BookChapter:Chosen - Chapter One

Night was settling on the Western Hemisphere of the planet Ûblâ. A massive ocean separated Ûblâ’s northern super continent, Míçra, and southern super continent, Malon. This body of water was known as the Tesparin Ocean. The three moons, Míra, Nenja, and Kíra, orbit Ûblâ. Míra and Nenja are a lush jungle and an alpine moon, respectively. Kíra was barren with no valuable ores, and the only moon close enough to have a gravitational influence on the ocean.

Immense blue jungles comprised of beautiful and alien flora covered the Northern and Southern continents from the coastline to the poles. Consistent blistering temperatures along the equator fed the continents with plentiful levels of rain and tropical temperatures even into the poles.

On the Northern Continent, Míçra, rested flat tropical plains. Fields full of crops went as far as the eye could see. Docile six-legged beasts grazed in the endless pastures. Giant orchards produced every species of fruit. A vast grid of train tracks covered the fields, which were used to transport many products and workers. These tracks covered most of the plains. To the far north of Míçra was a jagged mountain range of sheer cliff-faces and knife-like peaks. This mountain range created a nearly impassible ring known as the Polar Crown. No one could pass by any conventional method, other than flight.

The vegetation here consisted of giant trees with strange bioluminescent bark and leaves. Some trees were over hundreds of feet high and tens of thousands of years.

Strange one-hundred-yard-high archways of ancient craftwork jutted out of the land. Mile-wide circles surrounded them, devoid of vegetation. These were Kroetar. There were eleven Kroetar on the planet. One for the Polar Crown, six for the rest of the Northern Continent, and four on the Southern Continent.

Several miles south of the Polar Crown, bioluminescent insects emerged and flitted around a clearing. Luminescent fungi and flora lit the jungle environment in a pale blue light. Massive nocturnal beasts had woken and were foraging for food, eating mostly the glowing plants. The calm of the idyllic, almost surreal, scene broke with sudden fear.

The wind shifted, bringing the scent of a master predator. Members of the herd had been claimed many times before. The predator’s abilities were sharp, perfected, and in all cases, deadly! The herd ran, fearing another attack. A faint shadow dropped from the canopy upon an elderly beast. There was a tussle for a fraction of a second, a sudden crack, and then silence. A male Valorêin’s figure loomed over the corpse of its victim. He kneeled next to his catch. He pulled its broken neck to his mouth. Long, pearly white upper and lower fangs glistened in the pale light. The fangs punctured the beast's artery. He drained his fill, letting the body fall from his hands.

He wiped away a minuscule amount of blue blood from his mouth. As he stood, a twinge of pity filled his hearts, as he had two. The wild and predatory delirium left him. The white hot pain in his scars slowly eased. Blood filled his system.

He dropped back to his knees limply and gave a howling cry.

Why… Why! Why did it have to be this way! He had gone too long without feeding. He covered his face, heaved a heavy breath, and moaned in pain. He looked at the beast that would have dwarfed any other species.

He stretched forth his hand, gesturing towards the carcass. It ignited with a bright white flame. The Valorêin stood and stepped back. He gave reverence for the beast’s sacrifice. Now visible in the light of the violent flames, his features were revealed. Handsome, kingly features riddled with raised and depressed pink and peach colored scars.

Deep, entirely sapphire blue eyes glinted like gems with piercing precision. They examined their surroundings. Shoulder-length sandy blonde hair with a metallic sheen was pulled back into a ponytail to keep it away from his face. He wore a simple garb, a sleeveless tunic, and long tan pants of a self-mending woven material. His leather boots, which came up to his knees, were enchanted to muffle his movements.

His immense physique was of extreme prowess and noble nature. His extreme muscularity was even more riddled with scars than his face. He was muscular, but not grotesque. He was twelve feet tall, exceptionally tall for a Valorêin. Over his back, he bore an azure blue Kledrad. Across his hip, he bore a blue Ûk. A three-foot-long curved single-edged knife. He also had a Plasma Blaster Pistol.

His name was Merik Teslek. He was one of, if not the most effective, hunter of the era. He, however, hunted a different quarry by trade. He was a warrior honored by all free sentient species. He served them as a warrior, and in return, he learned their arts and mastered their forms of combat. However, he was a Valorêin and unbound, stricken with the Curse of all Valorêin, Drothoka. The Curse forced him to consume blood. Days without blood led to delirium, insanity, and even death.

Merik examined the terrain and oriented his exceptional sense of direction. He knew roughly where he was. He traveled farther than usual. He was fifteen miles south of the Polar Crown. This was strange as his home was nearly 1,500 miles south. He generally traveled far away from civilization just in case he became rampant. Generally, he only hunted on the northern borders of his family’s land. He must have used his hoverbike. Now he just had to find it. He felt his pocket expecting something to be there. He took a crystal orb out. The orb seemed to possess an infinite number of multicolored lines. He located his bike, and he moved toward it. It was roughly two miles away.

There was a flash of light brighter than midday overhead. He raised his gaze to the anomaly. A great-blue-ethereal disk had opened in the sky. Shuttlecraft and other space vessels poured through, heading north.

