7 days left
I am weak.
Murok, grant me the power. Give me the strength to do what I cannot.
Give me the strength to kill.
- Emperor Amud
The Elders were born from mud, as all were. Tonight, they died in mud.
In great, long lines, fire blazed upward into the sky—Ilan's realm. Tall spires of stone jutted around the sacred grounds.
The Murkali warriors watched in reverence as the Emperor stood up from the dead Elder, blood covering his muscled body. The Elder's body was mangled, and the Emperor sobbed at the sight. Three other dead Elders lay sprawled around the Emperor. The still-living Elders nodded at the Emperor, then chanted the words. The dead bodies sunk into the mud as if it were water, disappearing.
The Emperor roared, and beat his chest. The ritual was done. The ceremony began.
Four women smashed drums with fervor so loudly they sounded like explosions. But despite how deafening they were, Avso could still hear his heart raging in his ears. He stood in a line of warriors at the edge of the sacred grounds, waiting to be honored.
Warriors dragged out the limp non-believers and threw them to the ground. Avso’s body trembled at the sight.
The bright moon shone down on him. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and fixed his eyes on the non-believer's bodies. He tried to look confident—as if the sight of the blood and the beaten men did not scare him—as if his hands were not trembling ever so slightly. He couldn’t afford to look weak here.
The warriors often glanced over at Avso. Some smiled, some offered nods, some whispered words. They always stared at his golden hair. He was blessed by their god, Murok, after all. Sometimes, he felt like Murok had chosen him wrong.
The drums beat louder as a warrior walked forward to the center of the gathering. His bald head shone in the firelight. A servant gently handed him a knife. He bared his teeth at the non-believer. Then stabbed him through the heart. Great cheers went up as the man died—rabid and frantic cheers. Cheers that cried for more blood—more, always more. Murok needed blood tonight.
The Emperor said something in a deep, rumbling voice. The warriors shouted and cheered at his words. This was the Emperor. This was the light, the truth. This was power.
The servant dragged the body and threw it into the roaring fire. Thick, dark smoke rose, bringing a sickening smell with it. The smoke choked Avso's lungs and burned his eyes. The line shortened when another came up, bowed before the Emperor, took a knife, and stabbed another man. The non-believer cried out into the night as he died. The knife silenced the screams with another stab.
Avso forced himself to stare at the death. The blood trickling slowly out of the naked body made his stomach twist. Still, Avso stared. Murok would see his weakness if he didn’t.
Murok always had an eye on Avso.
Avso’s father stood beside the Emperor. His father didn’t look at him. He stared at the dead body on the ground, disgust in his eyes. He did not clap like the others.
The line shortened again. Avso was the youngest to be chosen—only 14 years old. It was an honor—he knew it was. The drums beat louder again. Sweat broke out on his body. His father had commanded him not to show weakness. Avso stood up straighter. He would not break his vow.
The Elders and nobles stood beside the fires, creating a passage that looked directly at the Emperor. Elders glanced at Avso occasionally, and some smiled grandly at him as if he weren’t about to kill a man.
Another person walked up. Avso’s heart beat even louder. The Emperor said something. Avso couldn’t hear because of the non-believer’s shouting. But before he knew it, the man was dead, bleeding at the Emperor’s feet. They threw his body in the fire.
And then it was his turn.
He forced his fear down and took shaky steps forward. Murmurs aroused at the sight of him, and some nodded in respect. Elders reached out, grasping him and his hair, whispering words of comfort. But Avso had only eyes for the Emperor. He was a massive man—two full heads taller than Avso. His hair was pulled into dreads like Avso’s—each braided with golden jewels that jangled and clanged together.
Earlier that night, the Emperor had undergone a sacred ritual. The Otu Elders had circled the Emperor, who killed the three oldest Elders—now buried in mud. In a week, the Emperor would be stronger than ever, unbeatable, and see to fruition Murok’s glory.
