Disclaimer: I do not own LOD or anything related to it.
Author's note: All those with weak stomachs, read this before venturing further. This is not a fairy tale. The heroes do not tap the bad guys with their swords and make them magically disappear. This is a story about WAR. It contains graphic descriptions of violence and death. Do not read it if this offends you.
Syuveil gripped his spear tightly as he studied his opponent, analyzing the other man's movements, searching for some small flaw in the warrior's defense that would secure his victory. His adversary was undoubtedly doing the same; Syuveil could feel the man's cold eyes watching him as they circled each other, their gaze seeming to pierce through armor and flesh and stare down into the depths of his soul. It unnerved Syuveil, but he put it out of his mind. The slightest distraction, the smallest slip in concentration meant death in the heat of battle. He continued to circle his foe, watching, waiting for the right moment to strike, for the other warrior to make some minute misstep. Then Syuveil would have him.
Suddenly, the man leapt forward, sending a cut at Syuveil's head with his sword. Syuveil ducked and retaliated with a jab of his spear. His enemy deflected it and attacked again, sending two slashes at Syuveil in quick succession. He parried them both with ease and aimed a thrust at the man's unprotected face. The man jerked back and Syuveil struck again, whipping the butt end of the spear around at his temple. This time, his opponent was too slow, and Syuveil felt a small twinge of satisfaction at the crack the wood made against the man's skull. His adversary staggered back, and Syuveil pressed the attack, thrusting at him with lightning-fast speed, keeping his dazed foe on his heels. Somehow, the man managed to get his sword in the way of all the blindingly quick strikes, but each parry was slower and clumsier than the last. The blow to the head had dimmed his senses, Syuveil could tell. This battle would soon be over.
Syuveil jabbed again, but this time his strike was slower than the previous ones. It was a delay of no more than half a second, but it was enough for his enemy to mount a counterattack. This was what Syuveil had been hoping for. As expected, his opponent's cut was a frantic strike intended to stave off the relentless tide of blows, and it left him off balance. Syuveil spun aside and kicked his adversary's leg out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground, his weapon flying from his hand. Syuveil gripped his spear in his hands, readying himself for the final strike…
"Enough!" The icy voice cut through the air of the training hall like a whip, making Syuveil hold off his attack and stand dutifully at attention. Weapons Master Kane strode over to them, his lip curling with disgust as he beheld the sight of the man on the floor. "Get up, Rolf," the Wingly said coldly, shoving the toe of his boot into the defeated warrior's ribs. Rolf groaned and got shakily to his feet. "I must offer my congratulations, Rolf," Kane said with a sneer. "As long as I've been here, I don't believe anyone has ever been beaten in such short a time. You may have set a record." Rolf cringed at the contempt the weapons master's voice. Syuveil just stood and watched, glad it wasn't him.
"I have been training slaves to fight in the Imperial Arena for twenty years, and I can honestly say that that was the worst display of swordsmanship I've seen in all that time," Kane spat. "If it were up to me, I'd send you to fight in the beast pits instead of the coliseum, because you are fit for nothing more than animal food." His voice dripped acid. "Get out of my sight, fool." As Rolf scurried off, Kane turned to the twenty or so other men who were training in the hall. "That goes for the rest of you, too. You're dismissed, all of you. I can only stand so much ineptitude at once." He turned on his heel and stalked off, without even a single word of praise for Syuveil's triumph. Syuveil scowled after him, but it was no more than he'd expected. Kane was a Wingly, after all, and no Human slave, no matter how skilled, would ever get a kind word from him. He'd been their weapons master for the past four months, and all they'd ever gotten from him was icy contempt. Training slaves to fight in the Imperial Arena was his job, but demeaning them and reducing them to something less than men them was his pleasure. As men who, in Kane's eyes, were not yet worthy of battling in the Arena, Syuveil and the others were worth less than dirt to him. He delighted in making their lives a torment, and Syuveil hated him for it.
The young warrior left the training hall and made the long walk back to his cell. When he arrived, he shut the door behind him and took off his armor, throwing it in a corner and sinking down onto his stone bed in a tired haze when he was done. For a while he just stared at the ceiling, exhaustion making his limbs heavy and a feeling of melancholy in his stomach, thinking about how much he couldn't stand this hellhole. Every day it was the same thing. He was woken up at five in the morning, thrown into a rigorous training session that lasted until dusk, given a bowl of cold slop to eat, and then locked back in his cell. He hated it here, hated the harsh, brutal training that always left him feeling half dead, hated the countless beatings that were given for the slightest offense or mistake, hated forcing down the same foul-tasting gruel every single day, hated sleeping on cold stone with nothing but a loincloth to keep him warm, hated every single damn thing about this place. It had taken away his pride, his dignity, everything that made him who he was. The Winglies had stripped it all away from him, leaving him an empty shell. The only thing that had kept him sane during the past four months were the memories of happier times. The memories were all he had, the only thing they couldn't take away from him.
Syuveil's life hadn't always been this bad. Unlike most Humans, he hadn't been a slave all his life. He'd been born in a small village in northern Gloriano. It was so isolated and outlying that most didn't know it existed, and Syuveil had spent many happy years there with his family and his books. His books…Soa's blood, how he missed those books now. He'd spend hours upon hours in his room reading anything he could get his hands on. Sometimes he'd forget to sleep, and just read until he passed out on the table. Remembering that brought a nostalgic smile to Syuveil's face. That was the best part of his life. He'd been happy there. Then his life changed forever.
