A full week had passed since the Fortress fell, succumbing to the relentless assault of the conquerors. The Lost Ones, those resilient souls, were now slowly turning this once impenetrable stronghold into their own sanctuary. It had taken them a couple of arduous days to transport everyone and their essential supplies, but on this fifth day, progress was being made, albeit at a deliberate pace.
Dozia, clutching her crudely forged blade, trudged along the uneven terrain. She wore a pair of worker pants and a beige shirt, the uncomfortable weight of the sword's strap digging into her back. With each step, her shoes crushed the dirt beneath, a somber accompaniment to the symphony of the day.
The cacophony of the Lost Ones diligently transforming this abandoned place into their new haven began to take shape. The debris, the rubble, the shattered remnants of crude buildings were promptly cleared away, making room for the construction of tents, campfires, and defensive fortifications. Progress was tangible, tangible enough to fuel a flicker of hope in Dozia's heart.
Beyond the din, the sound of water sloshing against the fortress's edge reached her ears. With this strategic location, the Lost Ones had the luxury of easy access to water for cultivating crops and nurturing proper fruits. No more desperate forays into the treacherous forest in search of wild plants and herbs, no more exploitation at the hands of deceitful traders.
Oliver had been right; this was becoming a true home for the Lost Ones, a place to belong. But as Dozia entertained that thought, a sense of unease crept over her. It had been five or perhaps six days since he had last stirred from his slumber.
After the demise of the Orcs, they had scoured the fortress's perimeter, ensuring no stragglers remained to threaten their newfound sanctuary. The audacity of Oliver's heroic feat had instilled a renewed vigor within the Lost Ones, propelling them to fight back with a ferocity previously untapped. Eventually, the entire fortress had been purged, and now it belonged to them.
But Oliver had yet to awaken. The prevailing belief was that his excessive and reckless use of his Imposter power had plunged him into a deep state of exhaustion. Yet, Dozia couldn't shake off her worry. Her gaze instinctively drifted upward, settling upon the solitary stone structure nestled in the heart of the fortress. It stood tall, dwarfing the surrounding walls—a testament to its past as a command post. And within those topmost floors, Oliver had chosen to rest.
Ascending three levels, Dozia reached Oliver's chamber. Her hand clutched the worn wooden doorknob, twisting it gingerly. Rena, ever the loyal companion, had remained by his side throughout his slumber.
Rena, that sweet girl, had undergone an irreversible transformation since encountering Oliver. Once one of the Lost Ones' quietest members, she was now a stranger, an enigma. It was an uncanny metamorphosis that left Dozia perplexed and disconcerted. Gone was the innocence that had defined her, replaced by a resolute resolve.
Her battered knife twirled effortlessly in her nimble fingers, a mesmerizing display of dexterity that caught Dozia off guard. The girl possessed a skill that had eluded their notice until now.
Clad in the greyish leather armor donned by the newly formed Lost Ones, Rena sported a cloak draped over her back. The hood had been cast aside, revealing a conspicuous mark. The deep crimson brand of Oliver, forever etched onto the cloak's black fabric, a testament to their connection, their bond.
The Lost Ones had adapted swiftly, shedding their old colors and tribal emblems to embrace a new identity. The war banners that fluttered proudly now bore the indelible mark of The Deus Imperator. They had rallied behind it, an emblem of unity and purpose.
Dozia inhaled deeply, her fingers entwining around the doorknob, when Rena's voice pierced the air, startling her.
"He's not here," Rena announced.
Dozia's eyes widened, turning to face her. "Oliver's awake?"
Rena nodded, prompting Dozia's anger to flicker within her narrowed gaze. "And you didn't think to inform me or anyone else that he has awoken?"
Rena shrugged her shoulders, a gesture laced with nonchalance. "Oliver gave me an order," she coughed into her fist, imitating the cadence of the boy's voice. "Don't let Dozia or the others know I'm awake. I have something important to attend to."
