What is one, lowly peasant boy in a world of implacable Kings and scheming, murderous Nobles?

One with a destiny beyond imagining.

Young Braen is a simple shepherd, like his father, and his before him. Nothing ever changes in the village of Stonesthrow, save for the turning of the seasons.

But when death finds him, the young man quickly learns that 'the end' is not so clear-cut.

At least, not for those granted the gift of immortality.


Author's note

(Some of the names and terms I've outright invented (which is most of them) might be confusing as far as their proper pronunciation goes, so here will be a (likely) ever-expanding list to aid you, dear reader, with just that!)

Braen - Bray-en (Celtic inspired)

Rion - Rye-on (Celtic inspired)

Meira - Meer-a

Patras - Pah-trahs (Mediterranean inspired)

Kleonic Marathon - Klee-oh-nik Marath-on (Kleon is derived from the Greek word 'Kleos' which means 'glorious'. 'Marathon' was the site of a famous battle during the Greco-Persian wars.

Urik - Your-ik (Anglo-Saxon inspired)

Obfuscationist - Ob-few-scay-shun-ist (Obviously not a 'real' word, but it damn well should be!)

8. Chapter 8


A long row of torches illuminated the endlessly descending passage of stone, bathing the crudely cut steps in an unnaturally deep red. 


As his vision bobbed and swayed ever so slightly, he realized that he was seeing through the eyes of another.


The other person glanced back, and it became apparent that they were being accompanied by unnerving 'thing' covered from head to toe in a loose, veil-like inky-black cloth, with exposed arms too pale and ghostly to be alive, and fingers too elongated to be human.


'Do not stare at me, scum' it hissed venomously, and the raspy, grating voice sent shivers up the dreamer's spine. 


This nightmarish creature could only be a servant of the fallen ones: a demon.


But what man in his right mind would be mad enough to deal with a being so vile and twisted? Much less allow himself to be lead by it? 


After what seemed an eternity, they reached the bottom of the stairs and found themselves in an obsidian-walled chamber, the magnitude of which defied measurement. 


The Heretic stared in awe at the cavernous space...........only to incur his guide's wrath.


A bony hand violently pushed the mortal forward, and its very touch was terrifying.


'Move. NOW'it impatiently commanded, and he stumbled forward, loath to be in physical contact with the creature again.


On the far side of the chamber sat a Titanic throne of the same, jet-black material as the walls.


And it was occupied.


The sound of massive, dragging chains became apparent, and the giant of old, whose face was obscured by shadow spoke.


'WHAT MORTAL DARES APPROACH ME?!' it roared, and its thunderous voice alone seemed capable of collapsing the great room. 'SPEAK, OR MY SERVANTS WILL FEED YOU TO ME ONE PIECE AT A TIME!'


'I. want.....' said the heretic, voice quivering with blood-lust. 


' kill'

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