KAEL'S FATE

The morning light seemed more piercing than normal, the eyes soot seemed shallow. It was again Kael’s birth and chances felt bleak. He rummaged and checked, “this year for sure, I know”.

The cold slabs beneath his bare feet wept, the fear shivered him. His height had peaked, his age was ripe, and the scar burned onto his forehead at birth labelled. “I’m Vaelor, but why first?” Kael pondered entering his family’s keep.

His older sister sat sipping stew by the home shrine, warmth for her and was comfort before he knew. The fire was always different now. Not the commune he once saw, but now a place to feel the outsider they wished.

“Where’s brother, Cara?” asked Kael.

“With mother and father, they’re waiting for you. Gerem starts his path today,” she replied, handing him a bowl. “The loafs off, but it’s a decent stew.”

Watching his sister have another sip, Kael embraced the taste and warmth with a fill of satisfaction. His fingers shaking with dread now succumb to the warmth. The clutch of the bowl lured with safety, the fire hit with the nostalgia of childhood. Then a crack, a spark of fire stung his gripping fist. The feeling returned as quick as it lifted. Here was fear, safety a trick and Vaelor’s magic a tool at his expense.

“And will you be seeing off brother on his journey?” he asked, deciding if you could chance another flee.

“Will I be accompanying you to the ritual gathering?” scoffed Cara, “Obviously, mother made that clear. They don’t want you to miss your brother’s pilgrimage. It can take years to become a Reaper Priest,” she continued.

Kael stared at his bowl, his relief on hold. “How long do you think until he finds his Wanderer?” he asked, deciding to neck the remaining stew.

“As long as he needs. Hurry up, we best be going,” replied Cara, grabbing the empty bowl from his hand.

Upon readying, they left and the streets of Vaelvos were quiet. The road to the temple and the Supreme Prophet’s holdings were lit with candlelight. The steep buildings made of volcanic rock blocked the sun’s gaze within the narrow passages. The sound of chanting had started, “Vae-vox vae! Vae-vox vae! Vae-vox vae!”. The ritual had begun.

“Why didn’t I just run?” thought Kael. He knew this couldn’t be a coincidence and time wasn’t on his side. He had a chance before, but without a Priest’s protection he wouldn’t survive the Bloodless which roamed the land.

“It seems my only exit is Bloodtaking or death,” his mind accepts as it continues to spiral in thought. The darkness, the fear, the familiar. It had led to this.

Then Kael knew. The night he ran, the Wanderer he saw within the black moat. Standing amongst the corrupted water, full of black and Bloodless dead. “It predicted this. I have a Tear of Vaelor. It left this for me. Will it give me power over wilt like the Priests and Prophets?” he pondered.

“Keep going, there isn’t Bloodless here!” snapped Cara, shoving him forward.

The street opened to the grandness of the ritual grounds. Volcanic black and shaped like the white shrine, the Vaelor temple overshadowed the ceremonial fountain. With a raised altar and a doorway leading in to the Supreme Prophet’s inner sanctum, it was the heart of Vaelor and as old as the dark foundation.

Their parents turned to their arrival with cheers and smiles. Their clothes were of leather and wool, embroiled with the family crest, not the green orchid from centuries past, but touched by Vaelor and washed with black.

“Vae-vox vae! Vae-vox vae! Vae-vox vae! Vae-vox vae!” they all lipped as the chanting continued.

Looking upfront he saw his brother and two other Vaelorians with empty staffs kneeling before the fountain and temple dawning their Reaper Priest armour of blackened iron. “Maybe this is just a pilgrimage blessing?” hoped Kael.

“Feel proud of your brother, Kael. Be grateful for this on your day of birth,” his mother remarked.

The feeling of uneasiness overtook him. “I forgot something,” whimpered Kael before his father’s grip halted his leave.

“With service to Vaelor you earn your second chance. You have yours. Be witness to your brother’s salvation.”

The chanting got louder and louder, the echo roared with fury and power. “Vae-vox vae! Vae-vox vae! Vae-vox vae!”.

The noise of metal clanging pierced the crowd, bringing a sudden silence. The Supreme Prophet emerged. Old and frail, his ware was deep black and a blood red shroud which reached from his head to his waist concealed his face. Fastened by black iron braces, the chest strap held a plate with the mark of Vaelor, the three spiral flame.

His slow limped pace was aided by his staff, a trident which spiraled with three Tears of Vaelor. All power, control and fire, their smooth white triangle surfaces glistened with a deep red. The clang of his staff against the cold volcanic rock seized with a final clink as he met the altar, and with it Supreme Prophet Frol cleared his throat and spoke.

