Chapter Text
With dragons crying in the air, flames bursting from their throats, smoke rising from their nostrils, the Sozubian clan had fallen. Mothers and fathers, old and young, noble and common; all dead, lying on the rain-softened ground, mouths open in what would be screams of terror.
In a small hut, messily built of sticks and clay, sat a young girl, barely eleven-years-old, knees pulled up her chest, dagger gripped tightly in one hand. Her mother and father, slain moments ago by a tall, broad-shouldered man with a crazed look in his eyes, built this hut when she was but a child, in hopes that she would let her imagination run there, rather than in the longhouse where the chief and chieftess resided.
Now, however, in the midst of the night, surrounded by barbarians and dragon shifters alike, she finds neither solace nor safety within the isolated walls.
She wasn’t a stranger to the stories of barbarians. The older children in her clan often told stories of how savage they were. How they’d taken down whole kingdoms, executed whole tribes. Much like tonight. They told stories of their brutal ways; the battle of all battles, where their younglings would engage in a battle to the death to decide the next chief. There was no order in the barbarian tribe, no laws, no God to worship—pure, unadulterated chaos.
It was said that long ago, the first barbarian chief had made a pact with the God of fire, Ixbreus, asking for the innate ability to manipulate fire in return for he and his tribe’s devotion. Ixbreus had declined, stating that the power had already been given to another empire, and he didn’t trust that the barbarians could keep peace with them. Instead, Ixbreus granted them the capacity to create explosions with just a flick of their hands.
For tens of years, the barbarians held up their side of the pact. They brought sacrifices to Ixbreus—animals, as the God did not enjoy taking the lives of humans, they poured him glasses of wine at every toast, they worshipped him as if their life depended on it. They grew powerful, overtaking small villages at first, before moving to clans and tribes. For years, they pillaged, destroyed, and plundered; taking what they wanted, when they wanted.
Ixbreus was not fazed by this. Though he did not enjoy killing humans, he was not going to dictate what his followers could and could not do. He turned a cold shoulder on the innocent people that died to the barbarians hands, only appearing when the chief came bearing gifts. It wasn’t until the battle of all battles came to light, that Ixbreus was once again interested in the barbarians. He thought it stupid, to kill those of your own kind.
Of what happened next, many stories have been told. Some say that Ixbreus showed his face at the skirmish, demanding they stop immediately. When the chief had refused, Ixbreus struck him with a lick of hellfire flame, burning him to ashes in a mere instant. The God had retracted the pact, sucking the fire from each barbarian's soul, one-by-one. Others say that Ixbreus had grown tired of the barbarians brash nature, breaking the pact just for his own sake. The chief grew mad without his explosive aptness, and started a coup against the God, resulting in the genocide of the tribe. Most are unsure of what happened, choosing instead to create their own adaptations.
Eventually, the sun rises, peeking in through the cracks of the hut, casting rays of light against the girl's face. She awakes with a start, unsure of how she was able to fall asleep in the first place. The dagger hangs loosely in her hand, her cheek hot from being pressed against her kneecap through the night. She lifts her head slowly, traces of fear still leaking into her veins.
She’s unsure of what to do. Torn between staying hidden and the risk of getting murdered like the rest of her clan, her eyes well up with tears. Faces of her kin flash through her mind: mother, father, aunts and uncles, cousins. All of them dead, killed in front of her. She was lucky to escape. Her limbs itch to move, tingle with the urge to do something.
All semblance of order gone from her thoughts, she stands and kicks the door open. Before her, is a scene that she will never forget, no matter how hard she tries. Buildings she’d known and loved, burnt to the ground, blood splattered across the few remaining walls. Bodies strewn across the ground, littering the path she walks. She pays no mind to them, dagger hanging at her side as she stumbles to what used to be her home.
The longhouse, where, alongside the chief and chieftess, she and her parents dwelled, is now a mere fragment of what it once was. There are walls missing, either knocked down by force or fallen because of fire damage. The straw roof has been burned, leaving the top uncovered and vulnerable. Though, she supposes that doesn’t matter. There’s no one to attack anymore. She drags her feet along, forcing the fear into a little ball and swallowing it as she walks through the entrance.
The inside, to her horror, is perfectly intact. Save for a few piles of debris, the flowers still hang on the wall, pelts still lay on the ground, doors to bedrooms wait to be opened.
She trudges past her own room, choosing to stand outside the door of her mother and fathers for a long moment. She almost knocks on the door. She pushes it open, not bothering to shut it behind her. In the bed, her parents, bloodied and cold. She sits on the chest at the end of the bed and stares at their frozen faces. Their hands are interlaced, eyes permanently staring into the others.
“I am sorry I have forsaken you,” she whispers into the void of silence. She hesitates to speak again, like she’s waiting for them to spring up and tell her it was all a training exercise. “I ran, like a coward. I should have stayed and protected you, like I was trained to do.”
