Born of Stolen Magic

Cold water ran rust-colored down Marc’s face and arms. The comb refused to travel through the tangled ends of his hair. He swatted at a fly buzzing near his ear and scrubbed at the dirt caking his legs. The smell of black mold convulsed his stomach. He swallowed hard. Despite all this, the filthy bathroom rated a ten compared to his cold, dark cell, reeking of rot and sewage.

Two years in that cell and his reflection still surprised him. He glared at his image in the warped mirror. Where was that clean-cut face? Those laughing eyes? That sparkling white smile? Instead, a scraggly beard, tired eyes, and yellowed teeth greeted him.

What it really just a year ago that he had set off, head full of hopes and dreams, ready to follow in the footsteps of his father, the war hero? He pressed his forehead against the cold glass, allowing a single tear to slip past his cheek.

Growing up, he didn’t see much of his papa. He usually only saw him once or twice a year, for no more than a few weeks at a time. All those months while he was away, Marc spent hours imagining what Papa was doing. He was off slaying a dragon, rescuing a princess, defeating a wicked witch. Saving people.

Until the day a messenger came to their door, and he heard his mama scream. The moment he saw her face, he knew his father was gone.

That day he learned that not all knights were destined to come home clad in silver armor atop a white horse, no matter what his books said. The fate of most soldiers, at least in Beautus, was ultimately a sword through the stomach. But while most boys’ war fantasies might die away as soon as they realized this harsh reality, all it did to Marc was further fuel his ambition.

Selfless heroes, laying down their own lives to better the lives of others. Sacrificing their futures so strangers could get their happy endings. That was his dream. Be the victorious savior. Avenge the death of his father. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. He wanted to watch the light go out in a Vissian demon’s eyes.

At the age of seventeen, he kissed his mama goodbye and headed for army training in the Dark Mountains. The journey itself was a recruit’s first test; outside of the Elven villages and the training post, the only inhabitants of the Dark Mountains were monsters, and, worse, the Outcasts.

And, of course, any Vissians that dared to enter Beautan territory.

The memory was still fresh in his mind.

Rough hands grabbing him from behind. A painful blow, making his head jerk back. Hearing himself cry out as his vision darkened and ropes scraped his wrists and ankles.

He awoke on the cold, wet floor of a musty prison cell.

Rage erupted in Marc’s chest. He smashed his fist into the mirror, then pulled it away with a wince. Picked out bits of glass lodged in the cuts. Tore off a piece of his shirt and wrapped it around his hand. Blood soaked through in an instant. He sighed and slumped against the wall. It would have to do.

He looked back up at the mirror. At his own image. Incomplete. Distorted. Broken. Shattered.

“Time to go,” a hulking guard grunted, swinging the door open with a loud creak. Two other guards hovered nervously behind him, their long spears meant to ensure there would be no attempt at escape. As if, Marc sighed. There’s no leaving this place.

Until tonight. Tonight, he’d leave. As long as he won this fight, and he knew he would, they would make their escape. Kill one more time, and you’ll never have to kill again.

He grimaced as the tip of the spear prodded his back, urging him forward. He pushed aside his anger, reminding himself that his ogre guards were not his enemies. They were prisoners, too. The kingdom of Vis had conquered the ogres’ swamplands and enslaved them all.

Stabs of pain shot through his hand as his blue-skinned escorts led him down the familiar passageways to the huge metal door opening into the arena. He knew the drill. They throw a weapon in your hands --- ax, mace, whatever, the weapon assigned based on your age and reputation. The opponent? A Vissian challenger, someone who had chosen to fight you. Who thought that they could kill you. When the door opens, you either walk into the arena or they throw you. The door closes. You fight until somebody’s dead. And if you’re still standing when it’s over, you do it again the next week.

Unless the Vissian won. The Vissian got to go home with enough money to last him a lifetime.

But no Vissian had beaten Marc. Not yet.

Marc had gained fame after eleven months of victory. Tonight, he’d go down in history as the first person to last a year.

