The following excerpt is from "The Djeirh War" in A Glimpse of Byrian History, recorded in 1957 P.D by the royal scribe of King Lucien Crauft of Naru, first of his name. For authenticity, the tome was originally notarized, attested, certified, and acknowledged by His Majesty Sorden Crauft III of Galdur, Ruler of the Minded, and Great Descendent of the Savior of the Burned. The text has since been translated and redacted for simplicity and accuracy, as well as updated on the current events of the century regarding the well-being of Byria. These documents shall never leave the premises of the Narun royal library, secured and safely stored against weathering, separate from the common literature.

It was King Lucien Crauft of Naru in 1897 B.D who declared civil war on the Djeirh people both in retaliation and with the objective of purging dark magic from Byria. Most scholars and citizens alike believed this act was most likely spurred by the death of the king's late son, who had met his untimely death defending a small training outpost in the eastern wilds of the kingdom. It was reported the night before the declaration that a bloodweaver had seized the heir's body before taking his life.

This was the first time a Djeirh had been known to have killed a royal. His Highness, Vernon Crauft, had bore the magic of a mindweaver, the rarest of all natural-born abilities, but he had not yet grown into mastery at the time of his murder. King Crauft was considered fast-paced by the masses, who were known at the time to adore the Djeirh and their dedication to being the greatest healers and soldiers in history. Indeed, the bloodweavers' contributions to the health and safety of Byria were notable. Many thought King Crauft's decision to wage war to be rash, driven by grief.

It wasn't until 1903 B.D, six years into the Djeirh War, that the majority of fae, humans, and other races across Byria began to passionately side with the crown. During this period, there were many massacres of men, women, and children throughout each kingdom, many of whom were not involved in militant responsibilities or battle. While the Djeirh were not a densely populated people due to their well-known infertility, they remained numbered enough to take control of the war for the first 30 years. In fact, it was not until The Great Seven, the final 7 years of the effort, that the tide turned in favor of Byria.

Drumal was the innovative answer that the continent had been searching for. There had been rumors of a crowned ruler that the Djeirh had been following for the better part of the last three decades, which naturally concerned the seven kings of Byria. It was King Lucien Crauft who'd tasked himself and a large team of scholars and soldiers to discover a weakness in the bloodweavers. A captured enemy was extracted of critical information that ultimately led to the destruction of the Djeirh armies and bloodline; this information was the leveling concoction, drumal, that is extremely well-known today as one of--if not the most--rare intoxicant in alchemic history. While no one outside of a few royal select know how to create the oral mixture thanks to its devastating biological effects in the war, its impact in the success of victory is renowned across Byria.

With whatever temporary, makeshift royalty the Djeirh had followed into battle eradicated, the organization of their armies quickly fell, and it took less than a third of the time to take down bloodweaver forces than it took for them to start the bloodshed. By 1934 B.D, the war was over, and left behind were the captured Djeirh--along with millions of Byrian soldiers and citizens dead and a broken foundation to rebuild off of. The death of the land's mothers, fathers, and children could not be remedied, but there were solutions crafted after much discussion between kings to decide what to do about the multitude of other problems left in the fighting's wake.

Dozens of large labor bases were erected in every territory in order to supply the kingdoms with renewed wealth and peace. All Djeirh were sent to these communities (following incapacitation with drumal) to both keep them separate from the vulnerable people of Byria and ensure the regrowth of the economy.

End of original excerpt

As of 3768 P.D, there are 207 labor bases used as criminalized punishment for high-profile deviants causing disruption within the borders. The original 38 still stand today, representing their success and strength in the uplift of Byria. Among the most efficient and reputable are Mindur, Dreknal, Wirnalor, and Stronec, each producing the most vital number of stock and trade supply for the kingdoms.

The public has since forgotten about the fabled Djeirh War and its people, a minimized event in comparison to other wars and conflicts over land and power since the tragedy occurred. Bloodweavers now extinct, it is far simpler for the history to appear as a legend in a storybook for mothers to read to their children before bed. This natural progression of memory fade is crucial to maintaining amity within the continent and the operations of the labor bases, and thus prompts diligent protection of the information.

