The Seven

Chapter 1 - Atticus

When Atticus was fifteen he watched his family burn alive.

To everyone else it was simply just a fact, an obsolete piece of information that didn't affect them; to him, it was everything. Every waking moment, their deaths consumed his thoughts, their bloody, cracked faces haunting the edges of his vision until he was sure he had grown mad. When he closed his eyes, the memories of their charred remains consumed him with insufferable guilt that it wasn't him in their place.

He circled his fingers over the thin edge of his empty whiskey glass, a burning cigarette in one hand. The bartender, a tall, husky white-haired Glacian woman clothed in nothing but tattoos and scraps of furs, reached over the counter and refilled his glass for what could be the fourth time. She wrapped her fingers around the drink, spreading frost across its surface to cool the liquid. "You Scorchers are lucky..." she mumbled, just loud enough to be heard over the music. "'Can smoke fifty packs of those a day and still have the lungs of an ox."

He lifted his eyes, sparing her no emotion, and silently took another breath of smoke. The dark, hot clouds swirled against his cheeks into the already dense air. As she turned to help another customer, his gaze wandered to the sea of people covering every inch of the suspiciously greasy dance floor. He had lost count of the number of times he'd sat in this same chair looking out to the ever-changing crowd, day after day after day. He could've sworn the rickety stool had somehow molded perfectly to his ass, beckoning him to sink into the ripped-up leather and questionable stains until he could no longer see straight.

Although the bartenders would disagree, Atticus never went to this particular tavern for the fine dining of greasy pork and stale bread or for the liquor that offered an expensive escape from the outside world. No, he went simply to smoke. To inhale memories and to exhale memories. To stare at the crowd and envision how each of them would look if their bodies were on fire.

Subconsciously—his drunken mind in a daze but his body victim to habit—his fingers found their way to the hem of his breast pocket, feeling the crinkled outline of the fading newsheet. Regretfully, Atticus was reminded once again of the heading, the dark words bleeding into his mind.

"ADOPTED SCORCHER SON MURDERS TERRESTIAL PARENTS AND INFANT SISTER IN FATAL HOUSE FIRE — BLAMES ONGOING DEATH SEEKER THREAT."

Clenching his eyes shut, he cursed under his breath, a frustrated tear threatening to roll down his cheek. He knew the villagers never trusted him, they were waiting for something like this to happen, for the perfect chance to turn him into the monster they so desperately wanted him to be. They were scared of him, scared of his fire, scared he would destroy everything they had built. Terres and Scorchers didn't mix, fire and forest didn't mix, it was an accident waiting to happen.

He cried to them, begging them to believe him. He had told them all he was framed, that his family was attacked, his house set aflame by someone else. But no one believed him, no one even cared.

His nails pierced the meaty flesh of his palm as he clenched his hands. He felt his neck grow hot as anger boiled through his veins. Death Seeker, it was even in their name. Every sorrow, every torment that ever entered this world was because of them. They were selfish, greedy, and violent, sparing no life as they tore the world apart for power. They were barely even people.

They were the reason everything had happened. They were the reason Atticus was all alone.

Throughout the Great War, many writers, poets, and bards spread tales of their black, void-like eyes, their sharp, stained fangs for teeth, and their claws so long they dragged at their feet. They spun stories of their thin, skeletal bodies and named them "The Army of the Dead" discribing how they danced across the battlefield like immortals risen from the grave. They feared nothing, gave nothing, and left nothing. They were the embodiments of Death.