Lot Oritz leaned into the old rickety wood chair behind the Inn's bar, his Inn's bar, and gazed around at the decrepit and dusty walls, broken chairs and tables, and the bulging, sagging ceiling leading to holes which allowed in more of the midday sunlight than the grimy windows.

At least, from the windows not already shattered.

In the middle of this decay, sat Lot who began to grin as he took in the full finality of the situation.

Then he began to laugh. The laugh grew into a cackle bordering on hysterical. Soon tears stream from his eyes, his face began to ache, and he started coughing from all the dust being shaken from the rafters.

It still it took a while to get a hold of himself again. He only managed it when a creaking sound above his head caught his attention and he quickly got up and sidestepped a teetering bit of roof crashing down where he'd sat. " Argh!" It didn't save him though. Without thinking, he stood to his full height and ended up catching his horns in the ceiling that couldn't support itself for more than a second or two before it collapsed. Dust and bits of debris coated him with a extra face full of old, flaking, gray paint.

The damage was minimal, and he was far enough out of town no one was going to come around to see what the noise was about. Not that he expected anyone coming around to investigate even if they had, noises from a building this old and rundown wasn't going to get anyone's attention.

So, he brushed himself off, pulled his horns out, and still laughing. "Up yours, you bastard!" He bellowed towards the sky. "Up yours, you son of a bitch! I won." With that, he fell backwards into one of the chairs which creaked dangerously at his weight, an exhaustion beyond words suddenly crashing down on him like an avalanche even as a manic joyful energy filled his chest. "You're not getting another damn thing from me!"

So many years, over a century, and he'd finally got one up on his mortal enemy. He was yelling and laughing and pointing up at the hole in the ceiling while tears streamed down his face. He refused to weep, but his emotions were swept from his control as if he'd dropped the reins of a spooked horse.

It had taken him so long to get here, and now that he was at the top, he was overwhelmed.

The racket caught the attention of his familiar, Fash who was at his side in a streaking flash of black scales, diving through one of the holes above to land on his shoulder. An air of concern came from the tiny dragon, tendrils of dark smoke sprouting from it's snout.

"Its... It's alright, I'm fine. Just..."

As he sat there, catching his breath, he tried to cobble up the words he was looking for. That he had never felt more alive, that for the first time in a long time the sun had risen, and he didn't dread the day before him. That he no longer felt like a bug beneath the hovering heel of a giant eager to crush him.

That he was no longer a monster to be defeated, a sacrificial lamb brought to slaughter

Lot paused then, brushing the cat-sized creature's head to soothe it as much as to think, its knife-point scales like soft fur at his touch. "It's finally over." He settled on.

No, it wasn't just over. It was finished. He had done it. His whole plan gone better than he hoped.

The Dark Lord Calade was dead, 'fallen' at the hands of a hero whose life had been as much a pawn as his. With his destruction came Lot Oritz's liberation. Though the path to freedom was never easy and the deep scar across his knuckles served as a reminder, he still stood alive, defiantly throwing his middle finger up to Mittera, God of Prophecy.

The small dragon seemed to come to terms with Lot's outburst and began to bask in the sunbeams coming through the hole above.

'That it is, Lot.' She mentally purred, silently linking her mind with his own to give him a calming sensation, the words more feeling than actual thoughts.

"I never thought I'd live to see it." He admitted. Lot glanced down at himself, having not entirely gotten the last laugh.

The leftovers of his 'Lordship' remained. His draconic spiked tail, his over 9-foot musclebound frame, and the massive pair of curved black horns which had sprouted out of his head when he was a child, were parts he couldn't get rid of.

He could hide them though. Magically suppressing and transforming his features was easy enough and he'd held it for weeks on the road here.

Letting it go for a little was a matter of relaxing a mental muscle. A muscle he only relaxed when he made sure he was alone.