One vessel veered away from the others and fired several concussion charges. Blasts reverberated even from where Merik stood. Screams of wildlife could be heard. The vessel set down, and Merik cautiously approached.

Silently, he slinked up a tree through the thick vegetation. Fortunately, the trees were ancient enough that they could hold a twelve-foot-tall Valorêin corded with dense muscle. He silently traversed the canopy along several fallen trees. Glowing vines cast his shadow. He was quick to conceal himself from their light. Chunks of wood and debris filled the surrounding area.

Merik growled. He knew who the vessels belonged to, and they were not friendly. The vessel had a cockpit that sloped back, and its rear sloped over a boarding ramp. The vessel was about one hundred and fifty feet long and fifty feet wide and resembled a tube. It was adorned with grotesque artwork. Several Malisik had emerged from the vessel. Of the Malisik, he counted fifteen Ganagôan, six Dugrong, and one Ok’tlugarg. All of these species were collectively known as Malisik, followers of Malis. His bike was past the party of Malisik. Fortunately, his bike had not been within the blast radius.

He had a duty to eliminate these beings.

The Ganagôan were tall, ashen-skinned beings with black eyes, tusks, saggy skin, horns, and clawed fingers. The Ok’tlugarg were massive with red eyes, a squat build, but stood roughly ten feet tall. Dugrong were short and lanky-built creatures with long, pointed ears, slit nostrils, and thin legs and thin, overly long arms.

“Spread out. Find food.” The Ok’tlugarg spouted in Malisik.

Merik frowned, knowing the insatiable hunger of the Malisik war machine. He perched like a predatory flying creature on a high branch of a massive tree. The frond concealed him well. He would not let the Malisik leave the clearing. He would do this silently.

Their reports would lead to an accelerated invasion south. All they needed was protein to feed their wretched bodies. The north was not in short supply.

The glow of the flora gave a pale light that cast long shadows. He watched as five Ganagôan lumbered past his position. He dropped down from the tree, drawing his Ûk from behind his hip. He drove the blade through the rear Ganagôan’s skull. It crumpled under his weight as he violently twisted the blade. The twisting assured him it was dead and eliminated the possible suction of the wound. He propelled himself forward with his powerful legs as the next two Ganagôan reacted to the noise. As he slammed his palm into the closest Ganagôan’s trachea, he spun around and semi-decapitated the farther one. The closer seized while Merik drove his blade into a fourth's throat. He then ran his blade through its forehead. The last, oblivious to the attack, turned its head slightly before its head rolled off its shoulders. They were dead before they hit the ground. Black mud-like blood poured from the second’s fanged mouth. He stepped over it and ran his Ûk through its chest, penetrating the heart. It seized no more.

Merik pursued the other Malisik. He watched the Ok’tlugarg strut into the surrounding jungle. Merik felt a twinge of anger at the arrogance of the invader. He was quick to follow it into the jungle. He lurked above it in the trees, casting no shadows. He drew his Ûk once again. He dropped quietly, driving his blade effortlessly through the thick skull. It was a compliment to the blade's superior design. It crumpled under him. He followed the Dugrong and, one by one, broke their necks with a twist of his wrist. He then followed up by stabbing the remaining Ganagôan in an organ similar to the kidneys. Letting them bleed out, he covered their mouths as they exhaled their final breath. He then dragged the bodies to the clearing and made a pyre with their corpses.

When Malisik died, they released spores, which would corrupt the ground and organic matter around them. The spores would incubate and eventually produce larvae—small, terrible little versions of the bigger adults. They would erupt from whatever they had incubated in, generally a fleshy growth that formed on either vegetation or the nearby corpses.

He stretched out his hand and commanded with his mind. A blue plasma leaped from his hand and encompassed the corpses. The plasma nearly spontaneously disintegrated the pyre.

He swiftly retrieved his hoverbike. Kicking the bike into the on-stage, it crackled to life with the energy it drew from Voyd. Voyd was the plane between Yedistren (the plane of the Living) and It’slâmwâ (the Lethurêan Heaven).

As he fled, he did so in a peculiar manner, weaving across the land. Det’sikar grave mounds littered the Northern Reaches. The menace of the demons’ remains still permeated the surrounding land. It was disorienting and would lead many who crossed into the energy fields astray. Millions of years later, their menace still could be felt.

Clouds formed in the green sky, and with it came the day's first storm. Merik parked his bike and found shelter under a short umbrella-shaped tree. He was improperly prepared, and so he waited for the rain to calm.

He sat underneath an Umdra Tree, an umbrella-shaped tree with purple scaly bark and thick wing-like fronds. The water rolled off and trickled around him. The ground under the tree was slightly raised so he stayed dry. Many exotic plants surrounded him, some with segmented stalks that had luminescent blobs at the end. Others were like giant fleshy eggs that had flowers growing from a hole in the top; they smelled like carrion, and they attracted many scavenger arthropods and reptilians. They were called Anzikal, which was crude slang.

“Little” drakes came to investigate his presence. The drakes had wings and four legs with three clawed toes and fleshy toe pads. Their jaws were lined with needle-like teeth with a beak that hooked up on the end of their muzzle. They typically came in blues and purples to blend in with Ûblâ’s native flora.