He’d thought his first year as a prisoner of Vis had been literal hell. But the year he’d spent fighting was far worse.

Marc squared his shoulders and glared at the door to the Coliseum. He held back a growl when he heard the sound of her voice coming through the vent above the door. Commander Snauhk, but he liked to call her Commander Snake.

The commander’s voice, however, was not the only one he could hear. There were thousands of people on the other side of that door. Calling his name.

Calling for bloodshed.

Marc, the would-be soldier, the would-be hero, saving the lives of innocent people. How had he become . . . a master of death?

I’m a monster.

No! You’re not a monster. He remembered Sage’s words. He tried to believe them. After all, she had told him, you’re the one who’s being forced to fight. They chose this.

Still, looking at his opponents, Marc knew that they had not chosen this. Not really. Most of them were starved, only a few days away from death. The aching hunger pangs of Vis had driven them to the Coliseum, to the place where their bellies would finally be filled, if not by food, then by metal.

Marc pushed the thought away before his own full stomach emptied itself.

He sighed and leaned against the wall, hand aching as he cradled it against his chest. He tuned out the drone of Commander Snake. He didn’t want to know the name of the person he was going to ki--- fight. I can’t let my guard down, he reminded himself. I need to remember that this fight is going to be my last, but not necessarily because I escape. I need to remember why I keep fighting. For her. For Sage.

He would kill ten thousand men to wake up every morning and see her smile, more radiant than ten thousand suns.

Something damp pressed against the area just above his heart. Blood from his hand had stained his shirt. Too late to change now. The spectators would probably like it, anyway. Still, he hated the way the wet fabric clung to skin.

He started listening. He may not want to know the name of his opponent--- that made them seem more human and made him feel like less of one--- but tonight was the night. He needed to know the age, build and size of his last enemy.

“The crowds have always come hoping to watch a Vissian strike down a Beautan, as our ancestors did, and as we will do again, in days soon to come.”

Marc snorted. Many things had surprised him about Vis, but their plans to attack Beautus had not. They had been threatening to do so ever since the war a thousand years before, and of course, they had captured him, a soldier, and many others from the mountains.

“But Marc, here, is a bit of an anomaly. Perhaps a . . . ” Snauhk paused. “Perhaps you could even call him a revolutionary. Despite his origins, he has acquired quite the fan base.” Cheering drowned out Snauhk’s voice. He had, indeed, acquired a fan base.

Snauhk continued, “Marc has shown many admirable qualities. In fact, he exemplifies every trait that our nation values. Strength. Bravery. Ruthlessness. And tonight, so long as he fulfills his final duty, he becomes one of us.” The cheers came back, even louder than before.

Never, Marc clenched his teeth. I’ll never be one of you. I’m the same person today that I was a year ago, and I’ll be the same person tomorrow.

“Yes, comrades. This morning, Marc made history. He took the pledge. Who here wants him to make history again tonight?”

The screams were crazier than ever. Marc rolled his eyes. He had taken the pledge, all right. There was some stupid law that said that if someone lasted a year in the Coliseum, they had proved their worth as a Vissian, and could enter into the service of one of the Vissian nobility. The sorcerers. So he had sworn his commitment to the betterment of Vis--- which he was committed to, though he had a different idea of what that looked like than most Vissians--- and pledged himself to Sage, whose service he would be entering. Little did they know he had already pledged himself to her in a different way.

“Tonight,” Snauhk screamed. “Let us see if Marc can fulfill his final challenge. Let us see if he can prove his loyalty to us. Let us see if he, too, can strike down a Beautan, and rise, a Vissian!”

WHAT? Kill a Beautan? KILL a BEAUTAN? No one had told him about this!

It’s okay! He tried to tell himself. It’s just self-defense. And who knows, perhaps it’s not even a Beautan. A lot of the people they capture are just Outcasts, criminals forced into exile in the mountains. They don’t know the difference, and they don’t care.

