Dark Days

The Beginning

~even shadows start somewhere~

Year 178 Se.K.

Zephrys awoke in an unfamiliar place.

A place that had stone as cold as the winter under his aching body, air that seemed as strange as twilight on Rashacke, and humans.

Humans were in this unfamiliar room with him.

"Ah, finally awake? I thought your kind was supposed to heal quicker than that." A man—in his forties, perhaps—pushed off the wall he had been leaning against. Already, white hair had been shaken in amongst his short blonde hair. It reminded Zephrys of winter. But the man was holding a sword, a green sheen tainting its rune-engraved metal.

Zephrys felt sick. He knew what kind of sword that was. What creatures had made the abominable thing. It was the only weapon that could easily kill him, could harm him and prevent him from healing quickly.

And then everything came crashing back. Everything from before something had collided with the back of his head, before something sickly had made him blackout—for how long, he didn't know.

But he did know what had happened. His village—in flames. His people—screaming and dying. His mother, sister—

Zephrys hardened his heart and pushed the thought away. His fists clenched in fear—and anger.

He'd kill this man, even though he was under the age of a warrior. He'd make this man sorry he ever—

A sword, a dagger, something sharp pressed into his back.

"What do you want with me?" Zephrys hissed through his teeth, barely keeping the moisture from his eyes. His body ached. He had wounds that were still raw, blood caked his ragged shirt, his pants. His long, dark hair had bloody tangled in it. He wanted to go home.

But his home was gone.

"Your shirt."

Zephrys blinked.

"Take it off." The man smirked, igniting Zephrys's blood on fire. The leader of the humans stepped forward and began circling Zephrys predatorily.

"As I recall, many of your kind's females have no problem with taking their shirts off."

With a snarl, Zephrys lunged, elongated canines bared. His untrained body had no idea what to do against a foe, his muscles were too small to do any damage, yet Zephrys paid no heed to that.

And then muscled arms were holding him back. Zephrys struggled but felt like a babe when he couldn't escape the humans' grasps. Humans weren't supposed to be weak! They were fragile things that reproduced like rabbits, not strong things that could hold him back!

With a wave, a simple wave, of the hand, the man silently ordered the men to unclothe Zephrys's chest.

Discarding his purple-wrappings of a tunic, they forced him to his knees. Kneed him sharply when he tried to struggle, reopening a wound on his ribs. Blood started to ooze out.

The sick blond ran a hand over Zephrys bare chest, right over his Crest. The Crest rested deep within his tan skin, the ink so black it was almost blue, maybe even purple. Shaped in a circle, it contained his species' name and his name and his family's name, all in the characters of his language. His family's name belonged to every one person of his species. They all shared it. It was what tied them together.

And this man was touching it.

Zephrys trembled at the violation, hating the situation he was in. His village had been hidden well, how had—

"So, the myths are true," the man murmured. Something like awe, maybe intrigue, washing over his features—then they vanished. "Your name, whatever it is, no longer exists."

"Orlon—" one of the men holding Zephrys warned.

"Your name no longer exists," Orlon repeated, staring intently into Zephrys's eyes.

"No," Zephrys growled. His name—it was what made him him. Names, they were a symbol of freedom and integrity. They had weight. They swayed opinion. Naming someone nameless—it was unfathomable. His people, long, long ago had been nameless. When they had been enslaved. Zephrys doubted this human knew that, with his race's poor skill at keeping ancient memory, he doubted he knew the significance of his words.

But this was a human.

"No," Zephrys growled again. Despite the threat—no—action coming from a human, Zephrys felt panic. "No."

"Geylar." Orlon inched a finger to the man standing guard by the metal door. When the man arrived, Orlon whispered words into his ear. His eyes never strayed from Zephrys's, a smirk adorning his hawkish face.

Geylar left the stone chamber. A candle flickered in the corner, its life dwindling. Zephrys couldn't help but feel the same.

The man didn't come back immediately and Zephrys struggled to think of what he could be doing, what he had been ordered. A sheen of sweat began to cover him, the wait heightening his terror.

And all the while, Orlon had an air of self-importance about him. As if he had done the world a favor by slaughtering Zephrys's people.

The metal door opened quietly.

And Geylar was holding something glowing orange, white.

Orlon took the brand almost solemnly, his calloused hand wrapping around the cool end. Zephrys thrashed in his captor's hands but to no avail.

"I do this because I must." Orlon set his jaw in determination. "I thought the prophecies a shame, a lie, but the oracle..." he shook his head. "You are a threat, but it would a shame to kill you. Why not use you? The Masters have long dreamed of having a thing like you. A thing so dangerous, our empire would never fall to others."

Zephrys had no idea what the man was rambling about, actually, he could barely understand the words through his panic.

"You killed my family!" Zephrys screamed.

"It was a must," Orlon said, coming closer with the white-hot brand. "But we let your sister free."

No, not his blood-sharers. His species—his family.

"You killed my family!!" He shrieked, loud enough for the humans to wince at its pierce.

Orlon set his teeth. "You are nameless—"

The brand pressed into his Crest, blistering and searing and ruining his identity forever.

And through Zephrys's shrieks and screams of agony, of pain, of loss, Orlon said one thing:

"—for you are Doom-Bringer."

*I'd love to know your opinion! Anything to help me grow as a writer! Thanks for reading!*