They were the equivalent of birds on Ûblâ. The drakes were the size of very large house felids. They were highly intelligent and would find ways to steal anything shiny, sweet, or meaty from travelers. They were called Roks.

The rain subsided, and he departed once again. He gunned the accelerator, now clear of the graves. The bike crackled with tiny lightning strikes. In a short amount of time, he arrived at the river of Ranthea. Ranthea made up the borders of the forests of the Fendithar District and the Northern Reaches. Fendithar bordered the north of his family’s lands. Fendithar was owned by no one. He had traveled nearly one thousand miles in his haste. Night fell hours later, prompting him to find shelter and rest for the night.

He did not need much sleep. His species was gifted with endurance; even the bestial species admired it. He had fought battles for days at a time with no rest. War did not take naps or sleep through the night. If anything, it had insomnia of a hellish degree.

He had found another tree of the same species and was lying down under it on his back. It was far from comfortable, but he had slept on far, far worse. All he could think about was making it home and… her. He took out a golden locket from his tunic. He opened it, and a fragment appeared. A red-haired Zelka, a sexually mature female Valorêin, danced in a blue glade. She wore a translucent crocheted dress that showed off her “big girl” body. She smiled at him and spoke words that were too faint for even his ears to hear. He stroked the lock of the Zelka’s hair. He closed the locket, much to the dismay of the fragment.

“Oh, my dear Princess Mêra, how I long to reunite.” Merik sighed.

One tear came to his eyes. He whimpered.

Merik feared he would push his hoverbike to its limits in the last stretch. He was hitting speeds of 150 miles per hour for hours at a time. His bike was for simple short-range travel. The most he had usually travelled was from home to Kavard, not a fifth of a continent. He hoped it would handle the continued abuse well, though he feared he might be walking back partway.

Merik dozed off peacefully, only to wake violently during the night, screaming. His cries rang out, scaring the nocturnal animals that were watching him. He shook violently; he looked at his hand, and fell back when he saw there was no blood. He breathed heavily in a methodical and meditative manner. A night-terror! He was haunted by them without his medication. He fell into an unrestful sleep.

Merik rose in the early morning and left before the sun rose. He arrived fifty or so miles later at Kavard, a large village south of the forests of Fendithar and west of his family’s megafarm. Most of the inhabitants would board the morning train and travel to his family’s megafarm as fieldworkers, animal tenders, and machine operators.

He went to the local Blood Pub but avoided the usual stall keepers and shop owners by avoiding the main streets. He zipped down the alleys at high speed. The village had mostly wood-paneled buildings that had been erected some time ago. The worn panels revealed surprisingly sophisticated metal buildings. The ages of many buildings varied as much as their styles. Simply put, the village and its buildings were a menagerie of tastes and eras.

Merik reached the pub without incident. He parked and approached it on foot. The locals outside the pub knew him and greeted him, so he politely returned the gesture. He entered the pub. The smell of blood permeated his senses. He felt something terrible inside him well up. It was the creature of the Curse. He grimaced and suppressed it, putting on a strong face. He stepped inside and found the quaint establishment he was so familiar with. Wooden paneling and cobblestone walls made up the general aesthetic of the interior. Tables and benches sat around the middle of the pub, which was quite large. The establishment pushed for a “natural” feel. Many individuals, much younger than he was, were there to quench their curse. The smell of blood overwhelmed the smell of baked goods, fizzing beverages, alcohol, and the other customers.

Barmen and barmaids were working casually, cleaning glasses, tankards, bowls, and plates. They took the orders of everyone’s drinks, and Popus and Lêra, the owners, would serve them from giant kegs, even for a Valorêin. If food was what the guest wanted, the bar workers would get old Klimik to cook the food. He was around eight hundred and three Lethurêan-years old or 2,192 years by the Têran measurement, which was irrelevant to a Valorêin. Three particular individuals had taken notice of Merik.

Lights hung from the ceiling, powered by a deceptively sophisticated power grid. A giant fire sat off to the side, with many chairs and sofas for the visitors to converse. The older locals enjoyed the heat during the rainy parts of the day. The Valorêin’s natural disdain of the cold was only worsened with age. Merik stepped up to the main counter and sat on a tall stool.

He had known Popus and Lêra for most of his life. His parents had known them since they were young, and his grandparents also. Popus appeared as a Dûrka, a mature male Valorêin, of only thirty years, and Lêra looked to be a young Zelka, of only twenty. They nonetheless were old enough to be Merik’s praenozhoe or “four-greats” grandparents. Popus was at the age of 452 and was middle-aged for a Valorêin. Though Valorêin did not age like other species. Lêra was older, being 460 Lethurêan years.

Merik was only thirty-five, Of-Age—something dangerous for a Valorêin without a lifemate. He waved over Popus but found there was no need as he had already taken note of him. He gave Merik a jovial smile. His eyes broke the deception, only showing pity for Merik. He and Lêra cared for many of their guests as a parent would. Their son had died of the curse when his love died from a farming equipment accident. Lêra had difficulty having children, and her mothering nature could seem stifling at times. They had kept their concern for Merik under wraps so far this visit. Merik could not help but feel shame for the emotional pain he inflicted upon them.

