Blood Dowry

Escape

“Daraun... I’m tired,” Lior gasped, his steps slowing, breath coming in ragged bursts.

“There’s no time to rest, Lior.” Daraun grabbed his arm and forced him to keep running.

Raindrops began to fall, as if heaven itself tried to wash away the blood staining the earth. The ground was slick and red, bodies slipping in the mud while arrows pierced through chests. The night sky cracked with thunder — as if the gods had grown sick of watching humans tear each other apart for a crown they worshipped too much.

The clash of steel and cries of battle still echoed, even though they had run far from the main fight, stumbling like moths chasing a dying flame. Lightning struck the tall trees; bodies collapsed and were trampled underfoot.

Lior was on the verge of giving up, but Daraun kept pulling his hand. Blood streamed from his legs, torn by splinters and sharp thorns. Fire began to lick through the forest, turning the night into chaos. The sky glowed red, like a giant mirror reflecting hell itself.

Flames devoured everything, the stench of burned flesh — human and beast alike — filled the air. Blood splattered across the mud, painting death into something almost ceremonial.

“Daraun! How much farther?” Lior panted, mouth open wide, desperate for air.

His lungs burned dry; sweat and rain mixed across his skin. The downpour wasn’t enough to quench the fire — they were standing in the heart of a living inferno. Children cried for their mothers, bodies unrecognizable scattered everywhere.

Lior stopped. “I can’t... I can’t go on,” he whispered, collapsing to the ground. He was still conscious, but his body refused to move.

Daraun growled, pulling him up again. “Dying for nothing isn’t bravery, boy! Get up!”

But the arrows raining down chose no side. One stray shaft sliced through the smoke and fire, striking Daraun’s chest. His face turned pale. Warm blood spilled, soaking Lior’s body.

“DARAUN!” Lior screamed, clutching him tightly. “No... not here...” He shook the man’s body, but the rain was faster — closing Daraun’s eyes before Lior could.

Fire. Rain. Daraun’s blood. The screams of war — all blended into one hellish symphony around Lior. He looked back; the village of Calvaris, already frail and dying, had finally fallen.

He wanted to surrender. But the flag tied around Daraun’s waist stopped him.

Lior bowed his head, his voice trembling. “Forgive me, Daraun. May we meet again... in a kinder world.”

He laid the body gently on the ground and forced himself to run. Arrows hissed past his face; somehow, none struck him. Maybe the gods weren’t entirely cruel. Fire leapt to swallow him, but rain kept his skin slick and alive.

“Gods... please... give me strength...” he whispered, clutching tightly the flag of light — the banner of Pramana — hoping one day he could raise it high again.

His eyes darted around, searching for shelter from fire and arrows, but there was none. So Lior turned back toward Calvaris.

From a distance, the war still raged. The house that once sheltered him was gone, nothing but ash. But that wasn’t his goal. Lior dove into the river — wild, swollen, merciless. He didn’t fight the current. He let it take him.

“Gods... I entrust my body to You,” he murmured as his battered body crashed against rocks.

At last, the river spat him out into open sea. Huge waves tossed him about, but he let go, floating on the dark water — far from land, far from everything. He didn’t know how long he’d last, but he believed one thing: he wouldn’t die yet.

“Don’t let me die... not before I’ve claimed my revenge,” Lior muttered — not as a prayer, but as an order to defy fate itself.

A massive ship loomed out of the storm, its sails black as sin. The hull struck his body. Blood spilled from his forehead, spreading across the sea — enough to call the sharks.

Lior’s eyes widened as one of them lunged. He tried to swim, but he was too weak. The shark’s teeth tore into his leg — deep, but not fatal. Just as it came again, a net dropped from above, yanking him out of the water.

He crashed onto the deck, surrounded by strangers with scarred faces — men of the sea. Their skin was burned dark by sun and salt, their beards wild, their eyes sharp but curious.

Lior gasped for breath, staring back at them. Fear wasn’t what filled his eyes — it was confusion.

One of the men spoke in a low voice, in the old tongue Daraun once taught him — the language of the sea.

“Is the boy alive?”

Lior nodded faintly. The crew exchanged looks of surprise.

“You understand us?” one of them asked.

Lior nodded again, whispering, “A little... sea language.”

“Well, that’s something.” The man smiled. “Name’s Andre. Where’d you come from?”

Lior tried to stand, but his injured leg gave out. Andre caught him, helping him to a chair. Before Lior could speak, a shout from above interrupted them.

“Ship on fire — to the north!”

Everyone turned. A young man swung down from the ropes, landing beside Andre with the ease of someone who lived his whole life on deck.

“Terrence again?” Andre asked, raising the spyglass.

The younger one shrugged. “Probably.”

Andre sighed. “That reckless bastard... always charging in. One day, he’s going to burn himself.” He lowered the glass. “Nino, set course for Sadera.”

“Got it,” Nino called, sprinting to the helm. The great ship groaned as it turned, old wood singing with the sound of age and storms.

“Are you... part of the Crown’s fleet?” Lior asked, his voice trembling.

Andre chuckled and patted his shoulder. “No, kid. We’re not with any crown.”

Relief crossed Lior's face. He tried to say something more — but instead, he slumped forward, unconscious.