The news she relayed to my mother was also news to me. According to the praecantor, I possess an immense amount of mana for my age—an unheard-of occurrence in high daemonium history.
The praecantor turned toward my mother and executed the signature bow of respect before whispering, “Nos mento Azeroth.” We remember Azeroth, she said, but who is Azeroth? Glancing at my mother, I witnessed a lone tear trail down her face as she reciprocated the gesture of respect. When she looked at me, I discerned the sorrow in her eyes provoked by mentioning that name. I wanted to ask about it ever since, but she would have informed me if she deemed it necessary for me to know.
The centurion behind her relieved me of my belongings and approached the waiting wagon. After giving my mother one final hug, she kissed my hornless head and smiled. “Make me proud, Zageth.”
“I promise,” I said, and I meant it.
As we left the farm, we began our journey toward the town my mother frequents, a path that would ultimately lead us to the city of Nausis, as the praecantor informed me during my silent contemplation. This marked my first experience witnessing the world beyond the acres of Jeto surrounding my mother’s home. The thrill of childlike excitement surged within me, compelling me to constantly crane my neck, eager to absorb every detail that sparked my interest.
The wagon traveled through an open stretch where the grass matched the color of hay, and tall mountains stood in the distance, like pictures on a canvas. Rocky formations jutted from the ground, their veins shining with purple or blue light. A large creature with huge wings and blue skin screeched as it flew overhead, passing us and heading for the mountains. The entire scene felt dreamlike.
As we neared Nausis, a few miles away, I could see the city in all its splendor. A massive tower dominated the view—a dark structure that extended until its peak vanished into the clouds. Split horizontally into three distinct blocky segments, a luminous green line was carved into the center.
Beneath this tower now lay the city with Gothic architecture. The city walls were lined with sharp battlements. I desired to sit beside the driver, but fear kept me firmly in my seat.
We arrived at the colossal gate, where smaller wagons moved back and forth. As we approached, the legionnaires saluted us before requesting a "medallion" from the praecantor. She removed a necklace from around her neck, displaying it to the guardsman. "Proceed, Melior," the guard declared, stepping back and saluting.
The wagon slowly navigated through the bustling streets. The driver brandished his whip, threatening people to clear the way with their goods, but they remained unmoved. The massive centurion stomped out of the back of the wagon. "Out of the way!" he commanded, his deep voice instilling enough fear to set the vendors into motion.
Those who refused to move were moved out of the way forcefully. A smirk crept onto my face; I relished this spectacle.
We proceeded from the bustling street toward a barracks near the towering structure, its looming presence casting a significant portion in dark shadow. "Welcome to the Night Fort, this is going to be your home for a while," she said. How intimidating; it sent a shiver down my spine.
The legionnaires seized my belongings and headed toward the massive metal gate. It was a black gate adorned with the image of a menacing gorngaar, its eyes replaced by glowing stones. Similar to those on the outer city wall, the barracks' walls featured sharp battlements.
As we approached the gate, the legionnaire who stood watch disappeared for a moment before we heard, “Open the gate!” followed by the clang and rattle as the gate rose. The wagon entered, and I was met with familiar architecture. It was similar in style to European buildings. What seemed to be a square or a parking lot for the armored wagons was in front of the building. A building behind it was shaped like a right-angle, with a path leading somewhere else in the fort. The smell of manure hit my nostrils immediately, alerting me to some sort of animal in this fort—it was probably a gorngaar.
We cut across the square and descended the path beside the right-angle building. The path led straight to what seemed to be the main headquarters. To the left, stables containing gorngaar were surrounded by grass with a purple hue and speckles of light.
The praecantor guided us down the stone path into the main building, where I had to state my name and undergo another evaluation. The outcome mirrored my previous one, just as when the praecantor instructed me to place my hand on the box. Subsequently, I was assigned to a praecantor training group.
I observed that the barracks for the praecantors were situated in a more secluded section of the fort. Close to it, a massive structure bore a resemblance to a Gothic church constructed from stone with a distinctive shade of purple.
“This is Nutarth Praecantor Academy, where you hone your magical skills to serve our lord Nortamo in his midnight legions,” the praecantor told me as we made our way to the building. “From now on, you will refer to me as Centuri Plaara, understood?”
“Yes, Centuri Plaara,” I said, receiving a nod from the menacing woman.