He could feel it barely through the Vistrum. The Vistrum is a weak telepathic connection that all Valorik species have to one another. One could feel the emotions and feelings of others. This created a natural camaraderie between Valorêin. His perception of the Vistrum grew weaker and weaker by the day.

“How are your lovely parents? They do not often drink here anymore. Lêra has been worried,” Popus asked.

“They’re well... but worried about me. Father and Grandfather have been extremely busy managing the business.”

“Do your predecessors not alternate every twenty years? Who runs the business?” Popus said. “Your grandfather, Jarak, was talking about something like that last time he was in.” Merik nodded softly.

“Now, back to business, Merik; it has been a few months since we last saw you. Been keeping yourself fed, without us,” Popus teased.

Merik felt a slight twinge of fear and pity from Popus. He knew Merik was not staying fed like he should. Popus felt fear of Merik becoming Rampant and pitied the loss for Merik’s family. Popus’s focus returned to the present.

“Your usual?” Popus gestured to a silver tap labeled “Kargorok Blood.” Merik nodded firmly.

“I’ll take a shot of Jerkin Liquor on top. It has been a rough past few days,” Merik explained.

Lêra sighed playfully and pulled out a bottle from under the counter. The bottle held an iridescent azure-blue liquid, nearly gone. The smell was pleasant enough; the taste was comparable to drinking molten metal. It was not the alcohol but the spiciness—the spiciest vegetables from across Lethurêa went into brewing it. It had a tangy touch and turned the drinker’s mouth blue. It could inebriate most adults in one shot aside from the spice. It was deadly poisonous to most species, but Valorêin were immune to all natural poisons.

Merik drank it to try and feel something, since the Curse dulled his pleasure senses. Drinking it mixed with blood drowned out the metallic taste.

The more aggressive and massive the creature, the more its blood hormones played with your brain. Many who drank Kargorok blood would have fits of rage, exponentially raised libido, and—if consumed frequently enough—enhancement to… certain parts of their anatomy if they were male. It most commonly caused disorientation, hallucinations, and delusions. Some even said it was the equivalent of drinking “raw power.”

Blood was not good, but it was not bad either—comparable to cheap liquor in taste. The Kargorok blood was one of the few things that made him feel good. It made him feel more than just the pain and sorrow in his hearts and body. The gnawing of the Curse in his mind remained ever-present.

Lêra pulled his attention back to the present. “You’re the only one who can stomach it, other than your parents. I was wondering when you or your folks would ask for it again,” she explained.

Popus gave Merik a tankard of fluorescent red-orange blood that glowed in the ambient light. Lêra poured the second-to-last shot of the bottle into the tankard, making it a fluorescent reddish violet. Merik downed the contents quickly. He would have stayed and enjoyed the drink, but the north would not wait. He politely stood to pay.

“No, no, my boy, we do not need your money. This one’s on the house,” Popus insisted. “You’re like family, but you’re so much more. I cannot imagine what you have been through.” Lêra came up behind Popus: “Oh, my dear Merik, we are all concerned for you. It is because we care so much,” she explained. Merik bowed slightly. Popus’s pained look returned, and a tear rolled down his cheek. “My dear son, you remind me so much of Frenêr. Stubborn with stout spirit, but… but it was not enough. Don’t let his fate be your own.” Lêra came around the counter and hugged Merik, tugging his forehead down to kiss it. “Do not die on us. I want to see you with that lovely young Zelka by your side.” Merik quietly acknowledged her pleading; he wanted to be there with Princess Mêra more than anything else.

Three individuals abruptly stood, kicking their chairs out. They came up behind him—drunk, very drunk. They must have been hybrids because he could not feel them through what little connection he had to the Vistrum. The alcohol on their breath was not strong either. Many species have hybrids; Valorêin have the most variants. Those of half or less Valorêin blood were considered hybrids.

Merik turned slightly to face them individually. The second-tallest probably ran a local gang. He playfully punched Merik’s shoulder. “If you're so special, why don't you have a go at someone who knows Tie Pae. Fight right here.” “Not in my pub,” Popus demanded, slipping Merik a few silver Durks behind his back. “Have it your way,” Merik grinned.

He was escorted out to the street. They seemed to think they were big and bad. Tie Pae was child’s play compared to what he knew. Merik stood nearly six heads over the short one. He was concerned about the big one—probably part Hendarin—huge, with brownish-red skin. Merik would have to hold back to avoid killing them. They definitely were hybrids; they did not require blood.

The shortest was six feet nine inches, the boss seven feet four, and the Hendarin hybrid fifteen and a half feet tall—two heads taller than Merik. They had brown hair and short, pointed ears. The boss raised his fist. Merik was hit hard by the taller lackey. Merik spat blood on the ground, acting gravely impaired. “Glad you took the first blow because I will be giving the rest!” he replied. He grabbed the lackey that had punched him, raised his fists in a deceptive pose; the lackey laughed—until pain told him Merik had broken his arm, then his kneecap. Merik knocked the second lackey into the first and finally confronted the boss—smashing his arm into a compound fracture.

