Belzarok

I can’t entirely recall that day. A world so long ago that even the sky, once brilliant blue, feels like a dream, the events themselves slipping like water through cupped hands, as if time itself had breathed over the scene, fogging the glass between then and now.

My hometown was quiet, modest in spirit, with the sweet scent of hay lingering in the air. Wheelbarrows were scattered along the outskirts of town, left in haphazard clusters. A dense forest surrounded my home village, stretching endlessly in all directions, except for one, where farmland unfurled for miles. There people toiled beneath the sun, tending to the earth, hauling water from the nearby river. I could hear it rushing in the distance. Or maybe I only thought I could. Perhaps it was nothing more than the blurred recollections of a child’s mind, still caught in the haze of play.

The town itself was modest but small, home to a few hundred residents, with just as many passing through as vendors, farmers, or merchants. Chepstow, it was called. A beautiful village filled with friendly folk. The homes were short and stout, adorned with dark wooden beams that framed stone interlays, The thatched roofs hung low, sheltering the doorways beneath. The windows, always clouded with dust, seemed to have collected the years upon their glass, never quite clear no matter how often they were wiped.

At the village’s heart stood a well. More decorative than functional, yet large and imposing in its own way. Beyond it, on the far side, was a stable I used to visit often, drawn by the warmth of the horses and the quiet solace it provided. Even now, I could almost recall the muffled sounds of hooves shifting against dirt and scroungy pups clawing at wood.

What seemed briefest in my memory, yet significant in its own peculiar way, was the woman who loosely held my hand. She was, in a word, beautiful. Her chocolate-brown hair cascaded like silk, flowing freely with each step. She wore a simple yet elegant white chainse. One layered beneath a fitted brown bodice, cinched at the waist. In one hand, she carried a finely interwoven basket, while with the other, she pulled me along as we hurried down a dusty dirt path. The earth was warm beneath my bare feet and the grit pressed into my skin. I felt a connection when with her. One I would never feel again. The joy of a child, I suppose.

It began on the village outskirts. A subtle ripple in the underbrush, but I barely noticed, my attention snagged instead by the laughter of two children as they dashed past. Then, a sudden tug on my arm made me pause. The woman beside me had stopped, her grip tightening. The sound of hooves followed—fast and urgent, growing louder and louder until they seemed to shake the earth itself. Pale blue figures emerged from the foliage, sharpening as they crept from the shadows. At least a dozen horses, with more likely trailing behind, surged forward like the sea crashing onto shoreline, halting near another hill’s crest. The men atop the strong, white steeds wore thick black robes lined with silver. But it was the one in the center who stood apart. His robes were traced in a dull, faux gold that caught the sunlight, marking him as something different, something greater. As something to be feared. At least to a young boy... it worked.

The shadows of the hood obscured his features, but after a moment, he pulled it back to reveal an old, grizzled expression. Creases and scars, oh my god the scars, there were so many of them. Red and scabbing. Cracks split across his skin like ravines and twisted up his jawline. Even more unsettling was the crooked smile that stretched across his face. The moment he stepped forward, everyone on this side of the village halted. Some fled to their homes the instant they saw him. Others were too shocked to move or too bold for their own good. They stood frozen, watching, waiting, as his gaze swept over us. Was this a show? A stunt meant to instill false fear?

“I’m looking for a boy,” the man announced aloud. His voice was not as deep as I had expected, but smooth and middle-pitched, carrying easily across the open air. It was one of those voices that traveled for miles, echoing into the forest beyond. No one answered. No one stirred. His smile faltered. He tipped his head forward lazily, then flipped it back and pulled a thick piece of string from his pocket, tying his hair into a bun. “See, that silence worries me,” he said amusedly. “And the confusion on your many sweet, innocent faces tells me you don’t know.”

Without warning, he unsheathed his blade. The clearing was filled with the cacophony of metal screeching against their scabbards. The villagers broke into chaos, screams rising as people turned to flee. The woman beside me gripped my hand tighter, yanking me back, ready to run, before we could take a single step, something unnatural happened. It was as if we had been frozen in the air. My muscles burned, straining against an unseen force, but I couldn’t move. Nor could she.