Dozia sighed, her mind drifting back to their initial encounter when Oliver had attempted to flee from the first camp. Memories of simpler times clashed with the complexities that now entangled them. Another heavy sigh escaped her lips, her palm pressing against her face. "Then where is he?"
Rena offered no response.
"Rena," Dozia raised her voice, frustration seeping through her words. "Have you forgotten who you once followed as a leader? I'm asking you where Oliver is. Now, tell me."
Rena drew in a deep breath, exhaling with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Fine," she relented. "He's at the graveyard..."
"What?" Dozia's incredulous response hung in the air. "What is he doing at the graveyard?"
Yet, as the pieces of the puzzle clicked into place, an understanding settled upon her. Dozia leaned her head against the wall, drawing a deep breath. "Damn it, Ollie," she murmured under her breath.
She already knew. Amidst the triumph of their conquest, amidst the heavy losses they had suffered, this was inevitable. She comprehended the weight of guilt that had fastened itself to Oliver's heart. Dozia had witnessed how guilt could warp and devour men's souls, sometimes even claiming their lives. Oliver couldn't succumb to its grip. The conversation they needed to have loomed before her, its importance paramount. She only hoped that, for once, Oliver would listen to her counsel.
Oliver stood, a solitary figure swaying in harmony with the wind. His body remained taut and resolute, his narrowed eyes scanning the expanse before him. In this vast clearing, once the bustling site of the Lost Ones' initial camp, he now found himself alone.
The remnants of their presence had been swept away, leaving behind a space devoid of tents and supplies. Oliver's gaze shifted, drawn to the majestic emerald mountain that towered on the side, its verdant slopes commanding attention. The wind whipped through the expansive field, coaxing the long strands of grass to undulate in a synchronized dance.
Oliver sensed it, the biting sting of the cold wind as it seeped into his fresh wounds, causing them to throb with discomfort. Each movement sent a jolt of pain through his arm, encased in the gray cast skillfully crafted by the tribe's healers.
When they directed him here, Oliver had been unsure of what awaited him. His legs had propelled him forward faster than his mind could process, and now he found himself in this place, grappling with the gravity of what he beheld.
His lips pressed into a taut line, his eyes narrowing as his heartbeat reverberated within his chest. His knees trembled, and he collapsed onto his back, his dark hair swaying in the breeze. Understanding eluded him, the scene before him seeming like a bewildering puzzle, the pieces refusing to fit together.
The final battle with the Orcs had blurred in his memory, a hazy tableau that felt more like a dream than reality. Everything, in fact, felt like a colossal dream. But it was all too real. They had triumphed, claiming the fortress as their own. Yet...
Oliver bit down on his lip with such force that it drew blood. His hand went to his face as he sat upright, his gaze fixed upon the aftermath of his conquest. Twenty mounds, twenty stones, twenty graves stood resolute, implanted within the heart of the Lost Ones' ancestral home. They stood apart, yet connected.
Around the graves, Oliver noticed objects—a language he deciphered to reveal a name: Zeal Donnie. Born AD 1380 – 1391. A twelve-year-old boy, a loyal follower of the Lost Ones and one of his personally trained Terror Troops, had fallen. His friend and comrade had perished.
A stone blade was embedded in the ground next to the gravestone, candles flickered, and the soothing aroma of incense filled the air. Delicate illustrations of the boy, held down by rocks, prevented them from being carried away by the wind. But it was the toys that stirred Oliver's emotions as he approached and knelt.
Cotton-clad knight figures, wooden swords, and dolls—symbols of innocence and youth—surrounded the graves. They were just children, and he had led them to their deaths. He had commanded them like a warlord, a monster.
The sudden realization struck him like a physical blow, threatening to render him violently ill. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto them, only preventing his head from slamming into the ground by extending his right arm. But there it was, the brand on his left hand, peeking through the glove.
They had followed him because of it—killing, slaughtering, and dying in the name of the Deus Imperator. They had succumbed to the madness propagated by a false prophet, and Oliver's heart weighed heavy with the burden of their fate.
