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!)

10. Chapter 10



The two sticks collided, and despite the callouses on his hands from years of outdoors work, Braen still winced from the impact.


'Focus!' commanded his otherworldy teacher. 'If you let pain distract you in a fight, your charges shall suffer!'


The Angel-Knight raised the stick over his head, and Braen instinctively held his own to block it.......


.......only to be whacked painfully on his right arm.


'Ah! Are you trying to break my arm?!'


'Do you think your opponent will fight fairly? If you were fighting a Man in earnest now, you would already be dead again!'


Gritting his teeth, the Lad gripped his stick and took up the fighting stance that he had been shown.


'Pay attention!' Said Davin, sternly. 'What I teach you may one day save not only your life but the lives of others as well!'


The next strike went for his left leg, but Braen managed to parry it and attempt a blow to his teacher's head, only for it to be blocked by his arm.


'Better!' said Davin.


In one swift move, he thrust the stick aside, grabbed his pupil's arm with the same hand, and moved his other fist towards his throat at lightning speed, stopping just short of his jugular.


'But you would still be dead in a real fight'


The afternoon was a warm one, and it suddenly occurred to the grave-escapee that he should be at least somewhat sweaty after all the exertion that Davin had put him through, but for some, strange reason, he wasn't tired in the least bit.


In fact, he didn't feel as if he had done so much as lift his finger, despite having practiced incessantly with his faux-sword since sunrise.


'What are you not telling me, Davin?!' he said, throwing his stick to the ground. 


The 'Knight' crossed his arms.


'Many things, the knowledge of which you are not yet responsible enough -or mature enough- to be trusted with'


'Could you be any more vague?!' he growled, clenching his fists.


Davin shrugged.


'Take care what ye wish, lest it come true'

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