Rise of Darkness

Steelwing began to stir from his forced slumber. He attempted to open his eyes, but he found that his vision was obscured by a foggy haze. Relying on his remaining senses, he noticed that the air smelled heavily of copper, precious metals, with a faint stench of burnt paper.

After several attempts to open his mouth, the commander realized that his muzzle was bound with a coarse rope. His legs and left wing were likewise bound; however, he couldn't even feel his right wing. The realization made him jump and he frantically twisted his head to catch a glimpse at the unresponsive appendage. Fortunately, it was still attached to his body, and it was stretched out on a small stone table next to him.

The cuts on his wing had been crudely stitched, but the bones had been properly set. With any luck it would heal with only slight scarring. He may be stuck in a realm of barbarians, but at least they keep their prisoners healthy... to a point.

As his vision cleared, he scanned the room thoroughly. It was a large room, but countless stacks of papers littered the floor, leaving only a small open area. The small area remaining was dominated by a desk, which was overflowing with files, stationary, blueprints for complex machines, and a large mechanical apparatus containing various magnifying glasses.

Stretching his neck to get a full look of the room, he saw that behind him was a pegasus skeleton, and it looked fresh. Continuing his investigation, he noticed an iron door over his right shoulder. It was the only way in or out of this room. They only way he could escape.

The walls were made of smooth grey stone, and what could be seen of the floor was covered in grey stone tiles with iron squares embedded in each tile. A gas powered chandelier bathed the room in warm light.

He heard shuffling behind one of the piles of documents, and he closed his eyes to pretend that he was still unconscious. He heard the gentle padding of paws on the cold tile, followed by the scratch of quill on paper and the soft clacking of the mechanical magnifying glass.

Steelwing cracked open an eye to observe the being who had disturbed the room's ominous silence. An unarmored wolf sat at the desk with his back turned to the injured pegasus. Physically, he looked no different from any of the other wolves, though he was a bit smaller than the king. He was only about the size of a large pony.

Steelwing's eyes burned with rage. The desecrated body behind him filled him with hatred. These wolves had no respect and no honor. It was no wonder that Celestia had banished their kind to dwell in this hole.

He imagined several fitting ends for the wolf, but he was interrupted as the iron door swung open. Steelwing closed his eyes and pretended to be unconscious once again.

He heard the rustle of paper and metal scraping on stone. "Father," he heard the wolf say, but he stopped as a solid thud echoed through the closed chamber.

“I told you never to call me that again, Castor,” growled the second wolf. Steelwing instantly recognised the voice of King Versailles.

The wolf known as Castor whimpered “I- I am so sorry, sire. I forgot my place my place.”

“It is forgiven,” huffed the king. He continued, “do you have anything to report about the equine?”

“I made a report and had it sent to the war room already. It details the pegasus anatomy and physiology, thanks to the help of that pegasus behind the prisoner,” Castor stated.

“So we no longer need the commander?” The air whipped around Steelwing and he felt the clasp of the king's armored claw at his throat.

“STOP!” Castor yelled desperately.

“Why? I thought you were done with your report, hence we no longer require him,” the king queried curiously.

“No, I need a living pegasus so that i could do more tests, like measuring wing speed and aerodynamics,” Castor reasoned calmy.

“Then send him down, make him fly,” the king spoke sharply.

“Sire, his wing is broken,” Castor continued to reason.

“Then he is of no use to us, we have our intelligence provided by the former equine encampment, he has nothing to offer us.” He tightened his grip on Steelwing's throat.

“No! It will only be a week before he can fly again, and it would be unwise to waste an opportunity to study more of this creature,” desperation began to creep back into Castor’s speech.

“Ok then. Since the rest of his body is not faulty, send him to the gladiatorial arena. We will see if this pup can fight for his life,” the king sneered. He released his grip on Steelwing’s throat.

Defeated, Castor continued, “It will be done, my lord. Now about me going to the surface to….”

“I decided to give that job to your brother. You still have the business of our machines to deal with,” he stated coldly.

There was silence for a moment, then Steelwing heard footsteps and the slamming of a door.

Castor muttered to himself, “...of course Silas gets to landscape the surface first. The ungrateful little...”

Steelwing heard the quill scratching on paper once again. He opened his eyes carefully and the wolf said, "I know that you are awake. I can feel your eyes trying to burn through my back. I know because that happens to me a lot."

He turned around to face the commander. His eyes were light grey, but cracks of sapphire blue ran through them. They were peculiar eyes.

“Feel lucky that you get to stay alive... for now.” A trace of sorrow crept into his voice. Steelwing watched as he left the room. Apparently, Castor cut the flow of gas on his way out. The chandelier dimmed and eventually sputtered out, plunging the room into darkness

Castor took only three steps out of the room before he realised he had been cast out of his own workshop. By a prisoner who only looked at him. Shame washed over him as he decided to go back to his room to sleep. On the way there, he saw his younger brother walking straight towards him. As Silas approached, Castor cursed his luck. He smiled sarcastically to greet him.

“Congratulations, brother. You have the glory to survey the land that once was ours,” Castor said with all the fake sincerity possible.

“Dispense with the pleasantries, brother,” Silas said contemptuously, “I heard that you angered father again. When will you learn that you can’t call him ‘daddy’ any more?” he continued snidely, “And your mom isn’t here to protect you anymore.”

“I never needed her to protect me. I can look after myself,” Castor said defiantly.

“Oh, but you can’t. You're just a half-blooded royal. You’re a bastard, no better than the scum living in the lower levels,” Silas barked.

“And yet, oh brother, whenever you are tested against me I come out the alpha. I may be a half-blood, but at least I am not a pup like you. So go run back to that little hole you crawled out of and stay there until you can become something even vaguely resembling a royal,” Castor stated. Proudly ignoring his brothers words.

Seeing that this conversation was going nowhere, Silas turned to leave, but spoke once more, “There will be a day Castor, mark my words, when Versailles’ wrath cannot be stopped. On that day I will be the one chosen to cut off your head,” and with that he strode off down the corridor of gothic stone arches, illuminated by purple Mithrilian lamps.

Standing there in solitary silence Castor thought deeply about what Silas had said. Maybe there would be a day when his father will want him dead, but for now he needed to make sure that he was valuable. He needed to ensure that he was an important asset to the king's plans both now and in the future. Sadly that meant that the prisoner must be sent to the arena. An Arena drenched in the blood and suffering of thousands of wolves. All vying to fight, to win, to survive.