“I would question further,” the man mused, “but it might be a little difficult for you to move your mouths.” With a flick of his wrist, our bodies twisted back toward him like puppets. “My god,” he laughed lightly. “Are you all that frightened by a few blades? It’s not these flimsy pieces of metal you should be worried about.” He raised his fist into the air. From somewhere above, I heard the tightening of many fine strings. “But the arrows.”

With a thrust of his hand, the invisible force binding us vanished, but it was too late. Arrows tore through the sky like hunting hawks, slicing through flesh as they struck down those who stood helpless. Blood burst forth in sickening waves, spilling across the dirt, and all around me, villagers collapsed, bolts jutting from their necks, chests, and backs. They dropped first to their knees, then fell motionless against the ground.

“Alaric,” the woman whispered hastily. Her grip on me tightened as she hoisted me into her arms, struggling under my weight as more arrows rained down, embedding themselves in wood, earth, and skull. She ran, breath ragged, face pale, her eyes rimmed red with tears. Only when we reached the narrow space between two buildings did she finally stop, pressing us between two tightly packed blocks of straw that made my nose itch.

As he spoke again, I could feel her muscles tense. “Look at this pitiful waste of life,” the man sneered. My heart pounded as he passed by the alleyway, oblivious to our presence.

“They’re fleeing to West End, sir,” one of his men reported. His voice was raspy, just as I had expected, and his sword dripped with blood.

“Then follow them, Scout. You’re not children, you can fig—.” His words were cut short as something hard struck the back of his head. He staggered forward, cursing under his breath. I instinctively leaned up to see what had happened, but before I could get a proper look, I was yanked back down. The woman wrapped her arms around my torso so tightly I could hardly breathe.

“You son of a bitch,” he growled. The sound of ragged breathing followed. An old man’s breath. Two pairs of feet scuffed against the dirt, dragging the man who had struck him forward. “That hurt,” the leader continued, not without amusement. “And I like to repay pain. Now, doesn’t that sound lovely?”

“You’ll burn in Vollith’s mouth,” the old man grunted.

There was a shuffle, then a sharp gasp as the man was seized by the throat and lifted carelessly into the air. Her grip on me loosened at the sound of his voice. A hand shot to her mouth, muffling a stifled cry, but I could feel her body trembling. Even now, I can recall the way she let go of me, her hands shifting to my shoulders, clutching them desperately.

“Alaric, I need you to run. Find somewhere safe.”

I managed a squeaky reply. “What about you?”

“I’ll come looking for you. Okay?” And then, just like that, she was gone. The woman with the chocolate-brown hair gently pushed past me, rising to her feet slowly, before lifting her hands in surrender. “Please. Let him go.” Her gaze flickered toward the old man, now lying motionless on the ground. His skin had turned a deep purple, marred by dark bruises. He did not stir.

“Let him go?” The man laughed, tilting his head like a beast. His movements were unnatural, shifting as if his bones didn’t quite fit the muscles pulling them. He stepped forward, his eyes softening slightly as he studied her more closely. “My, my… aren’t you beautiful?”

“Just—” Her foot slid back against the blood and dirt. “You don’t need to kill him. He… he hasn’t done anything.”

“No, no, my gorgeous, of course not.” In swift steps, he bridged the gap, his hands grabbing her face. As she tried to pull away, one of his soldiers came from behind, seizing her and holding her firmly in place. A dreadful gasp escaped her lips. “We’ll make sure he’s taken care of for you… who is he? Daddy? Uncle?” His hand slowly slid down her side as he spoke. “All you need is—”

She spat in his face, and in words that came out in a bitter stutter, “I’ll… I’ll kill you.”

He snarled and yanked her from the soldier’s grasp, callously throwing her to the ground. She tumbled onto the cold dirt path, landing hard, a pained gasp escaping her lips. As she lay there dazed, he knelt beside her, using the fabric of her clothing to wipe his face before standing again. His gaze swept over the area once more, and I instinctively ducked, only daring to peer back when I assumed it was safe.

“These people are idiots. What do they think will come of such menial actions?” he spat, eyes flicking back to her as she rolled onto her side in pain. “Tie her up. Place her on my horse. I’ll need her for later.”

“Vesperus?” one of his men asked. Right. That was his name

“Put her on the goddamn horse, Scout.” Without argument, they did as he pleased. Two of his men, their hoods now fallen, grasped her by the arms. She looked at me weakly as they carried her away. And away.

