The War for Eventyr

6 | Futile Emotion

An eerie silence filled the grassland as the two trekked across the starlit ground.

Cricketsong was the only sound that dared to pierce the silent air, that and Colborn's pounding heart. He followed his father without a word, past the outskirts of the dens where the tods of their army lay to rest, even farther than the unclaimed vixens' home of exile––the ones bound to die in battle, because no fox had deemed them worthy of bearing offspring.

They walked until his feet ached, but he didn't dare raise his voice in objection.

"I'm getting older, Colborn."

He nearly collided with his father, not realizing he had stopped to glance up at the sky. Colborn tensed his muscles and ducked sideways, then his brows furrowed.

The silver-muzzled fox slowly shifted his eyes to his son. "Our Skulk needs a strong warrior to take over, sooner than later."

Colborn shifted on his paws. He didn't understand. He thought he still had time.

The Jarl wasn't even that old, though Colborn suspected he had far outlived his successors. He'd heard many stories about past rulers who died in battle far before they reached a respectable age to retire from their leadership. Their sons would take over by default, without all these ridiculous trials.

Colborn's father was one of few foxes to face them. Because of the Glacial Period, the former Jarl lived much longer in age; he also had enough life left in him to hand over the rule to a younger tod.

There was no doubt that he had made the most of his rule. He had plenty of time to cultivate a heartless heir from a tiny ember, fully training him to carry out his purpose, feeding the flame with his lust for blood.

Then his father reignited a war that had long grown cold.

Colborn had only been born just before the time of peace came to a close. As the Jarl took more innocent lives, he raised his son to do the same. To be a strong and cruel Kriger. The only warrior fit to take his place and further his efforts to claim Eventyr as the Flameborns' own.

It wasn't their own.

"But you still have one final trial," his father said calmly.

A wave of relief washed over him like cool sea-foam. He wasn't ready to face the fire. He didn't have a plan. Not yet.

"What is it, Jarl?" Colborn spoke the question without emotion, knowing in his gut that more murder would follow. It was only a few more deaths, compared to what his father would do if he stayed in control.

His father laughed. "Patience, Kriger. Have I ever told you of my brothers?"

Colborn shook his head.

"Well then, I must." He sat, beckoning his son closer.

Colborn swallowed and joined him, already dreading this tale.

"I was born the strongest male," he said, "and I often wondered why my father ever left them alive." His tone rose with arrogance, but Colborn had nearly grown incapable of distinguishing it. That was all his father ever was: prideful.

"Why not kill them with the vixens? They were too weak to ever lead the skulk."

Heat rushed to Colborn's cheeks as he thought about his own sisters. They'd never even had the chance to nurse their mother.

"We have to keep our bloodline pure from weakness. They cannot lead, so they have no purpose." Or that's what his father had told Jakob when the poor kit found out his littermates had been murdered in cold, Flameborn blood.

"Why do you think he left them alive, Colborn?"

Jarl's voice snapped him back to the present, saved him from imagining the screams of a thousand dying kits. Though this reality wasn't any better.

Colborn licked his chops, but his tongue couldn't form the dreadful words. To die some horrible fate, he was sure.

"Why do you think I left your runt of a brother alive?" A grin tugged at his jowls. An evil, heartless smile that made Colborn yearn to rip out his throat. "He isn't of any use to the Skulk. Not now. Not ever."

Coals formed roiling bubbles in the acid of his belly, the putrid mix rising in his gut and threatening to emerge. He couldn't bear to hear Jakob spoken of as if he were a mere pile of ash.

The smoke cleared more each day; their father had no feelings of affection toward his own son. Colborn really did wonder why his smaller brother had been left to suffer this life.

"When it became time for me to resume the role of Jarl," he continued, picking up the pieces of his past and putting them back together with a growl. "I killed them."

Colborn slipped out a heavy breath. His heart raced even faster, blood pumping in his ears like the constant crash of the sea against the shore.

"It's the ultimate sacrifice that proves you're willing to do anything." His voice growled with an edge of bloodthirsty awe. "That your heart can't be swayed by futile emotion."

Colborn stumbled back. He couldn't help but utter it. "No."

His father nodded.

Tears rushed to his eyes, and for once, Colborn didn't care if the Jarl saw them. A snarl formed in his throat. He couldn't hold his voice back any longer. "No!" he shouted through clenched jaws. "I can't. I won't."

Colborn tore his eyes away from his father. He shook his head violently, then took to his paws. He didn't have to listen to this. He wasn't going to. Not anymore.

"Don't turn your back on me, Colborn."

Flames of anger fueled each defiant step that he took. Even as the tears trailed down his cheeks, they did nothing to soothe the burning.

"You can't escape your fate," the distant voice called.

Colborn hardly heard him through the roaring fire that ripped through his mind.

"Jakob must die."