Inertia

Arin stroked over his limp arm, his back against the steely cool stone of the cracked courtyard. He had just snapped away from a dreary, painful doze. A few distant refugees whispered quietly among themselves. Mourning could be heard, broken occasionally by the sound of stone tumbling from the cracked walls. The only ones who seemed unphased were palace staff – minus the few baring wounds, who looked past the walls of the castle with their steely gaze.

He shuddered, hiding his eyes in his good right hand, the other arm cracked somewhere near the middle. A footfall approached, breaking him from the moment as he looked up, ready to be given orders. Lower class Inerts, like he, were often used to the treatment. And with his recent luck, it was expected that he would be working to move rubble from the castle paths.

But to his surprise, the majestic robes before him led up to the gaze of his King; Leotoln. He gave a grim smile, offering a hand up. His large, golden clad wings arching outwards in his radiance. He bore himself straight, the ages of time giving him a long beard, curled at the ends in a steely silver ring. It matched well with his silver trimmed robes, his soft orange eyes fitting well with his crimson regalia.

Arin felt inadequate, seizing that much larger hand in his own. He could barely stand to the King’s stomach – it was common for Ascended to gain an inch or two in height over Inerts, but the king leaned more to the extreme – towering over even the highest grade Elites, save perhaps Gladiators.

“You look rough, has anyone told you that?” Leotoln said with a grin. He lost a tooth earlier from falling debris – and even now, it showed in his smile. “You’ve got more dirt than skin, and your hair is almost black at this point. Might want to wash it out ‘fore you leave.”

The Inert gulped. “Leave, your Majesty? Where am I going?” He said quietly. “More work? I’ve held a pickax before, am I clearing out the Western Branch?”

“’Fraid not. It – and its occupants – are lost to the stars now. The last quake saw it fall down the mountain.”

The shorter man gulped. He was there, just an hour ago, helping to rescue a few trapped Ascended. It was how he broke his spare arm – crushed beneath the hewn stone of the upper walls.

“You’ve got two choices right now, and they’re both made for you. It’s either stick with your nation,” he motioned to the winged people around, mages mending and cracking bone into place on the injured. He would be in that boat – if he were ascended. His class comes last. “or, be whisked away into a world far from ours. A safer world, for your kind. You’re the last of ‘em, after all, son.”

He pat Arin on the shoulder, drawing a wince from the man. It shook his left arm, the delicate fibers within screeching in retaliation. Wait… the last of his kind? How could he be sure? There were survivors – right?

For Inerts, bad days were genetic.

“My King, I don’t understand.” Arin said, a little hoarse.

“I reached out to another nation to claim you; not one on Erenorn. I believe it would be a better option for ye than slavery here. I couldn’t let it sit in my stomach what you’d be forced to do for us in the next few seasons, so instead of relieving your head from your shoulders – I decided to pass you on. They couldn’t treat you worse than us.”

“Couldn’t I just work for the crown? Your royalty, the burden-”

“Arin, boy, listen to me. This Crown? It’s a showpiece right now if I can’t wrangle my people into cooperation. This is an apocalypse. If our new home is lacking – you might just become a meal to predators, the dogs, or a starving Ascended. I’m doing ye a favor. Just hope it pays off.”

Arin blinked. Something about his words – he did care, didn’t he? Leotoln was known for his ruthless history, and this development blindsided him.

How did he know his name?

“You’ve got strength, son. In the very least, you know enough to make your own home – right? You Inerts bounce all over the place when it comes to work.”

The shorter man gave a nod, his face growing stern. He wanted to show strength for his king, his ruler. Even if that very same king had more blood on his hands than the rulers before him.

“I-I’ve worked the forge, shaped horseshoes and nails. I’ve tilled fields and sewn my own clothes. I built my own house with my two hands, I know how to craft glass and I can hunt my own meat.”

“Then you’ll make it on your own. The place you’re going has magic – their King or what have you may spare your limb and get you started. Carry that strength into the dawn; don’t let the spirit of Alma Sol falter.”

Arin nodded.

“Now clean yourself up. You! Private! Get this man a towel.” The King called to a soldier carrying a pack of bundled supplies. The armor clad knight nodded, withdrawing a rag from his waste and tossing it to the Inert.

Might be the best they have at the moment.

“And here,” The King withdrew his own canteen from his waist pouch. A large flask, the seal of Alma Sol across the front. Embroidered in gold, the silvery metal shining in the dim glow of the dying sun. “Can’t wash up without water, eh? Don’t worry, the spirits are gone, replaced, and gone thrice more. All that’s left is what you’ll get from a spring.”

Arin accepted the item in his good hand, eyes wide. “I-I’ll return it to you, as soon as possible, my King.”

Perhaps the history was simply legends meant to invoke fear. His first time meeting the King, and he didn’t try to stab him in the back. At least, not that he can tell. And he hardly seemed like the kind to plan it out, either.

“Return a gift? I think not. Just don’t lose it. There’s only one, you know.”

Another quake shook the world, a few distant screams echoing down the halls.

“I told ‘em the southern court isn’t going to hold another quake… rest, son. Clean up. If my men are right, you’ll be seeing the sunrise in another land soon. Possibly. And we will be claiming fresh lands on the forested moon of Ayana.” The King folded his wings, marching down the purple carpets towards the central amphitheater. He waved his arm to a mage, barking a sharp command to follow, before vanishing to the right.

Dumbstruck, Arin stood up, limping towards a shattered mirror on the floor. Propping a piece of glass up, he sat back down in front with a grunt – crossing his legs as he tilted the flask onto the rag.

He looked himself over, giving an exhausted sigh. His face was absolutely covered in soot, dust, possibly more – it was hard to tell at this point. It built up in the crevices, split around his barren upper lip where air escaped his broken nose.

With a pinch of his thumb, he cracked it back into place. First impressions matter, after all. If he were going to have any. Blood dripped to the floor, as he numbly dragged the rag over his skin. Exposing the wheatish flesh below. It would typically lean more towards the fair side, but his recent excursions in the fields left him lightly bronzed. He sneezed, blood dripping from his nose.

He wiped that up too, his right hand turning to his hair. He poured the fresh water into the matted mess of a mane on his head, using the rag to wipe it down. From black to brown, a much more suitable color for his skin. He took another moment to drag the cool rag around his eyes, being careful to avoid spreading it into his brown irises.

A finishing wipe around his beardless chin exhausted the rag without a proper wash.

At least he didn’t have family. Or any surviving family. He could mourn them later.

He took a grateful swig of the flask, the water serving his spirits well. It also whisked the gravel and dirt from his mouth. The canteen was also a great light.

Light?

He tilted the bottle, looking over the insignia. It gleamed brightly, shining like the sun. With a blink, the world shifted. Arin felt his mind fading, his body contorting before vanishing from sight.