25 years ago.

My innocent eyes stare out into the crowd as I am auctioned by the very monsters that killed my parents. The nights before I was standing on that creaking wooden platform, are mere shadows. Some memories, however, stand out like a blazing sun. The memory of a circular door being shut by my mother as she whispered desperately and urgently to “hush, hush and be a summer’s breeze”. That courage that she showed in that moment as she smiled at me, smiled at me and shut the door to her doom still takes my breath away when I remember. The intense quiet that fell there in the dark, then when it was shattered by the screams of horror, shouts of lust, and followed by the mingling of the two, transforming it into something truly horrific. That was the last night I remember my mother. After hours of silence, the door opened and down came the bloodied lecherous soldiers. As the sweaty, blood scented covered soldier placed me into the stained rusty steel cage, I remember thinking to myself, “where had my mother gone?

I know that she is not here, not now in this nightmarish place, as I stare out into the crowd gathered on this creaking, aching platform. The nobles clothed in their fine robes of silk, not even bothering to feign interest in my life as they await the more attractive feminine sales. Off to either side of the nobles, were the rich merchants looking at me, gauging and figuring the worth of my flesh and muscle. I’m standing on that creaking aching platform, barely comprehending the going-ons of the crowd. As the auction comes to a close with the sound of two stones cracking together, sealing the previous piece of meat’s fate; I completely miss the drama that unfolds at my feet as I am pushed forward for the purvey of monstrous men.

Rizhell looks at the young boy standing twenty lengths in front of him. The sea-fog eyes were what caught his attention, and what he saw in those eyes, past the confusion, held him. Those eyes blazed with innocence and power. With a crack of his graceful hands, he leans forward with anticipation, “This will be fun”, he thought as he motioned to the auctioneer.

The ratty-looking slave auctioneer brought up his next bid.

“Lords and Ladies, Merchants of all orders and trade- I present our next item up for bid. This young fellow is from the Sutheria Providence to the north, a strong worker and possible to be trained for simple court protocol.”

The auctioneer finished; honestly not concerned and not really caring, he’d be lucky to collect a silver as commission from his seller for this piece of worthless meat. He wanted to get on to the nubile virgins from the exotic isles of Dasmais. Oh, those dark exotic eyes had him up late at nights with only of the promise of gold keeping him from taking pleasure from their pale, innocent bodies. With dreamy thoughts of exotic virgins in his mind, he hastened this bid to a close.

“If no bidders will make an offer…. then to the silver mines….” as the man was about to sentence this boy to a very short life in the mines he noticed a pale hand in the air with a single finger raised, “One silver for the boy, Lords, and Ladies do I hear a higher bid, if not… Duke Rizhell you are the lu…” once again the auctioneer noticed another hand raised, this a fist first followed by one raised finger. The little man almost choked on his words, and a thrill ran down his back-

“Profit!!” He thought

“A gold mark by the Lady Sparrow” called the auctioneer.

A surprised look flashed across Rizhell’s face followed by a combination of satisfaction and delight.

“Hmmm”, Rizhell whispered to himself, “now why would you want this one? Well, I can’t just very well let you have it, now can I? Let’s see where this takes us.”

“Four gold marks to the Duke”, the auctioneer squealed- it was all the skinny rat-man could do not to be jumping around with glee at the small fortune that he was about to accrue from this sell. “Lady de Sparrow, it is your bid.” The little auctioneer could tell that she was starting to come to the end of her funds by the way her ancient frail hand was a little slower in going up this time.

Well, all good things must come to an end sometime.

The auctioneer was unaware of the drama that was unfolding before him, almost as much as the young boy with innocent eyes was. The participants of the auction though, and all the people watching in the square, where vastly aware of it. Thus, the pall of silence that had fallen over the square surprised the ratty man with a start when he realized the level of attention this bid was receiving. Two strong houses, one of the city and one of the Senate, one former waning in its power held over the ruler, the other waxing in his; both on opposite ends of the spectrum of the power struggle. The Lady de Sparrows was loved by the people, and the Duke Rizhell, feared. If the little man had been aware of things even remotely beyond his own basic scope of life; he would have understood that this was one of the battles between good and evil that is never told- but affects thousands.

