The ko-dons and the do-don of Void-Walkers squad filed into the heir’s office. Daniel eyed each as they entered, gauging them. Since the room lacked a fourth wall, every meeting went without privacy. This drawback enabled ideal circumstances for listening to someone having their ass thrashed by the heir, a mirthful and riotous event unless you became his target. The overseers of the school talked animatedly with each other, their voices rising, resonate. All six ko-dons sat in a semicircle around the heir’s desk. Ko-don’s Bear and Stallion were the oldest of the ko-dons, while Craiboar, came in as the youngest; Ko-don Panther lived up to his apt name for being the quietest of the group. Ko-don Adder didn’t fit any plausible definition; a swing vote for executive decisions for the Hive. Raven, the do-don of Void-Walker squad, was the last to arrive. The heir spotted his entrance, and he tried to call for their attention twice before shouting.

“Oi! Gag your hole!”

Silence, abrupt and harsh, ensued.

“I think it’s time for some rigorous training of the Void-Walkers, get those old Krey to working again, and break in the newer members.” The heir addressed the do-don, Raven. “How many veterans are in the squad from the Wizard’s War?”

“Three, sir.”

“That’s it? Three old souls and a bunch of bloodless virgins?”

“Not entirely bloodless, Heir.”

“Virgins to war, you piss-pot. Am I to understand you are one of the three veterans? Who’s the next in line after you three?”

“Debatable.” Raven smoothed back his black hair, sweeping it from his eyes. “Patch is a veteran, but Xenomene is better with the blade. If I were to make my decision, I’d return to the old ways, the best among us lead, the strong survive. Xenomene, sir.”

“The pretty redhead vixen? Scar on her face? Talks with a perpetual voice of sarcasm?”

“That would be the one, sir.”

“She isn’t a virgin, is she? If so, somebody bed the poor girl before she leaves. I don’t want her to die having not lived at all!”

“I would offer to do the honors gladly, Heir,” interjected Bear, a Ko-don, “but alas, I’m a married man.”

“Prune!” someone japed.

“I’m too old, too,” Bear added. “Like her grandfather. Besides, if she were to drop her clothes, I might die from a seizing heart.”

“Have you seen her? Age would not be a problem!” Stallion noted. “Your limp sword on the other hand…”

“As cute as she is, there are several better looking,” Craiboar interjected.

“Bane of the gods! Send her to me,” the heir sighed. “A hard duty, but must be done for her good.”

“I don’t think you are her type, sir,” Raven commented.

“And you are?”

“I don’t think any of the men in this room are … sir.”

“Really?” Surprise flashed across the Heir’s face. “I’d like to see that.” The Ko-dons chuckled.

The men, though crass and cruel, their japes were made in jest; no matter how bad the men’s perverted and salacious words were, the women rivaled the men, just as terrible, vile, and cutthroat. Being Krey was more than having the bloodlust malady, it was their entire way of life.

“Enough folly. If you should die in an unexpected and violent death with a sword in your gut, she’s to be the do-don. At least, until I find a suitable replacement.”

“Those are a lot of particulars,” a ko-don named Chimera said.

“Are you aware of something, sir?” Craiboar inquired. Craiboar was a unique blend of supplicant stupidity and wanting to be rebellious. He was never brave enough to traverse the way alone.

“Never mind. Now, how good is she with a blade?”

“She’s the best in my squad, disarming me and the other two veterans on numerous occasions. In fact, if memory serves, she’s undefeated in the Pit.”

“Good.” The heir, Daniel, nodded, taking in the words. “Good to hear. Undefeated?” He gave a furtive glance towards Raven, who nodded. “Something else I would like to see.”

“What’s wrong, Heir?” Chimera pressed.

Daniel paused to reflect on what he should reveal to his men. Not everything was meant for their ears, like the story behind the heir’s title. The tale was only privy to the chosen successor. The first successor Heir of Valin was, indeed, Valin’s son. As time went on, and House of Eti became more of a prominent need for Ralloc, the highest-ranking official took the title heir, whether an actual descendant of Valin or not.

While known to those who studied their history, the rest of the account evaded the educated. Valin’s war party rescued the Mother Centaur from the Trees of Shadow. She promised them wealth for their bravery. But, either through genuine misunderstanding or from greed, the dwaven of Valin’s party expected riches that she didn’t grant. The Mother Centaur banished Valin’s war troupe, and her followers drove them out. The rest of the story cannot be chalked up to a misunderstanding.

Valin of Lor returned to the forest alone and entered his first bloodlust, slaughtering the centaurs. With the massacre over, and Valin only suffering minor wounds, he turned on the Mother of the Centaurs who begged for her life. Valin beheaded her and stuck her head on a pike. Upon seeing the slaughter, the dwaven of Valin’s group plundered the riches and retreated to their halls in the mountains. Valin, in repentance, walked Ermaeyth alone, haunted by deeds he couldn’t fully remember.

