Kaelthar had long forgotten whether he had ever breathed air free of the coppery scent of blood. It was no longer a rare or strange smell among humans. The sun had once again risen on the horizon, casting its rays over land ravaged and devoured by soldiers.
Another day.
Another fight.
swoosh...
hwoomph...
slash...
Today, the battle was between the bloodlines of Vorynath and Kleyth: light and fire. To Kaelthar, the soldiers below looked like ants from the height at which he watched.
The soldiers of Vorynath hurled tremendous balls of light toward the Kleyth forces, only to have them blocked by arrows of fire. Though fire carried far more destructive potential than a ball of light, it was never as fast. While one side endured soul-crushing falls, the other felt their limbs consumed by searing heat.
Arghhh.
The fallen and burnt soldiers grumbled through their smearing pain. Some soldiers rushed forward, pulling a cart with a human bound. Some of the bound humans had fear in their eyes, while others had eyes full of emptiness. The soldiers hurling the cart stopped before the burnt skin and began to chant the mantra.
Were those… Sierra humans?
Kaelthar's brows drew together. His fingers curled slowly, power thrumming just beneath the surface, held tight at his sides.
This world… has gone far beyond saving.
For a moment, he did not look away.
Soon, the mantra is activated, and a blue light starts to emanate around the bound humans. Those who had fears in their eyes started to scream out loud, while those humans with calm expressions only closed their eyes, enduring the ritual. As the blue light surged, the Sierra humans' skin started to shrink.
The light flowing out of each body materialises into water droplets, cascading around the people with burnt injuries. The soldiers who cast the mantra before left their places beside the bound humans, who are now just shrunken skin around skulls, their eyes no longer having any kind of expression, gathered and chanted another mantra.
Murmur. Murmur.
A translucent green light flowed from the soldiers' hands, and the moment it touched the wounded, their injuries sealed instantly, leaving behind scars that looked as though they had long since healed.
Kaelthar stared at the lifeless bodies of the Sierra people. It had always been their fate—forced, controlled, used, and then discarded. Such was the written destiny of every bloodline that had failed to conquer the Axitdhantoe. A bloodline that could not conquer it was deemed a race unworthy of existence.
No matter how immense a bloodline's power might be, it would always be deemed worthless unless it had conquered the Axitdhantoe. And yet, even the weakest bloodlines were respected and honoured—so long as they had. Just like the Eryndel bloodline.
Kaelthar's palms curled into tight fists, trembling, barely containing the emotions surging through him. Slowly, he turned away from the bodies and the battlefield. The last thing he saw was the soldiers of Vorynath raising a mass of blinding white above their heads.
His legs dragged his weight forward, each step heavy against the unyielding stone beneath him—stone shaped and hardened by the passage of ages.
Somewhere in the battlefield between Vorynath and Kleyth stood a Sierra girl, her hands and legs bound close to her body with ropes, just like any other Sierra. Though she was destined to be sacrificed for her bodily fluid, her eyes never wavered. Her expression was as calm as a wide sea under a sunny sky.
Her gaze swept across the battlefield before landing on a Kleyth soldier. A crooked smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.
"Hey, mister."
The soldier jerked his head toward her voice, eyes narrowing. "Slaves are not allowed to speak." He turned back to the battlefield, waiting for the order to drag the cart.
These soldiers were known as Vessel. After completing their summoning spells, they required long periods of rest; failing to give their bodies what they needed could result in cardiac arrest. For this reason, Kleyth assembled a large fleet of Vessels, each assigned to a Sierra human. This particular Vessel was assigned to her.
"Ouch. So cruel," the girl winced. "Though a slave, a Sierra possesses the extraordinary power to heal through their bodily fluid. That fluid must be replenished for the mantra to work perfectly. Are you ignoring a slave's plea for water and hoping to fail your promotion to Bearer?" Her words carried, and the Vessel's attention snapped to her.
Though the Sierra bloodline could heal through bodily fluid, a Vessel had to channel two levels of mantra to make it effective. Mastery required perfect control. Those who survived the quota of channelling were promoted to Bearer, securing their place among the honoured bloodlines. Failure—or the loss of a Sierra before use—meant demotion to Drifter, forced to serve on the battlefield.
The Vessel's gaze met hers, and a long, silent contest unfolded. The girl's face radiated victory; the Vessel's, surrender. Finally, the Vessel broke the standoff.
"Erase that smug face. It does not suit someone whose life is next in line." He spat a clump of yellow saliva.
The girl jerked her head back, twisting it as far as she could, eyes wide toward the blue sky. Her windpipe flinched, gagging, but she forced it down and drew a deep breath through her nose.
Once he was out of sight, her head returned to its usual position. Alone, her work proceeded smoothly.
This was how a Sierra was restrained. One could heal; a group could combine their power into a slaughtering force capable of wiping out entire troops. To prevent that, captured Sierras were kept separated, each at least one kilometre apart.
The girl closed her eyes and let out a heavy sigh. Her mind began to clear from the chaos of the past few days.
A shadow of purple and black gathered behind her, forming a humanoid shape. It had no eyes, no mouth, yet an eerie whisper emerged from it. The voice was neither male nor female.
"How many…? Just how many?"
It spoke as though each word had to be carved out.
A cold chill ran down her spine.
Anger.
The girl recognised it instantly from the way it radiated.
This had become their routine over the past three years—the girl would be captured, and the entity would help her escape.
"And how many times have I taught you to speak properly?"