The bitter scent of blood stained the scent of the cherry blossoms. Scarlet seeped deep into the cracks of gnarled roots, sinking through the grass and making it shine in the residue. These sacred grounds had never tasted the metallic flavor before this day, and it was foreign to them. There had never been violence beneath these drifting cherry blossoms, nothing to stain them as they fell to the ground. But the blood lapped at the petals, swallowing them in its depth.
"Drink," a low voice penetrated the silence engulfing the grove. The thickness of the silence made the voice sound like an intrusion, as it very much was. The tip of a blood-stained sword sank into the grass as a lean figure rested his weight on the hilt.
The man was tall and thin, with smooth skin so pale it was the color of ivory. High cheek bones rose from a narrow face, pronounced and notable beneath eyes as black as night. Windswept black hair was brushed back across the top of his head, falling around the sides of his thin face. Each structure of his face was oddly prominent, so much so that he could hardly be described as human. From a distance, he could be mistaken as such. Much closer, he could never be compared.
The thin man adjusted the cuff of his silver-lined black jacket that clung to his frame. The cuff had a slight stain of blood, but he ignored it and faced the tree.
Such a tree had never been seen in Akan before, not by any of the common folk. This tree was not for mortal eyes, and never had been. Thus, with great triumph written across his pronounced features, the man stepped over the bodies of his brethren to press a hand against the silver trunk. The trunk itself was as thick around as a large building, the branches filled with blossoming pink flowers spreading as wide and as thick as the surroundings allowed it.
He took a pace forward, studying the silver base carefully. He had worked for many days to achieve this chance; a chance alone with this tree. Everything about the tree was regal, necessary for his goal. And it was his.
The man raised his hand, tugging at each finger of his black glove to loosen its hold on his hand. Then he pulled it all the way from his fingers, exposing white flesh to the glow of the tree. His hand contorted into an angry claw as he again saw the scars lining the back of his hand. The tiny, white marks were darker than the rest of his skin, grayer in color.
They were burns he had applied to the back of his hand to loosen his bindings. Each Isol Jaminari had such a mark applied to the back of their right hand. It was an image of a tree with branches drooping so low they twisted amongst the roots. It was a representation of unity amongst the seven Isoli, a symbol of their goodness and trust in one another.
Each brand also prevented the darkness of other beings to leak in and corrupt. It was a protective shield to the darkness of the world. He had removed it from sheer curiosity, to see what "evils" could tempt such an immaculate being as the Isoli. He had found not evil, but a greater understanding of the world. Power was necessary for recognition, always attainable and a challenge to achieve. But he had relished every step of his plan, every stab of his sword. Now he was to achieve the power his thoughts promised him.
He pressed the burned hand against the tree, the gray scars popping out atop the tendons of his skin. He curled his lip as he whispered words of a language not known by any mortal, reciting them and summoning their power. Then both hands pressed against the silver bark.
A shadow began to well like a bruise on the bark, growing steadily and spreading up the silver. Each touch turned the shimmering metal to an icy black.
He watched as it climbed, anticipation growing in the pit of his stomach. He studied the crawl, flexing his hand to heighten the rate of growth. Then it reached the first cherry pink blossom.
It withered and shrank beneath the touch of the shadow, twisting and curling up upon itself. Then it broke free from the branch, drifting slowly through the air. The man watched it with a burning interest, watching as it sank to the ground. It landed lightly on the puddle of blood, then sank beneath the surface as the sticky scarlet dragged it down and out of sight.
He stepped back, listing his head to the side with narrowed eyes. Then the blood began to ripple. The surface formed tiny waves as it churned, and a form began to grow, writhing and twisting up from the dark blood.
Finally, the form solidified into a creature dripping in crimson. Wolfish ears protruded from an oddly shaped head, lying flat back on a wild black mane that curled down a hunched back. Scales the color of the blood on its body coated the grotesque hide, leaving wicked black claws on hands and feet that curved into the soft grass. Spikes jutted from its shoulders, curved and aiming towards the heavens. A whiplike tail trailed from behind it, curling around its scaled leg.
The man stepped forward as the claws wiped blood from narrow, pulsating eyes. "I am Azlin Savant. You are the first of an army, a prototype for power. I am your king." He spoke the words as if he relished them, a hand touching the scarlet scales on the massive, hulking shoulder.
The creature rumbled, lifting its head to glare at him. Then it bowed its head in acceptance.
He turned, slamming his hand into the tree. "Let's hurry things along, shall we? The rest shall be more blood-thirsty, more dangerous... nothing shall stand in their path."
The shadow curving up the tree suddenly doubled its pace, now seeming to glow with an insatiable hunger. It began to consume more blossoms, and as each blossom fell, the creatures became more hideous, with longer claws, sharper teeth, and a taste for the blood lapping at their claws. Each creature was more violent than the last, some even tearing into others in aggression until ordered otherwise.
Savant tilted his head back to gaze upon the massive tree above him. It would take a long time to claim the entire tree, maybe even years. But soon he would claim the living world with his monsters, and there would be nothing anyone could do.
YOU ARE READING
Journey of the Lost
Fantasy"Death comes on swift wings to those who hesitate." That was what Jaylen's father had always told her during her training. Now his death sends her on a quest to unveil the true reason for her family's death. Following a path to the heart of her cou...