A resigning heir would bestow a kernel of truth to the successor: Valin of Lor was not dwaven as most assumed but elyfian.

“I was given a warning today,” the heir proclaimed at last.

“What warning?” Craiboar asked.

“By whom?” Adder interjected.

“The warning came from a reliable source…” Daniel started.

“You mean the unicorn?” blurted Raven.

“I sure hope to the Lord of the Underworld Xenomene has better brains than you,” Daniel reproved the veteran.

“A unicorn here?” Adder asked.

“Yeah, are you daft? Kinda hard to miss with all his blinding light,” chided Stallion.

“I want to see a unicorn!” proclaimed Panther.

“Sweet Shades of the Underworld pissing on the dwaven goddess Soma, you call yourself Krey?” The heir lurched to his feet. “You sound like a bunch of cackling hens in a whore house! Who gives two shits of a prostitute about whether you wanted to see a unicorn!”

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The profound silence smothered the office. Only their breathing filled the absence.

“Two shits of a prostitute?” Adder echoed, his voice deadpan.

The Krey burst into fits of laughter and giggles, some turning red, trying to refrain.

“It’s an older saying,” the heir stammered.

“Yeah, vintage!” said Stallion.

“You got to keep the classics alive, a saying older than I am!” Bear explained. “Been a while since I heard it.”

The laughter faded.

“Heir, what do you know?” Panther asked, his tone soft and quiet like his personality.

“War’s coming, and the Black Tide is needed.”

War: a singular word every Krey hoped for and dreaded. “What would you have us do, Heir?” Raven asked.

“You’ll conduct extracurricular training via a circuitous and scenic route. You’re to take the Void-Walkers and march to a specified location.”

“March? Where are we going, sir?”

“Clear the room,” the Heir ordered. The ko-dons stood, glancing between their leader and the do-don. Though not unheard of, scarcely did the commanding officer keep information from his circle of advisors. If he did, the reason ensured plausible deniability. Once the room cleared, he continued in quiet tones. “You’ll be going to Cape Gythmel.”

“That shit-hole excuse of a settlement? I would rather eat pig’s ass for a season.”

“My exact sentiments.”

“An awful long way. Could take upwards of two months, especially on foot.”

“I know,” Daniel conceded. He sat down behind his desk. Raven, pulling a chair closer, sat opposite of him. “You can’t visit a Portal Master in Ralloc without raising suspicions. We’re not allowed to mobilize unless given direct orders from the War Council. So, if a squad of Black Tide shows up in Ralloc, they’d come knocking on our door, and not for a polite visit. No, this must be done under their noses.”

“You speak treason, Heir.”

“No, I said training exercise.”

“And what training could they obtain out there that they couldn’t do here?”

“A real-life scenario of defeating an overwhelming force, creating defenses against imminent siege, and crafting fortifications with tools from the town. The Krey get training and exercise and foster goodwill with the people of the domain. In the process, a defenseless town receives fortifications, and the squad can share their knowledge with the rest of the Krey. Once we debrief, we can work on honing the attained skills and find more efficient ways to erecting defenses.”

“Twelve isn’t enough for fortifications.”

“The same is said of battle,” the heir echoed Staell’s words. “A squad will have to be enough. In the meantime, I’ll be in Ralloc, convening with the War Council. Protocols are in effect while I am away: majority vote amongst the ko-dons. Any questions?”

“Provisions and gear?”

“I’ll give you the short run down, and you won’t like the restrictions. You’ll be marching in full gear, and you should not expect resupply of provisions or reinforcements….”

Daniel and Raven discussed for several hours into the night, going over the finer points of their excursion. The heir inspected the dragon plate armor and the weapons of the Krey and decided to wake every essential member of the main professions. Next to wake, the rune and sigil grand wizard, and was tasked with charging all the runes on the weapons and armor. Following, the grand wizard charged rune stones so the deploying A’uri could revitalize the Krey’s armor in the field.

The heir roused the blacksmith and his aides. Weapons received fresh edges and leather grips, the whetstone soothing away any detectible imperfections. Other than fighting, maintenance of armor and weapons was the highest priority to the Krey. The task came before eating, drinking, sleeping, or sex. The plate, one part of the hybrid armor, received an immaculate scrubbing. When the armor smith finished each one, he passed it to the draycon.

The draycon was the name of an obscured profession, and only five remained in the entire realm. A draycon dreamed, breathed, and studied dragons for a living; few knew much about the scarce beasts. The draycons scrutinized every aspect of the creature including their magical properties. Their familiarity with dragons enabled them to manipulate the nearly-indestructible scales. Melding dragon scales with armor enhanced the properties of any etched runes, amplifying their protection against magical attacks. The dragon scales also bolstered the durability of the plate. Through exhaustive efforts and ages of perfection, the Krey gave birth to a new type of armor distinctly their own: dragon-plate.

