vemod (n.) a tender sadness or pensive melancholy; the calm feeling that something emotionally significant is over and never will be back.

The war was over.

That day, as the sun rose over a blighted battlefield, Klaara Aas looked up at the last star to fade from the sky, and turned, very slowly, to stone. It was a gentle passing; Klaara had found the transformation quite slow and exceptionally peaceful, like going grey at the temples. It had begun in her shoulders, some thirteen months ago, until she had walked with a distinctive straight-armed gait that everyone in Opona recognised. It had proceeded down, softly, like the touch of a lover, to coat every inch of her skin until, finally, that morning the stone crept over her eyes and her mouth and Klaara Aas, the Tower of Kur, slowly faded from this world.

She would not be found for another four hours, until the man she had called brother for the past nine years found her. She was kneeling precisely where she had fallen at the sight of the white flag in the distance, her gaze tilted upwards, her hair dishevelled and still. Decebal Nicolescu did not attempt to move her, only put a hand against her forehead, as might a praying man issue the final rites, and went away again, leaving Klaara the lone watchguard over the destruction that the xrafstars had wrought in their final, decisive battle.

The war was over. New Asia had been defeated. Irij had been victorious. The xrafstars were few in number.

On the swell of the hill, what remained of the others were waiting. Nine years ago, there had been twelve of them. Now, there was four – four, only if you counted Jaga. Few did these days, for so little remained of her humanity that the name Jaga Szymańska did not seem to belong to her anymore. She was usually referred as it, and it was usually referred to by the title of its tarot card: the Kur Moon. She lay near to the others, a heaving pile of feather and claw many times larger than the young man and woman standing beside it, its maw stained with blood and viscera, her dark flesh occasionally twitching as though in pain or exhaustion. Looking at her, Decebal decided that Jaga was probably not long for this world either. Would she make it back to their homeland to die? Maybe they would leave her here, like they were leaving Klaara, a monument to their final, greatest victory.

They wouldn't be lonely for long. The others would join them very soon. Ten years was a long life for a xrafstar. They usually lived half that. This generation of Warriors had exceeded all expectations.

Avrova Vovk and Matthias Kloet were waiting for Decebal as he arrived – one, staring straight forward as though she could not see him, the other, staring straight forward because he could truly not. Avrova Vovk was blonde, and she was delicate, and she had toppled the Swendway government thirteen months previously. The Irij brass had feared that they could ally with New Asia against Irij – Avrova had ensured that the war was the least of their problem. She had been the lowest-ranked in their Warrior class for the whole of their childhood, and had received the Lover tarot during initiation as a result, and sometimes it appeared to Decebal that she had decided to make that simple fact everyone else's problem. There was a kind of bitterness that lingered with any person who had the misfortune of inheriting the Lover's Curse, and Avrova Vovk was no different.

Avrova Vovk said, "tell him what you told me, Matthias."

Matthias Kloet said, "they're going to send the Warriors to Illéa."

Decebal Nicolescu touched the scar which took up his right cheek, and felt a little more of his finger crumble to dust as he pressed it to his cheekbone, and said, "they can try." He had maybe five days left, he had told himself earlier that day, out on the battlefield, but now, looking down at what remained of his right hand – three fingers missing, one slowly dissipating down into the wind like an hourglass – he revised that to three and a half. "They can try."

Klaara, and Jaga, and all who had died before them, would not be lonely for long.

"Not us." Matthias shook his head. "The next generation."

Of course. The children – for children they were. The Warrior candidates designated to take over their curses, and their burden, and their mission. Decebal could remember his childhood in the programme. It had seemed like such an honour to be a Warrior – such a wonderful honour to be chosen. He had been nine years old when he had left his family for the military education they had been promised, and fifteen when he had been handed his tarot card and made a xrafstar.

The Chariot.

The previous Chariot had hugged him, and told him that his generation of Warriors would be the greatest there had ever been. They had been told that he was going to go to Illéa, to kill the royal family that hid there, the royal family whose blood and whose sins he shared unless he proved otherwise.

The Warriors had never been sent to Illéa, mired instead in war after bitter war. They had never been truly able to prove themselves innocent of the sins their ancestors had committed. Even now, the New Asian army lying devastated behind them after their failed last stand, Decebal knew he would die with the Schreave's guilt lying heavily on his heart.

But still, what an honour it had been. What a wonderful honour.

He hoped this new crop of xrafstars did better. He hoped they were every inch the Warriors their title suggested. He hoped they went to Illéa, and they killed the Schreaves, and they took back the final curse of Illéa.

He hoped, desperately, that redemption lay somewhere in that murky future.

In the distance, he could see their airship approaching slowly, its turbines lazily dispersing the white smoke which had marked the enemy's surrender. They were going home.

"How soon?"

"Two weeks." Matthias' eyes bored holes into Decebal; though he knew the Hierophant was blind, it felt like his pale gaze was upon Decebal no matter which way he moved, though the other xrafstars knew by now that when Matthias looked like that, he was gazing not at you but at the threads of time only he could perceive – the threads of time, and where they left. And he answered Decebal's question before the Chariot had even asked it. "They intend to infiltrate the Illéan Selection."

Decebal said, thinking of his scar, "rather them than me."

"Speak for yourself." Avrova had closed her eyes. In the bloody light of dawn, she looked as petrified as Klaara. "I don't want to die, brothers."

Matthias' voice was soft. "I have some bad news for you, little sister."

It was the most lucid Matthias had been in years. Beside them, the thing that had once been Jaga seemed to take in a great inhalation, and then an even greater exhalation, a great shudder that shook feather and claw and fang, and what had been black flesh began to dissipate, slowly, into so much smog, revealing the girl that lay beneath the monster's skin, slowly stirring awake once more. Out on the battlefield, Klaara looked like a monument erected to their hard-won victory, and Decebal looked down at his hand again, and wondered if maybe two days was a more accurate estimate.

The war was over.

Welcome to my new SYOC, where the heroes are bad guys and the bad guys are monsters! This story is fantasy, set in a nation named Irij which was once subjugated by xrafstars, or sorcerors. The most powerful xrafstars were the Schreave family, who used dark magic to set up their empire. The Irij stole some of this magic, known as the Ten Curses, to fight back against the Schreaves. Two hundred years ago, they succeeded in banishing the Schreaves to the island of Illéa, where they remain to this day with many of their followers.

The descendants of the Schreaves that remained in Irij after this are known as the Kur, and are the only ones capable of wielding the Schreave magic. Thus, the Irij government set up the Warriors Programme, designed to find the best Kur candidates to handle the Ten Curses in each generation, with the intent that - with the right set of Warriors - the Schreaves could be defeated once and for all. The island of Illéa is infested with monsters known as druj, which is why only the Warriors are suitable for this mission. Your submitted characters will form the new generation of Warriors, who take on these curses and attempt to infiltrate Illéa, Angeles, and the palace, to rid the world of the Schreaves once and for all...

The form will be on my bio. More information available at the story website: for the glory of irij . weebly .com

Pinterest board also coming soon! Please message me with any questions whatsoever. Hope you enjoy!

~ Izar