Libera. Freedom. Deora had whispered the word in my ear as we trudged through the corpses lining the halls of the dungeon, then those on the interior of the castle. Libera. Old Elven, but it sounds close enough to Liberation. The spattered blood and torn entrails leaving a trail that the Seashroud Rebels had carved through the castle, our legs beat on. Deora on my right side, Wulfhard on my left. I feel small between the two, almost. Wulfhard is visibly slouching to support me, Deora wrapping her arm around my back as I do hers for support. The volcanic bullet slinger at my waist, warm, heavy. Occasionally we trip up and Deora presses it into me, heating my robes slightly more every time. Blood crusted over our bodies, moving in some sort of unison, although without the unity of a real trio of traveled adventurers. No, with Wulfhard’s legs taking the image of tree trunks wading through a swamp, and Deora struggling to maintain a stride with me, our legs quite mismatched in length as well, we’re not in unison.

“Ilban.” Two familiar faces appear as the words come out. Mikhail, the human who had helped escort me to my imprisonment earlier, and Granth, the Oak Elf. They both remove their helmets in unison, revealing them truly to not be members of the royal guard. Blood crusts their armor, as it does my robes. These green robes, now painted red, the golden armor of the royal guard with a crimson layer over the royal symbol. This massacre is not confined to the prison, nor the castle. The doors to the palace swing open as we’ve grown closer, and the smell of burning wood, and seared flesh meets my nose, in combination with the pungent smell of iron which has rested there for a time.

“You don’ look good, pal.” Granth says, looking up and down at my body. “An’ neither do you.” He says, turning now to Deora.

“Astute observation.” She says, grimacing as we step forward, stumbling slightly over what appears to be the charred corpse of a guard. I’ve realized as we wade through this desiccation, it impacts me less and less. While I would be concerned with the nonchalance that I step over a corpse here, my mind shifts back away instantly, given the circumstances. A corpse is a corpse. I would rather not become its companion.

“We’ve a carriage out front.” Mikhail says, calmly.

“Carriage? What, through the city in the state it’s in?” I find myself asking, as I take a peek through one of the shattered window frames left by the conflict. “Isn’t Il Allad in disarray?”

“Daurellian has fled the city, along with his cohort.” Mikhail replies. “The Seashroud rebels escaping their imprisonment was only part of this. There have been more incidents.” More incidents? “The city’s aflame, as I’m certain you can smell in the air, and feel the heat from.” Mikhail takes in a deep breath, almost as if in pride. “Certainly not my plan, though I can’t help but take credit for starting a blaze in the market district.” Pyromania? Or perhaps just insane. Why burn the city?

“Then I suppose the plans for action have been sprung.” Deora says, quietly. “I had hoped we would not move on this so soon. We’ve had so little time to prepare.”

“The gap grows smaller every day, Deora.” Mikhail says. Wulfhard solemnly nods his head in agreement, and Granth sighs. We walk out through the doors, now, and stand at the height of the stairs to the palace. The city, all around us, in flame. Orange, red, yellow, and black paint the landscape, the colors of flames growing and dying out, piles of dead embers and charred structures. The few people who still walk about seem to be looting, running, or cowering.

“What about my mother? What of Mirra? We can’t seriously burn the city down and abandon—what about my sister?!” Suddenly, I hear the panic set into my voice. So much has happened in these past few days. I’ve had so little time to process anything. I’m standing here, the city of the Emperor Daurellian burning around me. My father, Andril Amar, Count of Isma, betrayed the city’s sovereignty to sell it out to the Emperor for higher ranking, and supposedly it’s been conquered already. My mother joined up with rebels, and is now nowhere to be seen. My sister, as much as I was loath to consider her as such days ago, fled into the city, and now could be victim to any number of horrible instances. Burned alive, pinned under a pillar, accosted by looters… No. My ribs, broken, as is my left hand. My right leg skinned down to bone. My head is so foggy. Why did I ever agree to join up with these people, with this plan? No, I had no idea what would happen. Thrown in a cell for days with only my thoughts. My father mocking me before fleeing the city as it collapses around him. A prison break. Dozens of criminals freed to roam the streets. Slashed bodies, those of civilians, littered around, and I can’t tell whether it was the work of the Royal Guard or my own actions.