Duke Rizhell settled back into his chair as he saw Sparrows last bid. He could tell it was her last bid; he could tell by the slowness that she raised her hand.

“Well it had been fun while it lasted” he mused and with that Rizhell raised his hand flat signal, fingers extended and joined- t with a sharp slice across his chest.

“15 gold pieces to the Duke”, came the exclamation from the little man on the stand. The Lady Sparrow bowed her head in acknowledgment of defeat and consternation at the boy’s fate.

And with that memory of her defeat in my mind, I remember every detail of the happenings, even though I didn’t understand at the time. As I was pulled in chains, into that dark coach, I never saw the Grey-haired woman weeping in sorrow at my fate. I never saw the shudders pass among the peasants as they saw the grim look of satisfaction on that Duke Rizhell’s face. So many things escaped my attention at that time; the carriage and its dark red interior, the bevy of guards that surrounded this supposed duke as he left the market place, and when we arrived in at his fortress- castle it seemed to me at time. I do remember the gates closing behind us: slamming with a resounding crash. I do remember being carried through a magnificent hall, filled with a long dark wooden table, marble statues lining the walls. Statues of warriors and demons standing in mute watch upon that empty room. And I do remember the winding stairs, down and down they went. Seemingly to go on endlessly into a dark abyss as they rounded downward to hell.

As the stairs finally came to an end, the hallway began. It was a hallway of horrors. We walked and each door was a new scar in my memory. The first door we passed held a girl who looked no more than 12. Her clothes had been ripped to shreds and lay at her feet. Her body was lined with scars that climbed vertically along her body, I couldn’t tell how or what had caused the scars. Her breasts had been cut, sliced with razors. Trails of blood inked down her body, running down to the floor and pooling there. She stood there, staring up into the ceiling as if searching for an escape from her mind. What scared me, the rat gnawing at her left foot while she just stared vacantly off alone except for the demons in her mind?

More doors we passed. Some were steel-reinforced barriers, impenetrable to the strongest man or knight alive. Inside those doors, I heard screams of nightmares and despair. In other doorways that I passed, I saw malnourished bodies of bones reaching for bowls of food just out of their chained grasp. The cruel joke on them was that inside those bowls, maggots wreathed with food long gone. Numbly, I walked on witnessing horror after horror; my 11-year-old mind did not comprehend the cruelty. Hell, I didn’t even understand why I was here. Let alone the evil that would possess someone to make this a reality for anyone else. I just didn’t understand any of it, but soon understanding would seize my soul and freeze it in a death fright

As we came to the end of the hallway, almost gently he ushered me into the room. It was a barren room. Inside was a wooden bed, bare except for a pair of shackles. In the corner was a metal bucket, rusted and broken. What caught my attention was the chain that hung down from the ceiling into the center of the room. I looked at the room and as I looked the dark man, Duke Rizhell watched.

“When I return, be ready,” the voice sent ice down my back. I turned to him slowly. The bewilderment obvious in my eyes and the confusion of my fate evident on my face, he smiled.

“For what, be ready for what?” I pleaded from this dark man. He left me there in that dark room, shutting the heavy wooden door. There I stood, for how long I don’t know. I moved to the bed and sat down, thinking of all the different reasons of why I was here, what had happened, and what I had seen. Each question silently unanswered, piled in my mind, forming just a massive heap of confusion. Ever so slowly I spiraled to despair in that darkness. This hopelessness created an empty hole in my mind that the questions and uncertainties just made deeper with the lack of understanding and answers.

The minutes crept into hours, or at least I think so. Time quickly lost its meaning for me. It was the air that caught my attention finally and brought me out of my reverie. It was the first time since the madness had started that I felt the wind.