The apothecary crackled to life late in the night. Small packs of herbs and medicines were crafted to help cover any illness the Krey or A’uri might encounter. While the A’uri could heal themselves or the Krey, their healing abilities geared towards larger and more life-threatening injuries. Fevers and colds relied upon medicine and herbs. The apothecary profession was the only non-magical specialty overseen by a high wizard. Moreover, the rank was the highest anyone could aspire to, one-step above the general population.

Neophytes roused early to pack supplies for the squad. Each personal bag was stuffed with food, apothecary supplies, bandages, sleeping gear, spare clothes and boots, water skins, weapon and armor oil, and rags. With nonnegotiable and mission essential supplies loaded, the top quarter of the pack remained free so each Krey could take what they wished.

An hour before dawn, the Void-Walker squad assembled in the Pit. Dressed for battle, they moved with fluid grace, lacking the encumbering weight of traditional armor. Each Krey donned their weapon of choice, augmented by a bastard sword, dagger, bow, and a quiver of arrows. Their helmets crowned the top of their sleeping rolls which jutted over their left or right shoulder, able to snatch it up at a moment’s notice.

The Heir walked among them, inspecting each of the nine Krey—and three A’uri accompanying them—with Raven in tow. He stopped in front of the petite redhead. Standing this close, he inspected the obvious scar on the right side of her face. In a thin line it traced from the corner of her mouth to mid cheek. It didn’t seem as bad as he thought. The scar was an old wound, faint and white, and granted by a sharp blade. A graze, nothing more. For a moment, he wondered why she didn’t demand magic to remove the scar. It marred her comely face. His eyes stirred, rising to her emerald eyes glittering with mischief and intensity. He couldn’t decide which description won out. Sparse, faint flecks of gold graced her face with freckles.

“Aren’t you a pretty one?”

“It’s your imagination, Heir. I’m a perpetual vixen with a pretty sarcastic voice. Or … wait, no, I have that wrong. I’m a pretty vixen with a perpetual voice of sarcasm. Sorry, Heir, you’re correct, sir,” Xenomene replied.

“You’ve got a sharp mouth on you, young one.”

“That’s not what my lover thought last night, sir.”

“Really? I didn’t hear any noises coming from the fourth floor.”

“No, sir, your wife is quite discreet.”

The heir chuckled, a rumble in his belly trapped behind teeth and tight lips. He didn’t have a wife. “I like this one,” he announced, pointing at her. “You leave in one piece, come back that way.”

“I shall return,” she vowed.

The heir continued to wade through the ranks, checking their armor and weapons. Once they left, the Krey would be on their own. The draycon taught all the A’uri enough about the magical properties of dragon scales to help repair armor in the field, but the plate portion fell to the wearer. All donned the same armor minus personal alterations. The only plate of their armor was for the helms, shoulder protection, shin guards, and the upper chest, which stopped at the sternum. Dragon scale covered the upper arms, neck, thighs, abdomen, and back, allowing for flexibility of movements in all joints and pivot points of the body in the heat of battle. Boiled leather weaved underneath and held both together.

Satisfied, the heir left the Pit and returned to the open balcony in this office. The do-don gave a salute, a hand placed over his heart, “Permission to depart, Heir?”

The moment arrived, the precipice of sending them forward or backing out. The heir stared down at the squad, their eyes locked on him, almost tangible anticipation filled House Eti like air crackling with energy. The hardest part of his job was the decisive moment and the order that followed. His words would send them to their deaths. Those born with the bloodlust malady were considered expendable by anyone who was not; he understood that truth, his warriors did, too. He heard the phrase ‘necessary fodder’ coined in a War Council session. His blood boiled at that.

A lone squad of the rage-induced berserkers could carve a swath through an opposing force a hundred times its size. Member for member, his irreplaceable warriors held a merit and worth the Grand Royal Army would never achieve. Daniel wouldn’t trade one of his for a brigade of soldiers. But if his people were to die, they’d die like all Krey should, a sword in their hand and a scream ripping from their throats.

His eyes roamed to the flat black armor. Either by intentional design of the blacksmiths or by the runes placed by the grand master, his eyes drew uncontrollably to the darkness, just as the enemies’ eyes would. He gazed at the faces of the ‘virgins,’ the ones yet to enter true battle. Most would die. His eyes flickered to Xenomene, memorizing her face so when she didn’t return, he could recall her fondly. His eyes progressed to the veterans of the squad. They’d die, too. Age granted wisdom while stealing speed and strength. He would start preparing individuals to augment the depleted force once the war kicked off. Who would survive, and who would fall? Pride and heartache lanced through him, a moment any parent who sent their child off to war would know well. Damned if he did … fucked if he didn’t.

“Permission granted,” he relented gravely. Sympathy and respect crept into his voice. “Oblus ina’ti Sepan Eti.”

The Krey below slammed their fist into their chest. “Oblus ina’ti Sepan Eti!”