Prologue 

I dodged the huge axe, or at least I tried to. The axe ripped my shirt, cutting the fabric on my back to shreds. I ran, hoping against hope I could get away from the next blow of the axe. Maybe? Nope. I tripped and fell face first on the hard, sandy ground of the arena. Pushing myself **up, I turned to look up just as the huge, beastly axe was crashing down on me. As the axe swung down on me, I looked **up at my opponent, a huge monstrosity of muscle, brawn, and metal. His lips twisted in a cruel smile, his eyes raged with fury, and his nose looked as if it had been broken a dozen times over, but most horrifying of all was the sickly white gash, bubbling with gruesome purple energy. His muscles bulged, inhuman. He had pecs the size of a dwarven head, and huge 12-pack abs the size of the rest of him. He -- it -- was an unholy creature that should have been burned at the stake. But instead, it was going to kill me. 

***

My arms wiped out on the floor, I slowly got up to sit on my knees, and slightly happy that I was still alive, shuddered at the grim events of yesterday; the fear still haunted my bones. I looked at my badly bandaged body, almost crying. I groaned as I got up, just as the Cell Marshal's gruff voice called to the cellmate one cell down, "Giiiii-dran!!" I knew him, or at least saw him; he was crazy and goofy, and very, very, very stupid. --Not many people succeed in getting a Z- with the marshal. The Cell Marshal even stretched out his name, that’s how I knew who was next. He smiled, albeit an insane one, but a smile nonetheless. I tried returning the act, but it was hard, almost impossible. 

I was going to be next, and this time I would actually die.

"Cell 37!" The Cell Marshal's voice echoed down the corridor. I didn't move at first--maybe if I stayed perfectly still, he'd think I was dead. No such luck. The heavy boots of a Guard Keeper approached, the hated resonance rod tapping rhythmically against the bars of each cell he passed.

"Up," he grunted, not bothering to use my name. "Special summons today."

Special summons? That was new. Usually, they just dragged us to the arena and watched us die for their entertainment. 

I rose shakily, wincing as my bandaged ribs protested.

They led me past the normal arena hall, but took a hidden left. The walls around us changed from cracked stone to polished marble and unfamiliar black etchings. We began walking up, and up. 

--Walking was hard for me, especially with my hurt ribs. I groaned in pain, rewarding myself with a hit from a Guard Keeper's resonance rod. After a consistent half-hour of walking, I tired, beginning to collapse, knees nearly buckling. 

But, for once, luck was on my side. We reached a grand set of two dark oak doors with intricate carvings, laced with thin gold stripes, and bright silver handles. The Cell Marshal pushed the doors open.

The room was amazing. A large oak desk sat at the far end of the chamber, a plush red carpet encompassed the floor, two golden swans sprayed water into a chandelier with faint snowflakes sprinkling down. 

There was a pathway that led out of the room with gold lines running along it. I somehow knew that it led to a balcony --who was to say he had only one?-- from which I was sure the view would be even better. 

But, in all the room's glory, it was nothing compared to the man who sat at the desk. 

He was wearing a white fur jacket. The fur ran around his neck and down his body to his legs. The coat, which complimented the fur, shined light all around like a disco ball, the lights moving through the room as he walked. He wore a gold earring with a gem that seemed to be a suspended void that absorbed light, both captivating and horrifying at the same time.

But the cape was the best. It floated in the air, moving slightly, almost as if it were breathing. Along its brilliant transparent white silk there were purple swirls of color and splashes of turquoise hue. Greased smooth gray hair rested upon his head. And against my strongest wishes, I was mesmerized.

"Dezt, Deeezt, My man Dezt-oroo!" he said, lifting his hands in a come over here fashion. "I hear you survived my arena. More times than usual, I can't have a survivor messing up my business, cracking a grin that looked more like a scowl in disguise. Then, he waved his hand to the Cell Marshal and his Guard Keepers to leave. He put an arm around me and led me --with surprising strength-- to the pathway that I had decided led to a balcony.

As I suspected, the pathway led to a grand balcony overlooking the entire prison complex. From this height, the arena where I'd nearly died looked like a child's sandbox. Beyond the toy-like prison walls, the sprawling city stretched toward and over distant green mountains, contrasted by the mixed sky of colors blue, pink, purple, and orange, bathed in the light of the setting sun.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" the man said, still gripping my shoulder. "Most prisoners never see this view. Most don't deserve to."

