The caverns basked in the radiant embrace of the morning sun, casting a warm glow that permeated the surroundings. Outside, the sentries of the Lost Ones patiently awaited, their vigilant gaze fixed ahead. Two figures emerged from within, their ages hovering between eleven and thirteen. Cloaked in black garments that concealed the leathery armor beneath, each of them possessed a concealed blade snugly nestled in a scabbard on their backs.

Under the cover of darkness, the slavers had arrived, but through Dozia's meticulous drills and evacuation plans, many had managed to escape unharmed. It was Dozia and the older kids who found themselves entangled in that chaotic ordeal. But...

"Did you catch what they were saying, Ryan?" The sentry on the left inquired, his wolf-like visage adorned with bristling white fur.

Ryan, on the left, discarded his hood and wiped the beads of sweat from his features. "No, Dillan," he replied. "I only caught fragments before we were assigned to watch duty." His gaze wandered back into the cavern, where echoing voices reverberated, causing him to grimace. "Lucky bastards. Why did we have to get stuck with this duty at such a time?"

Drawing in a deep breath, he shifted his eyes forward. Perched on the cliff's edge, his legs precariously hanging over the abyss, stood Oliver—the newest member of the Lost Ones and their sole fully human companion. Ryan's elven face contorted as he scrutinized the boy, noticing bloodstains on his clothing—a telltale sign of a recent kill.

"Do you think it's him, Ryan?" he inquired.

"What?" Ryan's voice carried a hint of anticipation.

"You know what I mean. The others have been echoing Dozia's words, talking about the prophecy, his alleged status as an Imposter... They claim he is..."

"The Deus Imperator."

Those words resonated like a muted bell, causing both boys' breaths to hitch in unison. Dillan gazed ahead, his expression betraying no trace of emotion. "The great savior, the one who will lead us and restore our lost magic," he murmured, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply, as if filled with an abundance of unspoken words. "I don't believe in children's tales. Something like magic can never be reclaimed."

Ryan's gaze returned to Oliver, observing the boy's arms wrapped tightly around himself, his hunched back betraying a sense of vulnerability. Yet there lingered something more in his words. "They say our god would appear weak, that he would require training and skills to save us."

"God?" Dillan exclaimed, his voice tinged with shock. "He's not a god; he's a twelve-year-old boy with the abilities of an imposter," he sneered, directing his gaze toward Oliver's head. "Remember, it was us Demi Humans who elevated these men and women with powers to the status of Messiahs and Gods. I don't believe this boy is any different."

"Any different..." Ryan interjected. "He saved Dozia and the others. From what I gathered, he risked his own freedom to protect us. Say what you will, but he is a savior..."

"So, what's that supposed to mean?" He thrust his hand forward, pointing at Oliver. "You gonna worship him? Make him your god? He's just a boy, nothing more, nothing less."

The words dripped from his tongue, laced with a venomous undertone. But Ryan saw it—the way his hands quivered, the fear, anger, and anxiety coursing through his being. He reflected on the words that had been spoken before, contemplating the history of Demi Humans like themselves, who had elevated these Imposters to something beyond their mortal nature.

Right or wrong? Ryan couldn't say for sure, but that wouldn't deter him. As he stared at the boy's back, he resolved to hold onto faith and support him on his journey in any way he could. He believed that Oliver was what Dozia had proclaimed him to be—the Deus Imperiator. The enigmatic being from realms unknown, destined to restore the Demi Human races to their former strength and glory—a god in human form.

Savior, prophet, Messiah... God. It mattered not; Oliver was living, breathing proof of the prophecy. The resonating trumpets, the accounts of his descent from the heavens themselves by Dozia and the witch, and now his assumption of the role of rescuer.

Ryan had heard the fervent words that spilled from Dozia's lips, the religious zeal burning in her eyes. The younger ones had readily embraced her claims, more easily swayed by their beliefs. However, the older members of the tribe, including himself, remained cautious, yearning for further evidence.