With the current, minor struggles between the north and south, driven by Zephyrian motives to expand faithful devotion to the gods and pushback--particularly from Naru and Eldoria--due to its potential implications on sovereignty, the exposure of Djeirh history is of no concern. However, these texts should remain in safekeeping for the reference and continued inheritance of future monarchs. There are no Djeirh left with bloodweaving abilities to disrupt this fragile intelligence, but the hearts of the scorned may be unpredictable if they discover their ancestry. People, especially humans, tend to be far too emotional when presented with reality; securing the details of the war is always necessary.

Long live the Pure.

As I lay bloodied in the soil, there were only two sounds that my ears could make out.

They didn't come from my surroundings, from anywhere external. Inside my brain, the noises were stored. Then passed through whatever path memories took to reach the present. And here, I heard them as loud as if they were around me again. As if they were screamed from a raw throat.

Two sounds: the tightness of a taut rope--and bones shattering into pieces as they tore through flesh. Again. Back-and-forth melodies of a never-ending song.

Any songs I'd heard in my two years within the swallowing cove of Wirnalor told stories. And were punishable by twelve lashings with the thorned whip. Same for dancing, not that most were up for that sort of lark. I thought those things--expression--were beautiful at one point.

I curled into myself further. Felt the realness of the bark digging into reopened wounds. The wet soil that I lay my palm over and squeeze into, shove my fingernails into. This was earth. Not the rough gravel, trodded dirt, or littered sands of the cove--the Hook, we called it, both for the land's curving shape and the small fact that no one had ever escaped before, as snared as the fish devoured by the wide mouths of our nets. But I wasn't there anymore. It was here I breathed. Here I blinked. Here my heart still raced. Alive.

I was alive outside of the iron palisades.

The only slave known to ever get out. Alive. Here. Breathing.

All because others were dead.

The irony was not lost on me, yet death was no stranger. I used to carve the names of those I'd killed into the wood of my bed frame in the House, before I was sentenced. I didn't want to feel less grief over time. I didn't want to feel unburdened by the lives I'd taken. But then I'd run out of space. I no longer knew the number, nor all of the names. Faces were blurred, the reasons for their demise blurrier. It was difficult to keep track of the souls you'd nabbed when you were so busy keeping an eye on your own.

Then there were the other deaths. The ones before and after Krudo took me in. The ones I'd seen throughout my imprisonment in Wirnalor. How many? The god of the dead loved me like his daughter, Krudo told me growing up. Said I was his favorite dispatch and preferred to study and employ me rather than bless me with his tender kiss. I'd come to agree, since it was the only plausible explanation for the nearness that I managed to attract Death's touch without ever knowing its softness.

My cheek grew damp against the forest's soil as I used my index finger to draw a figure resembling a man with his head sliced clean off. It was an accurate enough representation, although that one that'd I'd killed was only partially decapitated. I thought of blood dripping off the docks and into the ocean, a growing stain in the water that would be washed away by time. Were their bodies already collected? Would they take them away or burn them in the pits like they do the laborers?

Fruitless questions. A filling like cakes and breads to distract my mind from thinking about the one death that truly broke me. The death that had forced all of this, that unleashed the Beast I'd worked so hard to restrain. The death of one of the greatest friends I'd ever made.

My chest ached, and my muscles tensed. I slammed a fist into the ground, destroying my little artistic project and spraying moist, black dirt into the air. There was now a small crater where the Wirnalor guard's shoulders and torso should've been. Admittedly, it was a much more on-the-dum rendition of the poor jek than before.

I ignored the pained sound I made and rolled onto my back, immediately wincing and arching away from the ground. It had taken me slamming my skull against the tree hard enough to slip into immediate darkness to choke the Beast back into her cage. When I'd awoken minutes ago, I was relieved to realize it had worked, marked by the loss of red-tinted vision and hyperawareness of every living creature nearby.