She stands and walks to the side of the bed, making her footsteps light. Her mother lays before her, beautiful as always. She reaches forward, fingers coming into contact with rigid skin as she strokes her mothers face.
“I will avenge you, mother. I swear by it.” She retracts her hand, bringing a dagger to it and cutting down the middle. She places her bloodied hand on her mothers chest; a blood oath. She holds her hand out in front of her, silently walking to the other side, where her father lays. She places her hand on his chest as well, swallowing hard.
She leans down and presses a kiss to his forward, then closes their eyes out of respect.
As she straightens, a clatter sounds outside of the building. Her ears perk, head snapping towards the door. Quickly, she rips a piece of fabric off of her fathers tunic, wrapping it around her hand to stop the bleeding. She grips her dagger tightly, taking light steps towards the door.
Are the barbarians back? Did they come back to kill off any survivors? As she nears closer to the large doorway, now missing a door, she begins to hear mumbles of conversation.
With a deep breath, and the thought of her parents in the back of her mind, she charges from the building with a cry, dagger raised high, ready to attack. Before she takes two steps, the dagger is struck from her hand, clattering to the ground with a thud. She follows quickly, a strike of pain hitting her ribs. She lands in the mud, hand throbbing as it hits the ground in an attempt to lighten the fall.
“Hitoshi, stop.” A rumbling voice calls, an unfamiliar accent to it. She squeezes her eyes shut, sucking her teeth to stop the sob that bubbles in her throat. “It’s a child.”
There’s a pause, a moment of tense silence, and then footsteps squelching in the mud. They stop just in front of her. Her fingers twitch, aching to reach for her dagger and attack again. She knows she won’t win.
“We aren’t going to harm you,” the man says again. There’s a shift of fabric and she realizes he’s crouching in front of her. “What happened to your people?”
She peels her eyes open, coming face-to-face with a scruffy looking man. There's a slight stubble across his face, like he hasn’t had time to shave for the past week. His hair is unruly, even pulled back with a hair band, curls poking out in every direction. Her gaze shifts from him to his companion, a younger man, the same unruly hair, but a purple color. Both of their eyes are tired, mouths pressed into thin lines.
“We can help you if you tell us what happened,” the purple haired one—Hitoshi, she thinks she heard—says, taking a few steps closer. His hands buzz with a purple aura, the same color as his hair. Her skin tingles at the magical energy in the air. She realizes both of them have magic within them.
“Barbarians,” she grits out, meeting the older man’s eyes again. Something flashes across his eyes and glances back at his friend, who nods. “They ambushed us. We didn’t have time to fight back. They had dragon shifters—they burnt down our houses, killed my people, stole everything.” She pauses, nostrils flaring as she tries not to cry. Her hand throbs again and she winces, shifting so she can cradle it to her chest without falling back.
“Is your hand alright?” When she doesn’t answer, the older man sighs through his nose. “What’s your name?” Again, she stays quiet. “I can help you. I’m a healer. My name is Shouta, and that’s my son Hitoshi. Will you let us help you?”
She can’t decide who to look at, heading bobbing from Hitoshi to Shouta. Tentatively, she reaches her hand out to him. The fabric is now soaked in blood. He nods and falls forward, soaking his pants in the mud. He unwraps her hand slowly, careful not to cause anymore pain. He inspects the wound for only a second. She watches stray hairs start to levitate, his eyes start to glow. A bandage comes from behind him, wrapping around her hand, and in a matter of seconds, the pain is gone. He pulls away from her, returning to normal, and upon examination, the wound is gone, leaving behind only a faint scar.
Her eyes widen with fascination. She turns her hand over, inspecting the back as well. When she looks back up, Shouta is staring at her with a small smile.
“We’re headed to the kingdom Brikya,” he says gently. “Would you like to come with us?”
“Dad.” Hitoshi takes a step forward, his jaw set, eyes narrowed. He sounds bristled, like doesn’t quite trust her. “You can’t keep picking strays. What if she’s dangerous?” His mumbled question only confirms her suspicions.
Shouta’s jaw ticks, looking over his shoulder. “I seem to recall you were a stray not too long ago.”
With that, Hitoshi sighs and lets his shoulders slump. Shouta meets your eyes again and his eyes soften. “If you choose to come with us,” he starts, “I can provide you with a home. You will have to earn your keep, but it will be a home nonetheless.”
There’s a stirring feeling in her stomach. Trust, she thinks vaguely. The look in his eyes is one that she can trust. Hesitantly—meekly—she nods once.
Without another word, Shouta pushes himself off the ground and brushes the mud off of his knees. He then reaches a hand out to her. She takes it, this time with no hesitation.
“There’s a days travel left,” Hitoshi blurts, clearing his throat awkwardly. “You should put some boots on.”
