I ran over uneven dirt paths littered with charred splinters and cloth until I came across a riderless horse, one of many scattered from the stable on the outskirts of the city. Its dark brown skin made its long black mane made it seem more ominous, more chaotic. I was never an equestrian, but I walked out with hands out in front of me to mollify it as it reared up onto its hind legs, crying out into the night. I attempted to step closer, and it neighed, rearing up and shying away again. I realized that I had my knife laid bare in my hands, and the animal was only focused on the blade in front of him. I had to admit, on a night like this, I would be much the same. The sounds of blades still rang in my ears, in my mind. Looking into his eyes, I realized that he was much the same. I gently slid my knife into my belt, keeping my free hand out in between us, and found that as my hand slid against the coin pouch in my belt, I still had the money from mill. I raised my hand once again, making soothing noises, trying to calm it, stop it from rearing and screaming. The Grims would be here, and I wished to leave as unnoticed as possible. Just as I was starting to think if this was worth the effort, the horse began to calm, shaking its head but slowly making its way toward me. I kept my hands out, at watched completely surprised and shaken as it slowly moved to me. As it nuzzled its face against my hand, I froze, completely confused. That was too easy, as if it was almost natural. I couldn't believe I had just gotten this horse to come to me of its own free will, just with outstretched hands and shushing noises. I gently stroked its head and mane, moving to its flank, moving my hand along its side. For some reason, being with this horse right now felt natural, easy, simple. And calming. I reached up, and somewhat awkwardly slung myself up onto his back, his dark eyes watching me with something I could almost imagine as amusement. I sat and moved my hand up its neck, admiring the soft hair of its mane. I noticed for the first time that it had soft silver spots in its eyes, almost invisible until you were right next to them.

"Stallion, " I said quietly, leaning into the horse's neck, "take me home."

It flashed its mane against my face and skin, hairs tickling my chin and nose making me shake my own head a give a soft huff through my nose. There was a slight second of pause, the feeling of its muscles moving beneath me, and we were off. It sped through the night as fast as the lights from the stars above sped through the shadows, its powerful muscles roiling beneath me. I had never felt something quite like this, the muscles moving beneath me gave me thoughts of this being akin to riding the sea- large waves moving fluidly and tumultuously beneath you, endless and strong- or so I fancied. We sped beneath the night stars as one of the shadows. It was only halfway back home that it came to me that this fey stallion had understood everything I had said.

The whole ride I spent either gazing distantly or testing our synergy. I would see a shadow and lean towards it to see it better, arms still around the stallions neck to find us moving like a stream towards the shadow, yet invariably staying on the path home. The stallion and I stayed from the main road of the gate, traveling through hand and half tall weeds and grasses. The grounds had always felt soft and uneven under foot, but on this horse it was if all we rode upon was air. I wasn't sure how he knew where we were going until I found myself leaning towards home and him following my lead. After a while I gave the horse lead, and rode in silent complacency, musing. Our home was not far, but I had never felt more distant.

At the Founding of Kara, the Queen was driven mad by the Caster who, they claimed, killed her King and Husband with but a spell and a wraith in the night. Wroth, she disdained all sorcery, necromancy, and any other magic beyond the means of a Mage. The only Mages in the Kara Kingdom are those bred by the family of the murderer. The Caster was found, and his bastard sons and bastard daughters were indentured to the service of the Kingdom as to fit eternity. The lowest of the royal houses, or for that matter the shunned or exiled were permitted only to breed with the the descents of the slaves of the Caster. Though the names of the Caster and the Queen have long been forgotten, the deeds are not. The Caster was called Kingslayer, and his descendants took his namesake for his own- Crownsbane. To often those of the oppressed house of Crownsbane lives up to their namesake, and Casters bound by either words or steel are still more powerful than both. Over the next two and a half centuries they tried in the most cunning of ways to overthrow the crown and kingdom. After their failures became too frequent and too close to success, King Ridigar ordered the Blood Bathers to bind their soul and the soul of all those of the likeliness to the Crown- and they took him at his word. They used Blood Magic and soul bending, the most arcane and unruly - and treacherous- of spells. They used the magic to bind the souls of the Descendants of the Kingslayer to the Crown and it's blood- whoever wore the Crown controlled the people beneath. It is said the Crown can sense all the Casters beneath its reign, and that it can even control and bend their will. Some even go so far as to say that it can use the life of a Crownsbane in exchange for that of the Royal family, but this power was beyond the Blood Bathers. Nevertheless, in the process of the binding of blood and souls, some of the thralls of the Crownsbane escaped. It is unknown if they were aided or otherwise, though in the end the matter held no import as all those of the Blood Bathers guild were hunted down and slaughtered in years of blood raids and war. What living thralls were left were never found. They had fled far into the forest, and it is said that the females bore the children of the Blood Bathers. They fled far into the north forest that grew along the coast, toward the war desert. Though they are not true Blood Bathers, all of them long gone, the spawn of these children of a broken ritual created people in blessings beyond human. They are the reason that there is no civilization with the north wood, and why Kara never grew its kingdom beyond the river. The Goblona Goblins gave their utmost resentment towards Kara and her rulers for forcing their people to leave their forest home, though they have plenty of wood left. Since the Blood Bathers Age, all of their magic and those of their like have been banned from Kara- now the only sort they allow are those enchantments from the Casters if Crownsbane and the magic of Crownsbane itself, in addition to the ever present Grims. And the Crown of Kara was named well, so well the namesake was added to its throne- The BloodCrown. It is said that those who would defy the BloodThrone will pay with more than their lives, but the cost always comes in soul and blood.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