We entered the barracks to a large room with beds on both sides. Newbies like me sat on the beds chatting with each other, ignorant of our presence. It was a peculiar sight. These demons were not separated by gender. Only God knows what other customs they had.
"In line!" Centuri Plaara commanded. All of these high demons sprang into action, going beside their beds and standing at attention—an open right hand on the heart and the left hand behind their back with their chins held high.
“Meet our final recruit, Zageth. Tomorrow, we will start your training. I hope you are prepared.” Centuri Plaara placed her hand on my back before pointing out the vacant bed where all my belongings rested.
Even though I am one of them, I feel out of place. I am a head taller than them, and my head is devoid of a horn. I received some looks of surprise and disgust, but I strutted down the lane like a male supermodel, not giving them so much as a glance before standing at attention.
Plaara surveyed us before nodding and exiting the room. It was a few awkward seconds of silence before everyone began to stare at me. I looked them in the face, showing I was not intimidated.
“You’re kin to Azeroth, aren’t you?” a short girl with raven black hair, horns at the sides of her head, pointy ears, red eyes, and pale grey skin with markings on her nose and cheeks asked. A snort came from another part of the room. “Gimme a break,” a very plump boy said. “Everyone knows Azeroth has no kin.”
Everyone kept their eyes on me, and I could feel the weight in the room—everyone was anxious for an answer. Seeing as no one had informed me about who this "Azeroth" person might be, I took this perfect opportunity to inquire.
“Who’s Azeroth?”
A collective gasp echoed throughout the room at the question. “Are you faulty?” another one of them asked. The girl who started this scene cut in. “Azeroth is the best of us, legionnaire. The only legionnaire who was able to gain the attention of Lord Nortamo after rebelling against him. The man who defeated the cacodemons at the Battle of Ceveh.”
I stood dumbfounded at the knowledge that was being spewed at me. I read of no such battle in the history books left at my mother’s home, but maybe I am related to this celebrity.
“I unfortunately do not know who you speak of, and maybe our last names are a coincidence,” I said as politely as I could.
Their jaws were touching the floor—I almost laughed.
“You are interesting,” the girl with the red eyes said.
I didn't know what else to do or say, so I just shrugged. If she could read my mind, she would understand just how weird they are to me, as I am to them.
<<
Thirty of us stood in what seemed to be a training ground at the back of the barracks, with our heads held high, standing at attention. It was dark, and we could only clearly see due to the gemstone lamps placed all around the grounds that gave off a bright blue light.
We stood there for about five minutes, waiting for Plaara to come back. I remained still, but my peers were becoming restless. From what I knew about militaries from my old world, the mishaps of the few caused trouble for the many, and I was not about to be scolded.
“I suggest you all remain at attention,” I said to the few who were chattering.
Some stopped and got back into their positions, but a few continued to chatter. “Didn’t you three hear?” I asked authority in my tone.
A chubby demon with a purple hue on his forehead, transitioning from that gradient to greenish-greyish skin, with two stumpy horns sticking from his forehead, looked at me with a nasty scowl before making his way toward me with his two buddies. He couldn’t walk properly in his training attire—a black and silver long-sleeved tunic with hightop boots; he waddled in his tight pants and breathed like a pig. The boy was taller than his peers but shorter than me—I was not intimidated.
“Who put you in charge, troglodyte."
I almost laugh because I look nothing like those cave-dwelling snow creatures, but A for effort. “No one is in charge but Centuri Plaara. I’m just trying to save your... thick hide.”
The three rows of lines erupt into laughter, and the child before me begins breathing as if his mom denied him a snack at Walmart. I can see him tensing for a punch, and I widen my eyes as a warning, but he seems too flustered to notice. He throws a punch at me with his right, and I stand side-faced in response, letting his attack pass me. Quickly, I grab his wrist with my left hand and wrap my bicep and forearm around his elbow before throwing him over my shoulder. I shudder under his weight as I give it my all, almost hitting two of my peers behind me.
He lies sprawled on the ground, bawling like a baby, disgusting. His goons are tempted to hit me, but a scowl is all that is needed to prevent them from attempting it. My peers all look at me in awe at the move I made, but it soon switches to fear. Centuri Plaara is strutting through the hall that leads to this training ground, and every clip and clop her boots make sends stabs of fear into my chest. I immediately stand at attention.
“What is the meaning of this ruckus?” She asks, scanning the training ground. Another praecantor follows behind her, a very fit male with a long sack on his back.