One day, the Winglies discovered Syuveil's village. No warning was given, no chance to surrender or flee, nothing. One moment everything was quiet and peaceful; the sky was blue, the atmosphere was calm and serene, everything seemed fine. The next instant, platinum-haired warriors were coming down from the sky, destroying Syuveil's life with steel and magic. They annihilated the entire village, and what Humans were left alive after the slaughter, they sold into slavery.
The events of that day, the images of his friends dying and his village burning were burned into Syuveil's mind like the slave's brand on his arm. He'd just acquired a new book that day, he remembered. A History of the Human Race, it was called. Strange that, even with all the death and destruction that happened that day, he should remember that. He'd just been settling down to read it when he heard a woman scream. Rushing out, he saw dead bodies covering the ground and houses burning. Winglies were flying through the air, incinerating the villagers as they tried to run, or swooping down to run them through. Men, women, children, it hadn't mattered to them; they'd seemed to take a sadistic delight in cutting down as many innocents as possible.
As Syuveil looked on in horror, he saw a woman running for her life from a pack of Wingly soldiers, her three children close behind. The soldiers flew down and surrounded the four Humans, and then proceeded to murder the woman's children in front of her eyes. One young boy was cloven in two, another decapitated, and the third thrown to the ground and stabbed to death. When they were finished, they threw a fireball at the woman and flew off, leaving her to burn to death. Her agony-filled shrieks mingled with the screams of countless other victims of the massacre.
Suddenly, Syuveil heard someone call his name. He turned around and saw his younger sister running towards him, a Wingly hot on her heels. He ran towards her to help, but the black-hearted creature was too quick for him. He grabbed her, flew up about a hundred feet, and threw her back down to the ground. Her skull split like an overripe melon as she hit the earth, her brains spilling out of the shattered remnants of her head like jelly. That image had haunted Syuveil's dreams ever since. He doubted whether that memory would ever fade. That was the last thing he remembered seeing. Something had struck him in the head, a spell, a club, a brick, Syuveil didn't know. Blackness overtook him, and he fell to the ground.
By the time he'd regained consciousness, the massacre was over. The village was a smoking ruin, with corpses covering nearly every inch of the ground. Only eight had survived, including Syuveil. The Winglies sent them to Kadessa in chains, where they were placed on the auction block and sold to the highest bidder. Syuveil was one of the lucky ones. His slight frame made him ill-suited for hard labor, but his ability to read and write, along with his considerable intelligence, made him perfect as a scribe, and he was quickly purchased by a scholar from Agilis. The scholar had been making an extensive study of magic, and most of Syuveil's duties involved aiding him in that study. He spent most of his time in the scholar's library, poring over centuries-old texts and scrolls filled with the secrets of the arcane.
Syuveil had been content, if not happy, with his new life. The scholar treated him well enough, and his duties as a slave gave him plenty of opportunities to indulge his passion for reading and learning. He found the art of magic to be a fascinating subject, and studied the books in the scholar's library even in his free hours. He must have read that whole library twice over. Sadly, like his life in the village, his time with the scholar came to a sudden and abrupt end.
The scholar had died of sickness, and all his property, including Syuveil, passed to his son. Unfortunately, the son was disinclined to proceed with his father's study of magic, and therefore had no further need of Syuveil. Late one night, Syuveil overheard his new master discussing plans to sell him to the crystal mines in Denningrad, a place notorious for its high body count.
Knowing that if he was sent to the mines he would never come out, Syuveil had made plans to escape Agilis. He'd gotten as far as the teleporter before he was caught and sent back to his master. Syuveil could still remember the look of disgust on the Wingly's face as the guards had brought him in. "You fool," he'd said with the utmost contempt. "You would've had a comfortable job in Denningrad. I'd meant for you to have the task of keeping records of the mines' crystal production, but you've shot that to hell." He'd looked down on Syuveil, eyes glittering with malice. "I believe I'll sell you to the Arena now. They're always in need of fodder for the dragons." Motioning to the guards, he'd ordered Syuveil to be taken away and thrown into the dungeons. That was the last Syuveil ever saw of Agilis and all its books. The next day, the guards transported him to Kadessa, and the brutality of the Imperial Arena.
When he'd first arrived, he'd been sure he was going to die. He was a scholar, not a warrior; he'd never so much as held a weapon before. His hands were made for turning the pages of books, not gripping the hilt of a sword. He was in terrible shape, and after the first day of training, Syuveil hadn't expected to last the week. Yet somehow he'd survived, and after the first few days discovered a new, previously untapped skill. He may not have been very strong, but his speed and agility, combined with cat-like reflexes, made him a natural at spear fighting. He'd quickly excelled in the training ring, and soon no one could match his skill with a lance.
But despite the unveiling of his newfound abilities, Syuveil was still filled with despair. The rest of his miserable life would be spent in the Arena. He had no future, no happy ending to look forward to. Even if he survived training, which was no sure thing, he would still be nothing more than a slave, a worthless gladiator with the power only to entertain a jeering crowd, to sate the bloodlust of a cruel oppressive race. Where was the future in that?
The harsh voice of one of the guards jerked Syuveil out of his morbid thoughts. "Lights out, scum! Everyone asleep in ten minutes! No talking!" Syuveil gave a depressed sigh and shut his eyes, the peaceful shroud of sleep covering him, banishing his melancholy and giving him a few hours respite from the rigors of his harsh new life.