Closing his eyes and pulling on the men around him, he compacted himself into that generic run-of-the-mill face he took up when he first left the worst part of his life behind. The first time he attempted this when he was young it had been painful, but now it was second nature to him. He could change his appearance with ease, and it was just another weapon in his arsenal.

One by one, the most unnatural parts of him were smothered by his human disguise. It was much like squeezing into clothes too tight, almost physically uncomfortable but it was necessary to maintain the charade.

His body began to slowly change. The thick, impossibly strong muscles slowly went soft and lean. He began to shrink and the mana flow in his veins was tamped down. Opening his eyes again in this familiar form, looking at his hands, now devoid of the scales and claws that had once adorned them. They were plain, ordinary human hands.

The transformation was complete.

His body began to carefully morph, as the impenetrable muscles receded, and his figure grew slim. His once clawed hands were now plain and human-like, absent of any scales. As he opened his eyes in this new form, a disorienting moment occurred while his perspective from 6 feet was readjusted. In the distant corner on a peeling wall, a dusty mirror had somehow survived, untouched by too much wear.

He gazed over it - admiring almost nostalgically the face of a child grown into the man he should have been if destiny hadn't intervened. It was a visage of innocence that made him long for better days.

Where the sharp, slightly inhuman features of Calade would've made the average person balk at the sight of it, this one fit right in. Handsome enough to be notable but bordering on forgettable in a crowd and the natural tan of his skin and hair which had been rapidly darkening during his transformation and now settled as dirty dish-water blonde hair and caramel skin. Brushing his hair out his eyes, he managed to tie it in place before it fell back and noticed the slight points to his ears. Just a little bit too pointed to be fully human, but not enough to stand out. Blunting them with a thought, he smiled.

He had to admit, he preferred this face and was going to have to be very mindful about how he looked both without and within.

The first time a wizard had seen him on the road, he'd been reminded just how easily he could be seen through if he wasn't paying attention. Whatever gave him away had sent the wizard screaming for the hills. He'd never seen a man that old move that fast without the aid of magic before. To his credit, he would've gotten away if Fash hadn't swooped down and knocked him out with a swat of her wing. His familiar's weight changed depending on what she wanted in the moment. After that, wiping his memory was easy enough. A good enough reason to avoid the bigger cities.

This time, he twitched only a little when the crawling under his skin started. He could feel the power, the inhuman parts of his body and magic, squirming unhappily against his will and doing their darndest to stretch out. They fought and eventually the power and magic within gave up and retreated back into his body. His mana was especially restless, all that power whining about being confined and demanding to be used.

Lot smiled at that. Well, that was tough turkey.

The dark magic he was born with had been a millstone around his neck as much as the prophecy and neither had given a fig about what he wanted. Just one thing out of many that hadn't. It wanted to be used, to be called upon in spellcrafting, but he wouldn't let it.

If he had spent decade after miserable decade putting on the pretense of 'Dark Lord' destined to enslave the world and do it without complaint, then his magic could be displeased all he wanted.

It was dangerous, it didn't follow the same rules as mana usually did. It was unpredictable and had a mind of its own at time, it attracted the attention of the wrong kinds of creatures, and threw off the balance of the mana flows in any area he used it in. But, he wouldn't use it.

Never again.

If it thought being uncomfortable was enough to make him go back to playing some role a half-mad prophet some thousand years ago shouted at the top of his lungs within earshot of someone important who thought, it should be written down than the dark powers didn't know him.

Mittera's Song itself had been broken, the god's will defied.

He was just Lot Oritz again. A man with a simple dream to follow in his family's footsteps.

"It's time to live. So," he began, glancing at Fash with an excited smile curving his lips "What do you think of the property?"

A delighted sulfurous trill bubbled from the dragon's throat, followed by images and sensations sent through their link. The glittering blue of the lake catching the early morning sun, the crisp chill air flowing on the wind from the mountains, the vibrant green of dewy grass and lush trees.

In short, he was satisfied to say the least.

