. Why would he start thinking of giving up now? Ymbril needed him. The Temple did too. His friends, the acquaintances he had gotten to know over the weeks—anyone who had never seen the cruelty of the battlefield needed him. To be strong, to brave the dangers, and to be a living proof that death shouldn't be the end post for the weak.
For the people who would rather sacrifice themselves in exchange of saving those they deemed worthy, he would stand up, the world be damned.
A shadow fell over him, and a muzzle edged in his periphery. He whirled to find a Civil Guard smirking down at him. He must be thinking of the awards he's going to get when he reports it was he who killed the High Priestess. That smug smile told Malin everything. The Civil Guard also knew he had won against a child staring up at him with enough venom to poison an entire city. He had won, and it would be over as soon as he clicked the trigger.
The blue-coat fired.
Malin screamed as pain exploded in his form on his way up. His hands reached out and closed around the rifle's snout. The Civil Guard gave a surprised yelp, wiggling his weapon to dislodge Malin off. Malin dug his nails against the metal, letting them scrape and scratch against the dark sheen coating it. The Civil Guard gripped the stock for a tighter grip, a finger hooking over the trigger. Malin gritted his teeth and pushed upward, applying the Guard's force against him. The rifle swung up just in time for the trigger to click off.