Yet, he shook his head, grasping at the remnants of the once steadfast conviction he possessed when speaking to Dozia and during the meeting. It had been necessary, an act born out of desperation. If they hadn't attacked, a myriad of perils awaited them—slavers, cave-ins, the impending winter. Who knows what horrors would have befallen them had they remained in that dark, oppressive cavern. But now, Oliver felt his resolve wane, his strength falter. His heart pounded with such ferocity that he clutched his chest, silently dreading a looming panic attack.
But Oliver couldn't return to the version of himself that had argued with Dozia, the one who feigned knowledge and acted indifferent about the loss of comrades. He now stood a shattered mess, acknowledging that she had been right all along. He couldn't bear it.
How many more would join the ranks of the fallen? How many lives would be claimed?
He glanced down at his hands, scarred and bloodied from the brutal reality of war. Stories of battle passed down from his father and grandfather now paled in comparison to the gruesome truth he had witnessed. Friends, fellow tribe members, and even his own Terror Troop had been taken from him.
He clenched his teeth, haunted by the thought. Would Rena be the next to fall? What about Dozia, Lena, James, or Rasmus? Would they all become mere pawns in the relentless game of war, forced to fight against the hostile forces that plagued their world? Did he possess the strength to sacrifice children barely older than himself?
He wrapped his arm around himself, swaying silently as he stared at the gravestone of his fallen terror trooper. He had trained him, mentored him, bestowed upon him the necessary skills. But it hadn't been enough to save him... or any of them.
Only Rena and two others had survived. But Rena herself now bore a missing eye, a consequence of his actions.
How many more would it take?
To survive, would he need to embrace the prophecy of the Deus Imperator? Would he have to wage war against a false king, reclaiming what was lost and assuming a religious role? He gritted his teeth, desperately fighting back tears.
How many more would he have to sacrifice in this twisted crusade? Was this truly his fantasy adventure, his predetermined destiny?
Had this path been paved by the deaths and broken bodies of his friends, allies, and loved ones? Would the Lost Ones abandon their identity as a tribe, morphing into a ravaging warband?
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His heart skipped a beat, his eyes widening as he recalled the vision—the one of the warband, the Witch whispering honeyed words in his ear, and the girl. That enigmatic girl, a hybrid of Wolfkin and human blood, gazing at him with love.
He remembered the fervent zeal that permeated the tribe, etching their tribal flags, armor, and even their skin with his brand—the Mark of the Deus Imperator. Was their fate being sealed in this very moment? Had it already been decided that the Lost Ones would succumb to the madness of religious fanaticism?
No, he shook his head, vehemently rejecting the notion. The numbers he had witnessed in that vision far exceeded the hundreds that composed the Lost Ones. They spoke of thousands—a roaring tide of martial might, comprised of conquered or assimilated demi-human tribes. A formidable and terrifying army under his sole control, bound by shared faith and a thirst for vengeance against the one who had stolen everything from their races.
He saw it vividly in his mind's eye—the legions, bearing his brand upon their banners, equipped with formidable weapons and impenetrable armor. They would emerge from these very forests, unleashing a cataclysmic war against those who dared to deny them their rightful claim.
This war, this grand conflict that loomed on the horizon, would surpass anything the world had ever witnessed. Even Oliver, with all his knowledge gleaned from history lessons, couldn't fathom the magnitude of what lay ahead. It could very well be the defining war of this world.
His thoughts drifted back to the ancient legend the Witch had imparted upon him, the tale of the Imposters and their role in shaping the world's destiny. While Emilia was destined to forge a unified empire from tribal factions, was his own fate to engulf the world in a devastating war? A war for the Deus Imperator, a holy conflict that would consume all in its path. Oliver felt a dangerous calm settle over him, his resolve strengthening as he rose to his feet, casting a final gaze upon the graves of the Lost Ones.
It was his fault.