Not all of what Fash surveyed was Lot's though.

Technically, he only owned the Inn, the land the building sat on, and maybe a sliver of the road crossing its front. While he wasn't explicitly told by the mayor that he couldn't use the land around the Inn, Lot suspected if an Inn so far out of Tembervale could be owned then at the very least he might be able to buy more property later on. As tempted as he was to simply go to town and and make some inquiries, he'd already thrown around enough coin buying this place sight unseen.

Bringing attention to himself like that was just asking for trouble.

Another groaning creak sounded right over his head and this time he took two steps to make sure he avoided the debris. "Well," he mused. "I could always focus on expanding later, right, Fash? Best focus on making this place livable right now."

Getting this place ready wasn't going to be easy, especially without using magic. More specifically without using his magic. Oh, he could easily pull from the foul well within him and rebuild this place in the blink of an eye but doing so would taint it, corrupt the building some way which would all but light a bonfire to any half-competent scrying mage that 'Calade Was Here!'.

Lot only had one chance to make his identity remain unguarded and would be damned if it failed because he spent all afternoon redecorating.

So instead of using his power he was going to have to get his hands dirty.

While it was not as dramatic, or as showy, it would get the job done. Luckily, he did have some options to make the job easier stored away in his cart.

He'd left his cart next to what was left of the stable on the southside of the Inn where the plow horse he used to pull it was grazing around. It took him no time in searching through the chests that held his little collection of books, tools, and sundries to find what he was looking for.

So instead of using his power he was going to have to get his hands dirty. He chuckled at the thought. 'Lord Calade', a man who's only magical ability made the very kingdoms tremble in fear, was going to have to do a lot of manual labor. It was going to be a good time.

While the building was technically sound, many signs of wear and tear were present. Dust coated the walls and ceiling and the cobwebs that coated it were many years old. None of the furniture was usable, even the chair he sat in fell into pieces when he got up. A glance at the exposed wooden insides showed termite damage.

Taking a moment to reset the illusion on Fash to make the familiar look like a raven and letting her go back to flying, he began a list of what he needed to fix up the place. It started as a mental one but he figured out quick that he needed to start writing it down if he was going to remember. Before he did that though, he shuffled through the satchel he kept at his side and removed a sprit contract. A wave of nostalgia washed over he as he took in the lightly green glowing words on the roll of parchment. He'd carried this with him since he'd first set out on his own. The first ever sprit contract he'd made under the guidance of his old teacher.

He thought about that for a moment then chuckled, clearing his throat. Though she was capable, Inelle could hardly be considered a teacher. Being a hedgewitch in a small out of the way village his hometown was, she was just a random old lady who knew a thing or two about magical contracts. Her actual ability was mediocre at best but he'd learned from her that practical application mattered so much more than theory.

A small grin tugged at his mouth as he remembered the old woman. She'd been kind to him back then, though he supposed that was to be expected of someone who had looked at a weeping, 5-year-old boy with blood pouring down his face where nubs of horns were sprouting through skin and didn't slam door immediately upon seeing this person. That far up in the mountains, she could've left him to the elements and not even had a body to take care of afterwards.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

To then take that child in, raise him, and teach him the best you can makes you a saint. At least, someone deserving of being called a saint.

She had taught him so much other than binding sprits to items. Shown him other ways to use magic than the one he was born with. His teacher's other lesson had been one of caution, however. The first contract he'd made other than the basic for summoning for his familiar was to bind the spirit of a dying wolf they'd stumbled upon when out gathering. It was an old one, left behind by its pack and because it refused to die, it willingly made a contract with him. With Inelle guiding him every step of the way, Lot had gotten a Predator Spirit.

He swiped a thumb over symbols and the paper glowed. A small orb of green rose from the light and took the shape of a wolf in seconds. It sat in place as if it was on solid ground, awaiting an order.