When I was a child; my friends and I would play a game, the game was also named the last words that my mother said to me. Be a summer’s breeze. That was the game- Summer’s Breeze. We would run the woods and the nearby valley. Free to roam far and wide, we did just that. In nooks and crannies of the woods, hidden crevices and dark places of our little world we hid. After a time, we would look for each other, not by tracks or sounds; not scent or sight. With the wind whispering in our ears, telling us the secrets of the world we found each other. She came into our ears, our souls, softly telling us where to go.

My mother told me it was the gift of our people. That, once before the war of the gods, we danced upon the winds with our power. We were the wind racers and the wind dancers. The war ended and the world changed, when the world stopped moving; then we found ourselves no longer able to fly- just hear the faint echoes of our gift carried by the wind. It was a faint caress of the way things once were. She seemed almost sad at the time that she was telling me. I didn’t know why, and to my young mind at the time, I honestly didn’t care. I think that now I should have.

So, we ran, and in the secret places, we held our breath to keep our souls in. We followed the wind to each other. The fastest was the winner. The first to find all declared the champion of the wind for a day. I won more often than not. Now though, I was no longer in those lost woods hiding and searching for my departed friends. Here in this place, what had always been a faint whisper was less than a touch of lace in a raging storm, the wind barely raising the hairs on my skin, I realized something else. I was not alone anymore.

He stood in the doorway and watched the boy for a moment. He could tell that the boy was still in shock. Something about this boy had caught his attention, and as he studied the boy it was becoming more and more apparent to him. The Duke could see the eddies and flow of power swirling around this boy like a second skin. It was amazing that he hadn’t seen it immediately. The possibilities beyond that of mere entertainment came to his mind. Was this the one? Was this the key to the pattern that he had been looking for? It was ironic to find the key in a market for sale. Almost fitting really, well enough musing and pondering, it was time to find out.

This dark man with his darker thoughts stood in the doorway for a time pondering and thinking, the boy sitting there slowly becoming aware of the man staring at him from the darkened doorway. The awareness brought with it realization, and that realization came accompanied by dread. The wind that had been so incessantly and desperately trying to get the boy’s attention now disappeared as the boy met those eyes that gazed malevolently at him.

This was the moment that the nightmares came to life. This night, in some strange castle for a lost boy with a dark and evil man, this is when hell came to earth in this age. The ending began that night, and the only witnesses to this travesty was a tortured boy and the spawn that laughed in glee.

That first night never truly ended for that boy. Years later after escape, success, love, and failure. The hate that was born was one that would shape him and the rest of the world. He didn’t know or understand what was being done to him. That first touch from the man had set his skin screaming. His mind numbed later, but not until after the man had stripped him of his clothes and pushed him on to the bed. As this man pushed and heaved on the boy’s back, then that’s when his mind started to go numb. The agony of his mind and soul had yet to start though. The time crept slowly from then on. The days were broken intermittently when pale hands pushed a bowl of gruel underneath. The nights were when He came. Each time there was a horror visited upon him. Some nights it was like the first, and the boy was left weeping. Others it was almost like a lesson to be learned. Pain, take it. Pain, take it in. Blades and burns, lashes and drownings- scars began to flow across his skin like fire dancing across the wood. If the boy’s mind had been clear, he might have noticed the way the scars traveled in three bands across his body. He might have noticed how they shifted seemingly of their own accord, dancing around him. It wouldn’t have mattered if he had noticed through his clouded mind; he couldn’t have stopped the Master.

Pain, take it. Let it grow. Consume it with his heart; consume it with his mind and his soul. Take it in and take more. Let the fire that it stokes inside grow and consume. Let it burn the world.

The Master taught his lesson, a lesson of pain and torture. Each night it was a variation in this first lesson. The boy learned it. From that moment of understanding, when his skin lay in pieces around him; strips of flesh peeled from his back and chest. Once he understood- pain could only be conquered with flame. The flame could only be born in his soul with pain. The nights and the days grew into something else then, the Master seemed satisfied with his personal lessons. Then the boy was taken to another place one night. An empty dark cavern, high ceilings, and an earth floor. It was lit by torches along the craggy walls. In the center of the arena, a single stake was hammered into the ground with rusty blood-covered chain manacle attached to it.

