The Forsaken Hero

Fate was gone. She was a goddess, powerful enough to create worlds, yet I knew in my heart it was true. Her death shattered me, sending shockwaves through my soul. A crippling sense of loneliness hollow me out, like someone had torn away the bits that made me who I was and gave me purpose.

The church had stripped my title and status, but they were helpless against my Divine Calling. Heroes had intrinsic resistance and talents, a sort of confidence and charisma that inspired others to follow. And now that special divine blessing, an essential element of inner strength that sustained me through the darkness, was gone.

Aurle was dead, too, the most recent of those hurt because they chose to stand by my side: murdered by the monster standing before me, his arms crossed, glaring holes through me.

"Answer me," he growled. "Where did you get that staff?"

I stared listlessly at the face of my friend, at the bloody hole where he had ripped her ear off. She’d been so kind, and sweet, and forgiving. I yearned to feel her hand on my shoulder, reassuring me as she had countless times during the long nights, when my tears wouldn’t stop flowing. But now, because of me, she’d never smile again.

"No," I could imagine her voice saying, "Not because of you. Because of him."

Drawing strength from her memory, I raised my head and looked Byron in the eyes for the first time. His gaze was frigid, sending a thrill of fear down my tail, but I refused to waver.

"I’m beginning to grow impatient," he said, trying to regain his poise. "The time for gentility has passed. You are my slave, and I will break you."

He raised the ring, and a deep buzz started deep in the depths of my soul, reverberating outward and lighting the slave crest on fire. Every thread piercing my soul constricted. Sparks danced out of the crest, filling my veins with lava and charring my skin.