The Blood King - Chapter One (Patreon)

Nemyra

Twenty Years Later…

I enjoy the chill of the river. The water this time of year is much cooler because everything upriver is melting, leaving the water frigid. It would be too cold for any human, but not for me. It fuels me, making me feel stronger and more alive than I do most days. I lower myself deeper into the river, submerging myself to let it cover every inch of my body as I let the constant tension that lingers over me daily dissipate. The chill of the water overtakes me, coaxing me into drifting off. But the panicked footsteps that sound above, followed by the desperate screaming of my name, remind me why I can’t.

“Nemyra! Oh, gods, please. Nemyra, where are you?” I break through the surface of the water, finding the owner of the voice almost instantly. She’s a good distance away. If I hadn’t revealed myself, she would have run right by me. Her eyes arefilled with tears as she takes me in and collapses in relief. She pulls in a shuddering breath, pressing her hand to her chest as she calms herself.

“I was gone for less than ten minutes,” I say in irritation as I rise out of the water. But Peyra won’t let me off so easily as she launches into an angry tirade as to why I can never do something like this again. I already know why, however.

I am the last Ikniri.

My clan was lost to the war among the ancients when I was young—too young to recall everything that happened. I feel shame for not being able to remember my past. My people can’t even live on in my memories. The burn on my shoulder is the only clue I have of how my clan was taken. I’m sure Peyra knows exactly how I got this burn, and what happened to my people that night. But through some promise she made to my brother, she won’t reveal it to me. Peyra is the woman he used his final moments to entrust with his life. According to her, he trekked from battle for days, carrying me in his arms as he tried to keep me alive. Still, I don’t remember those days or those moments.

I do, however, remember his last words to me.

 “I’ll come back for you some day, and we will reclaim what is ours.”

That was more than twenty years ago. And he never came back, feeding into the story the world tells. The Ikniri were lost to history that night, and no one knows about the last Ikniri who survived. Peyra has made it her life mission to keep it that way. We live our lives in hiding, sticking to the forests most seasons. Even when Peyra needs to gather supplies, she makes me remain hidden. Placing a cloak over my head is a temporary fix, but if anyone gets too close and sees not only the unnatural, clear hue of my eyes, but the whites of my brows and lashes against my warm skin, they will know what I am instantly.

It’s a tedious life I live. And I pity Peyra for being stuck with me. But she doesn’t see it that way. She sees it as an honor to protect the last living Ikniri. To be chosen as the protector of one of the ancients is a divine gift, she says. That is the way of humans. They think that because we are imbued with powers, it automatically means anything they do for us is an honor.

Though I still see it as a burden.

“I know, Peyra. I understand. I just needed a moment to cool down. The heat is unbearable,” I say as I pull my shirt on. Peyra is quiet as I lift my blade, fastening it to its rightful place at my hip.

I pat it for emphasis as I speak. “Besides, I know how to take care of myself.”

Peyra releases a scoff.

“I coddled you too much. You are an Ikniri cut off from your culture. And humanity has grown vile in the absence of the ancients. If anyone were to see you, there would—”

“Be hell to pay, I know,” I snap.

Peyra senses my frustrations, her eyes softening. She’s an older human now, her brown hair starting to gray in streaks. Even her eyes are beginning to look tired, as most humans do eventually. They age rapidly, their lifespans fleeting compared to an Ancient’s. I hate that Peyra has spent most of her life worrying about me.

“Nemyra… I know this life isn’t what you envisioned. You have no idea how important it is that you are protected. You are so important to so many people,” she says.

I swallow my irritation, looking off into the distance. The thick brush of the forests drains me. They trap the sun's heat, making it increasingly difficult to live here with each passing year. At night, when I dream, I dream of my home. I dream of the snow, the endless miles of it. The comfort that settled in the air. And when I open my eyes, and I am here, I feel anger all over again.

I feel anger for not knowing what happened that night, what happened to my people, or even how to get back to them. I am lost and trapped in a world that is consuming me. And with the anniversary of my people’s slaughter in just a week, it is another bitter reminder of the life I’ve been confined to.

“Why? Why is my life so important? What can I do if I am truly the last of my kind? What am I meant to do?” I ask, looking at her.

She looks like she wants to respond, but stops herself. She takes in a deep breath, composing herself. “It isn’t my place,” she says.

I want to push her, but I know what’s happened in the past when I did. So, I swallow my emotions as I wring out my hair.

“I understand,” I say.

Not only can I see the relief wash over her, but I can also hear it. Her heartbeat slows, and her breathing follows. Even her scent shifts, and I know that she believes me. She steps forward, pulling me in for a hug, and I return it, knowing it will make her feel better.

“I don’t mind if you want to take a dip in the river. You just need to tell me. You cannot wander off,” she murmurs.

“I’m sorry,” I say. And I mean it. She had left me to stand watch by her wagon, but I got distracted by the sound of the river—knowing that freezing water was waiting for me, I couldn’t ignore it. I didn’t mean to wander away, but it’s as if instinct overtook me in the moment.

I can’t tell Peyra that, however. Anytime something new happens to me, it not only causes an unnecessary freakout, but she also takes us deeper into the forest, making us stay hidden and in one place for at least a month, with no answers about my changed condition.

“Okay,” she says, pulling out of the hug. “Let’s get going. We’ve got a lot of terrain to cover if we want to make it by the full moon,” she says, moving back in the direction of the wagon.