“Your new home, boy, here you will stay awhile” this was the sole explanation given to the boy from the master. The boy knew better than to ask why or for how long. Questions had long since died with his soul. With nothing else said the dark man attached the boy to chain and left. Thoughts of why had long since burnt out of him, and he fell quickly asleep.

He came to wake suddenly; knowing that he wasn’t alone. Before he could open his eyes though, a sharp thawk hit him in the side. He came to his feet quickly then, his eyes were bleary with sleep and confusion.

“Awake boy!! Awake!” came the gruff command. The small now scarred boy stared up at the largest man he had ever seen. “How do you expect to survive if you sleep like a dead man?” he asked, making the question seem more like a statement of fact. “How do you expect to survive if you move like a sack of rocks? How do you expect to live?” with each question the huge bear of a man swung and hit the boy with his long hard stick. With a pause, the man studied him. “New rules boy, I am not the Master, merely a master. I am here to teach you to survive by the blade, and if you have a question- ask it. If you don’t learn, you will die.” The boy stood wordlessly. After so long of not hearing anything besides the ripping of his own flesh and the sounds of his dry screams to fill his ears he savored the man’s words with no realization of their meaning. Mind and body numbed to everything, he just didn’t know what to say.

“I am Grom, soon I will return to teach,” he said after a moment had passed. “Eat, rest, be ready” as he turned to leave the boy summoned the courage to ask a question.

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“Why?” he whispered hopelessness heavy in his voice. Grom stopped and without turning answered the boy.

“Because you and I must, and because he can.” And with that, he left. If the boy could have seen his Grom’s face, he would have seen the equal mix of sadness and madness there in his eyes.

Time passed. The boy slept and ate the gruel brought by dark cowl covered servants. After a couple of days, his body had started to heal, but his mind stayed clouded with grief from the memories. Finally, Grom showed up again.

“Quit mopping around boy. It’s time to learn.” And with that, the man unhooked the shivering boy from the chain. “You’ve got a lot of wounds that we have to heal without crippling you. We have to build you from the bottom up.” With this the boy’s training started; sprints, jumps, stretches, moving rocks from one side of the cavern to the other, digging holes in the ground, to only fill them back up. That first day the boy was exhausted after five minutes, his body felt like a reed soaked in water, limp with weakness. Ever so slowly his body healed and grew. Time passed and he moved faster, he grew stronger, and his mind cleared. He shut his memories away, locked them into a dark corner of his soul. Learn. That was his one mission, his one goal. Grom was constantly railing at him, shouting and pushing at him to learn and to survive. When Grom was satisfied that the boy’s body was healed he started the real training.

That first day he brought a finely wrought longsword. It was a gleaming steel blade with a design etched into it that ran the length of the blade. Its handguard was shining silver intertwining wire that created an almost dizzying design, and the hilt was jewel encrusted with some of the darkest emeralds available. The boy stared up at the sword in awe. Grom threw the sword down with disgust.

“This is a heap of expensive trash, worthless except for what you could melt it down and sell it for. Look at it and learn why.” The boy reached for the sword slowly and sent a questioning look up at Grom. He watched the boy and nodded silently. The boy picked it up and studied it intently.

“It looks gorgeous. I don’t understand what’s wrong with it”, the boy said quietly.

“If looks were everything boy, the world would be a simpler place. Think. What is a sword for? When will it be used and what will it strike against? Who holds the sword and who is it used against? Why is it created? He asked, his voice holding a strange eagerness in it.