"That building over there?" Lot indicated the Inn with a wave. "I want all pests in there dead. Spiders, rats, doesn't matter. The walls should be free of any of them."

Predator spirits were good for hunting and it didn't matter what shape they took before, they could easily become a spider, rat or some other small creature to fit in the spaces it couldn't when it was alive. With a nod and a yip, the spirit vanished and flew off towards the building.

With that taken care of, Lot left the building at went to what remained the stable on the southside of the Inn where the plow horse was grazing around. It took him no time in searching through the chests that held his little collection of books, tools, and sundries to find what he was looking for.

He'd left his next to what remained the stable on the southside of the Inn where the plow horse was grazing around. It took him no time in searching through the chests that held his little collection of books, tools, and sundries to find what he was looking for.

Charcoal stick and parchment in hand, the list began to grow.

First thing was setting up the bedroom. While the hole in the roof seemed to be the only structural damage, the upstairs was beyond use. Well, beyond use in the way he wanted. Taking a moment to take in the dilapidation of the place, he started scribbling down what he would need. He was almost done when he heard a voice calling to him.

"So, uh, good morning!" Lot turned to see a young man, maybe 25 or so, standing at the road. "You must be the new owner?" The man gave an awkward wave, seemingly caught between being apologetic and curious. Lot made sure to give him a smile, trying not to look surprised. He hadn't heard anyone approaching. Thank the gods he hadn't been seen in the inn earlier.

Idly placing his completed list of what he needed to order off any merchant he'd might find in the town, he went to the stranger and reached out for a handshake.

"That's me, yes. Lor Oritz, nice to meet you."

The man wore a rough shabby brown shirt, a ragged pair of pants, and shoes which clearly were on borrow time. A floppy straw farm hat sat at a crooked angle on his unkempt hair. He had a pleasant expression, though his eyes were a bit too focused, and his jaw hung a bit slack. "Um. Nice to meet you too, Mister Oritz. I'm Albert, Albert Hensley."

They shook hands and suddenly, Lot found himself at a loss for anything else to say. He could talk business with anyone and for improvised evil speeches but more than a month into his freedom and chatting with others still hadn't come to him yet. "Well, uh, hello Albert. Are you from around here?" Somehow, he didn't wince when that gem slipped out. Of course, he was. Where else would he have come from?

Albert confirmed his question with a nod. "Yup. Born here, but I've been off for a bit. Just come back with a friend from the Greenfield militia."

Huh. "You were a soldier?"

"Yup, yup. Used to work the fields south of here before the draft. Lord Tober let us all go home when the news came. You know, about the News."

And there it was. 'The News.' That's the form word of his death had taken. No one explicitly said the dark lord's death or used his name, rather people had come to just calling it The News. The reason behind it as far as he found out was few were comfortable enough mentioning his existence in anything but the vaguest, roundabout terms. In the caravan, when the royal messenger had passed along the news, Lot couldn't help but notice that when his old name was spoken aloud even the burliest travelers among them would shiver like they touched a wet rat in the dark.

He'd tried asking why once and the other passengers had avoided his gaze for days like something was wrong. So he stopped asking, more than a little nonplussed. The name and his title had been stamped from the minds of the people on the same level as the creatures below.

So 'The News' it became.

Rather unfair all things considered. Had he been stuck with a role he'd never wanted and played it up? Yes, but he wasn't the man who had dragged the kingdoms into this mess, it had been done long ago. And he certainly didn't drink blood or eat children.

Lot gave a heavy sigh, shaking it off. He was no longer Calade. Just a man named 'Lot' and he had a farmhand in front of him who he could be sociable with. "The News, huh. Well, I know what it means, at least."

His visitor smiled, shifting his feet. "Got home yesterday and decided to go for a walk this morning and found you."

"Oh, I see." Lot didn't really but nodded anyway. "Ah, do you know much about this place? I mean, it's a bit of a mess." He gestured to his surroundings and Albert gave a short chuckle.