I stared into the grey skies as the late summer stuck to my face. At least that remained the same: the clouds held a grudge against the sun and the humid heat wrapped its legs around your skin like a consumed lover. With everything else that had changed, it wouldn't have been surprising to look up and see the gusting sands where the open air should've been.

What was I to do?

I swallowed thickly despite the cracked dryness of my lips and tongue. Blood still coated the taste. Again, Dreyat flitted through my thoughts, her grey tattered skirts as bright as ever as she walked past. Her hair was an untamable shade of red, pin straight and as long and flowing as a river bend all the way to her thighs. It didn't matter how many times they'd made her cut it; it grew right back within weeks. A smile that could only be composed of mischief and courage. Eyes a blue so rich with life that they could water an entire desert village in Varrin. Those eyes would never be such a blue again. I'd watched them dull myself as her body swayed from a taut rope above the waves. And hels, even then, the color of an ocean brimming with force and power paled in comparison to her hue.

Dreyat was too loud for Wirnalor's gag. And she would never see all of this because of it. Never touch soil so promising or a forest so dense. She was born in Wirnalor. Raised there like most slaves were. She'd clung to my stories of the world I'd seen like it was her reason to breathe--clung to my promises to show it all to her one day even tighter. It was why she'd finally broken, why she'd stolen a boat, why she'd come for me in the middle of sleep with a shaking, fearful, believing, excited hand.

Another failure. Another death I'd forever bear the blame for.

Tears burned like fire, but I didn't let them fall. I didn't want to wipe them from my face, lest I touch the dried blood covering my cheeks. I didn't know if it was mine, or a guard's, or Dreyat's. The scents were too intermingled.

Again, the two sounds rang in my ears. I squeezed my eyes shut tightly and fisted the soil in my left hand, a patch of moss in my other. More sounds reintroduced themselves, having been late to the reunion.

Foaming waves crashing against thick dock posts. Those same floating docks clacking against each other as the rough water pushed. A willful, loud voice saying she loves me as hands rustle about to fasten a noose. Then reciting the words of a forbidden poem about the forgotten. My own voice screaming--my own body scrapping and scratching and kicking against armor and sand and hands. A wooden platform slamming open. A body rushing through air. A neck snapping. Lungs fighting.

The most catastrophic, unnatural, deafening, painful silence I'd ever heard.

Even the waves had paused. The wind. No one moved. I could only stare.

But then, Dreyat's mother had shrieked.

It was the only thing that penetrated the stillness. It was the sound of rage and grief and disbelief. It was the sound that had my Beast splitting open a dust-covered eye and rising to her height. It wasn't Dreyat's neck breaking or the sound of her fighting to breathe. It wasn't the dreadful silence that followed. It was the screeching laments of a childless mother that the Beast could not endure.

And for the first time in fifteen years, my eyes turned red.

I didn't take them off of Dreyat.

I'd solidified the blood moving through the two guards holding me back first. They'd dropped soundlessly within seconds. As I began slowly walking toward my friend, more soldiers took notice. Some wore looks of confusion as they approached, trying to figure out what they were seeing with hesitant hands on their sword handles. I looked directly at each of them as my previous notions of mercy, restraint, and some ridiculous, basic understanding that they were just doing what they were told slipped away. The fear when they took in my face--the blood-red, glowing eyes--was not enough. They didn't know fear in their cozy brick buildings above us, built into cliff sides heated by hearths in the winter and cooled by rock in the summer, warm meals in their bellies every night. While our people starved and worked and broke and died. Every. Single. Day.

Screams from the other slaves were heard only after I'd forced a guard wearing basic Narun armor to take his own blade and saw his neck off with it, right where the protection of his plate ended. He'd screamed until he'd reached the voice-producing bits of his anatomy. Couldn't quite get through the beheading before he'd fallen.

The crowd dispersed in different directions, screaming of dark magic and heresy. But only one word, proud and unforgiving while the Beast was out, rang through my veins.

Djeirh.

How many times had I heard others speak of my people as if we were nothing more than figment? As far as I knew, there were no other bloodweavers left, yes. But were they all so daft that they believed such foundational magic fiction? Who did they think built their armies, invented their herbatives? We were extinct, not myth.