The boy realized that this was when his lessons really started. This is what Grom had been making him sweat for. In the time that everything had started, he had begun to look at it all, his life and everything, as a game. A game that he must live through; one that he must survive and win, and here was Grom offering him a chance, knowingly or not. He didn’t know what the Master wanting. He didn’t know the plans that the dark man had in store for him or what they were. Each lash and each burn, every moment of pain and humiliation visited on him that was meant to subdue him, to beat him, he used. He learned the lesson of pain. He had learned what the Master had meant to teach, all too well. Now he would use that lesson against him. Never teach a lesson the pupil can use.

“To kill. To defend. To attack.” The boy said hiding the eagerness in his voice, keeping his voice quiet and dead.

“Yes, and so much more. The sword is a dance of life and death incarnate. It is the rich man’s whip of authority and the poor man’s chance at salvation. It is not evil and it is not good. The sword is merely a choice of the user, not the user itself. There are many things that a sword is, and what it is not. It is a tool to be used, one that you must learn. Knowing that a sword is meant to kill, to attack, and defend; see what is wrong with this sword.”

He took up the sword and placed it in the boy’s hand.

“Look here.” and he pointed at the blade.

“Watch how it runs to the guard and stops. Do you see how the end of the blade, the tang, doesn’t reach all the way down to the end of the hilt. This will cause the weapon to break if it ever hits anything of substance. The jewels on the hilt, the metal the hilt is made with, think. If the weapon gets wet from sweat or blood, it will slip out of the grasp of whoever uses. The etching on the blade, while it doesn’t always weaken the blade, here it does. It is too deep. The handguard that you obviously noticed, will snag anything that touches it. A swordsman of any skill will use that against you. Snag it with his blade, slide it through and toss it. Do you understand all of this? Look at any weapon that you ever see. Look at its intent. Imagine what it will be used for and find the faults in it. Knowing what you know now, what use is this weapon?”

The boy pondered it for a moment and looked up at Grom.

“A gift for your enemy to use.” the boy said squarely.

Grom got a surprised look on his face and laughed suddenly.

“Yes, I think that you do have a chance.” He exclaimed. “Let’s begin”

That was the last time that the boy heard Grom laugh, or even surprised him. He brought out a different sword, plain and worn. It’s edge dull, but good steel as Grom said.

“This is what you will use now. This is the first stance.” With these words, the boy’s lessons began in earnest. The boy couldn’t tell if it was day or night. He would learn from Grom until his arms were numb, and train more. When Grom saw that the boy was about to collapse in exhaustion, he would allow him to sleep and eat, only to be awakened again to train. The boy lost all consciousness of time used and spent. Every waking moment he breathed with the sword and slept with the sword.

“Thrust and pivot at the same time.”

“Lean with your shoulder and push with your back.”

“Put your foot here when you press your attack. Block this strike high, kick low”

“Your body must flow, never use your strength- strength can be used against you. You cannot use strength to fight all the time because one day you will find someone stronger.” Every comment from Grom, the boy kept deep in his mind. He repeated the words in his sleep, and when he moved. Each strike and each decision made, he learned from. Grom’s instructions echoed in his head as he dreamed, and in his waking moments.

“Push it, anticipate what your opponent will do, but don’t count on him doing it. One day you will meet your match and he will lead you, trick you, and kill you.”

“You must move faster”

“Faster.”

“Faster.”

“Tighter, make your defense tighter. Don’t leave yourself open to attack. Keep your body moving”

“There is time enough to rest when you are dead.”

The boy would wake in the middle of his sleep, drenched in sweat. “Faster, faster”, would be repeating over and over in his mind. One day, the boy felt the wind again. He stopped suddenly in surprise, allowing Grom to make his ninth hit of the day against the boy’s left shoulder, knocking him to the ground.

“What was that?” came the angry voice of Grom over the boy’s pounding head.

“Get up, let’s try it again,” he told the boy.

“Grom,” he whispered, “something is different. I felt something that time”

Grom got a funny look in his eyes then, a look of hungry anticipation flickered in his eyes He didn’t ask what was different or how it felt, instead he rumbled-

“Show me, boy”.

