Chapter 1: Awakening

Thunk. Thunk.

The rhythm of splitting wood was a familiar one, as well as the weight of the axe. Wood smoothed over by years of use was molded to his hands as he hefted the axe for the next log.

“James!” his sister called, coming around the cabin to the woodshed.

Thunk.

He let the axe lodge in the stump as she rounded the corner. Long, raven hair, much like his own, was in a braid that draped over her narrow shoulders. Ice-blue eyes set in a long, pale face, were fixed on him. Her brows were furrowed in frustration, but the tightness around her eyes belied a hint of fear.

“They came again,” she said, voice tight. She dropped a scroll into his waiting hands. “You need to make a choice, James. Either go with them so they stop bothering us, or tell those old men to stop, once and for all. If I see another one of their disciples knocking at our door, or nailing a message to our door with a dart, I will retaliate, consequences be damned.”

“How would you even retaliate,” he mocked, unrolling the scroll. “You don’t have soldiers at your beck and call. Even if you did, what would you pay them with? The Greyfield family is gone, Catherine.”

You have great potential. Come to us, and we can train you. You can gain the power to change the world.

The message on the scroll was like all the others. But what they didn’t know was that he didn’t want to change the world. All he wanted was to keep his family safe.

His sister grabbed him by the shoulders, using her greater height for leverage.

“You’re ten. What do you even know?” she hissed. “If Father were still here, he would have razed their little temple to the ground the moment they came for any of us.”

“Father is dead, Cat.” he said, jerking away from her grip. Her hands, pink and cracked from the laundry and looking like the hands of the maids who used to serve them at their manor, clutched at the air. “I know that Father and Grandfather and all of them were executed. Grandmother told me before she and Mother…”

His sister squeezed her eyes shut, fighting a wave of grief. It was a familiar sight to him after his mother died. Like the last piece that connected them to their past life was gone.

The execution and exile of their family were why they were out here, hiding in a forest at the edge of no-man’s-land, fighting for survival. James didn’t know exactly what had happened, only that there was some sort of conspiracy that named his father a traitor to the throne. He had just turned six when it happened, so he remembered a little of what their life before was like. His sister had lived in wealth and luxury for sixteen years when, on a cloudy, autumn afternoon, imperial soldiers had broken down their gates and rounded up every living soul in or belonging to their family.

All the men, from the oldest to the youngest, were executed. His cousin was younger than him by a year, but his head still went on the chopping block because they weren’t going to leave a single male child alive. Just in case he might grow up and decide he wanted to come back for revenge. But James - he was out in the countryside when they came, hiding away with his friends because he didn’t want to come home.

The women were exiled, and on their way to the Scorned Lands, they found him. And just a week later, his mother realized she was pregnant. Initially, his grandmother, now the de facto head of the family, was overjoyed that a male heir to the Greyfield family still remained, with a potential spare on the way. But as his aunts and cousins and servants abandoned them, seeking refuge with warlords and rebels, that hope faded too. What use was an heir when there was nothing left to inherit?

James knew that. Had known that since his mother found him and told him exactly what his existence meant. But his sister? She still lived as though the Greyfield family could miraculously be reinstated any day now.

He picked the axe back up. And then set it back down. The sun was beginning to set over the treetops. He ought to check the traps before it was fully dark.

“At least answer me, James,” his sister sighed, resigned.

“I don’t care,” he said, tossing his head to get his bangs out of his eyes.

“James…”

He turned and walked into the forest.

He liked it in the forest. There were no people around to tell him what to do (He knew what he was supposed to do. He didn’t need someone to tell him.), and the soft rustle of the leaves, coupled with the chirps and calls of the animals in the forest, made him feel at peace. Sure, there were predators in the forest - he knew that well enough by now because sometimes, the rabbits in his traps would be half-eaten when he found them. But they left him alone, so he was more than happy to do the same.

The dense foliage blocked out most of the sunlight, but it was enough to navigate with. Dead, dry leaves crackled underfoot as he methodically checked his traps. Three rabbits today, more than enough for a meal.

As he raised his head from the last trap, he found himself nose-to-sternum with an older man, dressed in black. He stumbled backward, pressing his back against the tree trunk behind him.

“Who the heck are you?” James asked, shaky.

The man’s eyes curved into little crescents as he smiled. Though he wore a piece of cloth over the lower half of his face, his eyes were very expressive.

“Who do you think I am?” he said.

James narrowed his eyes. Ah.

“Here to kidnap me instead of just asking?” he snarked, picking himself off the ground.

“We would never force you to come with us,” the man replied. “You must come willingly, or they will not accept you.”

“Well, then tell your masters that I’m not willing,” he said, with an air of finality.

The man only watched him as he turned to head home.

The smell of smoke wafted to his nose as he left the forest. Was his sister already cooking? But no, there was no smell of food in that smoke. Alarmed, he began to walk faster.

