The Balance (Revised)

Prologue

The fire's heat rippled over the man's skin and the air carried the acrid reek of ash, but the man paid it no mind. It wasn't his camp. The screams of wounded and dying men met his ears, but he did not care. They weren't his soldiers. All of his focus was on the wiry boy in front of him, who, for all the strength and speed he possessed, was going nowhere.

The boy's dark hair clung to his forehead with sweat and blood, and he shivered both from the cold and from blood loss. He was slumped against a tree, white uniform stained red and grey, clutching at his left arm and murmuring a prayer. Any other enemy would have ended him then and there. The man did not. Even when the boy finished his prayer and struggled to his feet, closing his eyes in concentration, the man did nothing.

A wave of intense heat roiled under the man's flesh and he buried his teeth in his lip as his skin seemed to melt away from the bone— and yet it was still in place. As much as instinct demanded that he scream and plunge into the snow, he stood motionless and watched the boy with hooded eyes. It was only a feeling and he knew it, but his hands began to shake and there was a tightness to his chest that he recognized all too well.

No, he told himself, no, not now—

But his body acted in spite of his mind, and before he could truly register what he was doing, he had the boy pinned by the neck against the tree. The boy gasped and his eyes flew open; the burning sensation faded away to nothing. The man's fingers dug into the soft flesh, and he knew that with enough pressure, he could crush the boy's throat to a pulp. He knew, and he wanted to. Taking a deep breath, he clenched his fist to hide the trembling. Not now.

After another breath, he said, "I will give you one chance to run. Now go, or I will kill you."

The boy glared at him. Up close, the man could see that his eyes were the same color as someone else's— hers. His grip tightened until he could feel the bones in the boy's throat, fragile. So fragile that he could splinter them as easily as twigs...

Let go, whispered the part of him that was still rational. You have to let go.

One by one, he pried his fingers loose, noting with some sick pleasure the red marks that he'd pressed into the boy's skin. Something cried out in him to finish the task, to let this compulsion have free reign, but he did not turn even as the boy limped past him. He looked down at his hands, still shaking from the need unfulfilled, and let his eyes close almost entirely as he took yet another deep breath.

Then he heard the crunch of a boot against snow and a sharp whistling sound. He stepped aside as a flash of silver flew past him and buried itself in the tree with a dull thunk. Snarling, he whirled around to face the boy, the foolish boy with eyes like hers. The boy had another knife in his hand, but the man ignored it as he lunged at him.

The boy was fast with his knife. He was faster. He caught the boy's wrist, blade inches from his face. Her eyes met his, wide with fear and pain, and he felt a surge of satisfaction. Pulling one fist back, he brought it crashing into the boy's chest. Bones crushed into fragments beneath his hand. The boy slumped to the ground, chest caved in and blood running from his nose.

But it wasn't enough. He hauled the boy up, lashed out at him again and again. He knew the boy was dead; even with his abilities, there was no healing from that, but it felt good to keep hitting. The body flopped around like a dying fish under his blows, each punch a pulse in time with his heartbeat. Warm droplets of blood heated the man's own, sprayed his face as he turned the boy's corpse into a raw, mangled mess. The skin of one of his knuckles tore on the boy's teeth, but he ignored it. Even as the eyeteeth fragmented into his hand, it was a mere flicker of pain in comparison to this firestorm. Nothing mattered, nothing but those eyes—

It was only after he kicked the boy's wrist that he stopped. The edge of his foot had glanced off the metal bracelet that every soldier like this boy wore. He'd worn one once, had looked at it often enough to know what the engraved script said word for word, had run his fingers over the polished silver surface so many times that he could trace the script effortlessly if he wanted. His chest still heaved as he looked at it, noting how the light from the dying flames glinted off the metal. Hands shaking, he slipped the bracelet off the boy's wrist and slid it inside his coat.

As he turned to walk away, he tried to think about how young the boy was, how he had been in the same situation once, how things would have been if the boy had just taken the chance and run.

Instead he saw his hands, red-flecked but steady now. Instead he remembered the crunch of bone and how gratifying it was to see those blue eyes dimmed.

Probably not many differences between this and my original, but I'm hoping that this one really sets the mood. This is, as I've spelled out in my author's note, not a light, cheerful story, and if this level of violence is too much, I'd recommend giving this book a pass. It's probably not gonna get any nicer from here on out.

So that said, welcome to the first chapter in my revised version. There will be bits and pieces similar to the original, but some (like the next chapter) are going to be entirely new. Hope you all enjoy.

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FOR NBR MEMBERS:

1. What, if anything, was the most confusing aspect of this chapter for you and why?

2. If you were to pick this up in a bookstore and the prologue was all you had to go on, would this be something you'd consider getting? Why or why not?

3. What are your opinions regarding the man and his actions?