47
Samuel
Samuel followed his mistress from the lavish black tent, his jaw aching from pleasing her.
He blinked as the sun dipped behind the cloud of an incoming storm from the south.
A foul odour wafted from beneath his armour, causing the same repeated bile to rise in his throat, just for the magic to force him to swallow it back down.
He couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t worn it.
“Ah! There he is.” A shadow smiled at him, his white teeth and stormy eyes the only discernible features amidst the darkness. “Is he a good present for you, darling?”
Vivian—her name like a constant whip through his mind—hummed. “Most delectable. He’s been well trained.” Her slender finger ran down the side of his face but he could no longer feel it.
Waves of black stone filed out across the plain of the barren wasteland. The ocean raged to the west, splashing up against the cliff face, threatening to submerge hundreds of soldiers identical to Samuel within its outrage.
The stormy ocean reminded him of a strong presence, the white ocean spray mixed with the depths of the dark comforting him. But then he saw the individual black blobs again. The endless tirade of those just like him. Faceless. Nameless.
Yet, he refused to forget his name. No matter how painful it became, Samuel Rommier would be the last thing he would remember. Unlike the soldiers. They had no idea what was real anymore.
Shades, master had called them. Their revered one, with eyes like thunder. Admiral Barron.
He glanced away, peering down at his hands in confusion.
What were those markings around his wrists?
Intersecting lines disappearing beneath his armour, encasing him in a permanently cold and hard blanket.
He scratched at the metal, noticing individual marred lines that matched the groove of his bloodied fingernail.
Had he . . . done this before?
The thought drifted away, as most thoughts did. Vivian’s pale hand guided him through the endless bodies, around tents, campfires, and human waste. The sour stench watered his eyes and the tears fell freely.
“Reginald!” Barron snapped.
Samuel blinked, and an unknown figure appeared, bowing his head.
He was built thick, with glasses perched on a pointy nose, surrounded by a wide moustache.
A grey apron stretched across his muscles, stained with soot.
The bald head was a stark contrast, and unlike the others .
. . he wasn’t suffocating in the darkness.
“It took me three weeks, but I have recreated the witch’s weapon,” Reginald spoke, his voice warbled, Samuel’s hearing lacking in perception. “It’s a . . . we can make enough to . . .”
Samuel’s attention wandered off, like it often did. His eyes drifted to the muted sky, grey and somewhat familiar. He breathed deep enough until the armour squeezed his ribcage, forcing him to release a shallow breath.
The craft maker scurried away, his name already forgotten. Panic surged at Samuel’s fragmented mind, but was quickly doused as Vivian stroked his chin.
“We should trim your beard soon. I don’t like prickly lips.”
He grunted in response. He wasn’t even sure if he could talk anymore. The Dark One was joined by another with matching hair, but eyes of emeralds. The sight of him was menacing, something coiling within, causing Samuel’s armour to constrict, forcing his anger down until all he felt was numbness.
“When do we attack?” the young male asked, his eyes darting towards Samuel’s blank expression. He stared back, unsure of whether he was supposed to know this male. Had they been friends? Enemies? Was this their first encounter?
“The next hawk should be arriving soon. Their Mist is weakening, their protective boundary falling apart. Soon, we will get everything we’ve worked for, my son.”
“And her?”
“Yes, her too.”
Vivian scoffed at the males, flicking the ends of her green dress as she ranted about power, her voice falling on deaf ears.
“She’s not everything, you fools. We can do this without her. The power of the ocean won’t matter once the rifts are open.”
“No,” they answered in unison.
“Are we not equals, darling?” Barron ran his hand across Vivian’s neck, and she shivered, the motion all too familiar to Samuel. She shivered under his touch like that every night. “Do I not deserve a pet of my own? Should we not acquire Calypso’s only heir? We need all four for the ritual.”
Vivian nodded, her heavy stare sliding to Samuel. “Anything you desire.”
Time passed. Warping in and out. A flurry of acrid stenches, darkness, and Vivian’s gut-wrenching moans as he tended to her pleasure night after night until she fell asleep in his arms. Her hair fanned out across the cot, the strands akin to the dying roots of a tree.
The master never visited her at night, always pacing, always working.
His darkness spread further with each rising moon, its glow increasing as it filled out week after week.
Samuel closed his eyelids, picturing fiery eyes, one of the few things he wanted to remember.