“I will not ask again!” She commands. Quickly, I step forward and stand at attention. “Melior. After attempting to calm down this rabble, three of your students thought it was a good idea to try and fight me, and one of them found out the consequences of trying to do so. I apologize for any inconvenience.”
Plaara raises her brow and shows no emotion. “Point out to me the students who tried to attack you.”
Without hesitation, I point out all three of them. The two goons step forward, with their boss waddling behind them, face covered in tears.
“Is this true?”
They look at each other before the shortest of them answers. Andrius Ozreus. He has a dark tail, blood-red hair, and a horn that transitions from red to black in a seamless gradient at the sides of his head. Red markings surround his eyes and run down his hands and fingers.
“It’s not true, melior, Zageth speaks untruths. He attacked us first.”
I bite my lip to hold myself back; that little shit expects Plaara to believe his story? Gimme a break.
“Is that so?”
He nods his head, trying to act all innocent; it makes me sick. Plaara fixes her attention on me and smiles. I interpret this as a sign that she is on my side.
“Zageth, apologize to your peers,” she says, standing with her hands behind her back.
It takes everything in me not to scream in protest. I clear my throat and respond as calmly as I can. “Apologize for what, melior?”
“Don’t question me, do as I say,” she says, widening her eyes. I don’t know what lesson I am supposed to learn from this, but I just go along with it. “I apologize for defending myself,” I say in protest.
“I would advise you not to get smart with me, boy,” she says sternly.
I bite my lip, raise my head, and sigh, trying my best not to get mad. “I apologize for attacking your friend,” I tell Andreus.
“Good. When the entirety of this training is concluded, I want to speak to you privately. Understood?”
“Yes, melior.”
“In line!” She commands. I return to where I stood, anger still lingering. That was utter bullshit. Is there no sense of justice in this godforsaken place? I sigh, trying to get a hold of myself.
My anger dissipates as Plaara begins our lesson. The male praecantor who entered with her stands at the sidelines of the grounds close to the training dummies. “Pay close attention to what I say; every detail is important, no matter how minuscule you may think it seems,” she says, looking at each of us.
“Mana, the force that flows within you currently, is an uncontrollable tempest that requires careful guidance.”
I know what she is about to dive into but keep my mouth silenced and my mind humble—I could probably learn something new.
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“Interius Emperium. A technique to control the mana that flows within you,” she says, stepping forward. “Close your eyes. Envision the entirety of your body in your mind.
I do as I'm told before executing Interius Emperium as simply as a breath. I can feel the “tempest” she referred to begin to grow into a calm flow that circulates my body, feeling like water rushing through my veins.
She pauses for a good while before saying, “ Now, feel the tempest. Feel the uncontrollable mana tumbling around your soul-casing. Focus on it, and imagine a calm wind, or a memory that soothes your mind,” she says, pausing once more.
Plaara makes us stand in the square for a while and berates my peers if they open their eyes. I just stand there feeling the mana circulate throughout my body, bored out of my mind. “Extend your right hand,” she says abruptly. You can hear our clothing shuffle as we all obey her command.
“Now envision a fire in your mind. Imagine the fire you envisioned running to your fingertips.”
There is a moment of silence after she says this. I purposely hold back my fire so I won’t take center stage. I am itching to show off my abilities, but I don’t want any unfavorable attention due to my aptitude for magic.
A scream erupts from the center of our three rows of lines. The girl who spoke to me when I first arrived, Inrissa Zevine, she calls herself, stands in awe at the flame that waves and flickers in her hand.
Soon after, others begin to conjure their flames as well. I take that as my cue to unleash mine; a massive flame that dwarfs the ones conjured by my peers. Their flames dissipate as they watch in surprise at the flame that dances in my palm. I keep it burning for a few more seconds, stone-faced, acting as if I don’t care about their surprise. I would be grinning like an idiot if I lacked self-control.
I shake my hand, allowing the fire to dissipate instantly. I catch Plaara’s eyes, and she stares at me with an unimpressed expression. She should be captivated by my awesomeness right now; what the fuck is her issue?
She stands with her hands behind her back before speaking. “What you have executed just now is called externum imperium, which is conjuring an element from your mind and bringing it into a physical form. I commend you all on your execution of this task.”
“Thank you, melior,” we all say in unison.
“Endurance is key to strength in mana, and you all are clearly in need of some strengthening,” she says while locking her eyes on mine. The way she contorts her face almost makes me think a smile is beginning to burst forth.