Footsteps clattered behind them, and Dozia emerged, her green skin glistening under the burgeoning sun. She offered a slight nod to the duo, her gaze fixated on Oliver. Astonishingly, their eyes were drawn to the gleaming sword strapped to her back. "Whoa..." Dillian blurted out, pointing at her turned form. "That's the slaver's sword, isn't it?" he asked.

Ryan nodded. "Yeah, that's what it seems like. It resembles the metals used by the human empires for their weapons and armor. But why does Dozia have it?" He observed the bewildered expression on his friend's face, rubbing the back of his head, wincing at the pain.

"Hey, what the hell was that for?"

"You damn fool," Ryan snapped. "Have you forgotten the rules of the tribe? Qui cadunt de manu alterius, feodum alterius dabuntur." He shook his head lightly, his words flowing in the ancient tongue of the demi humans, eliciting an even more confused glare from his friend. "The victor who lands the final kill gets to claim the spoils."

He pointed toward Dozia's figure, directing his friend's attention to the sword snugly sheathed in its scabbard. "Believe it or not, that's the Deus Imperiator's weapon. And whether Dozia likes it or not, she's dishonoring him every second by withholding it."

With those parting words, Dozia hoisted Oliver by the hands, leading him away as they ventured deeper into the labyrinthine complex of the cavern.

Yet, before this. Oliver was dealing with his own issues. His own turmoil deep within his soul.

He had taken a life. That was the relentless thought tormenting Oliver as he gazed out from the mountaintop. The crisp air at such heights caressed his legs, but his mind was consumed by the abyss of despair. He was a twelve-year-old boy, an ordinary middle school student from a small rural town in America. He enjoyed video games, playing outdoors, and watching movies—and now, he had brutally ended a man's life with a rock.

A chilling sensation gripped him, a vivid chill that reverberated through his body, compelling him to clutch himself in a tighter embrace. The thought spread through him like an icy gust, his heart pounding in a dissonant chorus. Desperately, he scanned the edges of the mountain, seeking solace in the serenity that eluded him.

After the act, Dozia had pulled him away, regrouping with the other members of The Lost Ones as they pressed onward. The slavers were thrown into disarray, their leader dead. Rasmus assured them that they wouldn't dare pursue them. They concealed their tracks and sought refuge in the safety of the Lost Ones' hideout.

But Oliver chose to remain outside, and Dozia allowed him to do so, albeit for a short while. Whether it was the danger of being relatively alone or some other reason, he couldn't be sure. But in that moment, he didn't care.

None of this made any damn sense! A throbbing headache began to take hold as his mind swirled with thoughts. His right hand instinctively rose to his face, attempting to steady the chaos within.

He had followed Aidan into that cavern to escape Hunter's manipulations, only for all of them to become trapped. They stumbled upon that strange blue orb, and now he found himself here—awakening in a damn tent, thrust into a tribe, captured like a slave.

He was only twelve years old, and this was how he spent his time. Dodging death on numerous occasions, facing increasing hardships. He longed for home, to sleep in his own bed, to indulge in his video games. He missed his grandparents. The realization struck him, his mother's grave.

I was supposed to visit her soon. How can I ever go back home?

The thought tugged at his heartstrings, tears streaming down his face, salty and bitter. What would Mom think of me now, knowing that I took someone's life?

His mind turned to his grandparents. "He's too much like his father. He needs therapy, a way to channel all that anger elsewhere..."

"Anger?" he heard his mother's voice at the kitchen counter, pretending to be asleep. "That's my son you're talking about. You're his grandparents. He's not a soldier who has been through war. He's just a little boy who needs time to..."

He caught his grandfather's dismissive snort, which silenced his mother instantly. "He's not just a..." His grandfather emphasized the word, as if daring his mother to interrupt. "He practically endured a soldier's life with all the crap your husband put him through—the training, the drills, and that damn last stand... You better pray he never remembers what happened."

Footsteps approached him, and he recognized them instantly—Dozia. It was a skill his father had taught him, a simple game they used to play. But he was too young to comprehend the truth hidden within such exercises.

"Hey," her voice pierced the air. Oliver turned to face her, captivated by the intensity in her gaze. Her vibrant red hair danced and fluttered in the wind, freckles adorning her skin. "How are you holding up?"