I remained silent, unsure if speaking would earn me another beating.

"You know who I am?" he asked, finally releasing my shoulder to gesture grandly at himself.

"The Warden Sentinel," I ventured, guessing his rank insignia partially hidden beneath all the finery.

"Indeed!" He clapped his hands together. "And do you know why I've brought you here, Dezt?"

I shook my head, wincing as the movement sent pain shooting through my ribs.

"Survival." He turned to face me fully, his extravagant cape billowing despite the lack of wind. "Six times in the arena. Six!” Do you know how rare that is?"

"Lucky, I guess," I mumbled quietly.

--still unsure if I should talk--

The Warden Sentinel threw back his head and laughed, the sound sharp and without humor.

"Luck? No, no, no. Not luck." He leaned close, his breath smelling of expensive wine and lavish bread. "Something else. Something... interesting."

He circled me slowly, examining me like a curious specimen. "The Exon with the axe—he never misses. Never. Yet somehow, when the blade should have split your skull, it struck the ground beside you. How fascinating." He smiled, a twisted evil one. 

My heart raced, sweat beaded on my forehead. I hadn't told anyone what happened in those moments—how the world seemed to lag, how I felt that strange golden energy coursing through me.

"I have an opportunity for you," the Warden Sentinel continued. "Instead of returning to your cell to await another arena visit, you'll be transferred to the Western Border." 

The Western Border. Barely spoken of, and even then, was told of in whispers. Not a place of cruel entertainment, but something worse, much much worse—experimentation.

"What's in the Western Border" I asked, though I feared I already knew.

The Warden Sentinel's smile widened --morphing in unthinkable ways-- revealing teeth too perfect to be natural. "The prince has requested you personally. The young fool thinks you are… --and the way he said this next word, it got under my skin, almost as if oil replaced the blood in my veins for a second-- special."

He turned back toward the balcony railing, gesturing at the setting sun. "Tomorrow, You begin traveling.  If you go willingly, you might become something few prisoners even dream of. If you don’t..." He shrugged, the movement sending ripples through his magnificent cape. "Well, the arena always needs fresh meat.”

As he spoke, I noticed something strange. Beneath his earring, partially hidden by his collar, a thin black line seemed to  move against his skin. Was it a tattoo? Or something else entirely?

"One last thing," he said, turning back to me with sudden intensity. "Whatever happens in Western Border, whatever you learn about yourself or what decisions you make, remember who holds your leash." The purple swirls in his cape briefly flared brighter, the white puff deepened—darker, eyes more menacing. "I do."


CHAPTER ONE:

The prison carriage bumped uncomfortably along a gravely road. It had been three days since my confrontation with the Warden Sentinel, and having no other choice, I conceded to go to the Western Border.

I looked around the carriage for the 100th time in the last minute --mostly out of paranoia, but also out of hopelessness.

--For I remembered the rumors, rumors about the Border-- 

Two other people were in the carriage, one -- perfectly across from me -- had unnaturally pale skin and ice blue eyes, though unlike someone sick, this pale being was very well-muscled, wide shouldered, and lean legged. His intimidating build made his complete stillness even more unsettling, staring ahead as if nothing around him mattered. 

A heavyset deep-skinned man sat beside me, his face was hard, squarer somehow, but despite his size he sat with a certain fire in his eyes. Unlike the pale one's indifference, this man watched everything, his hands occasionally clenching as if eager for action, and I could swear the air around him felt warmer.

They were like me, forced to go to the Western Border. Maybe I should try talking to them? I thought, maybe they can help me escape?

A sudden violent lurch threw me against the carriage side. The sound of splintering wood and screaming horses filled the air. Then came the shouts and clash of metal from all around us - not just our carriage, but from the other two in the convoy as well. Someone was attacking the entire prison transport. The carriage shook again and I slammed hard against the wooden door just as the hatch burst open. I tumbled out, hitting the dusty ground with a painful thud that knocked the wind from my lungs.