No. No. I feel the weight of everything closing in on me. Like my lungs are being crushed. A pulsating feeling begins to dominate me. Voices call my name, but I ignore them, and let them fade into the back of my consciousness. My heart, pumping as though it’s been clogged with a cork, and no blood will flow. I start to go limp, and feel myself falling to my knees. My arms slips from Deora’s back, Wulfhard lets me drop to my shins, now. Dizziness. Sickness. I fall to my side, laying on my left.. I barely control my collapse so that I don’t put undue pressure on my ribs. I lay there, then roll over to my back. Tears, welling up in my eyes. What the fuck? Why is all of this happening now? I look up at the sky. The blue skies above. It’s daytime. I wanted to see the skies again after being thrown in that cell. Wanted to experience Libera. Is this it? Is this the meaning of freedom? The realization of a hellish world being created around you? Smoke clouds the bluish skies, produced from the horrid fires below. The scent, that of ashen wood, burning in plumes. Corpses mounted, forming smokestacks of their own. A massacre, not war. More civilians are dead than soldiers. People tried to run, surely. But they were cut down, one in the same. Righteous blood. Just blood. Yeah. Yeah, right. The smoke, clouding those blue skies, a grey overlay to what would normally be a beautiful azure, painted now with the sins I enabled. Why did I ever work with these…

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

A sense to my left, or maybe right. Another figure, another body, lays down next to me. Smells like blood, and sweat. Sour scent. Her hair spills onto my face, if ever so slightly. She wraps her hand around my own, clasps it gently. I clasp back with my left hand, despite how much it hurts. No, I’ve made my decision. I have to steel myself. This is my grave, this is my duty, this is my fate. This is what’s right, even if it’s unpleasant. This is what’s necessary.

“Don’t allow your judgment to be clouded by reconsiderations and fear.” Wulfhard comes into view, looking down at me. He extends a hand down, but I stay still. I feel my grip tighten around Deora’s hand ever so slightly. She tightens her grip in turn. “Take your time, Samir, but the sooner we get out of this city, the sooner we can get you medical attention.”

“My mother. Where is she?”

“She’s on the way to Hilgard. We will be heading there as well. The Goldhawks originated there, and we will be reusing the old base of operations, in the sewer system. Daurellian and your father both still live. They will begin to hunt us, more intensely than ever, for this. But, things will be okay. We will survive, and Daurellian will be stopped. The prophecy will not be fulfilled.” Mikhail says, now. I recognize his voice, despite not knowing him for long. He speaks stoically, and with purpose, every word thought out before he says it.

“And my sister? My half-sister, Lucille. She fled the ship into the city. I never saw her. What happened to her?!” I’m shouting, now, but can’t stop myself. I don’t care to. The Ring, the Goldhawks. They’ll answer, when I ask.

“I’m sorry, pal.” Granth says. “We, uh, couldn’t track her before things happened. Hopefully she left the city.” I feel something in my chest. A bottled emotion of some sort. Anger? Sadness? Fear? No. Something else. Something more. Resolve.

“And what of Mirra?” The watering in my eyes has dried. I’ve steeled myself, my voice has stopped quivering. I understand where I am now. I know who I am now. “You wouldn’t abandon one of our Ilbum to the flame?” I feel my canine catch on my bottom lip as I say this, and bite down hard enough to draw a little bit of blood from the weak flesh that covers my lip. “No, where is she?”

“She went with your mother to Hilgard.” Mikhail says. “They escaped the city and began their journey when we informed them of the plan to break open the prison for you and Deora.” At the mention of her name, she strokes her hand across the palm of my hand once, quickly, and loosens her grip, pulling away. I hear her slowly stand up to my side.

Smoke billows across my vision. Black, grey, specks of white. Blue skies, spotted with white, puffy clouds. A layer of smoke concealing the true color to me. My eyes close for a second. It’s almost tranquil. The scent of burnt wood and flesh, blood coating the stone walkways, dying plant life. An occasional distant holler or shout, crackling of flames as structures collapse on themselves. Il Allad, reduced to a pile of rubble. It doesn’t sound too bad, truly. No, this is a good thing. The slave capital of the Empire, Daurellian’s seat of power. A metropole, destroyed in a day. It’s not good. It’s bloody. It’s chaotic. It’s unruly, and certainly not noble. But…

Libera. Freedom. No, this is what Libera means. It’s not escaping a cell. It’s escaping previous holds. Escaping the notion of being a noble scion. Father… No. Andril Amar, head of the Amar household, and traitor. I will kill him. I will take his life with my own two hands.

I open my eyes. The members of the Ring stand above me. Deora, to my far left. Wulfhard beside her, his stature making her own diminutive in comparison. To his left, Granth stands, a slight smile on his lips, as though he understands what I understand, in some sort of serene silence. And, finally, Mikhail, at my far right.

I stand up, pushing off of the ground with my right hand. Wulfhard pulls his hand back as I begin to stand on my own. He frowns slightly, but his eyes express understanding.

“Well, Ilbum, I suppose it’s time to get to work.” I dust off my right hand on my red-stained robes, and force a smile. “Where’s the carriage at?” Despite everything, the others all smile at this, and we begin slowly descending the stairs, the city burning around us, and yet, I have no more concerns. Things will be okay. They might even be good.