The Emperor stared as Avso walked, a loving stare. Avso saw great warriors like Kraz Dufmaik, who looked almost regal in his flowing robes. Bonev Swavna stared—half of his face burned off. Nubo Wheuga, despite his old age, stood tall and proud as Avso walked forward, nodding his head at him. Kruyg Hoavi had a horrible, demonic grin on his face. Skamtos Wascofi’s bright white eyes pierced through him.
The heat grew more intense. When he finally reached the clearing with the Emperor staring right at him, his knees almost gave out from the weight of the Emperor’s Otu aura—the tangible pressure that others felt when they were around those who were incredibly strong. It was so dense that he felt as if his insides would explode.
The most honored people stood beside the Emperor, including his father. But Avso couldn’t look at his father now. His eyes were drawn to the Emperor. He knelt before him and kissed the dirt. He dared not raise his body at all, fearing the Emperor would have him killed like the non-believers.
“Rise,” the Emperor said, his voice quiet and calm.
Avso rose and looked up at the Emperor. The Emperor stared at him with a caring smile, like a father blessing him. His body was massive and muscled, arms covered in blood. Tear tracks marked his dark cheeks.
The Emperor spoke again in a whisper only Avso could hear. “Do well, blessed one.”
Avso nodded quickly.
The Emperor stepped forward and reached toward him. Avso couldn’t hide his trembling body as the Emperor’s massive hand approached his face.
The Emperor felt at Avso’s hair—the golden dreads that no one else had. Avso's body froze. The golden curls contrasted so starkly against Avso’s night-black skin. His hair was a blessing straight from Murok himself.
The Emperor smiled and withdrew his hand. It was a glorious smile that caught the rays of a thousand suns, even in the dead of night, and focused all of light on Avso. Avso couldn’t help but be blinded by the Emperor’s smile.
A servant came toward Avso from the right, dragging a non-believer. The warriors jeered and shouted at the non-believer, spitting on him. The servant threw the non-believer at Avso’s feet and handed Avso a jeweled knife. It was beautiful, intricately carved—heavy and smooth in his hand. The servant bowed.
Avso took the knife. It shook in his trembling hands, glinting off the blazing bonfires. His hands were sweaty, but he couldn’t wipe them off, fidget, or show weakness. He was Murok-blessed. He would prove himself.
Avso stepped closer to the non-believer. The servant grabbed the non-believer’s weak, thin body and propped him up. The man squirmed. Like many warriors of Ilan, he had small bones piercing through his ears and nose and two long, hooked bones jutting through his upper arms.
From the man’s mouth came murmurings and slurred speech. Avso hesitated, his hand trembled, and his arm wouldn’t move. The man whispered a prayer to Ilan. He looked over to his father.
His father, Frauza Keisid, glared at him, his deep black face glowing in the firelight. He didn’t nod in support; he didn’t even blink.
Avso steeled his mind. He took a sharp breath and clenched his fist around the jeweled knife, forcing his shaking to stop. The fire’s light made the blade gleam.
He turned back to the man prostrated before him, his eyes pleaded.
The drums beat louder. He felt the Emperor’s eyes on him, the fire burning against his back, his father’s glare, and the whispers.
Avso's body chilled with a sudden breeze. Murok was watching him tonight.
His heart slammed against his chest so hard that the drums—loud as they were—disappeared from his mind. His arm shook. He raised it. Hesitated. The non-believer flinched. The drums beat harder.
The rush of blood pumping through his ears overtook all other sounds. When the pleading eyes looked up at him again, Avso decided.
His voice was like a shout in the silent night. He said the sacred words: “For Murok, we kill.”
The blade flashed. Blood. Warm, sticky. On his hands. On his chest. On his hair. He stabbed again. A scream pierced through the night. The man pushed. Shoved. Fought. Avso didn’t stop. Again. And again.
Silence.
The world stopped. The blood on his hands was his own heartbeat, pulsing hotly against his skin. A moment ago, he was trembling with fear. Now, the fear was gone.