In my frozen state, I must have been seen. When I glanced back, every one of their eyes had locked onto me coldly. My muscles tensed, my heart pounded, and I scrambled backward. But before I could escape, Vesperus lifted his hand, and just like before, I froze mid-step. That burning sensation returned, searing through my every fiber, forcing my body still. A stifled cry caught in my throat.

His gaze traced my stature, and for a fleeting moment, I thought he might spare me. But then, he signaled for his men to keep watch. A breath seized in my chest as he crouched to my level, meeting my child’s height with an eerie patience. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Inches from my face, I could smell him. The raw iron stench of blood, the foul, dirty odor of sweat. And his eyes. They were so unnaturally purple that in that moment, I knew. He wasn’t human.

“Don’t be so frightened, my friend… You’re the one, aren’t you? I can tell by your eyes… by how the blood courses through your veins oppositely…” His breath was warm against my neck as he inhaled deeply, taking in my scent. A shiver of disgust crawled down my spine, “...your smell.”

His hand moved to the handle of his dagger, fingers curling around the hilt as he slowly withdrew it from its sheath. At first glance, it looked like any other blade, but as it caught the dim light, I realized it was anything but ordinary. The blade itself was forged not from steel, but from a dark, purple flesh. Lavender veins coursed through its surface, pulsating and writhing as though alive. It looked as if raw, living meat had been crudely shaped into a weapon, tapering off into a point that almost mocked the concept of a blade. It was something unnatural. Something that should not exist.

He lifted his own forearm and dragged the cursed blade across his pale skin. The wound split open, and what oozed forth was not red, but thick, black ichor that seeped from the gash like tar. The stench, oh my god, the stench. It was as if something long dead had been rotting inside his veins.

He leaned in, eyes locked onto mine, and in a low murmur said, “You’ll need to drink up.” Then, without waiting, he pressed the wound against my mouth. The rancid blood spilled onto my tongue and down my throat. I struggled, gagged, my body convulsing as it burned its way down. My vision blurred until, at last, all sensation faded. And then, there was only black.

The memory following is scant. The blackness lasted a long time. It wasn’t like I had blacked out, not exactly, but more as if his blood had carried me elsewhere. Somewhere cold and vacant, a dimension that stretched without end. There was no sensation, no presence, no sound—only a terrible stillness that seemed to swallow all things. And yet, in the heart of that void, I could have sworn I heard it: the faint chiming of distant bells, delicate and far away, ringing softly as if caught on some invisible breeze.

Something appeared on the horizon. A tall and narrow building rose from the barren expanse like a monolith. Made of dark stone, it seemed to absorb the lightless air around it. There were no windows, no door, only a single arch near its base, wide enough to enter but shrouded in a blackness deeper than the void itself. The air shimmered faintly, as if rippling around the structure, and though it looked ancient, something about it drew me closer.

I reached my hand forward, but the moment didn’t last. Without warning, a blinding light tore through the dark. The emptiness collapsed, and I was back. Back in the village. Back beneath the punishing heat of the sun. Back to Vesperus, who now held me slung over his shoulder as if I weighed nothing at all.

“Soldiers!” a man yelled, his head snapping toward the sound of marching steel behind us. The heavy clank of metal against the earth grew louder, and soon, sentinels in bronze-stained armor blocked the town’s exit. They stood in formation, spears in hand, smaller blades sheathed at their sides. Their helmets, well-fitted and curving back at the top, had diamond-shaped openings for their faces, giving them a hollow, expressionless look.

“Damn,” Vesperus cursed under his breath, spinning sharply to the left. He lifted his hand in a quick signal. “There’s too many! Get to the next opening!”

At once, they moved. With me still in his grasp, my body rose and fell with each step, jolting in rhythm to his stride. Nausea churned in my stomach, but I knew better than to complain. We fled through the small central market, past the old well standing firm brick by brick, and into the narrow streets where the homes now lay dormant. Though I knew soldiers were chasing them down, the sight of bloodied bodies strewn across the village even this far up still shook me. Vesperus’s own shock was evident as he skidded to a stop.

“Drop your blades!” a soldier shouted.