"That it is, sir. That it is. I don't know if you noticed but this place used to be a small manor house before it got left to crumble. Some rich family lived here once, maybe a lord's son or lord's daughter or something. At least that's what my pa used to tell me when I was a kid."

"Huh, I thought it was an abandoned Inn?" Lot mused, looking back at the building. He'd assumed so at the time of purchase and the mayor hadn't corrected him. Now that he was looking at it, there were certain... decroative elements that hinting at a more extensive use. A stone balustrade leading to a second floor balcony. A square bare spot where a plaque might once have been. Maybe that was just his mind playing tricks on him.

"Ain't been used as an Inn in years, sir. That is if anyone ever used it as an Inn. I don't remember it being open anytime I was growin' up." Albert scratched his chin, the man's eyes darting down to the list in Lot's hand. "U-uh, you uh, you need some help? I'm pretty handy with a hammer and nails and stuff."

"Help would be nice but I can't take you from your own work..."

Whatever else lot wanted to say was gone as Albert started to laugh. "I just got home yesterday and anyone not working at this time of the mornin' is either noble or don't got a job... Guess which one I am?" The rough shaggy man broke into a wide grin and Lot couldn't help but laugh too.

"I guess you don't have anything to do today, eh Albert?"

"Nope. Not a thing. You can call me Al though."

"Sure, Al it is."

Al craned his neck to get a look at what Lot had on his list. "Woah, uh, you want all this by tonight?" He looked back up to Lot's face. "You got a lot of work ahead of you, mister Oritz."

Lot went to speak but found he couldn't. He coughed and started to rub the back of his head. "Yeah... Yeah I do. Definitely gonna need help. How about a gold coin per week and you show me about town to who I need to speak to in order to get this list done?"

From the way, Al's eyes went wide, Lot could tell he had overpaid. That was fine. He had plenty of coin. He swallowed, trying to get his throat to work. His voice cracked when he found it. "Uh, sure! Thanks for the work, mister Oritz! I'll be here at this time every morning 'till you say otherwise."

There wasn't much to thank him for, as Calade he'd stored up multiple king's ransoms worth of gold and even taking only a fraction of it still left him with so much, he could've literally paid hundreds the same and barely loose anything in the bargain. A greedy part of him wished he'd taken everything, but he knew the heroes who 'slew' him might get suspicious if the vaults were clear of everything monetary and magical. He almost flinched when Al grabbed his hand and shook it, pulled out his musings about "That's great and all... and you can call me Lot, alright?"

A sharp caw from above made Albert jump as Fash, the tricky little thing, swooped down out of the trees to land on his shoulder. Staring at it wide-eyed, he spluttered. Lot chuckled and reached out. "Okay, Fash. You've had your fun."

With another caw, she hopped to his arm and shuffled to perch on his shoulder. He then smiled at the still staring Albert. "Sorry about that. She likes to dive on people like that." He left out the part where she'd usually do it to claw knights off their mounts. Probably would only make the man even paler.

As they walked, Al chattered on, pointing out the best places to buy supplies, where to find the best ale, and which craftsmen were the most reliable. Lot listened, nodding along and making mental notes. He couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment settle over him.

With such basic and easy conversation, for the first time in years, he felt like he belonged somewhere.

The Westlands, a vast expanse of evergreen forests and quiet villages; a place untouched by wealth or grandeur. The rolling hills were blanketed with humble dwellings, the air was thick with the delicate scent of nature. Barely a whisper of opulence echoed through the Provinces of Mont.

Few manors, fewer forts, and no palaces, far from the bustle the bigger cities and ports and their bureaucracy. It was in this simplicity that the people of the Westlands found a kind of solace that couldn't be found in any other place. It was a stark contrast to the opulence and grandeur of the Kingdom's capital, which was teeming with nobles, merchants, and all manner of people.

Far from Mittera's clergy, the bastards.