Slowly, he turned his head towards the forest, then back in the direction of the fortress. Another choice lay before him, reminiscent of the one presented during the witch's trial. He could stay here, embrace the perilous mantle of the Deus Imperator, and lead his tribe into battle. Slavers, rival tribes, and monstrous creatures plagued the world, and he knew that with the aid of the Lost Ones, he could protect and fight against these threats. But in doing so, more lives would be lost, following a false leader, a false messiah.
They would lose their true selves, twisted into grotesque abominations fueled solely by blind faith and a will to wage war. Their path would scorch the earth, leaving destruction and despair in its wake. He couldn't bear the weight of such a burden, and the Lost Ones didn't deserve such a grim fate.
Who was he to be their chosen one, except for the delusion they clung to?
...Or he could choose to leave.
He could flee into the depths of the forest, armed with his knife. The Lost Ones would be abandoned, deprived of their Deus Imperator. But perhaps, just perhaps, that would be for the best.
Their faces would dim, like extinguished pilot lights. Dozia's expression would linger in his memory the longest, but deep down, even he knew she held a zealous belief in his destiny. If he simply vanished, running as far as his legs could carry him, he would be free.
He had learned much from the Lost Ones, and he understood that his impostor status would still need to remain hidden. Yet he could lead a life of normalcy. The Lost Ones now had their fortress, where they could grow old and strong, guided by their council. They could return to the state they knew before his arrival.
He took a single step forward, his piercing blue eyes fixed upon the darkness of the forest, the opening that beckoned him...
"Don't even think about it!"
Dozia's voice thundered in his eardrums as her arms wrapped around him, not in an embrace, but in a tackle. They were sent hurtling through the air, crashing down into the cold dirt and prickling grass, the breath knocked out of him.
"What...what the fuck is wrong with you, Dozia?" he managed to utter between gasps for air. His hoarse breathing reverberated through the space as Dozia rose to her feet and approached him.
"I am not a fool, Oliver," she scolded, taking a knee before him, her gaze piercing. "I know the look of desperation in a man's eyes."
Oliver grunted, dusting off his knees and the back of his shirt as he regained his footing. He lightly stretched, checking if the rest of his body was alright. The tapping of Dozia's foot echoed in the silence as he spun around to face her.
"What do you want?" he snapped.
Dozia sighed, shaking her head and taking a deep breath to steady herself. "I am not a fool," she repeated. "I know you were contemplating running away, that you were..."
Oliver pushed past her, his frustration palpable. "I don't need a lecture right now, Dozia," he interjected sharply.
Dozia's features tightened, her fingers curling around his shoulder blade as she spun him back to face her. "I know what's troubling you," she said with conviction.
Oliver brushed her hand off him. "I don't need help, I don't want to talk about it," he sneered in her direction. "They're dead, Dozia. I sent them to their deaths. It's my burden to bear."
Dozia shook her head, her gaze searing like heat rays as she locked eyes with Oliver. "That's foolish," she countered.
Oliver only sneered as he continued walking, his feet on the brink of disappearing into the forest forever, but...
"Aren't we friends? And you're planning on leaving me behind without even talking to me first."
He could hear the hurt lacing Dozia's voice, the faint tremor betraying her emotions. His foot was poised to cross the threshold into the forest, but he turned abruptly to face her.
Dozia regarded him, inching closer. "Tell me what's wrong," she implored.
Oliver took a deep breath, shaking his head as he struggled with his words. "I killed them, Dozia," he finally confessed, his voice quivering with the weight of his admission. "I sent them to their deaths..."
Dozia remained motionless, her nod signaling that she heard his words.
"I...I believed what we were doing was right, that it was an unwinnable battle. And we did win!" he shouted the last part, yet he felt the anguish gnawing at him, the guilt festering deep within his heart. "We did win," he repeated, his voice now a mere whisper. "But we lost twenty of our own. How can I...how can I..."
But Dozia simply stared at him, her eyes narrowing as she took a deep breath. "Oliver, no one blames you for what happened."
"Because they believe I am the Deus Imperator!" he snapped, his voice laced with fury and booming through the air. Both of Dozia's eyes widened at the outburst. "They believe I can do no wrong, that I..."