“I think this is a perfect time to enter our next phase of the lesson.” She says before commanding us to leave the grounds, and out of the Nutarth Academy. She makes us stand in a single-file line, and we wait for a while before the man who accompanied her steps down the steps of the academy and makes his way toward Centuri Plaara with the large sack slung over his shoulder.
He is a big fellow who wears the same praecantor attire as Centuri Plaara. His skin is very dark; I can barely even see his face, he is simply an outline with intense features and glowing reddish-orange speckles that sprinkle the right side of his face and neck. His eyes are a glowing singular color of red.
“I would like to introduce you to Damthor; he will guide you through your next assignment.”
They both give each other a nod before Centuri Plaara makes her way back up the steps to the academy with her hands behind her back.
Without speaking to us, Damthor steps close to the person at the front of our line before opening his bag and giving what seems to be a wooden sword to the boy. He makes his way down the line, handing each of us the wooden sword, and he in return receives a, “Thank you, melior.” He finally reaches me before pausing, looking me up and down, before giving an audible “hmph.” The big fellow places the sword in my hand before continuing.
What was that about?
He finishes handing out the wooden weapons before neatly wrapping the sack and placing it on the academy steps. “I am Centurion Damthor Vilvanoz, sword master of this prestigious academy,” he says, pausing and looking at each of us. I love the nature of these soldiers; so dramatic.
“As you have all heard Centuri Plaara previously say, ‘endurance is strength in mana,’ Endurance is also a strength in wielding your sabers. Trust me when I tell you this, young one, you will need all the endurance you can muster while wielding these sabers.” He pauses again. “The wooden mock-ups are crafted specifically to resemble a machaera, a saber used in gladius elementum but, I’m getting ahead of myself. What you are here to do today is to build up your stamina, which will be favorable to your mana reserves and hardiness when using the saber. We will jog a long distance today; I expect you to keep up.”
“Yes, melior,” we all say in unison.
Damthor is not exaggerating when he says we will jog a long distance. We jog from the barracks through the city at a nice pace, but I underestimate the length of the city. It takes us half an hour to get from the academy to the city walls, and we only receive a five-minute break at the gate where many wagons and demons pass to and fro. They look at us curiously.
I am tired, but I still have some left in the tank—I can’t say the same for my peers. They sit or lay on the ground, and some begin to puke, especially the chubby child who I now know to be Cassiun Accis. He is surrounded by his buddies Andrius and the quiet one, Dharron Amthus.
Someone taps my shoulder, and I turn around to see Inressa panting aggressively. “How…how are you not tired?” She asks, drenched in sweat with hands on knees.
“I am tired,” I say, wiping my brow. Do I look convincing enough?
Inressa spares a look at me from her panting before raising an eyebrow. She laughs before standing upright and resting her hand on her hip. “You lie,” she says grinning.
“I assure you, I am not.” I find myself grinning as well. We lock eyes for a good couple of seconds before Damthor orders, “Stand tall, return to the academy!” He says before taking off. I take off after him—I wouldn’t want to get lost in this city.
I keep up at first, but Centurion Damthor is distancing himself quickly, or I just can’t keep up. I begin to feel physically ill. I reached the academy an hour later. Damthor sits on the steps with his arms crossed. Pride makes me want to walk up to him and stand in salute, but my body has other plans. I collapse on the ground, my chest rising and falling, and my heart feeling like it wants to run out of my chest.
God…lying on the floor never felt better.
I raise my head to see Dharron. He stumbles close to me before dropping to his knees and hurling his guts. As he raises his head, I can see the fierceness and tenacity in his eyes to be the greatest. A smirk creeps up my face at the sight of him.
Seems I’ve got competition.
Ten minutes later more of my peers began to pour in. As they lazily make their way closer, I can’t help but begin to think. This place—this world is different from my old one as I have already learned. There is no concept of free will, your destiny is predetermined, and I hate that, but I always play the cards that are handed to me. In my past life, I strived to be at the top, but that opportunity was taken from me abruptly—that will not happen in this world. I look at Dharron. I don’t intend to stay at the bottom, and I will do everything in my power to make sure I succeed. No peer, no legionnaire, no centurion, no lord will stop me from reaching the top, and I will do everything in my power no matter how evil, or dishonorable, and I mean that.