The sunset is awfully bright today, he thought at first.

But the sun was behind him. A wash of red and yellow and orange a distance from him, and as he got closer, the crackle of burning wood and the dark, choking smoke. The woodshed was on fire. Was it the man? But there was no way that man could have run between the forest and the shed fast enough for that to be possible.

It wasn’t the only fire he could see. A dozen soldiers were surrounding the house, each carrying a torch. He was too far away to make out what insignias they wore, but it could be anybody. Quietly, he put the rabbits down in the grass. He skirted along the edge of the forest, hiding in the shadow of the flaming wreck that was the woodshed.

As he got closer, he could hear voices. The low growls of the soldier’s voices, punctuated by harsh laughter, were undercut by a quiet, intermittent whimper that he would have missed if he hadn’t been listening. There was a thump, a soft cry, and then more laughter. He pulled his trusty axe out of the stump he had left it in, hefting it over his shoulder.

He rounded the corner, behind the soldiers. Their voices were crystal clear to him, from here.

“Do you think the princeling will let us have a turn with her when we’re done?” one said, to more riotous laughter.

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His blood ran cold. His sister was inside the house. And someone these soldiers answered to was in there with her. Surely there was an unlocked window he could get to? As he thought about it, the fear in his stomach spooled up tight and morphed into something he thought might have been anger.

Then-

“No, please,” a small voice whimpered.

The anger in his gut flared into rage. It was his brother’s voice. Little Henry, who had never known life outside of this little cabin by the woods.

“Shut up, mutt,” a soldier barked, aiming a sharp kick at the curled-up form on the ground between them.

The flame of rage inside him roared into an inferno. Before he could stop himself, his feet were taking him forward, raising his axe over his head. As if splitting a log, the axe cleaved through leather armor and skin and muscle as easily as cutting grass. It caught against knobs of bone on its way down, stuttering. As the soldier fell to the ground, the others drew swords and levelled spears, their surprise overridden by their training.

He swung at the next closest soldier, his own movements a blur. Blood spurted from his arm, cleaved off at the elbow. James hadn’t even seen the axe cut through the soldier.

The axe slipped from his hands, its worn handle slick with blood. Without missing a beat, he dashed forward, scooped up his brother, and ran.

Ran and ran and ran until he saw the forest in front of him again, and the black-clad man staring at him with both shock and awe.

“You’re-” the man started.

“Can you help him?” James demanded, cutting the man off. “My brother. He’s hurt. Can you heal him?”

“I- yes. I’ve been trained in the healing arts, but-”

“Do it,” he said.

And then: “Please.”

Once he was sure Henry was safely in the man’s care, he turned and ran back to the house. The soldiers had fanned out in search of him, while the two wounded were being frantically patched up by another. I did that, he thought, almost giddily. I hurt them back for hurting my brother.

He could have chased down every single one of the soldiers and cut them to pieces, but there was something - someone - more important.

He vaulted over a windowsill, landing with a thud in the kitchen. He could hear his sister’s voice from here, filled with fear and anger and indignation. And then a man’s voice, cutting over hers. A scuffle, and then a scream.

He charged forward, feeling as though his rage had filled every bit of his body, spilling out through his skin. The door crashed down with one kick. He jerked to a halt.

There was a man standing in front of him, an ornate knife in his hand. It was covered with gold filigree and encrusted with large gemstones. Most importantly, though, its blade was soaked with blood, filling the crevices of its etching and dripping from the wickedly curved tip. The man himself looked like the knife, richly dressed, but cruel. His face, with sharp features, could have been handsome if it had not been snarling like a dog.

The man only had his attention for the barest of moments before he turned to see his sister. Her hair was bedraggled, clumps of it on the floor around her. Her hands were tied behind her, and her simple dress was in tatters. Blood welled up where the knife had cut through cloth and skin. And the cut on her throat, still gurgling and foaming with her lifeblood-

“I am going to kill you,” he growled at the man.

“You can’t!” the man laughed, raising both arms in a shrug. The movement splattered some blood across his cheek. “My father owns this piece of land, you see, and that includes everything in it.”

“You can’t own a free person-”

“Who says you can’t?” The man waved the golden knife in James’ face. “This says I can. Those men outside say I can. And if I want to own your sister, I can. She could have been my concubine, you know. But she spit in my face when I offered. So I said, ‘if you want to act like a bitch, I’ll put you down like one’.” The man laughed again. “But it’s more like a piece of ham, with how I carved her up!”

Something inside him snapped.

His fists clenched, and then he was on the man. He was anger, he was fury itself. Kicking and clawing and punching and biting, bringing the man down and smearing his fancy gold-weave shirt with his sister’s blood that had pooled on the ground. He broke the man’s nose and felt no small measure of satisfaction as crimson sprayed. His hands moved of their own volition, striking the man on the face, on the chest, and on the forearms the man had raised to shield himself. He could feel bone fragmenting under his fists, splintering like a log under his axe. His muscles burned with exertion, his skin raw with the impacts, but he could not - would not - stop.