Vesperus nodded breathlessly and dropped me. “Do as he says boys. It’ll matter not.” Confused at first, they hesitated, and reluctantly, one by one, they obeyed as their weapons fell with a clatter into the dirt.

“None of this has gone to plan… that’s okay, that’s fine.” He said calmly. Then his gaze locked onto me. “This will have to do.” And in a ripple across the air, like heat distorting the horizon, he was gone. The moment he disappeared, the kingdom’s soldiers let out guttural screams, rushing forward and cutting down the men he had left behind. Even as a child, it sickened me. Yet they deserved it... right?

What followed, I can scarcely remember. The kingdom’s soldiers, after determining I held no affiliation with the invaders, loaded me into a carriage with curt efficiency. No words of comfort were offered; only quiet glances exchanged between armored men. The journey dragged on for hours. At some point near midday, they pulled me out and handed me over to a second group. This new carriage was no carriage at all, really—just a supply wagon with splintered sides and the smell of damp cloth. It jostled terribly over uneven roads, and I sat wedged between crates of grain and sacks of wilted herbs. That ride lasted another half-day, until at last we reached Chlodovech Tower.

It was a cold, miserable place that had once served as a healing ward in a better era. Now it stood hollowed and repurposed, a rotting husk of charity. They called it New Widowskeep, though few who lived there understood why. No one explained anything to me. I was simply left in a dim hall with my name scribbled on a rotting ledger, expected to fall into line with the other children. But I didn’t and many believed I was no more than a quiet, strange, and unclaimed child.

The others watched me warily at first, then with contempt. One afternoon in particular, I had tucked myself beneath a stairwell, trying to stay out of the way, when I overheard a group of boys whispering nearby. They said I must have been cursed. That I had the look of someone touched by death. Later that day, they found me alone in the courtyard and circled like carrion birds, tossing clumps of wet dirt and laughing when I didn’t run. One of them leaned in close, just enough for me to see the grin on his face, and said, “Even the tower doesn’t want you.” After that, I stopped speaking for a while.

Eventually, someone decided I didn’t belong there. Perhaps a caretaker grew tired of my silence, or perhaps the tower simply ran out of room. Either way, I was put on another wagon and sent farther east, deeper into the kingdom. Past the wooded lowlands and river valleys, all the way to Windford. A sprawling city crowned the heart of Heladon. It was the kingdom’s proud capital, alive with banners and markets and voices that never seemed to quiet. But I arrived alone, with nothing in my hands and even less in my heart.

There, I was given over to a household of elites. Those who had little love for the new king but followed his orders, nonetheless. I was placed under their care, though “care” proved to be a loosely defined word. I remember the first night vividly. The sky was overcast, the stars hidden behind a blanket of thick gray clouds. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a barrel-like frame held my hand tightly as we approached a two-story home. Its exterior was trimmed in finely crafted wood, with flowers neatly arranged beneath the windows and low-hanging lanterns that cast soft shadows against the stone and beams.

The man raised his hand and knocked. One second passed. Then two. The door opened to reveal another man. Thin to the point of being hollow. “Is this the child?” the slender man asked.

The burly man thrust me forward into the lantern light. “It is. Chlodovech would like him to stay here. For safekeeping,” he explained.

“I understand that… he… tampered with him?” the slender man asked, now looking me over with something between curiosity and dread.

“We don’t know the extent,” the other answered. “That’s why he belongs here, Faust. For safe watch.”

“Chlodovech can watch over his own child,” Faust muttered.

“Mustn’t speak about him like that,” the larger man warned lowly. “Nothing good ever comes.” Then, as if to prove the point, he lifted me by both arms like a parcel, holding me out. “He’s the only survivor of Chepstow.”

“That bad?” Faust asked.

“Indeed. Hundreds of casualties.”

“And what’s so special about him?”

“Guess we’ll find out in time.”

I blocked out the rest of their conversation. Whether by instinct or choice, I tucked those words somewhere deep within myself. The days turned to months. The months, to years. I remained in that house, serving what I came to know as the Faust family. They treated me with a cold kind of decency. I was fed nightly. A mix of bread and cheese, sometimes fish if fortune favored me. In time, a semblance of normalcy began to grow. Enough to feel like something close to life. But true to the nature of the universe, it didn’t last.