“Are you alright?” Inressa says abruptly, looking at me scared. My hands are balled in a fist of rage. I sigh before resting my chin on my hand and giving her a reassuring smile.
“Why wouldn't I be?”
“Well, you look…troubled,” she says before nervously chuckling. I have nothing else to say, there is no hiding my scorn. She just hovers there, all awkward. Thankfully, the awkwardness is broken by the interruption of Damthor.
“In line!” He shouts. Those who are slow to move are manhandled without care of their worn-out predicaments. I sigh. This rabble is a sorry sight. Bags have already formed under most of their eyes.
I would look around to see where Cassiun and his red-headed friend are, but I’m not in the mood to be screamed at by Damthor.
“Stand tall!” He says, standing at attention. “Any signs of fragility will be penalized.”
All of my peers snap to attention as if their bodies were never tired in the first place. “Heed my words young ones. The enemy will not wait for you to gather your breath, they will whittle you down with overwhelming numbers till you can move no longer. You must keep moving to thwart any notion they might have of overwhelming you.”
I never pass up good advice. I’ll be keeping a mental note of that.
After two hours of saber training. We are given leave to wash up, eat, and rest in our barracks. I mostly sit in silence. Inressa attempts multiple times to engage in conversation, but when my social battery is drained, I require solitude—Didn’t Centuri Plaara ask to see me after training?
I get up from my bed before making my way out of the barracks. I am asked by Inressa where I am going, but I just ignore her before leaving. I make my way down a well-lit hallway. At the end of it, two praecantor legionnaires are engaged in conversation. One is a woman who wears dark blue pants armored by silver waist armor at the sides. A machaera hangs at her waist in a dark blue case, a silver helmet with winged flaps covering the ear, and a blue ponytail erupts from the top of the helmet. The man wears similar armor, but his helmet rests underneath his arm. His hair is black and two black horns protrude from his forehead.
I have no idea where Plaara’s quarters might be, so I walk up to them. As I do so, the clipping and clopping of my shoes against the floor turn their attention to me. The man steps back, in shock, and the woman’s eyes widen. I stop my speed walk to not startle the praecantors.
“Excuse me,” I say in my nicest tone. The woman rests her hand on her chest. “Can you point me to Centuri Plaara’s quarters? She told me to come see her after training.”
Before the woman can speak, the man says abruptly, “Verraternatkhaus!” before spitting on the ground. “Spawn of a traitor,” he snarls. The woman sucks her tooth before flinging her arm in disapproval. This is received by the man with a roll of his eyes and a scowl as he turns his gaze away from me.
“Do not heed him, child. I shall take you to her quarters myself.” She leads me up some stairs. We do not speak, but what the man said to me still lingers. He does not know me, who is he to call me names? I am growing angry at the thought of it.
“Why did he call me that?” I ask the woman. She pauses just before we enter another hallway. “It is forbidden to speak of Azeroth, child. The infernal emperor is always listening,” she says before continuing into the hallway, “But it is peculiar, you look oddly similar to that man.” She stops before a door with the head of a gorngaar. Blue gems serve as the multiple eyes of the creature's visage. I tap my feet anxiously as I stand at attention. The woman knocks on the door before waiting for an eternity. Suddenly, Plaara’s voice emerges from the door and it sounds amplified, as if she speaks through a mic. I jump slightly.
“What is it?” She asks.
“A child has come to see you, melior.”
Without hesitation, the door opens. The woman who brought me here snaps to attention before being dismissed by Centuri Plaara. I watch as she makes her way back down the stairs.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t going to come,” she says merrily. I chuckle nervously before shrugging.
“Did I have a choice?”
She flashes a smile before inviting me into her quarters. It is a lavish abode. Three windows with a magnificent view of the city are behind a desk made of stone and engraved with a silver sphere. Her desk is well kept with books neatly packed and color coordinated. In the center of the room, a muscular sculpture of a silver hand holds a circle with the depiction of the domain we reside in. This place is fit for a philosopher.
Plaara drags her finger along the edge of the circumference of the map while walking along it before stopping on the opposite side facing me. “Do you know why I called you?” She asks resting both hands on the map now.
I stand at attention now, thinking. Nothing comes to mind. “I haven’t the faintest clue, Melior,” I say, finding her gaze and holding it. “Before we start, let me just say, I’m doing this out of respect for your mother…and your father,” she warns.
I flex my jaw at that last word, 'father.’ “Father, father, father," I sigh. “I don’t even know who my father is.