He was a hurricane, raining down blow after blow, fueled by grief and anger and all the emotions he could not name, could never name.

“G- guards!” the man was shouting, his voice shaking and pained.

It didn’t matter to James. He dug his fingers into the man’s neck as soldiers ran in through the doorway. One raised a spear, intent on running him through.

Time moved in slow motion. He saw the spear, just like he saw the shock on the soldier’s faces. Just as he felt himself raise his right fist, and slam it down against the man’s face. He saw, in slow motion, bone shatter and cave. The force from the point of contact, rippling through skin and bone, outwards and outwards until the cap of his skull flew across the room, followed by a shower of pinkish mush. The soldier behind him froze.

Time resumed its pace.

James felt… nothing. He looked down at his hands, completely unblemished but lightly glowing with something he didn’t understand, and then down at the mess that had been the man’s head. His fingers had dug deep gouges in the man’s neck too. He wiped the brain matter from his cheek, noting the sharp scent of iron on his hand.

“What the fuck,” a soldier whispered.

Another outright dropped his sword. It clanged on the ground, ringing through the otherwise silent room.

Then there was a flash of light, a gust of wind, and a voice said, “James.”

He turned around. There was a man in black robes in the midst of the soldiers, his face hidden in the shadows cast by the deep cowl of his hood. The air felt a few degrees colder, especially as James was sure the man was staring straight at him. Then, the man lifted his left hand and snapped his fingers.

The soldier’s heads burst like ripe melons.

Bodies thudded to the ground as James gaped at the man, who cocked his head to the side. Just then, the man from the forest stumbled into the room, Henry still in his arms.

“Master,” he gasped, “the child-”

The hooded man raised a hand to silence him.

Turning back to James, he said, with a voice like gravel, “There’s a choice for you today.” He pointed at James, at his hands. “You just saw what you could do with the power inside you. There is a place for you with us, if you wish to hone it.”

“W- what power?” he asked, feeling his hands begin to shake.

The man from the forest, green-tinted light still pouring from him to surround Henry’s still body, gestured helplessly at him.

“Do you really think a child could beat up a grown man if, if there wasn’t something else at play?” he asked incredulously.

“I was… angry?” James replied. He didn’t have the magical powers of healing like the man in the forest, or the teleportation-head-explosion power of the hooded man. What power?

“Not that kind of power, though you can learn it if you wish.” The hooded man’s answer was as cryptic as he seemed. “There are many different kinds, after all. Will you come?”

His mind was a jumble. He felt like he had more questions than answers, now. He thought about his brother, and then turned to look at his sister’s body, cooling on the ground behind him. Power…

“Can this-” he choked out. “Could this power have protected them?”

The hooded man inclined his head in affirmation.

James felt a strange burning in his eyes, something that he realized belatedly were tears. He hurriedly swiped at them, choking down the upswell of guilt and anger that followed. If he had gone with them the first time they had asked, would his family still be alive?

“My brother,” he breathed. “Will he be alright?”

The man from the forest - most likely a disciple - looked at him with pity. “He will live. However, unless an Elder or a disciple who specializes in the healing arts helps, he might never fully recover.”

James turned to the hooded man, beseeching.

“Aren’t you an Elder?”

“I only know how to take life, not how to preserve it,” the man replied.

“Then what do I have to do to get someone to help him?” James pleaded. Then stopped. It was a pointless question. There was something they wanted from him, and something they could offer him.

“If I go with you to be ‘trained’,” James said, hesitantly, “will someone heal him?”

Another nod.

James stood on shaky legs, eyes darting between the two black-clad men and the still bodies of his brother and his sister.

“I’d like to bury her before we leave,” he said, feeling a numbness creeping over him.

The hooded man flicked a hand at the disciple, who turned to leave.

“Wait!” James called. “Can you- can they make him forget what happened today? Make him forget that this - all this - ever happened.”

“Memory manipulation is not so precise,” the disciple called back. “If he forgets today, he’ll forget everything before today, including you! And the girl!”

“That’s fine. If Henry doesn’t have to live with the memory of today, it will be worth it.”

The disciple nodded and disappeared into the night.

The hooded man - the Elder - watched James struggle to move his sister’s body. He watched James dig a shallow pit in the back garden, between flower bushes and young trees. He watched James wrap up her body in a pale pink blanket, watched him braid her hair the best he could. Watched him roll the body into the grave, and then handful by handful of dirt, covered it up until all that remained was a mound of soil.

“I think I’m ready to go now,” James said, eyes distant.

The Elder appeared in front of him, silent. Then, he grabbed James’ arm, and then time and space began to warp around them.

They became a blur of light and shadow, as the garden faded into black.