Lamia

The village had been engulfed by a vicious blaze of scorching fire, sparing nothing in its path. The crackling of burning wood and melting brick accompanied the screams of dying and despairing villagers that echoed through the deep hours of the night.

It was an ordinary night for an unlucky human village in Sylvara.

The armed lookouts in their watchtowers had failed in their duties despite their best efforts; they were no match for the invading upir that scaled their towers easily without the ladders that had been pulled up into the platform decks for the night. The civilians, asleep in their beds, were even less prepared for the torches that set their homes of brick and wood aflame, burning or suffocating them in their slumber, or instead forcing them out into the night, into the waiting arms of their invaders.

Many were exsanguinated by the upir immediately.

Others were thrown into shackles to be dragged to one of the mines as slave labor, carted off to one of the compounds to be slowly drained for consumption over years, or taken back to Fuilhollow, the upir stronghold and capitol of Sylvara, to be auctioned off as blood slaves to the elite. Most would die within a year from either overworking, overdraining, or overfeeding. The majority of the rest would expire within three years for the same reasons. Very few would live past that; the few who did would convince themselves they were in love with their masters or they would end their own lives to escape the torment their life had become.

It was easy to commit genocide against an entire species when they were willing to kill themselves if they were treated horribly enough, though the king would never admit that’s what this was.

This was the thought going through Drenaven Demaria’s mind as he walked through the smoldering ruins of the village, his fingers curled tight around the hilt of his sword, the blade pointed at the charred ground.

The hamlet had been cradled within Wulfgrove, a thick forest of towering redwoods that grew mere miles from Fuilhollow. The name of the village he did not know. And, until tonight, it had done well in hiding its inhabitants from the upir.

However, Drenaven was the crown prince and High Thegn to his father, the king, and he was very good at finding those who did not want to be found.

With the toe of his boot, Drenaven kicked a still glowing piece of charred wood that looked as though it had once been a part of someone’s rafters, out of the way, watching as sparks shot up into the air at the violence, winking out just as fast as they appeared. Hearing footsteps headed toward him, he looked up to see one of his generals approaching.

“How many?” he asked as the general turned on his heel to walk alongside him.

Their uniforms matched: formfitting, tailored, and black. The field jacket had a high collar with their ranks stuck into their lapels in the form of silver enamel pins. The buttons, also silver, went down their chests in two parallel rows. Matching belts cinched at their waists with the use of silver buckles, and held up their trousers, also black and tailored, which were tucked into the tops of their laced ankle-high boots. Single shoulder mantles, given only to those of higher rank, completed the look and flared out behind them when they walked. Black leather gloves covered their hands.

Not for the first time, Drenaven thought that were it not for their clear difference in age, people might have mistaken the two of them for each other.

“Thirty still alive and gathered for your inspection, your grace,” the general replied. “Fifteen strong enough for the Havens, five within the proper age range for the Schools, and five acceptable enough in appearance to be prepared for auction.”

The prince nodded his head once. “Understood.”

Kneeling amongst the embers were the aforementioned humans. Drenaven’s men stood behind them, one of their hands on the shoulders of those on the ground in front of them, struggling to rise. They didn’t need their full strength to keep their captives in place. Blood stained the invaders’ lips and chins; the fabric of their uniforms was too dark for it to show there too.

Drenaven stopped two yards from the captives, scanning the group with his eyes alone. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword until he knew that his knuckles would be the color of bone beneath the cover of his gloves. He didn’t need it any longer now that the village was overrun, but he did not sheath it. He preferred to have something to hold on to.

Behind him stood his general and a handful of guards, assigned to protect him even in battle where he excelled. But he did not complain about their presence. He knew they were necessary.

One of the male captives closer to where the prince stood was bigger and likely stronger than the rest as he managed to lurch to his feet, lunging at Drenaven. He was stopped short only inches from him by his guard grabbing the length of rope that was wrapped and knotted securely around his wrists, his hands bound in front of him. Drenaven still leaned his upper body away from him, looking down his nose at the man, his face impassive.

“You will pay for what you did here tonight!” the man spat, baring his teeth at the prince. “You monsters will not control this world forever! You will meet your doom before you are ever prepared for it! I can only pray I survive long enough to see it now that my family has been sent by you demons to the hereafter!”

The man’s guard yanked on the rope, finally managing to pullk him away from the prince who stood up straight once again and scowled at the guard. “Apologies, your highness,” he said, his eyes lowered in deference. The captive was still struggling against his bonds.

Drenaven waited until his guard looked up at him again and nodded once.

The guard took the man’s head in his hands and wrenched it to the side, breaking his neck. Several of the other captives let out a cry of shock as the guard let the man’s body slump to the ground, his mouth slack and open, his eyes glazed and unseeing. Some of the children began to cry.

Drenaven ignored them and paced slowly down the row of guards and their captives. His brow was knit tightly over eyes dark as the deepest shadows. His hair, however, shone the same color as the moon.

When he reached the end of the row, he walked behind them, tapping some guards on the shoulder while passing over others. When he finally got back to where the row began he said, “Those of you I tapped, transport the prisoners to their locations as specified by General Constantyne.” He waited for the guards to nod, then waved his hand and added, “Kill the rest.”

Screams broke out as Drenaven sheathed his sword at last, turned on his heel and walked away, heading back in the direction of Fuilhollow.

He curled his fingers into fists to hide their shaking.