And with that he attacked. The boy realized with the first strike that he blocked high, that this whole time Grom had been holding back, never striking him with all his strength or all his speed. Now he held nothing back, and never landed a blow. The boy could feel the wind now, raging in his ears, and in his mind, screaming for him to push faster and where to push. It felt like he was in the middle of an old summer storm, a storm he hadn’t felt in he didn’t know how long. He could feel the blade coming before he could understand it. He could feel the wind pushing his arms faster, holding them stronger. Finally, after what seemed like a brief minute to the boy, Grom ended it with a twist of his sword, and the boy’s weapon flew out of his hand. He noticed for the first time that Grom was sweating and out of breath.

“Good, we’re done with this.” He heaved. “Tomorrow we begin with a new weapon.”

Once again, the boy found himself pushed. He had never imagined that this many weapons existed, but Grom knew. Knew them as if they were long lovers from years past. He knew how to use them all too. Daggers, sabers, maces, spears, throwing knives, bows of every kind, a new weapon every day was brought to him to use. The boy never mastered a weapon in that day, but he learned. Then one day out of the blue, Grom would pull out a weapon from the past and use it. Constantly he wanted the boy to grow, to change, to adapt.

“You never know what you will find on the battlefield. When you know, is when you are picking it up. The moment that you don’t understand and can’t use that weapon and have to, that is the moment that you die.”

Bits and pieces of Grom’s advice trickled into his sleep constantly. As he ducked and moved through the stances of different weapons he could feel Grom’s hand on his back pushing him forward. Each day that passed he became faster and stronger. Each day he discovered anew the knowledge and satisfaction of his body in motion. For a brief time, he even found a small joy with Grom’s demanding presence teaching him every bit of knowledge that he knew. Then just as suddenly as his appearance, he disappeared. Days passed as he sat staked to the ground; the food he ate and the bowls vanished while he slept.

Then one day the Master appeared. Memories flashed through his mind, images and sensations danced from before across his vision. His whole body set to trembling in fear at the memory and from fear of what his presence meant now. Burn the Fear, burn the hate, exist in the flame.

Pain, let it burn everything. Let it burn the world. The whisper in the back of his mind called seductively to him.

“So much you have learned, his voice rasped mockingly. Strong, seductive, and evil, it called to him. No, much you still must learn. Have you come to trust you, teacher? Have you learned all that he can teach? No, I don’t think so. There is still one lesson for you to learn from old Grom.” He whispered to himself and the boy. The boy trembled with an unknown emotion. This was something new, and new was always to something to be wary of.

With a malicious grin on his face, he pulled Grom forward with unnatural ease. The boy barely recognized the huge man. His clothes and skin were ripped to shreds, face bruised and bloodied. As he watched the Master hulled Grom to his feet with one hand, lifting him off the ground and held him there by the throat.

“Do you recognize him? Can you hear his breath as it heaves through the broken ribs? This is the lesson that he teaches here. No one is safe. Everyone that you care about is mine to do with as I will. Now, since you have done so well, I will give you a choice. A choice of how he shall die. Tell me now boy, how should he die?

While Master Rizhell was talking, the boy had been watching. His heart thudded in his chest. Crossroads, he was at another crossroads lit only with a single flame flickering in the wind. That dark part in his mind, where he had hidden the memories and past thoughts screamed at him. He didn’t understand the words, but he understood the intent of them. All the lessons that Grom would teach him echoed in his mind simultaneously, but one screamed at him in this moment. Surprise, never do what is expected. Never let the enemy dictate the rules, and if he does- then change them.

“Master, allow me.” The small boy summoned all the coldness and numbness that his soul and heart held deep inside and put it in his voice. A spark of something lit in the evil man’s eyes and a hint of a smile crossed his face. The boy couldn’t tell if he was surprised at the boy’s words or amusement at the intent behind them. Either way, silently he pulled a dagger from within the folds of his cloak with his other hand and handed it to the boy. He stood there fingering the dagger as he looked at the Master and Grom, considering. Could he strike the Master? Would he be fast enough? The voices in his mind said no, and he had learned to trust the whisper in his mind.