When the Beast was out, she was arrogant. Brash. Vicious and without forethought of consequences. Completely opposite of my nature. Worst of all, once she was out, she was nearly impossible to pull back in until Crash. Besides the looming threat of being potentially executed or sent somewhere worse than Wirnalor, that was why I'd kept her locked up. She was uncontrollable.

I only took my eyes away from Dreyat to find the ones who had performed the execution. And once I did, there was no where they could go.

I only needed to be within range.

Two had done it: one to tie her wrists behind her, another to tighten the noose. I hadn't noticed which one had pulled the lever. It didn't matter. They'd suffer the same.

Distantly, beyond the crazed laughing of my Beast and her incessant demand for more death and violence and vengeance, I felt Lianet, Dreyat's mother, watching me closely. Sand and water sprayed as people fled, and more men with blades clanked toward me uselessly. Her wide eyes were on me as she knelt in the clumpy beach; it had rained in the night when Dreyat came to run away with me, making the cove rancid and sweltering. The soles of my feet crushed matted, clustered sand as Lianet gazed on, empty.

She did not fear me. She did not curse my name neither as heretic or murderer. She only stared, shivering, knuckles white as she gripped her skirts like they were the only thing keeping her tethered. Never had I seen the woman without a sure face until now.

It wasn't natural. Right. Fair.

Admittedly, I wasn't natural either at the moment.

That was the thing about Beastie: she took over. When the bloodweaving was on, when I could hear and smell and feel the life force of others around me, it engaged something primal and detained my autonomy. My laugh was manic when I saw the terror on the two killers' faces. One froze, unable to look away, and the other tried to run.

Too late.

I tilted my head. Internally, I watched myself, numb, not caring how little control I had. I looked more animal or creature than human. But I was human--half, at least--on my mother's side. It wasn't really evident at the moment.

The man was sprinting. Running for his life. No fight. No magic. None of the Wirnalor guards had magic, aside from a few of the fae commanders. I supposed the crown didn't consider it necessary to use it against an already broken people.

I splayed my fingers gently at my side with my right hand, and the coward stopped running. Both were now trapped in their own bodies, incapable of moving on their own. The white-haired one--the one who'd fled--began to beg. My smile dropped, and I clenched my fist to swell the blood to his throat until he couldn't speak. Or breathe. I ensured the oxygen within him still circulated where it needed to go to keep him alive while he endlessly suffocated.

I walked until I was on the platform, taking the stairs carefully. Sounds of choking and screaming and scuffling became muffled as I looked to Dreyat gently drifting in the air, her red hair a flag flown at mast to mark her torturous death.

I didn't look away from her. Couldn't. Even the Beast didn't laugh.

We'd been caught. It was that simple. She'd woken me, whispering frantically in the thickest accent I'd ever heard her use; it always was strongest when she was most emotional. I'd hardly understood what she was saying--had to grab her face with my two blackened hands and make her stop for a moment.

I'd tried to tell her no. That it was a bad idea. But then she'd been crying, begging me to come. Her mother and brother, Deltry, were already on the boat. That's what had done it for me. They'd never make it alone, and the damage had already been done.

I went.

By the time we got there and started to untie from the dock, guards were everywhere. Others woke. Watched silently as we did our best to fight and escape. Mourning for what was to come. But our bodies were too frail. Malnutrition and unending labor did that to a person.

They whipped us first. Forty each, ten for every slave that'd tried to get away. They did it while we were still on the water, right within reach of freedom, never to brush its cheek.

Then Deltry had found a piece of strength when he was on his knees, forced to watch his twin take the whip. His back bled heavily as he managed to steal a sheathed weapon and cut a guard's throat.

It did nothing.

They drowned him over the side.

I could still hear Dreyat's piercing keening. It was somehow worse than Lianet's.

"How does it feel?" I asked calmly, listening to the choking and the brown-haired man's terrified whimpers. My voice was irreversibly shredded, and the question came out hoarse. I'd never screamed so loud, so much.