Once a year, we make our way back to the village Peyra is from. It is where my brother left me, and said that he would return for me someday. It was once her home, but she was forced to abandon it when the villagers realized she was harboring an Ikniri. News of the war allowed people’s fears to consume them, making them turn against the very creatures who protected them over the years. Peyra had to leave to protect me, becoming a wandering soul who creates and sells medicines to survive.

I’ll never understand why Peyra sacrificed so much for me.

Part of me wants to tell her I don’t want to return to the village this year. It’s too painful, hiding myself as I wait for the last living member of my family to come for me. It’s a cold reminder each time he doesn’t show that I may be the last of my kind. The hope that I felt as a child is gone. It has been replaced with a cruel reality that I will not only never see my people again, but my family as well. I am adrift, with no knowledge of who I am.

“Ah!” I flinch as a sharp chill forms on my forearm. The veins in my right arm seem to illuminate beneath my skin just as a single mark curls its way from my wrist to the inside of my elbow. My arm trembles as an unfamiliar rush washes over me.

“Nemyra?” I quickly pull my arm behind me as Peyra turns back when she notices I’m not following.

“Coming!” I say quickly as I move past her back in the direction of the wagon.

* * * * *

The trip to get to Peyra’s village ranges from days to weeks, depending on where we are in the world. Peyra always tries to keep our movement schedule random, as it is dangerous to create a pattern. Anyone can be waiting, whether it be humans or something far more dangerous. But no matter where we are in the world, Peyra always knows how to get back to her home.

The silence is comforting as we ride through the woods. The sun has been down for hours, but the moon is almost at its fullest, illuminating the world around us in its cool glow. We don’t have to travel with lanterns when it’s like this. The Earth in its natural state glows for us to see. Or rather, for Peyra. I’ve never had difficulty seeing at night.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The world in its natural state. The way it should be,” she says, breaking the silence.

“I suppose,” I say.

She shifts, looking back at me.

“What is wrong, Nemyra? You’ve been irritable for days now. It was cute when you were a child, but now… it’s just immature,” she says.

I scoff, leaning against the wagon wall as I shift my attention to the stars. They glitter alongside the moon, but not so much that they outshine it.

“I don’t know, really. I feel angry. It’s as if it’s a part of me,” I say, shifting my attention to my arm. I can see the new marking on my forearm peaking through the necklace my brother left me. I moved it earlier, wrapping it around my right arm to hide it from Peyra’s gaze. The two crystals hanging from it dangle delicately, pulling my attention. They swirl on the inside with a power I know nothing about.

“You cannot let your anger consume you, Nemyra. You must be above that, or else you’ll end up like the blood king,” she says.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes as she speaks of the fabled king who started this war in the first place. I’ve briefly heard stories of him over the years. He was a Dragonborn who lost his way, consumed by hatred. He did something the Ancients were never meant to do. He turned on them—on the world. Consuming it in a fiery inferno, plunging us all into war and chaos. The story has twisted and weaved over time, ranging from him being a mad king to humans becoming sick of the ancients and turning on them, making it impossible to understand where the chaos truly begins.

Nowhere in these stories does it explain what happened to the Ikniri, however. Only that they were lost to the war. If you ask me, it is a fable made up by humans to teach them to control their emotions. If the blood king was indeed mad and so consumed by rage, why does the world still live on? But Peyra fiercely believes it, constantly bringing it up when I get too emotional.

“I think I’ve earned the right to be a little angry. This is the twentieth year in a row that we are travelling back to a village my brother will not show up to,” I say.

Peyra releases a deep breath.

“You may have grown in body, but your mind is still so naive. The tongue is a powerful weapon. You cannot toss those kinds of words out into the world—”

“We risk our lives every time we go back, and it’s all for nothing. You know this before we even reach! We travel the world, and have heard no news of my kind. Why do you act like there is a possibility if he hasn’t returned for me yet?” I snap.

Peyra is silent. Suddenly, she stops the horses, turning to look at me.

“The world?” she laughs. “You have no idea how big the world truly is. If your brother is somewhere out there, twenty years is not enough time for him to find his way back.”

Silence drifts between us, and she looks up at the moon before looking back to me.

“I won’t be here forever. And when I’m gone, it will be your responsibility to return on your own—”

“I don’t want to, Peyra. You were right, this isn’t a life I envisioned! I want to see more of the world, I want to leave these forests, I want to stop returning to a village for no reason—”

“Kalte!” Peyra hisses.

We glare at one another in the dark. But Peyra won’t back down. She’s always been like this, fiercely protective of the legacy of the Ancients. So much so that she won’t let me speak ill of them, even if it’s about myself. So, I release a huff of irritation, plopping back down into the wagon.

After a moment, the wagon begins to move. But Peyra offers me no words of wisdom, no reprimands. She’s angry with me, and maybe rightfully so.

“Why have you wasted your life caring for me?” I ask.

I know she hears me. I say it loud enough for her to hear. But she proves my point when she doesn’t respond. She’s upset.

So, I quetly lay on my back to look up at the moon as I compose myself. I wish I had her patience. She’s right about one thing: I am far from mature if it means accepting this as my life and never moving on.

I won’t. If my brother doesn’t show up this year, that’s it. I am leaving, whether she allows it or not. I won’t let my people die with me. I won’t remain hidden in the forests as if I am the one who did something wrong. I’ll travel the world, just like my people did.

Whether Peyra allows it or not.