How am I holding up? He echoed the question in his mind. He observed her presence, the marks of strangulation on her throat, the bruises and cuts that marred her body. And here she was, asking him if he was alright. They walked through the tunnel system, the darkness giving way to the orange glow of torches and the emerging sun.

"No, I'm not," he replied, still feeling the sting of tears on his face. He wiped them away, turning to face Dozia. "I killed a man..."

"Yeah, it was your first blood. But don't worry," she paused, turning to him with a smile on her face. "It was a good kill, messier than I anticipated, but killing a slaver is no easy feat. Good job."

She rested her hand on his shoulder. "Good job..." he repeated, his eyes flickering with a smoldering anger. He pushed her hand away. "Good job? I killed a man!"

"A slaver, not a man. I understand you're upset, but..."

"Damn it, Dozia," Oliver stepped back, running his hands wildly through his hair. "Don't you get it? He had a family. I know he was dangerous, I know he was about to kill you, but..."

He knew it was necessary for both of them to survive, that it had to be done and finished. But that didn't make it any easier. Because every time he closed his eyes, he saw the man's caved-in face, knowing that he was responsible. His gaze shifted to his arm, the bandaged left hand that concealed the power within. It glowed with a faint light, and on reflex... he killed him.

The memory of that telekinetic act of lethal force grated against his psyche like nails on a chalkboard. He had taken a life, whether justified or not. But the way Dozia spoke about it infuriated him.

"What do you want me to say?" Her voice carried an edge as she wrapped her arms around herself. "Do you want me to berate you? Call you a murderer?"

Oliver recoiled, his own arms encircling his body, his posture slumping. "What, Oliver..." she spoke. "I don't know what you want me to say. I understand this is difficult, but you have to move forward..."

"Move forward?" he repeated, his voice laced with frustration. "I fucking murdered someone. I killed him. I took a rock and I smashed it into his head..."

His back pressed against the cavern wall, his legs pulled toward his chest. "I didn't mean to... it was an accident. I saw you were in danger, and I..."

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

A part of him knew he was right. He had no choice but to kill him... it was self-defense. But that didn't change the fact that he had taken a life. Dozia's calmness as she dispatched the slaver with such ease struck Oliver, almost as if she were simply completing a mundane task. He slapped himself on the side of his head, and Dozia followed his lead, her frame hovering nearby. "What the hell is happening... all I want is to go home and see my grandparents."

Dozia shook her head slowly, her hand resting on Oliver's shoulder, offering a semblance of comfort. But she knew the truth. She had heard the legends, read the tales of Imposters... beings from another world. So different, yet she knew Oliver came from a good home. Unlike the rest of the Lost Ones, he had a place to return to.

Her gaze drifted behind her, catching sight of faint tendrils of shadows writhing and twisting, their presence accompanied by muffled sounds of arguments and fear echoing through the tribe. People had died today, both good and bad. Tribes had fallen apart for lesser reasons, and harboring a human, even an imposter, was pushing the boundaries.

She unfastened the sword from her back, placing it before Oliver, who eyed the slaver's weapon at his feet. "An accord."

Oliver's gaze shifted from the sword to Dozia. "Wait, what are you talking about?" he asked, realization slowly dawning on him. "Dozia, I can't..."

She vigorously shook her head, her vibrant auburn hair cascading recklessly. "No, I've already received enough dirty looks and hushed whispers," she tapped the handle of the sword, "Your kill, your reward. Unless you grant it to me, then..."

"I grant it to you."

"That's not how it works, Oliver," Dozia cut him off with a sigh. "It's a sword, a valuable one from the human empires. You can't simply give it away without a good reason."

A sneer etched across Oliver's features, darkening his expression. "I don't want a dead man's sword."

Dozia huffed, rising to her feet and wrapping her arms around herself. "You're acting like a spoiled brat right now. How hard is it to carry that sword on your back for a little while? It's a formidable weapon, and you killed a slaver... you don't understand what that means to us."

Oliver stared at the weapon. It was just a sword, owned by a man who enjoyed enslaving children of different races, with plans to sell them across the world. It was no wonder he had reservations about it, but at the end of the day, it was just an object.

