Rising

Chapter II - Gaven

It feels strange to have an entire country despise you.

That's what I thought when the Jackal King - my father - waged war against Qibell. It was five years ago, when he tasted his first sip of power and got drunk off of it. When he decided that he needed more than Valzok, more than anything he had. I was eleven years old. It still feels strange, even all these years later. Near universal hatred isn't something I can get used to.

Qibell was a small trading country, a fraction of the size of Valzok. Its land was covered in ancient forests and farmland, crumbling ruins and temples to long-forgotten gods. Only Kieheo, the country's capital, displayed the wealth Qibell truly possessed. I've heard that the palace was sculpted of gold and marble, a towering sprawl of spires and gardens. That there were jeweled ballrooms and gilded hallways. That the emperor was good and just, that life was prosperous and full of joy.

And then my father stormed in and burnt it to the ground.

He held the city hostage for two weeks, letting his soldiers butcher any civilians they came across. He let them tear down homes, pillage the palace, murder anyone they saw fit. And then, when he had decimated the last bits of rebellion, when the rest of Qibell had keeled over, he slit the emperor and empress's throats.

Just like that, Qibell was his. Just like that, my entire family became sworn enemies of any remaining Qibellians.

Yet another travesty my father has committed. I can't count how many that is now.

It isn't just Qibell that despises me. It's most of Valzok. The Jackal Prince. Bad blood. No one cares who I am. No one cares about my soul. I'm the son of the Jackal King. I'm bad blood. And I'm so much worse than that.

So, I'm not entirely surprised when I wake up one morning with my wrists bound.

I'm slumped against a tree, the snow on the ground soaking into my pants and biting my skin. My head throbs with a dull pain, and I wince. Someone to my right swears softly, her voice quiet and almost delicate. "He's awake."

I turn to face the speaker, squinting through the early morning light streaming past the bare limbs of trees. The sky behind her is decorated in swaths of red and orange, casting her face in shadow. She's short, shorter than Ethan, but she radiates an undeniable ferocity.

Ethan.

I glance around the clearing, my heart rising to my throat. Another shadow-cloaked figure stands a few feet away, their figure tall and gaunt. Not Ethan.

Where is Ethan?

Not again. Not again. I can't lose him again.

I can't. I won't.

"Who are you?" My throat feels raw, like I'd just swallowed a handful of thorns. My heart begins to pound. "Where... where is he?"

"Jackal Prince." The skeletal man steps forward. He carries no weapon, but I still shrink away from him. He pauses, a dry laugh rippling from his lips. His cheekbones are high and sharp, his skin pale and papery. "We've been looking for you."

"Where is he?"

"Be quiet." The girl speaks this time, her lips a mere inches from my head. I jerk away, and a sharpness stings my neck. "I wouldn't move, Jackal Prince. My knife is small but sharp."

"Like you, Elegy." The man laughs again, the sound raspy and cold. The girl, Elegy, glares at him.

"Shut up, pig. We're interrogating a prisoner."

"Don't call me a pig," he scowls. "I go by Grim on missions."

"Then don't distract me." Elegy turns back to me, her face expressionless. Her eyes are bright blue and sparkle with a chilling sort of cleverness. "So, Jackal Prince." She raises an eyebrow. "Are you willing to talk?"