Insecurity flooding her system, she looks down at her bare feet, covered in mud. She wiggles her toes in the mud, brows pinching together. “I don’t . . .” she trails off, embarrassed to say she doesn’t have any.
Shouts must catch on, because he makes a grunting sound and shifts. “Conjure her some boots. And a bag” She shyly looks up and sighs. “Do you have anything you’d like to bring with you?”
She nods immediately, suddenly remembering all of her treasures that sit in her room. Shouta nods his head and she turns on her heel, heading back into the longhouse. She goes to her room first, grabbing a few articles of clothing and a bow her father had gifted her on her tenth birthday. She doesn’t have arrows anymore, but she’s sure she can find some on her travels. She walks out of her room, pausing and glancing to her parents room. She pads down the hallway and enters the room. This is the last time she’ll ever see them, she thinks. She walks to her mother and pauses before her eyes drift the necklace around her slender neck. She sighs, then reaches forward and takes it, placing it over her own head and tucking it under her shirt.
She’s almost surprised to see the two men still outside. In his hands, Hitoshi holds a pair of boots and a bag. He hands them to her silently, watching her carefully as she pulls the boots on and tucks her things in the bag. She puts the bow over her head, letting it sit on her shoulders.
“You have no arrows,” Hitoshi notes, eyes glued to the wooden bow on her back. “Why do you bring a bow if you have no arrows?”
Her mouth opens, but closes when she comes up with no answer. She looks down to the ground again, staring at the brown leather encasing her feet.
“We’ll find some,” Shouta states, now standing beside the two of them. “There is forestry around our home. You can practice there.”
She nods, not lifting her head. After a beat of silence, she looks up to Shouta. “My name is Y/n,” she mumbles, small and afraid.
He smiles, glancing at Hitoshi for a brief second. “That’s a fitting name,” he says, nodding. “I think you’ll fit right in. Eri is going to take a liking to you.”
Hitoshi starts walking, clearly done with the conversation and ready to start moving again. She and Shouta both follow, but lag behind.
“Eri?” She questions, tilting her head.
A fond smile flashes across his face. “My daughter,” he explains. “She just turned nine. I think you’ll like her. Although I fear she might overwhelm you upon your first meeting. She doesn’t realize how strong she comes at people. Do you like swimming? I’m sure she’ll drag you to the pond the first chance she gets.”
She nods as he talks, listening intently. He sounds much different when talking about Eri. She can tell he’s extremely proud of her. In a way, Shouta reminds her of her own father. Strong, but kind even to people who don’t deserve it.
“Why did you call Hitoshi a stray earlier?” She blurts out, involuntarily. She looks up at him, panicked eyes meeting calm obsidian. “I just- when he told you you couldn’t keep picking up strays. You called him a stray, but isn’t he your son?”
“Hitoshi and I aren’t blood,” he explains, shaking his head. “Just as Eri and I are not. I stumbled across Hitoshi when he was a child, six-years-old, walking around the forest by himself. His mother and father had abandoned him.”
She looks ahead, staring at the back of Hitoshi. Maybe that’s why he’s so withdrawn.
“Eri was presented to me by a friend when she was four. She had been sold to the Elven market, beaten and bruised. It took a long time for her to warm up to me.” He pauses and glances down at her. “I call them my children because they are, no matter where their lineage lies.”
Uncomfortably, she shifts the bow on her back. “Eri is an elf,” she says simply. “And Hitoshi, is he an elf as well?”
Shouta shakes his head. “Hitoshi and I are human.”
She hums, letting a silence fall over the two of them. The trek isn’t easy; especially in the uncomfortable boots Hitoshi had conjured for her. The string of her bow chafes against her neck, the bag bouncing with every step she takes. Eventually, when night falls, they set up camp in a small clearing surrounded by trees.
Her eyes are glued to Hitoshi’s hands as he whirls them around, somehow producing a purple-flamed fire. When he’s done, he looks up at her awkwardly glancing away.
“Your magic is very pretty,” she hums. “Are all magic aura’s purple, or just yours?”
He hesitates, quickly glancing around for Shouta, who had gone to make sure the area was secure. “Just mine,” he eventually mumbles, sitting back in his heels. “Every mage has a different colored aura. Shouta’s is black.”
“Is Eri a mage as well?”
He bristles at the mention of his sister. “Yes.”
Her fingers reach down to the ground, drawing misshapen circles into the dry dirt beneath her. “Did Shouta teach you?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
She pauses her ministrations, shoulders tensing. She often got in trouble for asking questions, she can recall the last time clear as the morning sky.
“I’m sorry.” She pulls her knees up to her chest, bow and bag long gone and sitting off to the side. She presses her cheek to her knee and stares into the purple flames, mind fogging over.