He found himself in a volatile and unfamiliar situation, a whole new world. Having a weapon, especially a sword, could be reassuring. "I am your guide, your friend," Dozia's voice resonated. "Trust me on this. I saved you, and my word carries weight based on my actions."

Oliver's head snapped in her direction. Faint traces of light flickered in his eyes. "verbi divini minister," he uttered the words, but they felt foreign to him, scraping against the edges of his consciousness. Dozia's eyes widened at his response.

A faint chuckle escaped her. "Servant of the... divine, or was it word?" she questioned, her gaze softening. "I didn't know you knew the ancient language. Where did you learn it?"

"Old language?" Oliver repeated, his voice tinged with curiosity. "Latin?"

Dozia regarded him with a questioning gaze. "Latin," she mused, testing the word on her lips. "That is the old language of the ancient world. While humans and elves embraced new languages and new alphabets, my race—the goblins—and many others held onto the old language of the past. Our primitive nature is reflected in such things."

Oliver eyed her strangely, rising as he pondered her words. The concept of an old language, primitive nature, and the differences between races danced through his mind. "I don't know Latin well, but my father taught me a few phrases. Mostly Latin, with a sprinkling of German mixed in."

"Really? Once this is over, you can peruse the tribe's records. I'd love to pick your brain on some things. My grasp of the old language has grown rusty."

With those parting words, Oliver was led into the caverns, a deep pang resonating within him as he recalled his previous time spent in similar circumstances. It had only been days, but it felt like years since he had ventured into those depths. Much had changed.

His focus honed in on the occupants. The glow of a roaring fire illuminated their faces. The crowded space was a medley of demi-humans from all races and of all ages, but he managed to spot familiar faces amidst the throng. James, Rasmus, Lena, and her sister.

But there was something in the air, something he could not only hear but feel deep within his very being. A sense of foreboding prophecy, a religious fervor that permeated the crowd as their gazes bore into him.

"Deus Imperiator..."

"Salvatoris."

"Messias."

Those mingled words hung in the air, aimed at him like arrows. From the tiniest demi-human child to the tallest demi-human man, they regarded him with a mix of hesitance and reverence.

Dozia walked slightly ahead of him as he trailed by her side. She stood in front of the crackling orange blaze but did not sit down, and Oliver followed suit. "I've already told the tribe our story. How we escaped and how you vanquished the slaver leader," she spun around him, a smile playing on her lips. Under the flickering flames, her fangs glistened. "His trophy adorns your back."

A wave of exuberance swept through the crowd. Even the youngest among them rose to their feet as their voices filled the endless cavern, their cries of "Oliver!" reverberating through the air.

But Oliver found himself at a loss for words or action. Caught in a bewildering haze, he observed them all, their shadows dancing and contorting under the harsh light of the campfire, as if they were awakened demons. "Death to slavers!" a demi-human voice roared. "Oliver, the savior... the prophecies were right, he is the one. Qui restituet, quod semel amisit!" This voice now held a feminine tone, but the strange Latin words eluded him.

Their arms were raised, some bristling with fur, others adorned with reptilian scales or skin as smooth as his own. They regarded him as if he were a king. No, a god.

Dozia approached him, her drunken hysteria evident in her demeanor. She lunged for his left hand, seizing it in a vice-like grip, her milky white smile still plastered on her features.

In her other hand, a small knife glinted, slicing through the soiled, matted bandage as...

Oliver's eyes widened, only catching a glimpse of his palm for a second before Dozia lifted it into the air. "The Mark, the mark of the Imposter!" she screamed, her voice echoing through the caverns, reverberating in the air. "I told you, he was our savior all along. The one who will restore our magic, free us from the false emperor's tyranny!"

A furious roar erupted from the crowd. Oliver could hear swords being unsheathed, the sound of spear butts slamming against stone like war drums, and the chant. Fevered words in a twisted mixture of German and Latin twisted through the maniacal aura of the crowd.

But it was his palm that held him transfixed. A wound adorned it, a wound that had never been there before. At first, he thought it was a tattoo, but he could see the peculiar indents of burned flesh on his skin.

