Looking down into the crystal blue water of the Sacred Lake that once belonged to his tribe glistening in the evening sunlight, Lorin stared at his reflection. He could see blood smeared across the light brown skin on his face, and some splattered in his unkempt, wavy, short, black hair.

Forming his hands into a bowl, Lorin reached into the Lake, filled his hands with water, and poured it on his face, washing away most of the blood of the wretched people he’d ridded Arglor of. Their greedy, power-hungry blood smelled horrible and he wanted it off him immediately. He did the same for his hair twice, pouring water onto his head to wash the blood out of it. He then vigorously shook his head to get the water out.

Lorin then turned around and walked back to his village, or what remained of it. Once, the village was a beautiful sight to see, its small huts once made with brown wood from Arglor’s trees and roofed with dried palm leaves. Now, only a few huts were untouched by the fire humans set to the village, while others were almost nonexistent. There were once people like him, but they were gone. Dead. Killed. Had it not been for Frostland showing up all those years ago when he was just a child, they would have still been there. Everything would have still been there. All that was there now was the cries and screams of his people’s distressed souls. Mother Isin, creator of the world and spirit of good, had abandoned them that day, leaving them to fight for themselves without any supernatural aid.

Entering one of the untouched huts, Lorin sat down on the ground, his back against the clay wall inside. Near the ground on the wall behind him was a depiction of three paw prints, each one of a different size. Staring at it brought back the last good memory he had of his parents. He remembered the day his father, his mother, and himself, all in the panther forms, dipped their paws into a bowl of red paste and pressed it onto the wall. It was the day before tragedy struck. The day before he lost everything. Lorin’s heart ached every time he thought of his tribe. He missed the feeling of having people to laugh and have fun with or turn to when something was wrong.

A family, he thought. I miss having a family.

Lorin laid back onto the ground, deep in his thoughts.

I could’ve just left with everything else.

Everything about his tribe had been erased from history, burned to nothingness. The memory of his culture and people had more than likely been lost to time. Why couldn’t he have been lost with them? Why did Mother Isin have time to save his life but not his tribe’s? Why did he have to be the last one?

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

He drifted off to sleep with those questions repeating in his head.

Why am I the last one?

The sound of voices and twigs snapping in the quiet of the Arglor woke Lorin from his slumber. Once he sat up, his head darted to the entrance of his hut. He could see a dim red light shining in the night sky. The closer and brighter the light became, the louder the voices got.

They aren’t from Frostland, Lorin thought, as the smell of whoever was approaching became stronger. The smell of Frostland blood was one of greed, to Lorin at least. Whoever these people were had a smell unfamiliar to him. Therefore, he laid back down, closing his eyes to fall back asleep. There wasn’t any need to get rid of them.

They’ll leave eventually.

All of a sudden, a strange feeling had consumed Lorin. His skin grew tighter and tighter, and his heart began to race. He felt like something was there with them. It was as though Odar, the jaguar spirit of evil was laying right next to him, stroking his head with its paw repeatedly.

Sitting back up, he saw the red light outside was brighter. It was right outside his hut, and so were the voices.

“And if the Nalah refuse to teach us Kunada,” a voice said. “What will we do?”

Two men now walked slowly past Lorin’s hut, one with black hair and one with gray hair, each wearing burgundy robes. Lorin could only see their backsides, but he imagined one was older given he had gray hair. The red light was emitted from the hand of the black haired man and it now was shining into his hut. It was like his hand was a flameless torch.

Must be some form of magic.

His limbs beginning to shake, just looking at them made Lorin fearful, which was something he didn’t feel often. But this was a different fear. A deeper one that he could feel in the depths of his soul. Lorin was about to move to where he thought he would be out of sight in his hut, but the slightest sound would have alerted the two men. So he stayed still.

“Then they will feel Mymurrian’s wrath along with anyone else who refuses his grace.” answered the man with gray hair.

The two men then continued walking, the light, their voices, and the horrible feeling that Lorin experienced fading away the further away they walked.

Lorin was still disturbed from the fear he felt, his limbs still shaking slightly. Never once had he ever felt that way, and he hoped to never feel it again. Slowly, he laid back down, trying to calm himself. He eventually fell asleep with the wish of never seeing those men again.