"Rage envelops you when you lose something. Family or friends, dignity or honor. It is something that most regret but to those beaten on the streets, to those whose hearts were carved out of their chests, to those served injustice and poisoned by the hand of the law, it is something to relish."
***
A tall man walked down a long, seemingly endless hall. His eyes were as black as death, while his hair was dark gold. His strong jawline and pointed nose gave him a face that most would drool over. But this very face now carried an emotion that looked awfully similar to fear. His steps were awkward, his gait jittery and he was someone Hatir would recognize as his brother's murderer.
It was Amund Harald, the eldest son of Aldrich Harald, which made him heir to the powerful clan. He was nicknamed 'Hondtiver' which meant 'God of the fists' in ancient tongue, but the name he was truly known for was 'Arrslat', aka the 'Mad Butcher'. He was a complete psychopath. Someone who reveled in slaughter and death. Before every battle, he would cover himself in blood. Not to strike fear in his enemies, but simply because he liked the feeling of fresh blood on his warm skin. This man, whose name would make veteran soldiers' brows wet with fear and hearts pound with terror, was acting like a frightened puppy.
"Goddammit. Why me? why the fuck should I be the one to tell the old man? Why can't Sveroth do it? He was the one who sent the bastards.", Amund muttered angrily under his breath while his face shown with an ugly frown.
The obelisk had lit up a few weeks back, signifying that someone with the Patriarch's blood was born, leaving the clan in an uproar and when it became known that the boy was nearly eleven years of age, it threw the clan into an even bigger shock.
But 'Tekhen Aldier Luge'
'The obelsik never lies'
His younger brother Sveroth was then ordered to bring Alan Harald, the bastard, to the clan. Yet, his men seemed to mysteriously disappear time and time again and now Amund had to answer for it.
The sound of his footsteps against the marble floor was bone-chillingly terrifying to Amund for his father's anger was well-renowned. It was told in many a story and legend and was described as a calamity. It was what got him his titles, 'Dragon of the East' and 'Slaughter of Sigle'. One for his mighty prowess and his short temper, and another for an unspeakably brutal massacre of epic proportions.
He stopped before two massive golden doors decorated with intricate engravings and carvings. He took a deep breath, calming himself, and slowly pushed them open, revealing a vast, lavish hall. Flickering torches lined the walls, the dancing shadows deriding his fear as he walked past them. He kneeled before the immense throne at the center of the hall.
*Ting*
*Ting*
*Ting*
The sound of metal against metal resounded within the hall.
'Ah! He still uses that fucking coin, doesn't he'
Amund gritted his teeth as childhood memories suddenly surfaced. The state of that gold coin after a conversation with their father would determine how bloodied he and his brother would be when they walked...no, crawled away from it.
"Hmm. You're here", the silhouette on the throne stated, the twirling shadows casting an eerie air. Amund lowered his head further, almost brushing the lavish carpet beneath him.
"Do you realize why I summoned you?", it questioned.
"No father, I believe that Sveroth should've be-", a fist shot out, smashing into Amunds exposed jaw, sending him flying into a pillar. It was faster than what any ordinary eye could track and stronger than any mundane fist. Amund gasped for air and crawled back before the throne. This was his father. Concise and brutal.
"The God of Fists, down in just one punch. Tsk Tsk. When I gave the task of dragging the bastard here to Sveroth, I expected you to step up instead, seeing the importance of the duty. Not only did you fail to do that, but you also let Sveroth screw up the mission. A disappointment indeed.", Aldrich growled, his figure still calmly reclining on his seat as though he didn't just sock his son across the face.
Amunds face reddened as rage filled his heart. He almost cracked a tooth trying to squash out his fury. His father always had a soft spot for his sword-loving, worm of a brother.
'All this bullshit about me having to take responsibility is just an excuse for him to vent his frustrations about the failed mission'
But what could he do? One doesn't argue with a dragon.
"I am disappointed, my son. But fret not, I shall not be heartless'', Aldrich continued, and Amund almost snorted at his hypocrisy but kept his mouth shut.
"You shall go personally this time, but if it is failure you face, I shall personally rip off an arm. Take it as both a punishment and an honor."
Amund stiffened at the threat before nodding.
"Now Begone!", Aldrich roared, and Amund scurried out of the hall trembling in anger as he walked out. His father was the only one who dared to speak to him in such a condescending tone. He gripped his shaking hand and took a deep breath, He needed to kill some people to soothe his now boiling blood.
***
Back in the hall,
"Hmm, he did not take it well. Good. There shall be no failure this time", Aldrich murmured, the gold coin masterfully weaving in and out of his fingers.
"The obelisk lighting up late, unawakened blood, a mother that should be dead, and my disappearing men. The more mysterious you are, the more I want to meet you.", he grinned, once again showing his glowing teeth in all their glory.
He thought for a moment and snapped his fingers. Immediately, the shadows in the hall froze before swirling toward its center in a beautiful whirlpool. A familiar hooded figure clawed its way out of the black abyss and kneeled in front of Aldrich.
"Follow Amund. Make sure he doesn't kill the poor bastard. It would be a shame if he did that before I get to see him.", Aldrich ordered.
"It shall be done, My Lord", the hooded figure rasped, before melting back into the ground.