I am now one of those people. A soul eater, disdained only less by the BloodCrown because the history was easier to kill.

The stallion beneath me reared and whined petulantly, and I broke my reverie to look up at the house in front of me. My own. I was still unprepared, my dark musings of the lost dragging me to unawares. I slid off the stallion with a prayer that Sariya had long since left with a wagon from the village off to the town. She loved her children whole, and I knew she would leave to make sure we were in good health. And yet I only wanted her to be gone so I could leave free of letting my sights rest upon her face - it was a burden I couldn't bear. As if I had failed her by becoming who I was after all she had done for me, for I knew that she could truly do no more. I couldn't face her, for just as I did not tell her of what happened the night the bear died, I could no more explain to her why I was leaving. The pain was overbearing even now. I walked to the front door, and pushed it open slowly, the door whining open on old hinges into the dark hallway. For a moment I remained stagnant in the doorway, but was urged on by a need to leave, and with haste. Yet walking through the house for what I knew to be the last time, I could not help but feel somewhat irresolute. The thought itself was in vain, for none of my adopted family could help me, and even my own brother pushed me away. No matter how ostracized I may have felt at that moment, I knew there was no other choice because there was nowhere for me to go. I walked slowly up the stairs, hands sliding against the wails and wood as if trying to engrave and imprint the feel into my skin. I arrived at my room, found the door ajar, and quietly walked inside. For the first time that day since that morning, I felt the strain of the recent chaotic events upon my wounds. I touched my wrappings, sliding my hand beneath my shirt to find them dampened with blood. I was surprised that it had bled as little as it did, and was more than a little shocked at my rate of healing. I walked over to the chest on the far side of the room, near my bed, and rifled within. I grabbed linen and wool shirts, a thicker wool tunic for colder nights, and linen pants as well. I grabbed two pairs of those, and stuffed all into a clean hunting sack beneath my bed. I owned not a single cloak, but grabbed a self made hide strip to hold my knife and sling, and another pouch tied into a loop added into the belt full of rocks smooth and round for the sling that I had collected over the years from the pond. As I was about to take my leave, I saw my spear half-haft and blade propped against the wall, as if some grave and cruel jest at my expense. I stared at it, the luster I saw every time I looked at the dull wood now lost with the morbid sentiment that i had come to associate it with.

My brother.

I stared at it at length, some introspective conflict within me causing me to become once again stagnant. In the end, for some arbitrary reason, I grabbed the half-spear almost belligerently, spun on heel, and walked out significantly faster than I came in. With the spear in one hand, and the sack slung over my other shoulder, I walked out into the field behind our house, walked beneath the purple flower tree, though its hue was obscure in the dark, and grabbed a length of twine. I walked back out, and closed the door softly behind me on my way out. I stayed in constant motion, no longer giving myself the option to remain indecisive, and walked to the stallion placing my sack upon the ground beside it. I tied the sack up with the twine, then used the excess to make a strap about myself and the twine to be worn easily about my back as I rode. On my way out of the field, I had grabbed a fistful of grain, and fed it to the horse now. Though it became evident that this was far from it most appealing meal, it ate rather quickly and for this i was grateful. I gently stroked its neck with one hand, staring of into the night shadows before slinging my spear through an adequate loop in my belt, though a bit snug, and climbed far from gracefully onto the stallions back. I stared at my home once more, the only thing more morose than my emotions was the stallion standing still to let them fester. Eventually it tossed its head, its mane tickling my face, and neighed softly in a way the I could swear was almost consolidating. I slowly peeled my eyes from the bricks and moss that made up my home, and turned to face the direction the the stallion now had us going. I leaned in close to him, the side of my face pressed gently onto his broad neck, and with a soft word willed it to take me where it would. He obliged, and began to gallop at an increasing pace. I could not help but look back at my only home once more, burn it into my mind before the shadows swallowed it.

I didn't know what to feel as the wind from our pace pulled too fast at me for my eyes to let out a tear.