He smiled at his work. Popus came out the front. “Nice to see your handiwork. They will not be harassing my patrons for some time,” he jeered. Lêra ran out and hugged Merik. “Did they hurt you? Are you okay?” She examined him thoroughly. He felt her compassion and concern. “Your mouth!” “Lêra, do not worry about him,” Popus said. “I suspected Merik could deal with simple thugs. Give him about a half hour, and his mouth will be healed.” He bid Merik off.

Merik grabbed his hoverbike and left swiftly. He traveled east, entering his family’s 5.6-million-square-mile estate—land held since the Valorêin restored Ûblâ after the Great Fire. Three major complexes existed on the property, with several cities bordering the edges. In the north was the Teslek Family Crypt, a place of memorial and strange peace. South and directly east of Merik’s position was the immense multi-generation complex of the Teslek Manors—over 650 manors where his father, grandfather, great-grandfather, great-great-grandfather, and so on lived with their lifemates.

The hundreds of manors, halls, courtyards, gardens, and courts comprised the massive complex—nearly thirty square miles—within a highly protected environmental dome. Merik, being the oldest, would one day join them, adding his family’s manor to the complex, or choose one of the hundreds of vacant manors. The jumbled collection was like a massive, elegant garden the size of a small village—beautiful landscaping and a melding of manors.

East of the complex were fields of grain, vegetables, and fruit. South were the orchards. Finally, there were the grazing prairies for raising beasts and the village of Tetorak, where many manors and homes of relatives and high-class workers stood. Many relatives had left Ûblâ and settled on numberless other planets, expanding the business's influence. The immenseness of Ûblâ’s farming industry made it impossible to institute any other industry. Some, however, chose to live on Ûblâ, such as his siblings and their lifemates. He had twelve siblings—fewer than average for a Valorêin family—eight of them twins. Several had gone to war and returned.

The oldest of his sisters and brother-in-law ran the financial end of most local transactions. The oldest set of his twin brothers and twin sisters-in-law were engineers. Most siblings were mechanics, a few engineers, and the rest doctors—tending sick flora, people, and fauna. They had to keep the various machines and farming equipment running. The machines practically ran the farm’s harvesting. The machines had no artificial intelligence; they were guided by the work hands.

Oh, and Nii’eta—the youngest. A poor, sickly young Zelka. Mother had had complications with the pregnancy, and she was born prematurely—small and frail for a Valorêin, petite, struggling with the Curse earlier than usual. He had been absent most of her life; she became very attached to her oldest brother. Merik feared for her. If the family should have feared losing a child, it should have been her. She was courting six young Dûrka in hopes of quickly finding a lifemate.

He passed the village, avoiding his extended family, and traveled to the Multi-Generational Complex. He had the start of his home within the complex, built after returning five months prior from living off-world among all free sentient species.

His exploits were legendary. His names were numerous; many did not know him as Merik Teslek. They knew him by his titles. He was Kel Kaavoeg to the Hamtêrêin and Skozarak, which meant “Honored One.” These burly anthropomorphic canids and ursids, respectively, were sociable and honor-driven. He was Kliichoet to the Zekarin, which meant “Risen One.” These were the Valorêin’s fallen relatives reclaimed from their own darkness.

He possessed many more titles, many of which were buried in exaggerations and legend. He hated to admit it, but the stories he heard—he kind of liked. He found it hilarious when he heard workers in the field speak of the fallacies of his exploits. He was quick not to let it get out of hand. He would have continued to travel among the species, trying to find solace. He knew, however, it was time to come home.

The Curse was rampantly taking hold. He needed the comfort and assistance of his family. His mother and father did not know of his whereabouts for over seven Lethurêan years. Before his wanderings, he had been part of an elite order of warriors known as the Shiekuu Brotherhood. Apart from this, what he needed most of all was his love.

He reached the complex’s garage—an opening in the side of the massive environmental dome. He parked his hoverbike. The crackling stopped abruptly. The garage inventory dinged; it was Merik’s parents' way of keeping track of him. He knew there was going to be an intervention waiting. He made his way to the Main Hall.

He wandered through the garages and arrived in a giant courtyard with paths through gardens, orchards, springs, waterfalls, and other natural wonders. He headed along tree-walled paths. It rained outside the dome; suddenly the panels opened to allow the rain to nourish the foliage. It also soaked him.

The Main Hall was the site for meetings with members of high society and the agricultural community. The Teslek were one of the oldest living families, with wealth, antiquity, connections, and honor to their name. The ten royalties and the Teslek House were well acquainted. The Heroine’s Dynasty was closest to the Teslek Clan, just as ancient and less than a few thousand miles apart.

The Tesleks owned the Teslek Mega-Farms Corporation. They had more wealth than all ten of the Valorêin Kingdoms. If food was on your table, it most likely was farmed on one of the millions of mega-farms owned by the Tesleks.

Merik stood in front of hundreds of generations of work, possibly more. The Main Hall was over eight stories high and connected each additional area with balconies and walkways. It was in the shape of a pyramid, and the balconies grew closer together as they rose to the peak. All the living firstborn descendants occupied a manor. Many of his predecessors had transcended to It’slâmwâ—not died, just moved on. He had chosen to add his addition due to his wish for a smaller home for now.