Hells, towns like Timbervale were hardly unique scattered throughout as they were.

If he was just looking for a place to lay his roots, he would've been spoiled for choice. The caravan passed through several idyllic places like Silvermount, a fishing village along the widest point of Silver Stream River or Sami's Roost, more a large, developed logging camp full of Teamsters and their families than any royally recognized town but with potential to grow into something more.

Lot wasn't looking for potential.

He wasn't looking for idyllic.

He was looking for a home. A place to look around and ask a single question: 'is this where I'd like to die?'

'Oh, the irony.' Lot snorted a chuckle and waved away the curious look his new... Associate gave as they walked. If he ever admitted to anyone why he chose Timbervale the moment he saw it, curious would be the least of it.

Coming over the rise on foot this time didn't blunt the beauty of this place. In fact, it only made it more magnificent. The small village nestled in the valley below was a peaceful scene oozing with warm and comfort.

Lot looked around, taking it all in. He had never been much of a nature person, but with the rolling hills and the dense forests, he couldn't help but feel at peace. He turned to Al beside him, a smile on his lips. "This place is something else, isn't it?"

Al nodded, chewing on the end of a reed he'd plucked from the ground at some point. "Home sweet home."

Small houses close together separated by rough fencing, green as far as the eye could see.

Finding his answer in this little town was

Lot had considered itching his horse up to the cart to ride into town but changed his mind. A walk felt good right now and he was hardly going to buy everything he needed today.

"So, you were in the militia?"

"Yep, and before you ask we didn't see any real combat." At his confused look, Al went on. "Bandits, you know? Most regulars were taken by the Kings so..."

"Someone had to do the patrols." Lot figured, petting his familiar's beak with a stroking finger. Fash squawked, tilting her head. He followed her silent urging and scratched at the indicated spot. Lot knew about the Pact of Iron, the alliance of the five kingdoms. It was signed shortly after the initial ramping up of terror when he'd taken Saltbridge.

Charles of the Spring, Emeline Keryth Caimoira, Asenth, Lord Of The Black, Khonith Krondah, and Wymark, the Council of Esrior Gulf, came together in historical meeting to unite their efforts in warding off Callade's predations.

How amusing it was to hear them bickering like sparrows, while he stood quietly in their midst. Illusion magic, a clever tool indeed.

Brushing his humor aside, he asked. "Should you still be keeping an eye on the roads though?" Barely a month had passed since his defeat but one of the last orders Lot gave to his forces was to cause chaos in their wake. Keep bloodshed to a minimum but not letting his enemies have a moment to rest. It wasn't out of spite either. If his own armies simply broke without him there without causing a little bit of trouble, he knew it would be suspicious. After all, his legend would not allow half measures.

And as Master Inelle once taught him, "Too little resistance can be just as worrying as too much. The easier something is when you know it should be hard should be telling enough."

"Nope and glad of it. The rear levies returned to Greenfield 10 days ago. With the dark one gone, praise be," he made a holy sign with his right hand, "his armies retreated. 'Least that's what I heard from the boys coming back." He chuckled rubbing the back of his head, clearly relieved. "Glad I never faced one of those demons myself. Stories weren't pretty."

Lot choked down his own laugh into a cough at Al's grim tone. "No doubt."

Demons? Hardly.

Contracting demons wasn't only dangerous and foolish as one mistake in the summoning meant a soul shredded to ribbons by very eager claws and teeth but to assume you were going to be the one to get one over on the deathless creatures who preyed on the weaknesses of mortals, was just the arrogant thinking that we get you killed.

If demons had any leeway, any loophole, in any deal they struck, it spelled doom for the sorry soul who thought themselves on top.

No, the creatures his enemies fought were not demons. Lot found necromancy and the subsequent schools of bone and flesh craft simpler. An army of empty husks piloted by willing contracted spirits was less stressful, he imagined. At least easier to deal with than creatures from the pits who waited to take advantage of any misstep.