A brand. Three lines etched into his left palm, each converging at inside angles. Dozia and the rest of the Lost Ones lost themselves in that strange symbol. Dozia allowed them their moment, the waves of hysteria slowly receding. The crowd still stood, but after a few minutes, they began to calm down.

"The sign of the imposter. We should make it our war symbol."

"With an imposter among us, we can never lose a war... we'll be invincible!"

Their voices, like dying embers of a campfire, still simmered with religious fervor. Finally, Dozia released him, and Oliver gripped his wrist, feeling the sting of Dozia's fingernails digging into his skin. To his surprise, there was blood trickling from the small cuts. "Dozia," Lena interjected, "Oliver needs a naming."

"A naming? Our imposter needs a worthy name."

"Yes, a powerful one, befitting his strength."

Oliver turned his head toward the pair of eyes and the voices emanating from them. "A naming?"

Thomas was the one to respond. "Many of the Lost Ones don't have family or know their origins."

Rasmus gestured to the crowd. "Our parents were enslaved, killed, or caught up in tribal wars. Many of us are just kids without anywhere else to go. So we created the naming ceremony... Dozia's idea."

Dozia nodded. "Normally, one would have to hunt a monster or an animal of the forest. Bring it back to camp as a testament to their skill and entry into the tribe. But... you were a special case."

She glanced at the crowd. "I inducted you into the tribe, but many had their doubts," her eyes narrowed, glaring at the crowd. "False prophet, fool, simple human." She spat out the words with venom.

Oliver struggled to articulate the strange shift in the crowd. It was as if the words had penetrated their beings, sinking them into a deep well of remorse. Their gaze shifted downward, fixed on the floor or their shoes. The once fervent haze of religious madness now gave way to a profound sadness, engulfing them in regret.

Then, a chilling realization dawned upon Oliver. He possessed the power to ignite a frenzy of moral fervor and, just as swiftly, plunge the entire gathering into a profound state of remorse. Some even bowed before him, prompting Oliver to take a step back, overwhelmed by the display.

They didn't regard him as a saint or a chosen one. No, it was something far more immense—an awakening awareness. They regarded him as... a god. His gaze fixed upon Dozia, who gradually took a deep breath, calming herself. "Now, I don't think there will be any more disputes about inducting you into the tribe," she said. "Your exposure as an imposter and your slaying of the slavers' leader have proven to be powerful assets... you deserve a naming."

"Fortiduo!"

"Virtus!"

"Vatis!"

The voices of the younger demi-humans echoed throughout the crowd. Dozia closed her eyes slowly, waving her hand to dismiss them. "Come on, guys," Lena intervened, scooping up one of the younger ones. "Allow Dozia to concentrate. Naming is a significant matter. He will carry it for the rest of his life."

"My life?" Oliver's foot stomped down, a surge of determination coursing through him. His eyes shifted towards Dozia. "I already have a name, Oliver Windsor. It's my mother's name, and I won't relinquish it."

A heavy silence descended upon the crowd. Not even a breath escaped as anxiety rippled through Oliver. But he didn't care. He slammed his foot into the ground, bracing himself against the pain. "My name is my name!"

He felt like a rebellious child, surprising even himself with the audacious display of defiance. Astonished by his own courage. "Okay, calm down," Dozia spoke, raising her arms. "We don't have to proceed with it. Not yet..."

Oliver's gaze narrowed. Not yet. Meaning she still harbored plans to do it, only waiting for the right moment. He shook his head slowly. Now wasn't the time to address this issue. After a few more brief exchanges, mostly involving Dozia outlining the plan for the day, the crowd began to disperse until it was just Dozia and Oliver remaining.

"Listen, grab something to eat and get some rest," Dozia advised. "Tomorrow, we have a momentous day ahead."

"A momentous day?"

"Yeah, we're going to meet the witch. The one who saved you—the same person who healed you and instructed me to bring you to the tribe."

Oliver nodded, but his eyes widened. "A witch, someone who still possesses magic."

"Our magic may have been stolen, but there are few among the demi-human races who managed to retain a fragment of their magical potential. She's an elf, but unlike others of her kind, she still possesses her elvish lifespan."

