Chapter 1: Chained

  Deep within Teth-Anclad, iron chains rattled. Not unlike an imprisoned god did Alaric hang, hoisted up by countless chains strung about the ceiling. Each pained movement caused the entire prison to reverberate with shrill iron. Below stood a figure all to familiar to Alaric. His father, The Emperor.

  “It’s shameful that a bastard should carry royal blood. Though, at least you’re still of use.” The Emperor approached Alaric with nonchalance and drew a thin dagger from his waist.

  “Funny my father should call me a bastard.” Alaric replied venomously, blood-tinged spittle running down his unkempt beard and scarred chest. The Emperor ignored the jeering Alaric, and taking blade, traced it along Alaric’s scars.

  “You should be proud to serve the royal family.” Without warning and like many times before, The Emperor carved open Alaric’s chest, letting the blood spill into an empty bucket below. Alaric stifled his screams, which seemed to agitate the Emperor who dug the blade deeper, twisting the knife as he did so. Alaric let out a pained groan, his voice was too broken for anything more. The Emperor breathed a sigh of satisfaction and met Alaric’s eyes. “My blood may run through your veins, but know you will never be my son.” Alaric chuckled as if that hadn’t been made clear in the years he’d been imprisoned.

  “One day I’ll strangle you with these chains.” The Emperor couldn’t help laugh at Alaric’s boldness as he retrieved the bucket.

  “Quite arrogant for mere cattle.” As the Emperor spoke, a massive steel door opened behind him. Alaric stared at the hulking door as it grated against the cold tile floor, only able to be opened by ten men who worked the equally daunting pulley system beside it. The Emperor turned to leave, tailed by his Royal Guard, draped in ornate cloth, and equally beautiful silver armor. Alaric muttered a curse under his breath, thinking no one would listen, but he was surprised to hear a chuckle in response. He looked down as a scrawny priest with a long white beard and wired spectacles began to dress his wounds.

  “To whisper such things within earshot of the Royal Guard. Good to see you’ve yet to lose your spirit.” The priest smiled, but unlike the Emperor there was not a hint of malice to his words.

  “Hah, as if they’d hear.” Alaric muttered. The priest sighed, placing both his hands on Alaric’s chest.

  “Your wounds are worse than usual.” With that, the priest kneeled and began to mutter under his breath, his palms glowing golden with holy magic. Slowly, the torn flesh began to contort back into it’s original position, tendons reconnecting until Alaric was only left with more scarring. “Your mana core is weak after losing so much blood. You would do well to get some rest.” The priest glanced up at the chains suspending Alaric. “As well as you can, anyway.” He added apologetically.

  “Thanks Donnell, but I feel fine.” The priest, Donnell scoffed at Alaric.

  “I know the extent of my abilities. No need to lie.” Donnell lifted himself up with a groan and dusted off his white robes. “Tomorrow, then?” Alaric nodded, and the priest turned to leave as well. The metal door screeched open once again, and behind the hulking steel, rows of Church soldiers bowed their heads for the priest as he passed through. When the door closed, Alaric was left with a stifling silence and the rattling of chains.

  Hours seemed to pass, but in the darkness there was no way of truly knowing. And so, Alaric began to sleep, awaiting tomorrow’s torture session. As he closed his eyes, the darkness became more suffocating, ominous even. Suddenly he heard a quiet laugh in the distance. Alaric’s eyes shot open. He peered around, the prison becoming more clear as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. When he heard nothing he sighed to himself. It wasn’t the first time he hallucinated. Being alone and starving, Alaric often heard and saw things in the dark that weren’t there.

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  However, when he heard the laugh again, this time more clear, his senses sharpened and he became suspicious.

  “Who’s there?” he asked with all the strength he could muster. In response a golden light began to fill the room.

  “Lost lamb”, the voice beckoned him, soothing and deep like a church bell. “Fret not, for in your hour of need I have come to be your salvation.” Alaric, tempted to give in, still managed to hold an air of suspicion. It was the skepticism earned through years of imprisonment and torture. He could not so easily be given hope.

  “What do you want? Who are you?” The light grew brighter, and a hand resembling that of a fair maiden reached out and grasped his face gently. the figure was draped in light, it’s face and body obscured by the brightness.

  “I am Pity. I am salvation for those who are forsaken…Or what you mortals refer to as a god.” Alaric’s brow furrowed. A god? Through Donnell Alaric heard tale of mortal champions who enter contracts with divine beings to harness their powers in battle, but still the idea was still absurd.

  “You’ve yet to speak your purpose.” The god gently ran it’s hand through Alaric’s hair before replying.

  “I want to make you my champion. Become a symbol for the common people.” Alaric’s heart raced, he could feel it drumming in his ears.

  “And in return?” There must be some catch, Alaric thought.

  “All I ask is in return is that “you kill your father, the Emperor. For he seeks the power to undo us. The power to kill a god.” Alaric’s eyes widened. The power to kill a god? Was such a thing even possible? Suddenly a putrid stench filled Alaric’s nostrils, and he felt the urge to wretch. Something about this god felt strange. Almost too good to be true. He would be a fool to turn down this offer but a feeling deep inside urged him not to accept.

  “I refuse. Find some other pawn.” The god flinched, jerking it’s hand away.

  “But-” The god began to protest, but Alaric spat at the lightshrouded figure.

  “Even if you are a god as you say, I seek freedom. I will not be chained to your demands.” Suddenly the rancid stench grew stronger. It was the unmistakable scent of rot.

  “Why you arrogant fool.” The god’s voice turned gravelly as deep. A dark ichor began to bubble from the floor, the golden light being replaced with a repulsive, thick sludge shrouded in miasma. “If you will not accept my benevolence…” The ichor grew with each second, forming into something more humanoid. Fear grew within Alaric as he struggled against his bindings. He tried to call for help, but between the thick metal door and his hoarse voice, nobody could hear him. “Then be devoured.”

  The ichor consumed Alaric, who struggled to breath as it filled his lungs and singed his flesh. He could feel the ichor running through his veins, pulsating throughout his body, but he found he could no longer move of his own volition and he felt his mind begin to fade. “You could have perished much less excruciatingly if only you-” The god fell silent for a moment, and Alaric felt his conscious flood back. His fingers twitched as be began to regain control. “Why can’t I-?” The god let out a deafening screech that only Alaric could hear. “What is happening? What have you done?”

  Alaric, just as confused as the god began to struggle intensely, and the two grappled for control when without warning the ichor which contaminated Alaric, seeped out from his body, attempting to escape. It landed on the dungeon floor below, in a pool of Alaric’s coagulated blood. Immediately the formless sludge began to sizzle, and the god screamed in agony once more.

  “What is this? Why does it-why does it HURT?” Slowly the sludge began to dissipate into a thin, visible essence, the echoing cries of the god began to wane, as the sludge evaporated completely. Alaric contorted in pain as the essence siphoned itself into Alaric’s mana core. It was an unbearable searing heat that reverberated throughout his entire being. Alaric, unable to endure the pain any longer finally passed out from exhaustion.