Especially, when demons were so eager to feast on his soul specifically.

Besides his one dealing with a certain demon went as poorly as anyone could've guessed.

Frowning, he tried to push the thought away but as they passed the first squat fencing keeping a herd of sheep in a meadow, that single thought loomed in his mind and like a net in deep, dark water caught the memory and dragged it up. Long settled emotions stirred, rising likes clouds of silt.

He took another step towards his future and suddenly found the next in the past.

On a day much like today, bright and shining and green.

The Fool and the so-called 'just' God.

Lot stumbled through the grasses, every step bringing a sharp stab of pain that radiated across his back. He hurried in spite of the pain, getting to the small cluster of bushes.

Ducking underneath, he curled up against the wooden stakes that surrounded the brush and drew his knees into his chest. The scratch of dry earth made him feel less alone, and the shallow pool of shadow blocked out some of the bitterness and fear that threatened to take over.

Squatting in the corner of his father's land by the fence, the little boy tried to muffle the sobs racking his body. Here he was hidden from all sides; the only saving grace in this small pocket of safety that stood between him and his father.

He put his hand to his face, feeling the throbbing heat radiating from it. He could smell iron, and when he pulled away, he was glad to see no blood.

He could feel the tightness of swollen skin across his cheekbones and a sharp pain on his nose - he'd been thankful his father had been too drunk to deliver one of his more powerful backhands this time around. But then it went wrong when his father's bleary gaze fell on him and somehow figured out he wasn't hurt like he should have been.

Then he grabbed the staff Lot used when he herded the sheep. Lot was given only moments to curl into a ball the best he could before his father fell upon him with a wild dog's viciousness.

He hadn't held back either, bringing each blow down as if the intent was to bury him into the barn's foundations. Each blow was like a hot iron, searing pain across his body, scorching into his memory. The pain had been unbearable, but it was the look in his father's eyes that had shaken him to his core. He would recognize it for what it was years later, cold calculation.

It was as if the man knew his previous punishments hadn't hurt as much as they should have and was trying to make up the difference.

He stopped for nothing. Not when Lot begged and pleaded or writhed in pain with each strike, the punishing blows landing on his back until the thick wooden staff shattered with a CRACK under the force of his father's hand. Lot lay there, broken and bruised, barely able to draw breath through quivering lips. Tears streamed down his face as he felt every muscle in his body scream out in agony.

Lot lay there, he didn't know how long, barely able to breathe, tears streaming down his face. Warm sticky blood began rolling down his back and his rough spun shirt began to cling.

Tossing the single piece of the rod aside, his father growled with disgust as he ordered him to leave, and Lot scrambled away, barely able to walk.

Now here he was, trying to move as little as possible, weeping and bleeding.

His hands gripped his legs until the knuckles turned white. What had he done this time? A dumb question, he knew. It didn't matter. Not today. Not yesterday. Not tomorrow either.

"I can...be good..." Lot hiccupped as he lay there, his shoulders shaking with the force of his sobs. "I...can be..."

"Ah, do you really think it matters, young one? That being 'good' holds any water in the grand tapestry of existence?"

Lot yelped, first in surprise then in agony as he spun around and fell to the dirt. Halfway in and out of the bushes, he had to blink the blurry tears away so his eyes could focus on...

Two strangers faces looked down on him from the fence. One was seated on a board, the other stood across and was leaning against the fence post.

Generally, the other villagers looked upon him with pity or disgust. Lot knew full well his father wasn't favored in the eyes of many. He was as much of a cheat as he was a drunk. The wool they sold was barely worth the sheep shorn for it and barely paid the debts his father complained endlessly about yet refused to stop making.

The boys in the village often bullied him that the village headman would kick them out any day now. There was no such mockery from them though.