Flaming hair that shone brightly in the darkness, keeping the encroaching shadows at bay.
His mind quietened when those eyes graced him, and he dreamt of them every night until the darkness came to claim him in the morning.
“Get up. Time to go,” Vivian ordered, patting his face ungracefully. Morning once again. Cold and dark. The magic of the suit forced him upright, obeying his mistress’ command.
He rolled to the side, standing in one swift motion like a mindless ghost. A single dark speck on the tent caught his attention. A singular point of darkness, and briefly, he willed for all that haunted him to funnel into it. To leave his body, his soul.
Vivian sighed as she took his hand, guiding him back out of the tent towards the largest in the centre of their camp.
The colour black was everywhere.
Everywhere except . . . Vivian. A glowing wraith, skin that shone in the dark, swathed in sultry, silken green robes that matched her fox-like eyes.
“Darling, I think you need to loosen your magic on this one. He’s becoming useless.” Vivian pushed Samuel into a chair, guiding each individual limb. He vacantly stared at the shadow lounging before him. But there. Knelt by his side. A chain around her neck.
Wildfire.
Flaming red and orange. The colour so beautiful his heart sang. His mind sparked, seeing her once again breathing sense into his body. She stared back, the divine halo around her eyes a dark contrast. She was thin, her cheeks sunken, but the defiance in her gaze was clear and electrifying.
“Not to worry,” the Dark One’s voice tore Samuel’s attention from his little flame. “It’s almost time for Rommier’s purpose in this war.”
The tent flaps wafted, followed by a sickly breeze. Two stools appeared either side of him, and he glanced at the male placed to his left. Tall and thin, with long black hair and dark eyes. The armour clung to his frame, drowning him in darkness.
Ivar.
Samuel winced as his name broke through the smoke clouding his mind. Sweat trickled down Ivar’s wan face as he bared his teeth at the Dark One, pain evidently consuming him from the tortured twist of his lips.
He was . . . fighting the dark magic. Resisting the temptation to give in.
It’d been too long for Samuel. It knew how to haunt its wearer, to manipulate their mind until they no longer remembered what they’d done an hour ago. Samuel huffed at Ivar’s attempt to survive, knowing he’d soon lose his spark and succumb to the shadows.
It was easier that way.
He glanced to the male placed to his right. Cropped curls and strong features, eyes like the darkest umber surrounded by streaks of black tears. Tattered clothing drowned his malnourished frame, and sores peppered his dark skin, leaking with pus as he wheezed with every breath.
No armour. Not even a hint of a shadow. His little flame also watched the dark male warily. Something about him caused a flicker of irritation, as though his mere presence was intolerable . . . but familiar.
“Sam?” the male to his right coughed the word out. “Sam, are you alright?”
He knew him.
“He’s under Barron’s persuasion,” Ivar gritted out, every word forced through bared teeth. Sweat poured across his brow as his slender hands clenched around thick rope binding his wrists.
“Sam! Can you hear me?”
Samuel grunted in response. Theron. The infuriating sentinel. The know-it-all who was truly their prince.
“Silence!” His mistress backhanded Theron, the slap echoing through the crimson tent. Barron liked to stand out from the sea of darkness. The beacon of death, the conductor of misery. Even the rugs lining the wooden pallet floor were splattered with blood, finished with gleaming golden tassels.
“Ivar, Theron,” his master smiled. “You’re about to witness history.”
“This is sick Barron,” the pustulous male wheezed. “Look at what you are doing! Sam doesn’t even know who he fully is. He doesn’t recognise us!”
Barron laughed. “The perfect soldier.”
Within a blink of an eye, Barron yelled as Ivar lunged, screaming with anguish as he reached for the Dark One.
Vivian shrieked, her hand rising to summon her magic.
Vines erupted through the floor, clasping around Ivar’s ankles, dragging him back to his stool.
All the while wheezing, clutching at his chest as the armour constricted his ribcage as punishment.
“Intriguing you’ve resisted the stone for this long, Ivar. Perhaps you possess a natural magic deterrent.”
Shadows parted around the Dark One, revealing a shining, silver barrel in his hand.
Samuel inhaled sharply as a memory of cannons filled his mind, before evaporating like thin air.
Etchings marked the metal as it shone in the light, connected to a moulded hilt with a curved hook.
His little flame gasped, her hands shaking as she attempted to reach for the weapon.
“That simply won’t do in my world.”
Bang.