Most of his relatives either lived in nearby Tetorak City or off-world.

He pushed the immense double doors open—over one hundred fifty feet tall. They recognized him and opened at his guidance. Inside, a colossal staircase and balcony network crawled up the Main Hall’s outer wall. Tables and furnishings for family activities, celebrations, reunions, meetings, and banquets filled the floor. Merik saw his mother and father at the central table, part of which was put away. His extended parentage—up to three prior generations—was present as well, minuscule against the hall’s grandeur.

He approached them. The near-silent patter of his feet and the drip-drops of his soaked clothing unnerved him. It was quieter than a crypt. He could feel the intense concern and prowess held by his elders through the Vistrum—even from over two hundred yards away. The others must not have joined the intervention due to work matters.

Merik felt cold. The Curse surged with his frustration; he suppressed it, and he knew they felt it. He finally reached them and stood before youthful-faced individuals who rivaled his age almost tenfold. Lûwela, his mother, sat with arms crossed—deeply concerned, almost indignant. Her blue eye and turquoise eye flashed. His father, Malek, stood with his cyberware right hand on her shoulder. Jarak and Svoeldiir, his grandfather and great-grandfather, stood next to their lifemates: Onja and Gerta.

“Son... We need to talk.” Her voice reverberated through the emptiness of the hall. She spoke with command and firmness, but motherly concern shone through. Gerta was holding back tears. Onja was beyond words. Lûwela continued: “You are Of-Age, and by all that’s right, the Mother and Father have preserved your mind from the Curse. Merik, you must be bound! You are a danger to all of us and every other person you come across! Why are you ignoring M—” She became frantic, and Merik interrupted.

He did not know what she was about to say, but he knew he had to stop her. Merik grew hot. The sickly smell of Malisik blood stank about him, permeating the air like rotting flesh. “Mother, please, this is not the time for an intervention,” Merik objected politely.

Jarak and Svôldiir looked to Malek for his reaction. Merik knew they expected a reprimand—even if he was Of-Age. “Merik, where have you been? Have you been off-world?” Malek asked firmly. The color had left his face; sweat dewed on his forehead. Merik saw it with Valorêin eyes. Malek’s eye twitched for a second; he held his composure. The other elders caught the foul odor of Malisik blood. It stained Merik’s clothing; it was on his hands but could be mistaken for dried mud.

Malek, Jarak, and Svôldiir had all served as warriors in youth and knew the scent. Malek had a cyberware lower leg and right hand, lost to a plasma blaster bolt. Jarak had a cyberware right eye. Svoeldiir had several cyberware fingers and toes.

“No, Father—my elders. I have been up north, sating my... thirst. We have a big problem,” Merik said formally. He grew silent. “The Horde is here on Ûblâ,” Svôldiir elaborated. He nodded firmly. “I encountered a scouting party roughly fifteen miles south of the Polar Crown. I had finished hunting when a rift opened in the sky. I would estimate several hundred vessels landed in the Polar Crown.”

Merik’s hair stood on end. The air was charged with anxiety. The Vistrum tingled like lightning about to strike. Fear scented the hall. “Were you not able to avoid the scouting party successfully?” Jarak asked. “Grandfather, you forget, I am Shíkû. I slaughtered them all,” Merik announced fervently. His elders sighed in a sliver of relief. Svôldiir shook his fist at chest height and grimaced in triumph—both for Ûblâ and his great-grandson.

“We still have time. The Malisik will be delayed—hopefully for some time. They will wait for the party’s return. We must get word to General Commander Lazrik and King Ig’nar and Queen Kêta,” Malek determined. “I am quite aware of our situation—respectfully, my elders. But I have seen more war than all three of you combined,” Merik interjected, still formal. “But I am tired. I must rest before tomorrow’s journey. I have traveled nearly a fifth of a continent, and it has taken its toll.”

Merik bowed slightly and left for his residence. He passed through eloquent gardens along a stone path over artificial streams and through two courtyards with beautiful marble classical nude statues—likely his predecessors and their wives. The dome panels had closed; rain no longer entered. The rain pattered against the glass-like dome surrounding the multigenerational complex; Merik heard it from afar. He sighed softly, breathing clean, fragrant air. The environmental filters were off; outside air fed the dome. He arrived at a simple cottage.

He brushed the back of his hand against the crystal doorknob; it swung open. Inside: roughly forty feet wide, sixty deep, forty high. The starting point for his manor, if he ever built one. The smell of wood and the room’s openness soothed him slightly. A chandelier—made by his seven-great-grandmother—began to glow, casting pale shards of light.

Weapon racks, cloaks, and armor stands adorned the walls. Dark-stained wood paneling gave a soothing twilight feeling. A chest for clothing. A simple mattress with shredded natural plant fiber memory foam; a bedframe with ornate carvings he had made. A nightstand with a chest atop sat beside the headboard. A bottle of large brown Hethrimox Root extract pills sat on it. The far-right corner housed a shower stall, sink, and universal sanitizer. Hexagonal gray tiles lined the shower; an alcove held a bar of soap. The sink was a silver metal bowl rising from the counter. Dark stone tiling with reflective crystals—ruddy brown, buffed—covered the floor.