Sitting on the right fence post was a gangly looking man. Thin and all sharp boney angles with a hawk -like face peered down a at him over a thin curved nose. He wore a fur-lined brown vest which draped loose from the shoulders of his narrow slickly frame. His trousers were just as slack, the cuffs tucked into plain boots and awkwardly belted far tighter than should've been comfortable for a man his size. Despite all of this, he sat motionless on the post, watching Lot intently.

Standing next to the left fence post and across from the thin man, was another stranger. He was wearing robes so fine and white, Lot couldn't imagine what it could be made out of. The stranger's robes were long and flowing, with intricate golden embroidery along the hemlines. He wore a golden chain around his neck, and his hair was a soft, silvery color that cascaded down his back in loose waves.

For some reason, he was more surprised by their teeth than anything else which hooked his attention. Not a single tooth was missing from their dazzling array, gleaming so...white. Even the prettiest girl in the village, Haya the headman's daughter, was missing one of her top right teeth which made he look... prettier somehow.

The silver haired man however seemed irritated more than anything.

Lot tried to sit up, his back throbbing in pain and barely managed to lay sideways using his arm to prop himself up. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice hoarse from crying.

The thin man on the fence post grinned, revealing his teeth to be unnaturally sharp. "We are but humble travelers passing through," he said, his voice like gravel. "And we couldn't help but notice a pitiful creature like yourself lying here in the dirt." The man in the robes shot his companion a disapproving look. "Let's get this over with. I deem he's useful enough, Tzin."

"Agreed, Mitterra."

So many questions were running through Lot's mind, he never noticed the pair reaching down to touch his forehead until their fingers pressed against his skin and burned. By the gods, it burned. It surged with the force of a wild fired unleashed, coursing through his veins, an inferno igniting within him. He couldn't help the scream that ripped through his throat as he writhed on the ground, feeling like he was being consumed from within. Even as dirt and other things ground into his bleeding back, he barely felt it as his vision went white.

That's when his father's face appeared, grinning down at him in that way he knew the explosion of violence was only one wrong word away. Yet Lot didn't instinctively panic, the need to draw into himself and be as small and unnoticeable as possible nowhere to be found. Rage flooded his thoughts, searing through him until his muscles convulsed with the effort of containing it until it felt like he would burst. The pressure was almost too much to bear, and he squeezed his fists tight against his chest in an attempt to contain the ferocity bubbling deep within him.

Every finger wanted to be around that man's throat and let him be the small scared one, for once. Lot could practically feel the man's windpipe crushing beneath his fingertips, the satisfying pressure of his grip releasing all the pent-up anger and frustration he had been bottling up for years. It was an exhilarating feeling, a high he had never experienced. Yet no... that was his father. His only family. It was wrong to hurt your family, right?

Right. Besides that, would be too quick, too easy. The sheep shears would make it last. Then he'd start on the village boys. Oh, could they talk when they knew he wouldn't fight back. How would those tongues wag if they were cut out and fed to them? What would they taste like? Lot's felt as if he was suddenly drowning in it as he tried to process what had just happened to him. He felt different, like a wild animal that had just been unleashed. A small voice in the back of his mind told him that this was wrong, that he should try to control himself, but the rage was too strong. It consumed him, threatening to take over completely.

Then it was gone.

When he came to, Lot was lying on his back, staring up at the sky, horrified and thrilled breaths heaving out of him as his mind crawled slowly out of the bubbling hate. The pain was gone, replaced by a warm, tingling sensation that spread through his body like honey. He sat up, expecting to see the two strangers still there, but they were nowhere to be found. Then it was as the ringing in his ears finally began to clear that he heard his father's voice reaching across the fields from their house and-

"You alright there? Al's words cut across the memory, slicing the past cleanly in two and dragging Lot back to the present. "The sheep that interesting?"

Lot shook his head, clearing it with a chuckle. "Used to sheer sheep growing up," He answered, the half-truth souring even as he smiled through it. "Just thinking of better days."

Fash cawed in his ear, not fooled for a second. Not that he was trying to fool her.