"Oliver, the tribe isn't foolish!" she snapped back, instantly silencing him.
She shook her head, a sense of calm settling over her. "The tribe isn't foolish," she reiterated. "They understand that this was inevitable. We needed a new home, Oliver."
"A new home?" he repeated, his voice tinged with disbelief. "Wasn't it you who thought we should have sold the supplies and waited?"
She nodded. "Yes, I did think it was the more prudent choice. I believed it would be safer for the time being...but you failed to grasp, Oliver, that there was no good or bad option. Every choice would have led to death for the Lost Ones."
Oliver's eyes widened at her words as Dozia continued. "If we had sold the spider for supplies, we would have gained a lot," she raised her fingers to emphasize her point. "Food, medicine, blankets, and who knows what else. But in the end, it would have been nothing more than a temporary fix. People would have still perished during hunting trips, in encounters with monsters, or at the hands of slavers..."
Dozia's breathing grew heavy, and Oliver watched her with a sense of bewilderment. The once vibrant and commanding figure had diminished before his eyes.
Sometimes, Oliver forgot how young and vulnerable Dozia truly was. He occasionally overlooked the fact that he was dealing with a girl who was just a year older than him, a thirteen-year-old thrust into leadership of a tribe nearly a hundred strong. The weight of her responsibility at such a tender age had always astounded him, and he had come to regard her as both a companion and a friend.
But he often forgot just how fragile she could be. Dozia took a deep breath, beads of sweat trickling down her forehead as her knees trembled. "You fail to grasp, Oliver, the essence of that meeting. It was about choosing between a slow death or a quick death. Was it worth risking everything against the orcs, or should we have settled for a meager existence in the shadows? There was no right or wrong in this..."
Oliver snapped his head towards her. "That doesn't change anything for me," he retorted. "I led those kids into battle. They fought and died for me...for this place!"
"Nothing can be accomplished without sacrifice," Dozia shot back, her words laced with poison. "You are not special. Do you think you're the only leader who has had to send people to their deaths? Emperors, kings, and Imposters have done such things a thousand times over...you are not special."
Oliver's eyes widened, his fists clenching tightly. "What do you think I'm acting like, a spoiled brat?"
Dozia shook her head. "No, I'm not trying to paint a pretty picture here. I don't know what kind of world you Imposters come from...sounds like a damn paradise," Oliver caught a faint snicker beneath her breath, but her chilling words brought him back. "But that's not reality for us. We're the Lost Ones, a tribe surviving in this unforgiving region. Other tribes will grow envious, and we must gather power and strength to fend off any threats."
Oliver shook his head in disbelief.
Dozia approached him, seizing his arm and forcing him to meet her gaze. "Lena, did she ever tell you what happened to her older brother?"
The question, coupled with the madness flickering in Dozia's eyes, made him stutter out a response. "I remember, she never told me, but I recall someone mentioning that he was enslaved."
Dozia nodded vigorously, her fiery red curls framing her features. "Did they ever share the whole story with you?" she snapped, her fingernails digging into his skin. "Did they tell you what I did?"
"No, they didn't..."
Oliver stared at her, seeing a wild and bloodshot Dozia with eyes so wide he could glimpse the red within. The manic and deranged look she possessed shocked him to his core.
Dozia rambled, an uncomfortable laugh echoing through the woods. "I sent him to die, Oliver," she snapped, her eyes fixated on him as he instinctively tried to step back but was held firmly by her grip.
"He was a skilled warrior, Oliver. He loved Lena and her sister. They were one of the few families we had within the Lost Ones. I sent him off to his death."
She gritted her words, spittle flying from her lips. Shaking her head wildly, she refocused on him. "Members of the Blood Drinker tribe attacked that night. They breached our defenses. I knew we couldn't defeat them...that it would all be futile in the end."
She sneered, her knees buckling as she dropped to the ground, still gripping Oliver tightly as tears streamed down her face. Oliver stared at her in utter disbelief. "We ran, and I ordered him and a few warriors to hold them off...while we escaped."
