The Forsaken Hero

The Shard of Omniscience was housed in a cathedral within the Brithlite Capital. It was early evening, but the streets were crowded. Merchants, adventures, and regular townsfolk moved about, their faces lit with cheerful smiles. The crowds parted before our company, bowing respectfully until we had passed.

I scanned the crowds, unable to find a single person who wasn’t human. There were a few Beastkin and elven slaves, but those were far and in between. By the time we reached the castle in the central district, it became clear this city was far more pure-blooded than even the Divine Throne.

The castle was a mass of soaring spires and towers. Pennants and flags flapped tautly in the brisk autumn breeze, every other window was made from the same, flamboyant stained glass patterns. The entire castle felt very similar to the Divine Throne, save it focused far more on the ornamental decorative architecture. While breathtakingly beautiful, the Divine Throne was primarily designed as a fortress, a principle that was lost in the construction of this place.

The heavy iron gates opened just long enough to allow us through, before shutting with a harsh clang. Stone-faced guards saluted our every move, their attentive gazes making my skin crawl. Any admiration they held while observing Soltair and Alex was lost the moment their eyes passed on to me, replaced with an overbearing air of suspicion and hostility.

The interior of the castle mirrored that of the Divine Throne, save it was even more barren and cold, something I hadn’t imagined possible. Our footsteps echoed hollowly through the arched stone corridors, rising to fill the emptiness. Occasionally, we would pass a servant or slave, but those were far and in between. Whenever the silence grew too oppressive, Lady Elinore took occasion to point out a significant room or explain the importance of a painting or statue. Every depiction was of an important priest, pope, or main god. It wouldn’t be surprising to learn if the painting, too, were copies of those in the Divine Throne.

As we drew near the banquet hall, traffic in the halls increased. Minor nobles and priests joined in the influx of servants, all greeting us politely. They stepped aside, allowing us to pass, before following along behind us. Surprisingly, the priests seemed to be held in greater esteem than their aristocratic counterparts, something I’d only ever seen at the Divine Throne.

Upon our entrance into the banquet hall, those assembled, filling about half the seats, stood and clapped, their faces painted with wide smiles. Despite the united enthusiasm, their eyes shifted about, seeming to weigh the responses of the others against their own. Many smiles faltered as they caught sight of my horns and tail, but they smoothed the creases in their brows as though nothing was amiss.

That is, all except for one person. A young man with long, black hair and eyes, dressed in a dark cloak, jerked to his feet, his chair clattering to the ground. His eyes widened in shock and fear, and his hand shot out. A crackling beam of black lightning extended from his palm, forming a viciously curved scythe with a bone-white blade. A seventh-level aura swept out, seizing everyone mid-clap.

I gasped as the power shook me, tearing at the partially healed rends in my soul. My vision wavered as his pressure squeezed my chest, forcing the air from my lungs. The dark figure strode forward like death himself, though the image was broken by the unmistakable tremor in his legs.

”What are you doing?” he cried, gesturing to Alex. ”I can’t hold it for long!”

”I could ask you the same thing,” Soltair said, stepping forward. He raised his hand and his Holy Sword appeared in hand, releasing a light that cut through the reaper’s aura. I gasped, collapsing to my knees as the pressure disappeared. My tail trembled as the aftershocks rolled through my soul, bringing tears to my eyes.

”What’s the big deal?” Alex asked, staring between the two with wide eyes. ”This is a banquet! We can duel later, if you want, although, I wouldn’t bother fighting Xiviyah. After all, Connor, even if she’s a demonkin, she’s pretty weak.”

”Xiviyah?” The cloaked man asked dumbly. ”The Fate Hero?”

Suddenly, his eyes widened and he stiffened. His scythe dropped from his hand, evaporating into his shadow. Blushing slightly, he turned on his heel and stalked back to his seat, righting it roughly and sitting down. A quiet buzz rose as the banquet goers recovered from the shock, their eyes fastened on me.

Alex reached for me, intending to help me up, but I hastily stood before he could touch me. ”I’m fine,” I muttered, pressing a hand to my chest. My soul was finally calming down, with only occasional tingles of pain.