"So, with her help, will I be able to learn how to get back home?" Oliver asked.

Dozia's eyes widened at the question, though Oliver wasn't surprised by her reaction. She hugged her body, her gaze shifting toward the floor. "Tomorrow, you'll have the opportunity to ask her any question you desire. That's why I'm telling you to find a cot and get some sleep."

Once again, Oliver nodded. Dozia's fang gently grazed her lip, indicating that she had more to say, but she kept her thoughts concealed. So, he turned away from her and began to walk, realizing he had grown tired of her... tired of this entire world.

Carrying a dead man's sword on his back, having taken a life, and now entangled in the superstitious beliefs of a tribe that viewed him as a godlike figure—it was all too much. He just wanted to return home and see his grandparents again.

As he walked away, the voices of the Lost Ones reached Oliver's ears. They asked if he needed a blanket, if he wanted to use their cot, and how they were willing to sleep on the floor. Yet, it was the hushed prayers that Dozia observed, prayers Oliver remained oblivious to. But he would simply reply, "Thank you, but I'm fine," as he continued along the path.

Unbeknownst to Oliver, Dozia recognized that such acts of kindness, particularly from a human, would only strengthen and reinforce the beliefs of the Lost Ones. She knew that having Oliver among them would benefit the tribe, and perhaps...

"He's a good boy, isn't he, Dozia?" Lena's voice interrupted, drawing Dozia's attention. Holding a young demi-human child—a wolf-like demi—close to her chest, Lena watched Dozia with a gentle smile. "He's good, but he's naive. He feels remorse for killing that slaver..."

"Don't we all experience a pang of regret and sorrow from our first kills? You have to go easy on him, Dozia. Remember, he's an Imposter," Lena advised.

"Yeah, I know," Dozia responded, a spark of understanding in her voice. "They come from a completely different world, meant to decide fate, judgment, and all that madness. But we need to prepare Oliver for this new world."

Lena chuckled, causing Dozia to raise an eyebrow. "Something amusing?"

"No, it's just adorable how you care for him. Frankly, I'm surprised by your level of interest in him," Lena remarked.

Dozia felt her cheeks flush. "Quiet. He's the Deus Imperiator, and as the tribe's leader, it's my duty to look after him. He needs someone to train him and occasionally lift his spirits when he's down."

Silence fell as Dozia and Lena absorbed their thoughts, but it was Lena who broke the quietude. "Are you going to tell him, or will you let the Witch handle it?"

The question hung in the air, leaving Dozia to contemplate her next move.

Dozia released a muted sigh, the warmth dissipating from her parted lips as she remained motionless. "No, I can't," she muttered, shaking her head. "He's already been through so much today. I know I spoke of preparing him, but nothing can truly prepare you for that." Her gaze turned back to Lena. "You heard how defensive he becomes when discussing his name. To come to this world, you have to leave everything behind."

"No going back," Lena affirmed, drawing a deep breath. "Imposters can never return to their previous world after the summoning process. From what I've learned in my studies, even mentioning such things is taboo... We still bear the scars from the great Imposter of Gluttony. Benjamin's wounds continue to sear within this realm."

Dozia nodded in agreement, Lena's words echoing in her mind. Dread lingered within her as she contemplated the events that would unfold tomorrow. Oliver would either learn to adapt to his new reality or shatter like fragile glass. Whatever life, plans, and family he had in his old world were gone—this was his world now. He would live and die here, with no way out.

The curse of the Imposters: possessing immense power to enact any judgment upon this world, yet forever denied the chance of return. Dozia couldn't help but feel a twinge of pity for such grand beings.

However, as her eyes fell upon Oliver, she realized the profound humanity that resided within them. He sat in a corner, withdrawing from the comforting glow of the fire, clutching the sword to his side as he curled into a ball. His eyes darted feverishly, their glances hesitant, almost fearful that the Lost Ones might approach him again.

In that moment, Dozia was struck by a distressing realization of her own. Despite Oliver's power and potential, she saw him as utterly alone and vulnerable. She stared at the enigmatic boy, and a few words slipped from her lips in a hushed voice.

"What a dreadful reality."