“Vox Vaedom. We bleed with wilt through Vaelor’s granted power, as we kneel in his domain, your white chance can be given. East, South and West. Gerem, Qris and Jova. Embark on this right of salvation and blood take for dominion. For this, I give you my blessing with the fill of your quill.”

The sound of a man’s screams ripples through the crowd, kicking and spitting to break free from the Bloodguard’s cold iron grip as he is dragged to the ceremonial fountain. Kael had seen it countless times before, but this was different. He knew, and the terror had started to creep, as did the Prophet towards the ceremonial fountain’s bowl.

He looked different, not Vaelorian but darker skin and slender. His head long and face pointed. He was from elsewhere.

“King Lewus of the arms wake has finally submitted to Vaelor and his protection, and with it, this tribute. Where this man is from is far beyond Vaelor’s arm, far beyond the sea and past the stone jungle. He calls home Ziaro and his ship wrecked within Vaelor’s reach. He is being given salvation. Know bloodless they do not.”

The Bloodguards pinned the Ziaron’s chest against the fountain’s bowl. He continued to scream and spit. His language was not that of the ancient word and every plea feathered against the crowd.

With no chuckle, no smile, and only the feel of the tight pull of his collar, Kael turned his head to his mother’s whispering.

“We have our salvation, here I’ll say. Vox Vae” she hissed with a whisper while her hand ran over her belly.

Kael never noticed, but now it was real. Tribute and he was the first. He scanned for retreat; he gripped his pockets as the Prophet’s hands cuffed the Ziaron’s face.

“With a last breath, Vaelor takes his first,” Prophet Frol proclaims before slitting the Ziaron throat and letting the bowl run with blood. The shiver he embraced, cradling, and with his power, the Ziaron turned white with death and slumped to the ground.

“And with my quill, your path is written,” continued Frol, holding his staff’s point above the bowl. He let a drip. A drip of night reached. It drew and the blood’s red turned black. The bowl was now Bloodless and with it, the Prophet gave his new Priest candidates a rise.

“Take your staff’s sip. Remind, teach and show those who forgot. This is Vaedom, this is hell, serve with white’s earn. Serve salvation.”

Prophet Frol’s staff pierces the chest of the dead Ziaron. With it, Gerem and the other Priest candidates dampen their staff’s quill within the Bloodless bowl.

“Find your Wanderer, find your power, and then return to me with your own,” ordered Frol, hovering his staff above the lifeless body of the Ziaron.

“With control through power, the Bloodless will yield!” and in an instant the dead Ziaron stood, emotionless, eyes open, revealing its deep black gaze. The windows of the corruption stared straight at Kael, and then he knew. It was too late.

“It seems our guest is entranced,” cackled Frol before turning and scanning in the direction of its gaze.

With a point of his staff, the controlled Bloodtaker starts pacing towards Kael, it’s eye’s fixed.

“Sept Trey, Gerem must be blessed,” remarked Frol with intrigue, stamping his staff and halting the Bloodtaker’s advance.

“It’s the day of our 3rd born’s birth, your Supreme,” blurts his mother.

“Then Vaelor is with you. Vaedom will reward,” he responds, leaning and moving forward to get a better look.

“You, boy. Come forward!” Frol orders.

Legs solid with fear, a sudden shove from his parents forces Kael into the Prophet’s embrace.

“You’re marked with relief. Come, if only I knew before. Have your sip,” said Frol as he grips Kael’s wrist and starts leading him towards the ceremonial fountain.

“I.. I.. I’m still unprimed,” pleads Kael, stuttering and resisting the Prophet’s grandfatherly grip.

“Nonsense, how old?” Frol asks, looking at his mother.

“19 cycles your Supreme,” she answers, holding back a burst of joy.

Moving his hold from his wrist to his shoulder, the Prophet sighs.

“You’re tall, you’re strong, and you’re going to save your family through your own salvation. What’s your name, boy?”

“Kael,” he nervously replies, eyes fixed on the Bloodless dead standing in their shadow.

“Don’t be afraid, brother,” shouts Gerem. “You’ll be one of my Bloodtaker’s,” he assures.

Unconvinced and with the Prophet’s touch, he turns white with terror.

“Sit with me, boy,” requests Frol as he attempts to comfort, perching himself at the side of the fountain. Lost in meaning, Kael agrees.

“Do you know why all 3rd born are granted relief?” quizzed Frol.

“They have already served your Supreme,” answered Kael.

Frol lets out a subtle smirk.

“Yes, and like how Vaelor was granted this domain for the punished. Vaelor chose you for repassage. Your birth was the tribute for your parent’s salvation. But forever the scales fill with wilt, and the balance forever favours darkness and death. You will have a new life, but first serve salvation, serve Vaedom, serve Vaelor.”

Removing his clutched grip from his pockets, Kael looks at the Prophet.

“And what about my tribute?” he responds, opening his palm to reveal his Tear of Vaelor.