She shook her head violently, the force causing her ponytail to come undone. "I needed..." She hiccupped. "I needed, I prayed for you...Oliver, I prayed for the Deus Imperator to come. But when we found out the blood drinkers had sold him into slavery, and our wounded warriors were either slaughtered or devoured by them, I..."
She looked up at him one last time. "I have sinned, Oliver. Just like you. But you must understand that you can't simply give up."
"People need you, Oliver. They need your strength, your determination. They follow you because..."
"They follow me because I'm the Deus Imperator," he interrupted.
To his astonishment, Dozia shook her head violently. "No, they follow you because you're a leader," she said, scanning their surroundings and then gripping Oliver's arm, extending her arm outward. "You've shown us victory. Leadership, confidence, bravery...you've embodied those qualities for our tribe. We were once children dreaming of battles, and now we've emerged victorious."
Dozia took a deep breath, her voice resonating with conviction. "You are Oliver, the Deus Imperator. You are the one destined to lead us."
Oliver turned away, but Dozia's hand cupped his cheek, forcing him to face her. "I'm begging you, Oliver!" she screamed, her words piercing his soul. "This guilt will never fade, not as long as you live. It will be a perpetual darkness weighing on your heart. But this is the way, the consequence of a brutal world...this is war, Oliver!"
Oliver's eyes widened, his heart skipping a beat at the truth that echoed through his being. This was war, his war. He cast his gaze across the gravesite, where the whispers of Dozia's sobs mingled with the earth, clinging to him like a devout follower to their deity.
Warfare had defined his existence for so long. Perhaps this was the inevitable fate he was meant to embrace. Oliver surveyed the gravesite once more—these were his people, his friends, his allies.
He could never abandon them...
Deep within, Oliver recognized that they would forever be with him. The ghosts and shattered bodies of his comrades would haunt him eternally. But it was the price to pay for what lay ahead.
Slowly, Oliver began to grasp the folly of his earlier thoughts—that his departure would somehow bring about a better outcome. The Lost Ones would face attacks from rival tribes, swarms of monsters, or slavers. They would forever be at the mercy of the immense horrors this world held, and he had foolishly believed that four walls could shield them.
His father always imparted the wisdom that people die. This was war, just as Dozia had declared. Why should it matter? This was the price he would forever carry. It was natural to be out there in the thick of it, fighting and killing—just as he had done in his youth.
War and battle, they ignited a spark of life within him. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, an intoxicating rush. There was a certain greatness, an honor, a pride in vanquishing a formidable enemy.
Just as Dozia had proclaimed, they would have perished either way. He couldn't combat a band of slavers or possess the healing knowledge to save those afflicted by frostbite or disease. Leaving now wouldn't change a thing.
It was like Pa always said—you couldn't halt or control war. It flowed like a river, much like the tide of people who anointed him the Deus Imperator. It would only swell, consuming everything in a grand deluge.
He had found those people, the very ones his grandfather had spoken of. The people for whom he would lay down his life...and who would, in turn, lay down theirs for him.
They hungered for his teachings, his father's twisted wisdom that had both shaped and rescued him—a metamorphosis from boy to war incarnate. They craved his techniques, his strategic prowess, his unyielding strength. They needed someone with the resolve to undertake the necessary, for who else would step up to the task?
Dozia would forever carry the weight of what had befallen Lena's brother, just as Oliver would forever bear the burden of leading and condemning his comrades to their fates. But there existed no alternative, and he would never, not for a single heartbeat, allow them to face the battlefield alone.
He would forever remain at their side...come what may. Oliver inclined his head in agreement, finally glimpsing the spark within Dozia's eyes as her gaze met his. She relinquished her grip, which had left its mark upon his skin, wiping away the tears and reclaiming her composure.
With renewed resolve, they both rose, nodding in unison. No longer burdened by solitude, they listened to the harmony of their footsteps as they retraced their path, heading homeward.