Five years ago.

The battle of Brihurst Isles, Year 484 after the Great War.

━━━━━━⚔︎━━━━━━

Here I die for a war not my own. Does the Crown deem me loyal now?

"I hear the coastal guards have a good healer, go find them."

"You're insane, Karyk. This is Glikayne, you hear me? Draedona's already dragging him back as we speak."

In the silence that followed, boots squelched against the soggy sand. A pair of calloused hands closed around the young man's shaking shoulders.

"Can you sit up, lad? No- don't close your eyes... wake up, there. Tell me, what's your name?"

Dark clouds swirled overhead, the scent of an upcoming storm riding the salty air of the eastern coasts of the Brihurst Isles. The pale sea was the color of bleached bones, ships of the Drisian marine fleet hovering in the distance like black silhouettes.

Coconut trees lining the shore swayed with the wind. Beneath them, the sandy mud was soaked with blood; the waves occasionally washed the stains off the shore, the foams turning pink.

But more blood seeped into the sand, faster than the waves could erase. The young Drisian marine lay there, bleeding out.

"Talk, lad. Don't you close your eyes," said the voice, "tell me your name."

"Pertheran..." he managed, "Pertheran Du...Durinford."

Raw pain gnawed away at his flesh. He saw colors burst on the grey sky above, reds, purples and blues; colors that weren't there. His arms and legs convulsed and twitched of their own accord. With audible snaps, his bones began to crack.

Pertheran tried to scream, but no sound left him. Another bout of seizure made his teeth go right through his tongue. Blood gushed into his throat, choking him.

Through his veins, Draedona's tears spread like fire.

✦✧✦✧

This centuries-old feud between the two kingdoms had done naught but throw the land into chaos, turning it into a ground crawling with sorcery where Gods were sure to enter the fray. The Great War, and the Apocalypse that had followed, taught all of Stormvale a lesson in the destruction of nearly half of its people. A lesson, that withered from the fickle mortal minds with time.

Out marched the Drisians again, to conquer all Stormvale, but more specifically, Midaelia.

Pertheran Durinford wanted nothing to do with it.

All he wanted to do was tend to the farm and get his kid sister some proper schooling-- something he'd never had the chance to have.

When he'd come home at the end of the day, famished, Mother would have warm bread ready for them, and steaming stew, of vegetables freshly picked from their own little garden for supper. How sweetly Mother would laugh when little Eryna would recite rhymes she'd learnt in a sing-song voice.

Then he'd go to sleep. His bed may not have been the most comfortable, the thin blankets not without rips and tears, but he'd sleep like the most peaceful man in the world.

But Pertheran's world crumbled then, when the Calbridge Division of the Drisian army suffered casualties in an ambush from the soldiers of Kinallen near the border, which halted the campaign. Not long after that, they were setting up tents across the moor, and one such fine morning, a lieutenant rode up to the peasants.

All able-bodied people must enlist, they said. Pertheran, or the others had little choice.

Prove your loyalty to the Crown, or perish.

With a simple press of one ink-stained thumb upon a parchment, he became one of the countless pawns of King Krugmann's lethal game spanning entire kingdoms.

In the losing battle that followed, Pertheran had run fast. But the poisoned arrows of the islanders flew faster.

✦✧✦✧

“Forgive me, lad,” Pertheran heard the Midaelian commander saying. Next, a sword slithered out of its scabbard.

A blade plunged into Pertheran's heart, cold and swift and merciful.

A profound calmness washed over his soul, and moments later, all cleared away, the visages of the two Midaelian men, the windy seashore, the swaying ships, the stench of blood on the sand-- all replaced by a void in which he now hovered.

Before him was a circular gate, like a porthole of a ship, only much bigger and framed by silvery smoke that coiled in wisps.

Pertheran lost track of time, if time indeed were a concept in this depthless abyss.