They don’t know the difference . . . He frowned. Did the difference even matter?

Was there a difference?

Now was not the time for such questions, though, was it? Now was not the time for philosophy. Now was the time to act.

The door slid open more slowly than ever before.

A criminal. Yes, a criminal. They brought this on themself . . . just like all the others!

But what if it wasn’t an exile? What if they had captured another soldier, or even ventured into the foothills and taken a civilian?

It doesn’t matter, he decided. Whoever it is, this counts as self-defense. It’s justified.

Finally, the door opened.

Just one foot forward. Then the other. He picked up and examined a dagger, carefully placed on the ground in front of the door, barely noticing the pain still throbbing in his hand. Never before had he been given such a fine weapon. A golden blade and handle encrusted with an intricate pattern of sapphires and rubies laid in his palm.

He lifted his eyes.

A painfully thin boy stood trembling, staring, wide-eyed at the crowd, not more than sixteen years old. He slowly turned in a circle, shrinking with step as he took in their threatening cheers and cruel mocking.

The boy stopped turning when he was facing Marc. They locked eyes.

Marc knew those eyes.

He was even skinnier than before, though Marc hadn’t thought that possible. His head had been long and wild before, but now, longer and wilder, it looked like a lion’s mane. It had only been two years since he had last seen him, but he seemed to have aged many more years than that. Four long marks scarred half of the once-handsome face.

The truth was the truth. It was not his to interpret. He knew exactly who this boy was. He was not a Beautan, not anymore. He was, indeed, an Outcast. And it was not his fault.

Marc remembered this boy. He had lived in his own town, until the patrollers had enough of him and revoked his citizenship. He was a boy, left out in the cold after his parents died. No one would take him in. No one wanted another mouth to feed, not in this famine.

So the boy stole. He had stolen from them once. Gave Marc’s mother quite a shock to walk into the kitchen and found the boy, holding her bowl of stew. She screamed, and he set it back on the table, red-faced.

And then she softened. She handed the stew back to him. “You didn’t steal it,” she whispered. “I gave it to you.”

He did not try to steal from them again. But he did from others. At the time, Marc was only a boy, with a set of rigid morals, and had been glad to hear of his exile. He was, after all, a thief.

But now, Marc understood. Those actions were not evil. They were simply self-preservation.

Marc had learned a thing or two about self-preservation. What it could drive a person to do.

Things were different this time. They were not challenger and prisoner. They were just two people, ready to kill each other, not out of anger or hatred or greed, but out of desperation to live.

He thought of his mother. Marc had already eaten, that night she gave the boy the stew. But she had gone hungry.

The boy had been given no weapon, only a giant shield. Marc could tell it was at least partially made of gold and could easily weigh fifty pounds. The boy tried to pick it up and stumbled. Ugly laughter rippled across the crowd.

Unfazed, the boy tried to hold it up again, this time succeeding. His eyes betrayed no emotion at all. He stared back at Marc, as if daring him to move, and held his ground.

Marc squinted at the boy and let his shoulders relax. He craned his neck to survey the crowd. The spectators squirmed impatiently. Some complained loudly, ready for the fight to start. He ignored them, only caring about one person.

Sage. There she was, in the royal box, looking like the princess she was. He locked eyes with her as she took heavy breaths. “I love you,” he whispered under his breath, too quietly for anyone to hear, letting his eyes tell her what he couldn’t say.

Her eyes widened. Had she realized what he was going to do? She stood up, oblivious to the people yelling angrily behind her.

Marc turned and gave the boy a sad smile. “It’s okay,” he said calmly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

With these words, Marc plunged the dagger into his own heart.

“Happy Birthday, Sage,” he mumbled. He waited, expecting this to be the part when everything went black. Instead, his vision flooded with light.

Author's Note- Thank you so much for reading my story! I promise, this is the most depressing part of it and things will get much better from here on it. I have the next ten chapters already written and just need to edit them, so expect more soon, and please, don't hesitate to offer constructive criticism!