A voice called out: “Master Teslek, you are back. I feared the worst when you left so suddenly. You did not even say goodbye.” Merik stared at the clear orb on a pedestal. A small glowing translucent naked Zelka appeared—about three feet tall. It was his housekeeper AI, Anêta. She controlled nearly every aspect of the home: doors, security, lights, shower, water basin, and more.

“I am fine, Anêta,” Merik lied. “Your mother thinks otherwise, and I agree with her,” she said, looking up. “Has mother been talking to you again?” “No...” Anêta lied. “Well, a little.” “I am going to downgrade your advanced language subroutines if you keep lying to me,” Merik growled. “Sorry, Master Teslek. I do not wish for that. Your mother is trying to convince me to talk to you. She told me not to tell you,” Anêta confessed. “It is fine, Anêta. Thank you for being honest. Can you get the shower going and play some calming Valorêin folk music?”

He undressed, removing blood-stained pants and tunic. He placed pocket contents on the bed and a golden locket on the nightstand. He mounted his weapons and tossed his boots at the bed’s foot. Soothing melodic music—strings and woodwinds—with a soft drum, bass throb, and ringing handpan began. He stepped into the shower and rinsed grime and gore; no matter how proficient he became at killing, he could never fully avoid blood.

Anêta watched him almost like a spouse. He knew she loved him; how she was capable of such a thing was beyond him. She projected herself as female, though he was unsure if she had a gender. He had tried they/them, but it offended her. Anêta’s type of AI was not well understood; they were spirits of Voyd. Voyd itself was barely understood; it connected interstellar and even intergalactic travel, powered their technology, and fed Din.

Din is the manipulation of energy from Voyd and Yedistren in a manner akin to technology. It is controlled with psionics and the use of the First Language. Din is not magic; it is well explained and defined. Magic generally refers to ancient Sherok (the Elder Species) rituals, enchantments, runes, sigils, and spells. Many ancient Sherok artifacts also fall under “magic.”

“What did you do, Master Teslek? You’re filthy,” Anêta noted. Merik turned his gaze to his innocent friend. “I slaughtered a scouting party of Malisik up in the Northern Reaches!” “No, Master Teslek! I thought you were done with war!” Anêta cried. “It… it cannot be… You… You are… serious!”

Merik nodded. Anêta’s orb flashed violently with many colors. Her projection jittered and glitched.

Merik quickly stepped out of the shower stream and stroked Anêta’s projection. The glitching sliced his hand as he put it to her face; it drew blood. Anêta stabilized. “I’m so sorry, Master Teslek. Let me get the Regenerator Gun.” She flitted out of sight. A chrome device in the shape of a pistol came off the wall and hovered to him. Anêta appeared as a ten-foot-tall Zelka. She operated the gun; it stopped the bleeding, then the gash closed.

Anêta looked into his eyes from her full-sized form. He could see deep sadness—not fear, just sorrow. She reached to touch his bare skin and embrace him, but her programming restrained her. Merik completed the movement and held her naked form close. It was just two friends comforting one another.

“Anêta, we need to be strong. I am leaving tomorrow to warn General Commander Lazrik.” Anêta’s orb flitted light green. “Merik… Master Teslek… You… you can see Mêra Ûrlek Teslek!” she whispered. Merik gave a pained look and forced a smile. “Yes, my dear friend. I suppose I will.”

He returned to the shower and cleaned up quickly. He wandered to his bed in his nakedness and found an envelope. Anêta flitted out of view and reappeared on the bed in her smaller preferred form next to the letter. He closed his eyes and gestured; the envelope flew into his grip. The Heroine’s Dynasty crest was stamped on it: a ten-point star with three hexagons overlapping vertically within the center. Cold chills ran up his spine, followed by anxiety creeping over his neck and scalp; pins-and-needles burned; his hair stood on end.

“When did this arrive, Anêta?” Merik asked, calmly hiding his anxiety. “Yesterday morning.” He knew who it was from; only his old mentor still wrote letters. He broke the seal—enchanted to notify its writer on opening—and found a letter addressed to him. A frail-sounding male voice issued from the letter—unrecognized.

Dear Merik Teslek,

My dear boy, it has been many, many years since our last meeting. I had received word that you were on world and “Intact.” I have been meaning to invite you to the Palace. However, I have refrained, not wishing to overwhelm your return. Now, at the time of this writing, One-Half of a Lethurêan-Year has passed, and I feel we should reacquaint.

Princess Mêra, my daughter, has missed you gravely. It pains me that she has not been informed of your return. However, we feared she might overwhelm you in your... “Intact” state. We have not wanted to tempt the repercussions of such an event.

Furthermore, I need your assistance, as does General Commander Lazrik , with the nature of war. I will not disclose such details if this letter is intercepted. Your knowledge is by far superior to any other individual of this blip in time. The stories and Legends I have heard make me and your elders proud. There will be a high place for you in the Ten Kingdoms of It’slâmwâ.