"Welcome, child," said a soft voice that seemed to come from everywhere at once, and nowhere at all. For a moment he thought the voice was inside his head.

If I'm hearing Mother Draedona then I must be--

"Indeed you are, mortal. Dead, deceased, no longer of the mortal realm, whatever you would like to call it," said the Goddess calmly. "You are to walk my realm now."

Pertheran halted before the gate.

He was relieved to have been freed of the pain, true. But what of Eryna? What of Mother? He turned to run, far from the voice. Away from the gate. This was too sudden, he still had so much to do.

"No death is too sudden, child. It has all been woven in the threads of destiny since the day you were born. Come back, now. You shall tire yourself out for no reason." The Goddess now sounded slightly annoyed.

No, this can't be happening. This isn't right!

Pertheran broke into a sprint and did not look back. He was running, yet his feet did not strike solid ground. He ran for what felt like leagues, yet looking back, he was still as close to the gate as he was before he started to run.

Exhaustion dragged him down, and he sank to his knees, gasping.

"It pains me to see you like this, mortal." This time, the voice was right before him. "You had so much to live for. Indeed you were destined to have a longer life. Not to an old age where you die content with what you have achieved, no. But certainly a good few years upon the mortal realm."

Does that mean I can go back?

"I'm afraid not. Destiny did not keep its word, it appears," she said, "but I must. A soul that enters my realm falls under my care. For the sake of harmony among the living and the dead, I cannot let you turn back."

A chill settled around him, a coldness he felt down to his very soul.

A gleaming white throne materialized a few paces before him, bright against the solid blackness of the void.

The Goddess of Death sat upon the throne, her black robes ever rippling in a non-existent breeze, her face hidden beneath a mask fashioned from the skull of some sort of antelope beast. Antlers jutted out on both sides, their tines like tree branches. Her scraggly black hair hung loose over her shoulders.

Perthran realised with a jolt that the throne was made of clean cut, polished... bones. What looked like human finger bones formed the intricate designs on the armrests.

"Do not try to run again. My patience is at its end."

And there could be no more reasoning with that.

"Forgive me, Mother," he said softly, his voice breaking. He would never see his sister again. Their little house, the garden, the hearth, everything was so far, beyond his reach. Silent tears rolled down his face.

The Goddess leaned forward in her seat, head tilted to one side as she surveyed him. "No need for apologies, mortal. All I ask of you is that you comply with me. The pain will pass. Those memories of your time in the mortal realm will fade."

Pertheran did not know what was worse, not being able to go back to his family, or forgetting they ever existed. When he appeared to not understand, the Goddess sighed, not unkindly.

"From my realm, you will ascend above the mortal plane. To the celestial realm," she said, "and for that, your mortal soul needs to transform. Become an immortal soul to exist alongside the Gods."

Draedona sounded tired. Pertheran tried to imagine just how many confused mortals turned up in her realm, especially in this chaos-ridden time, and how many times she had had to explain the same thing. Such a dreary job she had.

Pertheran felt bad for her--a thought he immediately perished from his mind.

I, a mere mortal, dare to pity a Goddess?

If Draedona sensed his thoughts, he was as good as... ah, well.

The Goddess let out a raspy laugh. "Dear boy, if you are indeed worried about the meticulous details of my role in the realms, you need only ask. My ravens take care of the retrieving of the souls. They are the ones who send them to my realm. Your case, however," she mused, "intrigues me. You came here earlier than destined. Nevertheless, here commences your journey to the celestial realm."

He slowly got to his feet. "What should I do?"

"Well, the first step begins with acceptance." Her voice slid into a casual tone. "You stop thrashing around and be a good lad. Then you pass through the gate and enter my realm. Very simple."

She leaned back in her throne and gave him a nod. The image of the Goddess faded away, leaving silver smoke swirling in coils in its wake. It took the form of the gate again.