…

Rolling to my knees, I looked up to see the chaos unfolding around me. The attackers wore would-be worn, but distinctly purple armor, looking to have been repaired so many times the original was barely recognizable. Some had gaps where armor plates had been torn away entirely, others had leather straps cracked and splitting at the edges. It was painful to look at - even the equipment at the arena was better, and that was from fallen enemies. Their weapons were worse, many wielded crooked sabres that offered no protection to the hand, others had spears with rusted tips.

These attackers fought the knights assigned to escort the carriage. But as much as I tried I couldn't follow the individual fights - everything was movement and noise. All I could tell was that somehow these desperate-looking attackers were holding their own against trained prison guards.

…

Dust hung thick in the air from the horses' panic. Between the scattered debris and fallen weapons, she fought --more like danced actually-- she twirled, a staff in her hands. She found her first target to the left, sweeping the staff under his legs. She spun around to parry an attack from a second knight. Her staff hit the flat of his blade, flicking it over his fingers, switching directions, her staff peeled the thumb off the blade, the former momentum sending it over his index finger. The first knight had gotten up now, swinging his sword over the woman's head, she ducked, using the momentum to push him above her and into a third opponent. A fourth knight, --this one reasonably better equipped than the others-- swung his sword in a wide arc in an attempt to cleave the woman's back. She dropped low with impossible timing, and his swing carried through empty air where she'd been, the blade finding the neck of his own comrade. He smirked at the sight of his comrade's severed head. The casual cruelty of it horrified me.

…

I continued watching the exchange of blood and death, both of them --woman and knight-- acting like it was an everyday ordeal. The well-equipped knight, --that I now recognized as the leader-- recovered from the long arc, his blade returning to his shoulder and thrusting forward. The woman deflected this blow with the forte of her staff sending the lead knight's thrust veering off course. It was her turn now, two rapid quick stabs to the stomach, and a sweeping attack in toward his neck, but she checked the blow mid-strike, rolling her wrists to redirect the tip upward into his helm's visor, the impact jarring the helmet clean off his head. Her technique was too perfect, like she'd had to fight for her life before. Despite this, I could now see the full scope of the fight - there were too many knights, and they were too well-armed.

The lead knight took out his staff, a 15 bar cage holding a glowing gem in the center. The gem pulsed faster, as the lead knight started glowing, but not his skin, like a second layer of glowing skin just formed magically. --The helmet clattered to the ground—but I suspected the lead knight didn't need it anymore.

Undeterred, the woman spun her stick over her head before smashing it into the side of the knight's head. The attack should have made him fall. Now it barely made him stumble. He pulled his sword back above his right shoulder--point forward, and thrust it into the woman's ribs. Her staff flew from her hands and skittered across the ground. She gasped, blood flying out. The knights rallied, emboldened by their leader's display of power, and following his attack as a signal, they charged into the fray, renewed vigor gleaming in their eyes.

They began pushing back, gaining ground. The purple-armored attackers began losing it.

…

I decided I needed to do something—fast. Dashing out of the cover given by the carriage, I picked up her fallen staff and rammed it in between the 15 bars of the lead knight's staff.

The gem shattered and the weird second skin energy ended. Seeing the opportunity, the girl, despite her pain, picked up a dead knight's sword and plunged it into the lead knight's mouth. As the lead knight fell, the knights' morale dropped drastically, allowing the purple-clothed figures to push back. The woman came over and grabbed the stick from my hand with a slight nod. 

I'd done it. I'd actually helped, and I was still alive.

Realizing I'd been standing there uselessly while the fight continued, I picked up the lead knight's fallen sword, and  lifted the blade, ready to strike, but it turned out my help was no longer needed. The knights were either dead or wounded on the grass. Pools of lava and scorched marks littered the ground. I was puzzled --and amazed-- to see the deep-skinned man's hands light up with glowing runes as he shot a bolt of fire from his palm toward an escaping knight. 

"He can use magic?" I whispered.

He was obviously a combatant of substantial prowess.

***

The scenery blurred as the horses picked up speed, trees turning to long brown sticks, grass, a green mush, and flowers to welcoming spots of pink. 

A cloaked rider in front of me pulled off his dark purple hood..

The face beneath the hood belonged to a young man who couldn't have been much older than 19. Lean muscular features and jet black hair complemented deep blue eyes that attracted attention. With a friendliness that made me instinctively lean in. I'd seen plenty of guards during my time in that arena, but there was something different about him. His eyes carried an intensity that seemed out of place on someone our age—clearer and more alert.