Lady Elinore cleared her throat, looking a little pale. ”Forgive our heroes for this misunderstanding,” she announced, her voice slowly growing stronger. ”They have spent the last half year on the front lines, battling demons for our sake. It’s only natural to be surprised when one of their infernal bloodlines walks among us. Please, return to your affairs. The banquet shall begin shortly.”

Servants appeared from the sides, pulling the members of our company apart and leading us to our designated seats. I watched as Soltair, Trithe, and Alex were brought to sit beside Connor, the Undead Hero. After a few awkward seconds, they fell right into natural conversation, as though nothing had happened. Myself and Marge, the Rabbitkin slave, were escorted to a rough, unpainted table on the outskirts of the hall. Iron chains were fastened to rings attached to the floor below the table, but the servants took one glance at me before bowing hastily and leaving, not daring to look at the chains.

I shook my head, sitting on the wooden bench. Before we arrived in the banquet hall, Soltair had commanded me to go along with whatever customs or laws the Brithlite Kingdom held about demonkin, as long as they were within reason. His reason was that appearing contentious would only hurt my reputation, but it seemed more likely he didn’t want to deal with any trouble my protests might bring. Even so, it was far from comfortable, and several splinters dug through my thin dress, scraping against my thighs.

Wincing, I rose a bit and smoothed out the garment, as well as Soul Casting a second-circle Life Spell, Wood Warp. A soft green light washed over the bench, molding it like clay until it was polished and smooth. Unfortunately, even with the power of the amulet, second circle was my current limit. It would take time before I would be able to tell if my soul would heal further with all the intruding threads of mana weaving through it.

Servants whizzed by, carrying gorgeous platters of food. I waited patiently as the flow escalated, but it soon began to wane. Surely, now-oh, it seemed the second course was on its way out. And after that, the third course, and then dessert. After almost an hour, I glanced at Marge, who was slumped over, resting her cheek on her hand.

”Is this normal?” I asked softly.

At my voice, she snapped to attention, her ears standing stiffly in the air. ”Y-yes!” She squeaked, not daring to meet my eyes. ”S-Slaves eat after my master is finished!”

I watched her for some time before sighing, my tail stirring the air behind me. ”Are you originally from Brithlite?”

She nodded quickly, ”Yes! My master saved me from a cruel baron and asked me to be his party member!”

”So that’s it,” I muttered. ”Thanks.”

She held her breath until it became apparent I had nothing else to say. Sagging, she shifted, turning herself away from me once more. Occasionally, I caught her glancing over her shoulder, her eyes tracing the curves of my horns.

”Pay it no mind,” Connor said, sliding onto the bench across me. ”Even the Beastkin are taught to fear your kind. I’ve found that hatred too well founded, in most cases.”

My tail flicked, but I kept my surprise off my face. ”What did you want?”

He sighed and raised his hand, waving a servant over. The servant stopped before him, keeping their eyes rigidly on his face, a muscle twitching in his jaw. Was visiting the slave table really such a chore?

”Bring me a wine,” Connor grumbled, beginning to turn away before shooting me a glance. ”Make that two.”

As we waited, he remained quiet, staring at the head table, where Soltair and Alex talked and laughed. After witnessing their mirth for a moment, I glanced back at Connor. He was leaned back, arms crossed in boredom, with a moody look on his face. But his eyes constantly shifted in my direction, subtly tracing the contours of my horns and the sinewy length of my tail.

The silence stretched out, gradually building into a heavy tension. Connor seemed restless over the next few minutes. His face twitched several times, his eyes lifting, as though he wanted to say something but didn’t know how. One time, going so far as to open his mouth before he hesitated, settling back in his chair and staring at the wall. It was like watching myself among the other heroes, a realization I found extremely uncomfortable.

”What do you want?” I finally asked, reluctantly meeting his eyes. ”To finish what you-”

His pupils were unnerving, shaped like a cross, and devoid of any light. The moment my gaze met his, countless scenes flickered through his pupils. The Curse Demon, clawing toward Elise. Thron, trapped in a burning library, and Selene, held in the air by her throat, choked by an inquisitor’s hand. More scenes flashed, filling a single breath with an eternity of death and pain.

Connor leaned forward, his horrible black eyes never leaving me. ”What are you?”