If one has ever experienced a stampede, they would find many similarities in how these buffoons barrel their way to the dining hall. I don’t think the Mother herself could stop them on their warpath to breakfast. But often I can’t understand why they’re so eager. It’s not like the food is something to celebrate.

  I, myself, will not be partaking in this mornings dose of torture. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not. But I didn’t have a choice, not after the grimace I let slip after a particularly large boil burst and oozed over the filthy kitchen table, reminding me so much of those pus filled blisters I received as punishment a few months back. The Cook didn’t take much liking to that, and the look on his face was enough for me to find Reed without turning back.

  He and Carter were sitting at a back table with Thomas, but that wasn’t much of a surprise. Carter and Reed are never far from one another. They think they’re sly, but I mean seriously, how many times can two guys sneak away and not be fucking?

  As I approach, I find myself lucky to have a seat at all. While the dining hall is quite large, with ghost-white walls and a few small windows, only half of the inmates will find a place to sit, leaving the rest to fight for space on the muddy floor.

  Looking into Carter’s bowl, I cringe as another boils pops and leaks into the green goop. I have to look away after that, the sight turning my stomach queasy. But seeing the others does nothing to ease the bile rising in my throat.

  One boy is mixing water into his goop, somehow growing thicker than before. Another is plugging his nose, a few even take off for the bathroom, covering their mouths, faces green. But the one who nearly makes me laugh is the kid who sat himself by a window, doing his best to toss as much of the lumpy ooze over his shoulder as possible.

  I guess the boys at his table find it quite amusing, as well, as there’s now a crowd openly watching him, most of their shoulders shaking in silent laughter. He must be stupid, though, seeing that he hasn’t noticed his new fanbase.

  I watch the boy for so long that I hardly have time to notice the figure who is now looming in the shadows. I see him for only a moment before he steps into the light, the realization of who it is turning my skin to frost. The General.

  The General may look well-bred, but something deep in my soul affirms that he’s the biggest threat at this school. There’s something eerily familiar about him, my instincts always urging me to run as far away as possible.

  He stands well over six feet tall, towering over everyone, and the way he moves is almost serpentine. His platinum hair gives the illusion of nobility, his pale skin radiates with toxicity, and his soulless, black eyes glare into your core.

  Horrified, I watch as the boy tosses another spoonful over his shoulder. But his mark is off, and my breathing hitches as I watch it splatter all over the General.

  The tall, skeletal figure steps out of the shadows, his too slender limbs sending a shiver down my spine as he leans forward, hovering over the boy's shoulder, drawing the attention of every person in the room, each going stiff backed and still as death. But the kid doesn’t notice. He’s still looking into his bowl, entirely unaware.

  “You ruined my best pants,” the General growls, making the blue eyed boy jump, spilling the rest of his bowl in his lap, “And I guess you just ruined your only pair, too,” he barks, “You pathetic idiot!” The room stills so suddenly it feels as if time has frozen.

  When the boy doesn’t respond, the General takes a step closer. The kid looks up at him, a tear hugging his eye as he opens his wobbling mouth, “I-I…I didn’t mean to.”

  I suck in a breath as the General lunges, grasping his curly, beige hair in one of his inescapable hands. The boy begins to plead, to beg for mercy, and when he realizes he’ll find none, he desperately calls out to the room.

  The General drags him out of the hall, his path a direct trail to demise. We all know to avoid the General. He has a wicked temper, and is known for punishing us for the smallest of reasons, often without grounds at all. Brutal bastard. No wonder he’s the Warden's favorite Dog, the one she entrusts to carry out the discipline for the school. We rarely see her. Not even once a year. But I’m not complaining. The General is enough to contend with.

  We don’t have any other choice than to watch helplessly as the General at last thrusts the boy into the hall, the doors slamming shut with enough force to rattle my teeth. But it’s not for many minutes that we at last stop hearing the screaming.

  ? ? ?

  As a collective unit, all 573- no, it’s only 572 now- of us make our way from the hall and onto the field. This is definitely my least favorite part of the day. I despise running.

  Though, it is peaceful this morning, which makes this far better. The trees are still smothered in an impenetrable layer of mist that tickles my cheeks as I find a seat in the dew kissed grass, the limbs swaying with the light breeze.

  Soon, one of our “instructors”, who's just another one of the Wardens Dogs, Colonel Kraus, joins us on the field. He storms over, huffing hard enough that I’m surprised he hasn’t hacked up a lung, his massive hands swaying in fists at his sides.

  Kraus is the very picture of a war veteran. Gruff and scarred head to toe, always rambling on and on about his past experiences. If he wasn’t such a rambler, I might even fear him. But Kraus is just a nuisance. One who tells us that he would still have all ten fingers and toes if he would've been able to run an extra three miles. Which is precisely why, he lectures every morning, that we all start our day with a 20 mile run. It’s also why we have to complete that run in record time. Because endurance isn’t enough if our enemies can outrun us anyway.

  The run alone wouldn’t be the absolute worst, after a few miles you start to get in a rhythm. What takes down most of the people is the demented obstacle course, all of which is intended to make us “all terrain” fighters, whatever that means.

  “Alright, you candy asses,” the Colonel hollers, making me wince as the sound tears through my head, “Finish in time or the General and I will see you in his office.”

  I scoff at that. An office is hardly the way I would describe the mutilation chamber the General uses. I mean for godssake, theres a drain in the center of the room, and the walls are lined with a plethora of literal torture tools.

  “Well, get going,” the Colonel growls, having already started his watch.