I could feel him trying to fight the bloodweaving, nothing more than a trapped mouse for my Beast to toy with. Other guards raced up the platform. I absentmindedly flung my magic out to them in spurts, swelling necks so spines broke through the skin, bursting capillaries in the lungs, and stopping flow to hearts. Humans were simple to kill. Weak. I didn't like that they were--how little they drained me. I knew I didn't have much time before the commanders arrived, though. They'd be a different story. They'd kill me one-on-many, not that I cared. The only reason I'd chosen to live was for Dreyat. And Mell, but he was back home, and I'd never see that place again.

He'd move on.

Fae blood--that which flowed through the commanders--was different. More difficult. Required more control than the Beast allowed. And I'd never killed one with bloodweaving before.

It didn't matter, as long as these ones--these worthless men--got what they deserved.

"P-Please," the one who could still speak begged, tears streaming down his ruddy cheeks. "We're sorry. I'm sorry!"

I hummed thoughtfully, staring at the bottom of Dreyat's feet. They were covered in heat blisters from the sands, splinters from the docks where we worked to haul in boats and fish every day, bruises from beatings with the stick if we ever failed quota or performed with any minor fault. And now, they were bloodied. From trying to run. From the whip's ravines spilling her life down her back.

"You really will be," I said quietly. The man wailed.

I glanced to Lianet. She remained the same. But now, she nodded. Only shallowly, only once. But I saw it. It was enough.

Behind me, another guard tried to sneak up. I could feel him. I seized his body and forced him to drop his dagger, commanded him to walk over. His face contorted as he uselessly struggled and obeyed. Not older than ten and seven years.

"Take her down gently," I said, twisting my wrist.

The young guard was awkwardly forced toward the pulley, but he got there. Complied as he pulled her down. Removed her noose and restraints. When he was finished, I pinched a blood vessel in his neck; he blacked out instantly. Not quite dead. My strength was beginning to waver, but the Beast wanted so much more. She wanted him obliterated, as all of them should be. But with the magic beginning to deplete, I had enough control to keep the jek from death. Maybe he deserved death. Maybe he'd be raised to become a killer like the rest. But he was young.

I walked over to Dreyat's body, which now lay as if she were just on a cot. Sleeping. As she should've been this whole time.

It wasn't right that her colors seemed so muted.

I bent down. The tears were silent and hot and red--blood. I reached down to close those blue eyes forever. Gently pressed a trembling kiss to the crown of her perfect head. Scooped her into my arms on weak legs. I shouldn't have been able to support even myself, but I managed to keep my grip on her two slaughterers and held onto her tightly as I descended the platform and approached Lianet.

She broke finally, the shocked width of her eyes shuttering as she held out her arms for her daughter. Her baby. She didn't get to hold Deltry; they'd tied a boulder to him and let the ocean have him.

She sobbed as I lowered Dreyat into her embrace, rocking her and brushing her wild mane out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. I imagined it must've looked like it did when she was born here in the sands. Like the first time her mother rocked her to sleep.

I gave one last look to my friend, to the person who dreamt higher than anyone I'd ever met, and turned back around. To the men who ensured she'd never sow those dreams to fruition.

And boiled them.

Blood heats slowly to prevent, well, overheating. It takes enormous amounts of energy to reach bubbling.

I poured all of my magic into it.

For two minutes and seven seconds, the one who'd bound her hands screamed and screamed, unable to move, until he drowned in his own fiery blood rising into his throat. For two minutes and eleven seconds, the one who'd tied her noose looked at me with wide, bloodshot eyes as he struggled to breathe, unable to voice his pain, until he suffered the same fate. I let it burn them inside out, melting their flesh and skin. By the end, they were no more than mash and blood, and I was covered in all sorts of it all. An artist's stone now lathered in a new-age art.

With the sudden release on the intense use of my abilities, I stumbled, pressing a palm to my head. The world was tipping, but the red haze remained. I needed to Crash. Or die.

Preferably die.

But when I turned to leave the platform, to face whatever magic was sure to end my life, no standing guard or slave dared move. I flexed my fingers in confusion; I wasn't controlling anyone anymore.

