I was born of a drunkard father and an ill mother in the port city of Victoria in the Isles of Mushima. I grew up in a cramped house, where my mother cared for me and my brother as best she could… I wasn’t much of a homebody, how could I be? I ran across streets, usually hoping to steal whatever meal I could. Bread, apples, and if I was fortunate- a few scraps of a leftover dinner from the Old Oak Tavern. My mother told me and my brother our fates were built upon luck and how we all were given bad hands… but even then I couldn’t seem to believe that. I always could recall seeing a gambler win at the Poksu table with nothing but a 4 of ace and 6 of spades. A bad hand doesn’t determine it… how we play chooses it.

When I was old enough to hold my head high, my father seemed to put down the bottle to train me for a path I hadn’t asked for. Warriors walked our town like legends, and my father saw it as an escape. He pushed the blade into my hand and trained me to wield it like it was second nature… which it soon became. Alongside me, my brother Kesen was pushed to his brink. I pained to watch him get bruised and battered day after day in training, but it was for our futures… that’s what he told us. But looking back, it was clear he was just fulfilling his cruel dreams of fame.

My mother watched with little say in the matter, often confined to her bed by a sickness that drained her life away, leaving her frail and silent. Kesen and I often watched her for hours, tending to her needs whenever she called our names… but with each passing week, she called less and less. I held strong, but I saw the toll it took on Kesen, I wanted to speak up, and I wanted to help him, but I was powerless at the moment. I was caught between my brother and my father’s relentless training. Making it out of that rotten home was my only goal, and so I focused on doing just that. I took the blade and I sliced after each pain that haunted me, cutting away at the game I was forced to play since the beginning.

In the winter when I was 15, my mother drew her last breath as my father washed down another bottle of beer. It was a dark moment for all of us, my fatherer often didn’t get back from the tavern till the morning’s sunrise, and to be honest… I hoped he wouldn’t most days. His training often fell into sessions of attacking us till we were bruised and bloodied. We couldn’t handle it much longer, and so on the night of my 16th birthday, after a training turned beating, I watched Kesen fall to his knees, bloodied and beaten. At that moment, my breath drew sharp and I swung. Looking back, I could only remember the yell, and the moment after of my brother grabbing the blade from my hand, but the image will forever remain in my mind till I die. On the ground, my father lay still and motionless, a deep cut had sliced his shirt and a puddle of crimson blood stained the wooden floor. Had I killed him? I remember looking toward Kesen, how pale his face had become… and how red the dagger’s edge was. And so I grabbed Kesen and we fled.

Either it was dumb luck or just coincidence, but as we walked across the bridge that separated the island city of Victoria from the mainland, a pair of men on horseback began to cross. It was midnight in the month of the Hunter’s Moon, so the sight of two teenagers stoked their curiosity immediately.

“Where are you two off to?”

We both froze like deer in an archer’s sight. Regardless of talking though, my bloodied clothes drew their suspicions. Like a detective, I can still recall the man’s eye seeing through my clothes and the bloodied dagger stowed beneath.

“Come boys. Before we call upon the guard.”

Without an option, they pulled us atop their horses. Immediately, they turned their horses back for the mainland, their horses making their way through dimly lit dirt roads that connected the Isles. I hadn’t truly left the island that I was born upon, so we crossed the bridge that lay at the estuary of the Sable River, I looked out to see the city look so small in the backdrop of an infinite ocean, silhouetted by the stars that painted the night sky. My eyes could just barely find the home my life was spent in. That was it… everything I had known… everything I’d learned was forever stuck there… lost on an island, swallowed by the abyss of darkness.

“We’re nearly there now.”

The voice woke me up just as the sunlight began to peak over the top of the mountains that decorated every inch of the isles.

“Morning already?” I said back, as I looked over toward my brother who was lost in his dreams.

Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

“The isles are long, my friend, you’ve only road through a portion.”

My eyes wandered to the tops of the mountains and sank to the bottom of their bases.

“What’s your name?” The man’s voice broke my gaze.

I was hesitant for a moment before my tired voice rose, “Kequil…Kequil Newman. And he’s,” I said, pointing toward my brother, “Kesen Newman. What is yours?”

The man seemed to contemplate his answer for a moment, and then spoke up, “My name isn’t important, where I’m taking you is.”

“And that is…?”

“For you to find out.” The other man, who was carrying my brother, said aloud, his tone much more harsh and strict than the one I spoke to previously. Silence soon filled the air as it gave me a moment to observe. Observe, I told myself, observe. My mother told me to always observe the small details, the littlest remarks. Doing so would allow the answer to reveal itself. So, as the men and their horses carried on the path, which had at some point turned to a fine stone path, my gaze found their attire as the morning sun’s glow shined off their plating. The men wore fine gold, silver, and red light armor with long red capes that cascaded down from their shoulders. My mind jumped to a description from a text my mother brought home in her healthier years.

The Je’su guild of Mushima were cunning warriors, renowned for their valor. Decorated by achievements and draped in gold and red armor that shined like rays from the morning sun in a breezy fog. They rode across the Isles, fighting for causes worth defending, and aiding those who seemed helpless.

We were riding with warriors. My mind and curiosity spiked with adrenaline as I felt a rush hit me. Do I say something, or do I keep quiet… I didn’t know; however, as the silence carried on the man in front of me spoke up.

“Do you know the legend of the Astari?”

“I…uh.. do not,” I responded, realizing how quiet I was. The man was equally as silent, seeming to contemplate whether or not to tell me, but he seemed to make up his mind as his voice spoke up once more,

“I figured, most parents are too afraid to tell their children legends… that is, do you believe in legends?” For the first time on the trip, I saw his head turn toward me. A chill ran down my spine as I saw his mask for the first time. It was in white with a single red streak painting the hole where his brown piercing eye could just barely be seen. I stammered for a moment, finding my words after the striking stare.

“...I…no..not really.” I managed.

“Hmph,” he sighed, focusing back onto the path ahead, “The Astari are said to have crafted our land. Painted each river and sculpted each mountain. They believed themselves to be so powerful, they could rival any being.” As he spoke, we crossed into a valley flanked by a windy river to my right and large- overbearing mountains to my sides. My mind jumped from tree to tree as their leaves drifted in the wind, a mysterious awe swarming me.

“But pride, it’s said, is a silent adversary. As they continued to shape the land, the Astari began to challenge the very balance of nature. They believed their works immortal, unbreakable, but nature’s forces grew restless. Without a foe able to defeat them, they sought to make their own. Breaking nature’s sole rule of life creating life, and as such nature fought back. They fought their own creature, a horrifying figure corrupted by their own pride and by nature’s forceful push against a break in its rule… But, they failed. Fading away into their creation, returning back to nature’s hand, the Astari can not be seen; however, their works…” The man’s hand slowly motioned toward the mountains, “...their works remain. The reason I tell you is because that is where you and your brother are being taken. The home in which the guard of their creation resides. Protectors of the order of nature and the creation of the Astari- The Je’su.”

I remained silent as I listened quietly to the sounds of nature that surrounded me, the thought of the Astari weighing on my mind; however, I was skeptical that it was nothing more than an interesting narrative for an old guild…

“We’re here.” The man’s voice from the other horse called out.