Pertheran stepped in what looked like a scorched plain covered in volcanic ash. Black, gnarled trees groaned and rustled in the wind that carried the whispers of wandering spirits. Vague shapes, possibly other mortal souls drifted around him on all sides, their faces unrecognizable.

"What happens now, then?" he asked.

"You repent." The Goddess's voice drifted from afar. "Until you're worthy."

And he did.

For all the times he fought with Mother, that time he did not bother to dry the grains properly and ruined the harvest, for when he burned the bread and mucked up breakfast, and for all the little mistakes a humble peasant boy, who died fighting a war not his own, may commit. For what felt like months he wandered the barren landscape among the shadows, yet it seemed he'd arrived only yesterday. Time passed differently in this realm.

One day, or night-- he couldn't tell from the ashen sky, a bright column of light caught his attention. He rose from where he crouched on one of the hills in alarm. This had never happened before. There was no sun in Draedona's realm.

Then he saw it.

There, across the ash plains, an orb of golden light hovered. It began to unfold on itself, revealing its shape as he took cautious steps near it.

Before him stood a gleaming, golden gate. It swung open of its own accord on its solid gold hinges.

For the first time in perhaps an eternity, he saw sunlight and colors, just beyond the gate. Somewhere afar, birds chirped. He could hear flowing water.

Now, I am worthy.

"Go on, child. Your wait is over." Draedona's voice rang all around him. "Now, run all you wish, I will not stop you."

Perhteran ran, his feet thundering against the ground and raising little clouds of ash. He crossed the plain, bounding toward freedom. The gate was near, the sun warm on his cheeks--

Out of thin air, chains shot out from behind and coiled around his body, the links cold and heavy against him.

He stumbled, then staggered forward, heaving the chains with him. They dragged back with more power. Behind him, the chain was taut, stretching all the way across the barren land and out of sight.

Does the Goddess want to test me further?

But that was not the case, he soon realized, when the realm of the dead blurred around him. The scene shifted, and the golden gates swung shut with a loud clang. The turgid air swelled with Ancient Sorcery. More chains, like the ones now binding him coiled around the gates, closing them.

He struggled, he screamed. Despite all, the chains dragged him back, all the way across the ashlands, back through the silvery gate, into the void. The realm of the dead fell distant, then faded to a dot of light against depthless black. The chains kept on heaving, back to the world of living.

Destiny always keeps its word.

✦✧✦✧

Petheran's eyes flew open with a gasp as a hot branding iron pressed up against his chest. The pain he felt was, in fact, real against his skin. But it faded almost as suddenly as it had come.

Above him a lantern swayed on the wooden ceiling, in rhythm with the waves. He heard a ship's bell up on the deck. And voices. Human voices, so full of life-- talking and laughing and shouting. He had never before been so glad to hear sailors hollering.

He shot up from the table he was lying upon. It all felt like such a long nightmare.

A lady, her dark braid swung over one shoulder, observed him from a chair, a piece of blood-speckled white cloth tied around her face as a makeshift mask. She acknowledged him with a solemn nod.

"Welcome back, Private," Captain Reylan dipped the branding iron into a bucket of water, which sizzled. "And sorceress, I can assure you His Majesty will be most pleased."

"We are yet to determine whether he is a proper Vasaen, Captain," the lady said.

It'd been a while he'd heard that word. It stirred a dusty memory, of corpse-like demons from faded childhood tales.

Pertheran gaped at them both, then looked down at his chest. A stab wound was there, but no blood, and not a trace of pain. Just over his heart, a number had been burned into his skin.

He hadn't learnt his letters, true, but he knew numbers quite well, for he'd learnt them from the engravings he saw upon coins, all emblazoned with the Crown.

And he was marked number one.

One of what?

"...Captain?" he could only manage.

Captain Reylan turned, a pleased smile painted across his face as he put away the bucket and branding iron in one corner.

"Just give me a moment to grab a chair, Perth, for I have quite the tale to tell; a tale of grim magic and a sorceress."