My breathing was heavy, head pounding. Still, my pulse was not nearly as quick as the onlookers.' I placed my sticky hand onto my chest to settle the bloodlust. The Beast, regardless of my impending exhaustion, screamed fuck-all. If she could, she'd kill every guard and every innocent bystander. It was Djeirh nature at our basest, primitive foundation. But I wasn't an animal. I wouldn't allow that sort of lark.

That's when I felt it. A light weight in my blouse pocket, right beneath where my stained palm rested.

I stuck my fingers into the hole and pulled out a brown, water-stained piece of parchment. The ink was streaked. Like it hadn't been given time to dry.

When I saw Dreyat's writing, my throat closed. I'd taught her to read and write. I'd also taught her sleight of hand.

The letters were jerky and messy. Beautiful.

More bloody tears slipped out, tainting her last gift to me as they splashed onto the paper.

Amra,

Live. Do not stay and breathe. Do not take the coward's way. Live.

This world you glabber on about can't handle yer grace and resilience. If we don't see it together, at least see it fer me. I'd love to witness its outrage when you return.

Leave a piece of me on one of those green mountain hills yer always excited about, hear?

- Drey

My body shook. My breaths broke.

A few guards were slowly creeping back in now, risking another chance at my head. I didn't sense any fae yet, but I wasn't trusting my sense anymore with how drained I was.

I shoved the note back into my pocket and eyed the only entrance through the palisade gate.

Live.

I didn't know if Mell was still around. If Krudo would accept a wanted escapee into the guild again. If Siran, my beloved wolf, was still in Naru--still even alive.

But Dreyat.

Dreyat wanted me to live. To chance at seeing it again. With her.

My chest cleaved. I faced where Lianet was, but she was gone, as was her daughter's body, likely off to bury her despite its forbidden tradition.

I clenched my fists and screamed, sending a surge of power outward--toward every source of life I could feel within range. People screamed as they fell, and I raced through them. Guards--many, many more now--shouted and hurried to their feet as I went, but I was quick to fling out a hand, using their blood to sway them away or into the ground as best as I could. I wouldn't be able to fight them all now, human or nilt.

Tears blurred my vision, but I pushed. Pumped my arms. Shoved my legs into the ground. Pulsed my magic around me to remain unobstructed.

An entire mile.

An entire mile directly up the cliff-face, to the only entrance or exit that wasn't on a boat. The switchbacks made it difficult, and more guards flooded down, trying to trap me between them and others chasing behind me.

With no other choice, I allowed the Beast complete control over my broken and battered body once more. I gave her the ability to drive me, to steer me out of Wirnalor.

She flung bodies off the cliff like they were nothing. Still no fae commanders arrived.

When we got to the gates, she enslaved the guards at the watchtowers to open them, then stopped their hearts for good.

None of the other slaves, who were now roaring, cheering at the opportunity, could escape before they were beaten back and the gates were closed once more. Their hopeful, fleeing numbers were the only thing preventing all of Wirnalor's forces from hunting me into the wilds. Very few actually attempted running up the switchbacks as I did, but it was enough that the guards were forced to abandon a single escaping slave in favor of keeping several. Guilt feasted upon my belly. Over my shoulder, I watched one of them have their head beaten open just before the gates shut.

Mounted guards gave chase on horses. Twelve men, twelve equine. The Beast forced the animals into sleep mid-gallop and made the thrown soldiers' hearts beat so fast that they exploded in their chests. I heard each one happen within the confines of ribs.

And then...

And then there was nothing.

I stopped for a moment, only hearing my rabid breathing and the distant shouting and clamor beyond the bordered cove.

The lack of crashing waves, sounds of shouting about boats' arrivals and departures, fish being cleaned, whips, and general misery was jarring. The quiet was too much. I could hear myself, my blood, my Beast, too loudly.

I ran.

And ran. And ran. And ran.

I wasn't sure how far away I was from Wirnalor when I stopped and slammed my head into the tree after failing to wrestle control away from the Beast. I didn't care.

I just wanted the noises to stop.