Frol jolts back in disbelief, bewildered he stands. Eyes fixed, it was not pearl white but a mirror; yet the light reflected with the deep red of power.

“Where did you get it?” asked Frol, laying his staff down, entranced by his own reflection.

Speechless, Kael locks his grip and pulls away from his grasp.

“Let me see, boy!” Frol snaps in fury.

“A Wanderer gifted it at the black moat. It was left for me, maybe to give to Gerem. But it was a gift, your Supreme,” pleads Kael, falling to his knees. The fear turning to tears.

“For your Prophet, not Gerem, and most certainly not you!” Frol’s roar peaked, frustratingly tugging at Kael’s clutched fist.

“Do you want to burn, boy? Guards, hold him!” he orders as he reaches for his staff.

“NO!” screams Kael in horror, and within an instant the Bloodtaker bursts into frantic motion and throws itself at the Supreme Prophet. Seeing his opportunity to flee, he bolts through the crowd.

The Bloodguards pull the Bloodtaker from Frol and shield. Unable to control, unable to move, unable to order as the Bloodtaker turns on the crowd.

Kael looks back over his shoulder, panting and sweating his parent’s calls and pleas for him to return are replaced with screams of agony as the Bloodtaker tares in to them. Spreading and corrupting, the crowd disperses in a panic.

The Streets of Vaelvos now echoed with distant screams. He had to find a way out, and the black moat was the only obstacle.

Avoiding and hiding, the Priests and guards of the city’s gates rushed past to take back control of the city. In a stroke of luck, leaving the draw bridge vacant and lowered.

He ran and ran without looking back; it wasn’t the Supreme Prophet or his guards, or even his Bloodtaker’s he was worried about, but the Bloodless which roamed the land.

“Keep moving,” he thought, “if I stop, they’ll catch me.”

The sun was setting behind him, and nowhere felt safe. Moving through the brush, he decided to make sanctuary in a tree for the night.

Gripping a branch, the sound of approaching footsteps sent shivers through him. Frozen, Kael turned his head to a tall, shrouded figure. Their cloak was worn with thousands of years, the hood revealing the face of a Wanderer. Black eyes and grey, pale, wilted skin. With a Tear of Vaelor embedded in its forehead, he reached for his and instantly an omnipresent voice filled his thoughts.

“Listen, I am here. Continue east, I am here. Follow wind, I am here. Return Drule, I am here,” said the voice.

“I don’t understand. Why did you gift me this Tear?” questioned Kael.

“Mirrored elsewhere, I am here. Drifting sleep, I am here. Return Drule, I am here,” answered the voice.

“Return Drule?” he wondered, before being interrupted by a sudden slash behind the Wanderer. Its head drops and rolls to the ground, its body collapses, revealing Gerem with a sword at hand.

“Gerem?!” shouts Kael.

“Bear witness, brother. I have you to thank,” said Gerem, kneeling down with his blade, prying the Tear of Vaelor from its forehead.

“I’m not going back, Gerem. I’ll run if you try to make me,” sobbed Kael.

“I’m a Priest,” reminded Gerem as he fastens the Tear to the top of his staff. “You’re 3rd born. I have to serve salvation, brother,” he continued, pointing his staff’s quill at Kael.

A tear fills Kael’s eye. “And what of mother, father and sister?” he asked.

“Bloodless, now Bloodtaking. They’re probably being nailed with iron as we speak. The Supreme Prophet’s red and he has assured they’ll Bloodtake for me,” relayed Gerem, standing firm, proud, and his jaw raised.

“I have the gift from this Wanderer,” informs Kael, scanning for his escape route, urging himself to run.

“They’re Bloodless, lost for thousand of years, wandering. This Tear of Vaelor is what separates them from the feral hordes we aim to save and control. This was a gift,” professes Gerem.

“It spoke to me through it, it told me to head east and follow the wind,” informs Kael. Holding back his own tears of terror, he reveals his Tear of Vaelor.

“By order from the Supreme Prophet, I am to seize it and bring it to him, but Vaelor’s order outweighs any Prophet or Priest. You heard him, and this is evident,” proclaims Gerem.

Kael wipes his tears and slumps against the tree.

“Asides, ripe with growth?” smirks Gerem, “I’m sure you still have a few inches to go.”

Kael lifts his head and shares a smile before leaping forward towards his brother’s embrace, relieved.

“I’ll need a Reaper Priests protection,” asked Kael, over joyed and filling with purpose.

“The Prophet has sent me east, and now so has Vaelor. We’ll head east to Agnom port and ride a Bloodtaker drift to the way of the wind,” replied Gerem, sheathing his sword.

“Drift where, Gerem?” questioned Kael with hope of adventure.

“Requis.”