He stood before the dark man, who held Grom by his throat, and considered what he must do next. He remembered the slow light cuts as they rode along his skin where one more cut would have ended his life. He remembered the Master’s slow tortures during those nights and knew that he couldn’t do that to this man.

A swift cut, with perfect intent, just as Grom had taught him.

The master released Grom and he fell to the floor onto his knees. He was so large that even as he knelled he stared directly into the boy’s eyes as he stood in front of him. Rizhell was directly behind Grom as he watched the boy.

The boy stood there for a moment, nothing of his emotions or thoughts apparent on his face or in his eyes. Grom, on both of his knees, had his face battered and bruised almost beyond any recognition. One eye was completely swollen shut, and the other watched vacantly. The boy savored Grom’s bloodied face. Not because he enjoyed the blood and cuts. But because he knew this was the last time that he would see the person that had become the single companion that had existed for him. In another time or place, maybe even a friend.

Let nothing show, be fast, and do the unexpected. Thank You Grom- for those lessons and all the others. I will survive. With this thought, the boy moved with all the speed and surety of action that Grom and instilled in him and sled the knife into Grom’s heart. As the boy felt the knife sever the upper heartstrings, he looked into Grom’s eye and watched as the wandering eye settled on him and saw a flicker of recognition there, and in that flicker- thanks and understanding.

“Finish it” came the whisper in his mind, Grom’s voice and hand held him steady then, and with a twist of his knife insured the kill.

Grom’s body fell to the ground as The Master released his neck. A solid dull thud sounded off the walls as the now dead teacher hit the ground. Rizhell crossed his arms over his chest and looked at the boy considering. His eyes appearing to search into the boy’s soul.

“No, no… I see that faint stink of humanity still hangs on to you.” Mercy and kindness are not things that you may use. Strength and Power, these are your tools.”

In the boy’s mind, he heard Grom whisper – “strength can be used against you, one day you will come across an opponent who is stronger” the faint echo of man that lay died at his feet.

Silence lay over the huge cavern that the boy was in. He could see himself as if from another’s point of view. Cold and pale young boy staring up at this cruel tall man wrapped in dark clothes. A dead man’s body laying at their feet. The taller darker man staring down at the boy in thought. Shadow’s watching them all.

The Master suddenly grinned at the boy, and he felt his heart grow cold.

“Tomorrow I have a treat for you.” The hidden glee in the dark Master’s voice set the boy’s heart racing.

“You have done so well I guess I should reward you. Yes, a treat I shall bring to you.” With these suddenly cold words, the dark man turned and left the boy staring at Grom’s bloodied corpse.

That night he didn’t sleep. He wanted to whisper to Grom that he was sorry. That he would miss him. The boy wanted to share his secrets with Grom, the hidden things that he kept in the unlit corner of his heart and soul. That secret blanketed flame in the memory of his life that he kept there. He knew he couldn’t though. He knew that the Master would hear him and that Grom would not. Yes, Master, he thought to himself, I learned my lesson. Those you love, the greatest mercy that you can give them, sometimes the only mercy, is that of a quick death. The boy laid curled into a tight ball, Grom’s already cold corpse lay just feet away. As the boy passed in and out of wakefulness and sleep, images and memories of Grom came and went to the boy in the form of dreams and nightmares. He would never again be able to talk to Grom and all that remained in this small child’s world was a cold corpse and a black demon that lurked in the shadows of his mind. The next day when the boy woke Grom’s body was gone. He knew that the body had been taken away by sorcery; because of Grom, anything less would have awoken him. He sat there in silence staring at the dark reaches of the cavern that he lay chained in. He felt a movement in the air, whispering into his mind warning him, change was coming- An evil change for him and for his soul.

The boy simply smiled grimly to himself at such a warning. Let it come.