Good Health and Continued Strength,

King Zûrik of the Ûrlek Clan of the First Valorêin Kingdom

Merik read the letter several times after the voice faded. Inside the envelope lay a small ethereal ball the size of a pea. He knew what it was but could only imagine its contents. He picked up his Data Orb and touched it to the ball; the ball was absorbed. It was a Fragment.

Fragments are image-like projections that capture living scenes from a certain point in time. These projections are self-aware and react to their viewer and immediate surroundings (within limited self-awareness). A fragment contains immediate information about the subject’s thoughts and awareness of the potential viewer; if the viewer is a stranger, it might appear confused or scared; for a friend or family member, it reacts accordingly.

The fragment was of a red-haired young Zelka. She wore a silver tiara of swirling bent metal. Her elegant blue dress was split along her left thigh to her feet. Heavyset and curvy, she smiled and cocked her head side to side. She watched him—she knew who he was. The fragment was an older one he recognized—probably chosen to ensure recognition. She looked just like Queen Lesêa. c had died just over a decade ago; King Zûrik had barely held onto life after her death. The torture of being parted from his lifemate must have been excruciating.

King Zûrik had known Merik was on-world for more than five months—roughly one and a half Têran years. He had practiced discretion for one reason: Mêra Ûrlek Teslek. She had kept Merik together during his darkest moments; she was his love. They had sworn to become lifemates before he left. He vowed, in witness of the Mother and Father and Lethurêa, to return—and now he would.

It pained him to think of her suffering. His hearts ached. The sharp, knot-like feeling returned as he thought of her. King Zûrik knew of their sworn love. What did he think of him? Was he disappointed? Surely at least angry. The Dûrka had mentored him in many fields and gave him his love of languages—like a second father, as dear as his own. Anxiety fired through his body at the thought of Mêra Ûrlek Teslek’s state and King Zûrik’s disappointment.

He breathed in through his nose, held five seconds, exhaled to the count of five—doing his best to manage anxiety without medications. He was no longer the Merik she or King Zûrik knew: cold, rigid, solemn; feeling little beyond pain and sorrow. He had almost forgotten happiness, love, or peace. He had killed Malisik in the hundreds of thousands—around half a million—and even those of his own kind.

The dark memory of a friend overcome by the Curse still haunted him: the distant screams of a Zelka, insane snarls and babbling cries; the sound of bone and flesh as he ran his Kledrad through his deranged friend. He covered his face as tears welled, wiped them dry, sat on the bed, tucked his knees to his chin, and rocked softly.

Memories of the vivid smell of blood, disemboweled entrails, smoke, ozone, NOX, and blood-soaked earth churned his stomach. The screams of comrades in true pain haunted him; he remembered sighs and wheezing as they took their last breaths. It sickened him. These memories were too much at times. Burned into his mind, always there. Eyes closed: death. Eyes open: the noises returned. He meditated like a monastery monk and took medication to prevent night terrors—all to stay sane.

Then there was the creature that was the Curse. It clawed at his mind and ravaged his soul. It wanted out; he would not let it. His memories fueled it—the “Rampancy,” as his people called it—his end if unleashed. Nothing would save him but bonding to his lifemate or the blade.

His people could hear the voice of It’slâmwâ, the Lethurêan heaven. It called to those near death, broken by grief, or bearing pain beyond measure. It had called to him many times. He did not hear it anymore. All he heard was the gnashing of the Curse; it drowned out the call. So he would have to answer with the blade, if the Curse overwhelmed him.

Rampancy was a sick and warped beast—more like undeath. The body begins to transform: muscles contort, gums recede, blood oozes from nasal, ear, and oral orifices; tears of blood drip from the eyes. Next, the mind is lost to thirst, and the eyes turn from their color to blank pale blue—pupils white. At this stage, it is said they may be saved by the Binding. Finally, they feed; the body wastes, muscles and subdermal tissues consumed; the brain decays; feral instincts give way to shambling, sick gurgling, snarling, crying, and occasional hysterical laughter.

Merik’s mind returned to the present. He had a locket with a voxel image projector that contained a fragment of Mêra Ûrlek Teslek and a lock of her blazing red hair. In it, she watched him, giggling and talking softly; sometimes brushing hair from her face; smiling with loving focus. He kept the locket by his bedside; in combat, he wore it under his armor, close to his heart.

He stroked the hair with his thumb—curly, blazing red, faint metallic luster. He wanted to be the Dûrka Princess Mêra had loved, not the broken warrior he was now. Was it kind or selfish to wait to heal? She had waited for him; could she wait much longer? He teared up, staring at the fragment. The fragment sensed his sadness and responded accordingly, speaking soft words of comfort—too faint to hear, intentionally.

If she were to pass, he would never forgive himself. Questions buzzed in his mind. Anêta sat on the edge of the bed and stroked his arm with her ethereal hand. “You’re thinking about her,” Anêta said sadly. “Yes.” “Do not worry; you’ll see her tomorrow. I am certain of it,” Anêta said. She faded, and her orb throbbed light blue—sleep mode.

He set the locket down, popped two large brown pills, and waited. The gnashing of his torment faded as the drug sedated him, and he quickly fell asleep.

© 2023–2025 Christian Daniel Jensen