“Ude, ‘ou just helped us save, like 5 elems!” he said energetically “Orry, where's my manners?

What the!? Why does he talk like that? I thought and what’s an elem?

"Ey, I’ll be Ben," he said, his voice thick with an accent that sounded nothing like anything I'd ever heard before “And ‘ou just saved like u ‘ozen ‘eople from the Western Border." His eyes darkened for a second, mixing with disgust and rage.

"Fkat was quick thinking with fe staff. ‘Ost ‘eople freeze up when ‘acing u real Knight-Captain."

“Thanks for the compliment, I guess.” I said

“If you don’t mind me asking. Why do you talk like that?”

His face dropped slightly, sadness peeking through his seemingly friendly demeanor. “Easons. ‘Ou wouldn't understand.”

“O…kay…”

Our small group thundered through the countryside, taking winding paths through dense forests and across shallow streams. I lost track of time as we rode, my mind and eyes wandering around the group. 

There was Ben with his strange accent, a few of the weirdly skinned people, a dozen and a half humans, the large “lava” man and the muscular pale-skinned guy. And of course there was the cute girl, though I noticed she was favoring her left side where the knight's sword had struck. Despite her injury, she sat tall in her saddle, her silky dark hair whipping in the wind."

I smiled dumbly in my seat, slowly sliding,…

She noticed me looking at her, and immediately I straightened my posture and quickly looked away to hide my blush. 

Then addressing the crowd --with eyes on me-- "We're not safe yet. The Hill Defense will have detected the Knight-Captain's death. We need to reach the sanctuary before they mobilize their forces."

My mind was filled with questions. The Sanctuary..? Hill Defense..? What are those?

The deep-skinned man pulled his horse alongside mine. Up close, I could see the bulge of his abnormally sized gut. "Name's Torvan," he said gruffly. "Saw what you did back there. You're not just some regular prisoner, are you?"

Before I could answer, another unnaturally skinned person, --this one a girl-- joined our conversation. Her skin was very light, almost glowing. "None of us are regular prisoners. the reins of her horse brightening as she spoke. That's why they were sending us to the Border." She introduced herself as Aillia.

"Fe Prince ‘equested ‘im specifically," Ben called back from his position ahead of us.“Fkat's what ‘uor intelligence said, at ‘east. Fe ‘uestion is why?"

I felt all eyes turn to me, waiting for an explanation. I shifted uncomfortably in my saddle. "There was an incident in the arena," I began hesitantly. "Something... happened. Something I can't explain…"

The trees around us began to thin, revealing a steep cliff face ahead. As we approached, I noticed subtle markings carved into the rock - symbols similar to the ones I'd seen in the Warden Sentinel's mansion, but somehow different. More ancient. More pure.

"Welcome to Baron’s Rock, known to you as the Beacon Rectitude" The girl announced as we rode through a narrow passage that seemed to appear out of nowhere in the cliff face. "One of the last true safeguards from the Empire's corruption."

"Fe Western Border isn't ‘ust about experimentation," Ben explained as we dismounted. "L'it's about control. Fe Empire fears yhat they can't understand - ‘eople like Torvan and Allia who can tap into the old powers." 

Tap into the old powers?--

Again my eyes drifted to the girl. She winced as she slid from her horse, her wound clearly paining her. But, with things that would've killed others, she stood tall and straight as she refused help from another purple figure.

Ben noticed me looking at her “Ouh vo, ‘ou can’t like Lyra, ‘ou just can’t, he said with the increasingly familiar accent.  “Uh-huh.” I said, still looking at her

But my gaze broke as the thin passage opened into a massive cavern.

4 long rubberwood tables sat in the middle of the space, serving tables leaned against hard granite walls, men and women with fancy clothes sat along the tables, chugging beer and ale, large bowls of what must have been grapes, but now only the stems remained.

A chubby man came over to greet us. “Hello, folks! How are you today? Welcome to the Baron’s Rock, a place to blow off steam for the all folk in the Meridian Commons. Then noticing Lyra’s grim face and wound, he changed his mood and demeanor. “I’m Baron Whitmore Hayes, follow me if you want to live...”

He led us to a side room, coming upon a large assortment of levers and buttons.