She furrows her brows curiously. She sighs before leaning on her desk. “Your father is Azeroth,” she says.
I cross my arms and sigh in annoyance, “From what I’ve heard, Azeroth has no kin.”
“What your fellow daemons say is all speculation, because I and your mother know the truth,” she crosses her arms as well, all serious, “You are Azeroth’s son, and you look strikingly similar to that man, very bad for the plans we have for you.”
Plans?!...Me, a pawn? Fuck no!
“I detest being treated as a tool,” I say trying to keep the malice from my voice. “Do tell me these plans you have in store for me.”
“Would you like the long or short version?” she says, giving me that same curious look. I hate not knowing what is tumbling through her head.
“I don’t have much else to do.”
She sighs, before heading for two chairs and setting them next to the sculpture. We sit face to face, and she overlaps her foot preparing herself for the story. “A century ago,” she says, beginning. I almost fall out of my seat.
“One hundred years…?” I ask, dumbfounded.
She nods before continuing. “Me and your father served in Nortamo’s midnight legions, as I still do one hundred years later. We were in a war against the cacodemons who remain to this day. ‘Cacodemons ad portās,’ we used to say as they reached closer to our capital each day. Our losses were in the hundreds of thousands. ‘Cacodemons ad portās!’ We would tell our lord again and again as the enemy gained, but our lord never heeded us. ‘Protect the capital,’ is what he would tell us every time; protect him is what he meant. We sought the help of the Twelve Demon Knights of Urea. The protectors of this domain, but instead they stood behind us for protection,” She began to clench her fist as she relived the memory.
Plaara sighed before continuing, “ Many of our people, legionnaires, and civilians, died in those weeks, and our force could do nothing but protect lord Nortamo,” she stared hard at me now, as I listened wide-eyed, I was a little scared.
“You think me angry? You should’ve seen your father,” she says smiling, “His blood boiled as he stood upon the fourth wall’s battlement of the fortress of Ceveh, and said, ‘Is this living? If so, I might as well be dead; dead as our people who lay rotting in our many towns and streets, unable to be protected by us! The twelve Knights Of Urea were supposed to be our shields, but now they cower behind walls whilst our families perish, ENOUGH! I say, ENOUGH! Whoever wishes to see their families live, join me, if not, I will die alone knowing I tried to protect them’ he said, before leaping off the battlements. I was the first to join him, and soon a hundred thousand followed behind.”
That man sounds like me, maybe we are truly related. I couldn’t help but smile as I listened.
“Your father ultimately pushed them back, but he made one ultimate mistake, disobeying the hierarchy.”
“But he saved them, no?”
She smiled at me; with a genuine smile, “Your father merely thwarted their plans,” she says leaning back in her chair and chuckling lightly. “Azeroth ran away when he figured out that Lord Nortamo wanted those innocent daemons to die. They exhibited signs of rebellion, so Nortamo cleansed the filth.
Azeroth wasn’t alone, the remnants of the legionnaires that helped him accompanied him in his treason. We sought to break this hierarchy, but there is a reason they are at the top—they are unfathomably strong. Azeroth was strong too, mind you. He killed the Wrath knight, but they decimated us,” She pauses, thinking about it.
“Anyway, they cut off your father’s head, stitched his mouth shut so he could not speak when they placed him on the chopping block, so he could not stir decent among the masses; and so the masses could see what happens when you disobeyed the hierarchy.”
I stare at Plaara, angry now, “And why do you still breathe?” I ask, annoyed. The only way she could’ve lived is if she ran.
She holds my gaze hard, with furrowed brows noticing my accusations, “You call me a coward?” Plaara bites her lip holding herself back. “I would’ve died for your father, boy, but he told me that his wife—your mother held his seed, and to protect her. So I did as he told me, I ran with Zattia to the back of Beyond so that she could fertilize her egg with his seed when it was safe.
I don't know what to say, but an apology was in order, “I’m sorry,” I tell plaara, but she dismisses it as a child’s ignorance.
“So, what is my role in this mess?” I ask, more curious than ever.
She holds her face, thinking. “You seem a very logical child, so heed my words. Never speak of this to anyone. I will dye your hair black and implant horns upon your head. As I said before, You resemble your father too much. I will teach you and train, as your father would’ve liked, and in return, you will create his dream of a plateau free of this hierarchy.
I get up from my seat and stretch, “Sounds easy enough, when do we start?”