As silence looms over them, her mind drifts back to her family. Her mothers smiling face, her fathers hearty laughter. Her classmates strained grunts as they pinned each other to the ground during training.
“Yes, Shouta taught us,” Hitoshi murmurs. He must have noticed the distant look in her eyes. “I started learning when I was eight, as did Eri.” She looks up at him, surprised to see him staring into the flames as well. “Do you . . . Do you know magic? Did your clan . . .”
She shakes her head as he trails off. “Our Gods don’t believe in using magic to best opponents,” she says quietly. “We’re trained from birth to use our hands and wits to win.”
“From birth?” He nearly guffaws.
She nods. “It’s important for us to be able to fight. We start hunting at the age of seven, alongside our parents or hunters of our parents' choice.”
Quiet falls over them once more, her gaze returning to the mesmerizing sight of the flames. She shifts, now laying down, head resting in her bag, and is lulled to sleep by the crackles of wood burning.
Her dreams are filled with wonderful things: trees swaying in the wind, rolling hills, the smell of her mothers signature apple pie, the prideful feeling of bringing home a deer to her family. A wisp of black suddenly invades her mind, turning to smoke. Images of burning houses flash through her mind, sounds of terrified screams fill her ears. She’s standing in the middle of it all, unable to move from her spot. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots a bruising figure. Tall, broad-shouldered, a crazed look in his yellowed eyes—the man who killed her parents. She tries to yell, tries to scream, but nothing comes out. It’s as if her vocal chords have disappeared. He draws closer, machete dragging across the ground. Closer, closer—she can smell him now, a rancid, sour smell that leaves a bad taste in her mouth. She squeezes her eyes shut, prepared to suffer the same fate as her parents.
She awakes with a shake, eyes landing on the pinched face of Shouta. His brows are drawn together, concern clear on his face. “Are you alright?” He asks urgently, following her as she sits up straight. “You were making odd sounds and jostling around. Was it a nightmare?”
She swallows hard, nodding shakily.
He purses his lips. “Do you want some water? Eri used to have nightmares as well, but I’m not well equipped in dealing with the aftermath.”
Again, she nods. He shuffles off to his bag, across the fire, and she notices Hitoshi staring at her. He looks away quickly. She’s unsure of why he acts so indifferent towards her, like she’s a freak of nature.
“We’ll leave as soon as you’re done,” Shouta says, handing her a canteen. She takes a long swig, relishing in the way the cool water travels down her throat. It hits her stomach, and it growls. She realizes she hasn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. “I have some berries in my bag. You can eat them as we walk, yes?”
She nods, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand before handing the canteen back to him. He helps her stand to her feet, then puts his hands on his hips and looks at Hitoshi.
“What?”
“Aren’t you going to lead the way? This is why we traveled so far, isn’t it? So you could prove you could find your way back?”
Hitoshi rolls his eyes, shifting his bag on his shoulder. And then they’re off again. She strays behind, blisters starting to form on her feet. By the middle of the day, they’ve reached their destination. They walk through the town, crowded with people and stands, and she keeps her head down, avoiding eye contact with anyone.
Shouta’s house is quaint, but it’s cozy. There’s a stone path leading up to the door, where bushels of flowers sit on either side. Looking further, she realizes that the whole front yard is fauna. Beautiful white and pink flowers, vines crawling up the house. Through the window, she can see pops of red and blue, presumably more flowers.
Just before he reaches the door, Shouta turns to her. “Remember, Eri can be a little overwhelming. If you feel uncomfortable, you can let her know. You won’t hurt her feelings.”
The door swings open before she can respond. A young girl, too small for her age, runs out, arms spread wide. “Dad!” She exclaims, jumping into Shouta’s arms. Her attention turns to her brother and grins widely. “‘Toshi, you made it back! All by yourself?”
“Can’t trust this old fart with directions anymore.” Hitoshi laughs out.
Seeing them together, hugging and smiling, puts a pit in her heart. Jealousy swirls within her, mixing dangerously with a melancholic feeling. She tightens her grip on the strap of her bag, suddenly feeling like she’s intruding on something. She has half the mind to turn and run. But what would she do then? Where would she go? With no money, and no sense of where she is, she stays put.
The silver-haired girl finally turns to you, a curious look on her face. Shouta mumbles something in her ear and she smiles, a bit softer. Eri clambers down from his arms and takes small, tentative steps towards her.
“Hello,” Eri says gently. Her ears poke out from behind her hair, fair-skinned and pointy. “I’m Eri. What’s your name?”
Her heart starts to beat faster, hands sweating. “Hi. My name is Y/n. It’s nice to meet you. I like your ears.”
Absentmindedly, Eri’s hand travels to an ear, poking at where it comes to a point. “Thank you. I like your hair. Do you want to come inside and look at my flowers? I’ve been growing them myself.”
With a nod, Eri reaches her hand out. She takes it with a deep breath.