Footsteps echoed down the stone hallway, two sets of footsteps, actually. One was much quieter than the other, the louder steps were those made by the clack of leather boots with thick heels, and the quieter, almost inaudible but for the fact that other than the loud footsteps the hallway was quiet, were the child's feet, clad in soft leather all-purpose boots that were more like glorified shoes. The child's eyes behind his mask were wide with wonder at the impressive stone architecture of the hallways. He had never seen anything like it in his life—at least that he could remember, anyways. His auburn hair was wild, long, seemingly unkempt, and wind-blown from the wild ride back to the capitol city—a ride that was non-stop and long—of Dar, the country who had been at war with the neighboring country for around a decade and a half.
The young Darke, whose face was still masked—he refused to part with it and take the cloth off for fear of ostracizing, though he would not be able to tell you that feeling in such terms, much less know the meaning of said word 'ostracizing', however he did know what he felt—looked up to the soldier and asked, "What is your name, sir?"
"My name?" He answered with a slight chuckle. "Of course I can tell you my name, my lord. I am called Mikel. Mikel Angrove, at your service. And yours, little one?"
Beneath the mask the Darke blushed. "I've always been told that it is 'Erik'; that the name was declared in a note left with me when I was abandoned at that shop. However, they told me that they changed the spelling to approximately that which they could pronounce. Well…that is at least what I have always been told, so I do not know the truth of my name…"
"Sounds about right, although it would more likely be 'Aerikk', in your rightful tongue, not the low and barbaric language of which you were raised with and know of no other. Now hush, little prince, we are approaching His Majesty's audience chamber—the public throne room."
Inside the chamber, seated on a throne of silver inlaid with ebony, onyx, obsidian, garnet, spinel, and other dark precious stones and jewels that gleamed in the low, golden light, was the emperor. The emperor was, of course, of the Darke species, but he was getting old for a Darke. Though seemingly immortal to humanity, they have a normal lifespan of about anywhere from eight centuries to over a millennia, but if placed in a situation where there is not enough rest or food for them, the elder Darke, say of about six centuries or so, will start to age rapidly and die before their natural lifespan comes to a close. And that is not always the case, occasionally one or two will truly be immortal and will not age and will only die from said circumstances, suicide, murder, or outside forces. For some strange reason, this tends to happen more often with those who never complete the transition between their ugliness and strange, sensual beauty. The emperor was not one of those few, and he showed his age. His hair was silver; his eyes were a cold, sharp sapphire; and he had a weary look upon his weathered face. In front of this imposing figure was a slighter figure dressed in fine, but subdued clothes, kneeling in submission to the seated royal.
"Your eternal highness," the grim, muddy figure pleaded. "We have been looking and looking for your child for years. And although we have not found him, we have found the perpetrator of the heinous crime. She was a spy, sent from Gaulia to stir up secrets of your power, my liege. She was a chalka, sir. A demonic shape shifter spirit, in the common tongue. A damn good one, too. How else could she have wormed her way close enough to steal your child and murder your wife?"
The ruler growled and contemplated the words of what his current audience had just said. With a shout, a cry of anger and annoyance, the old Darke cut off the messenger just as he was about to speak once again.
"Damn! Jarak! Have you heard any news from the battlefronts?"
"Yes, your highness. We are doing very well, my lord. We are gaining control of their country and capital every day. We have almost conquered Paria, their capital city."
A small page, who looked no more than a child, but was an adult in terms of human years, ran up to the elder Darke and whispered in his ear. He nodded his approval, turned to his audience of one, and made a dismissive gesture with his hand.
"Jarak, that is all. You are dismissed. Send in Commander Mikel Angrove."
The massive doors opened and in strode the dark-robed, tall, and weary commander with the child he had found. When he was at the center of the room—which was the center of the floor mosaic, a circle that was incorporated into the design of the floor for that very purpose as a visual clue to the guidelines of court etiquette—he knelt in respect and subservience to the emperor. The child, who had never been in the presence of any royalty or aristocracy, upon seeing the older man whom he had traveled with and come to trust kneel, also knelt upon the floor, mimicking the person whom he had come to trust out of necessity over the long journey.
The wise ruler looked upon the two with astonishment. He was particularly interested in the child, who to all accounts and from what he could see, looked amazingly like he did as a child—although he could not see beyond the child's black mask. Could this boy truly be my lost child? He thought to himself. Certainly must be, for why else would a loyal soldier depart from the battlefront to return to my palace with a child in tow? And not just any old child—a child of the Darke who would appear to be the correct age, according to the life cycle of my species… I must determine this now or I will never know for sure and doubt will forever linger in my mind. With a subtle hand gesture, he bid them to rise and listen as he spoke.
"Rise, my loyal subjects, and speak freely so that I may know the purpose as to your visit and settle my questions and doubts." His voice was rich, beautiful, and commanding. It was a voice that, if turned to singing, would be at once both instantly recognizable and enduring.
"I believe, sir, that I have found your child who has been missing all these many years. I found him as I was scouting the alleyways and streets to plan our next advances and battles in the city. I was riding when I saw a glint of yellow, like cat's eyes, inside a grimy store window. Curious, I halted my horse and dismounted."
"And why did you do that, commander?" The emperor's voice rumbled. His eyes narrowed, but not in anger or suspicion, but in contemplation and interest, as if he was intensely analyzing the soldier's story to see whether it was true or false.
"I knew that only the Darke tend to have eyes that show in the dark like that, and as the side of the alley that the shop was situated in was encased in shadow, I knew the only explanation would be a stray Darke. And as I am under oath to serve and protect any and all Darke, it was my duty to try and help whomever it was."
"You are wise for a schagda." The soldier was what the Darke termed schagda, a human enhanced by three things, called '"the gifts": taijd, or enhanced with Darke technology; miaj, or the Darke's magic; and finally, baij, or the infusion of Darke blood, given when inducted into the role they will play after much training. Though elevated in their human societies, they are generally looked down upon for the most part by the Darke, and for good reason: many humans, upon receiving an infusion of Darke blood go mad. The chance of madness and the severity increases with the level or amount, in other words, of blood infused.
"After I had entered the shop, and finding no one and no animal in sight in that room, I started to search. This search led me to the back room—which is where I found the child. He fit the role of a Darke child perfectly. The faxi script upon his back clinched my suspicions. He is the missing heir."
"Child, what is your name?"
The young Darke, who had been fidgeting nervously, suddenly looked up and stood at attention. "Erik," he said simply and boldly.
"A corruption of you real name. Aerikk, I believe. The Gaulians cannot pronounce the Dar equivalent of their name 'Eric'. Lift your shirt, Aerikk."
As he did, he could see plainly the script Mikel had mentioned and was immediately convinced of the truth.
"Commander Mikel Angrove, congratulations for returning my son to me. You shall be duly rewarded."