  We all take off at the realization, I’ll take every second I can get. Glancing over my shoulder, I let out a small sigh when I see the new guys hesitating. An onyx haired boy makes me particularly nervous, as he’s tenderly holding his stomach as if he may throw up the morning's ooze at any second. It won’t be pretty for the new guys, and they’re going to learn that damn fast.

  ? ? ?

  About two miles into the run I drift into severe boredom. Thinking of the stories my mom used to read to me has always gotten me through even the most tedious of tasks. Stories I’ve read so often I know them by heart. This one is another favorite, perhaps the one I’ve read the most.

  ? ?Hythalla? ?

  The home Earthila spent many Suns and Moons creating she named Hythalla. A world of love and passion, welcome to all.

  She created magnificent plains of tall grasses, lush with critters and bugs, each and every one born by her very self. She carved deep canyons, so long and wide that it would take a dragon to fly over them. She made giant sand dunes as far as the eye can see, mountains taller and vaster than anything could possibly climb, and ice fields that she would slide and skate on from morning to night. Earthila made jungles and swamps and lands of clouds. She made volcanoes and underground sanctuaries. Each and every place she created with love in her heart. Each and every creation an adventure, a new form of life never before seen. She made it all, and yet, she was lonely.

  In her time, she had made many creatures to stand by her side, but these beings did not offer the companionship she hoped for. Her creatures loved her dearly, and she loved them, but they were beings who were driven by loyalty, always doing what was best to their nature. But what Earthila wished for was not perfection. Earthila wished for truth, for love despite her role as the Mother.

  So, Earthila created her very own family. One birthed from her very gifts. Nine daughters, she made. Nine daughters, each individual and different. Each daughter was blessed with the Mother’s own gifts, distributed in a way that best complimented their souls.

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  From these children, the Mother created civilizations to best fit her daughters' desires. Cities in the mountains and trees, even under the vast, sparkling seas. And with these civilizations, the Mother created another being. These beloved creations, she named the fae. Those truest of heart she allowed blessings of her own talents, gifts that would help them adjust to their new home.

  For the mothers eldest, she born Harensia, the land of light and sky. Harensia has five civilizations, all made of large cloud bases high above the mainland, each soaring over Hythalla as the winds demand. The Mother gave the fae of Harensia long, beautiful, feathered wings, which are white as the very clouds they soar over, and tipped in varying colors of sunsets and rises.

  The people of Vermah were born to the underground world of fire and shadow, surrounded by volcanoes and caves, with glittering jewels and rivers of magma to light their shadowed lives. The Vermahn were blessed with elegant wings of sleek black feathers, with an undercoat of green and blue hues, and finished with gold colored eyes that were made for living at night.

  The fae of Shavira call the vast deserts and dunes their beloved home. They are most well known for roaming the land in the middle of the night, for the day is often too hot and dry for them to survive. Violet eyes are how they are identified.

  The fae of Piandra are jungle dwellers, typically living in the vast tree bungalows that span for many miles. While most about this secretive culture is unrecorded and unknown by outsiders, it is clear that these people are quite resilient.

  The Dumbrik are a very headstrong people, always known to be firmly grounded. Their minds are as fortified as their chosen mountainous home, their skin equally as strong. But while these people are quite stubborn and strong willed, they can always be trusted in times of peril.

  Omaiya is a home to free spirits, typically artisans by trade. At times, their communities are on sandy shores, but most lay deep under the bays. In light of this, the Omaiyans can grow a tail, and many possess gills as a permanent signifier of their home.

  Feidrah is composed of unending grass fields, with flowers of every color and size. Scattered throughout are large and inviting forests, the leaves as delicate as the fae who live among them. There is hardly an inch of these lands untouched by melodies and song, especially late into the night, when the most entrancing of symphonies are performed.

  The lands of Kah are brutal and harsh, composed of ice and snow. The fae in these lands are just as fierce, unrelenting to climate and foes. These fae are incredibly intelligent, cherishing knowledge above all. It is wise to not cross them, unless you wish to fall.

  The final land of the Mother’s creation is that of Ivierma, a wild and untamed land, ruled by none with claims to all, for Ivierma is a mix of all of the Mother’s lands. If one is wishing for a life of peace, this is not the land in which you would find it. Ivierma is bound to no rules, often acting with a mind of her own.

  With her lands and daughters, Hythalla grew far and wide. And in the eve of her creations, the Mother could at last lie.

  ? ? ?

  Passing a bend that reveals the largest oak tree on the trail, my eyes catch on the markings carved into the thick trunk. Having faded after the many years that have passed, I have to squint to find the faint letters carved flimsily into wood. Me and Luca did it together.

  My heart breaks at the thought of my old friend. Anytime I think of him, it’s like I can still see him, even that blue and green flannel he wore like a uniform. He and I had been thick as thieves for two years. At least, until he was dragged away by the General. I never saw him again. The loss re-shattered my already broken soul.

  “Hour n’ 32 minutes, Thorn,” The Colonel yells as I pass the finish line.

  My breathing gallops fast and hard, unable to get enough of the air my lungs so desperately crave. Resting my hands on my hips, I stare at the thunderous sky. A storm will surely start soon, and it looks like it’ll last a while. At least the thunder will help distract the haggard boys who will spend the better part of the evening strapped in chains, with their back bloodied and drained.

  ? ? ?

  Clashing steel and splitting wood fill the empty void of my mind, matched with groans and yelps, all meshing into a symphony of pain. You can’t mess up here. Not if you want to keep all of your limbs. Nobody takes it easy. Nobody hesitates to cut you to the bone. The mound of mutilated corpses enforces this tenfold.

  A flash of lightning illuminates the training room, followed by booming thunder as an ogre of a boy lunges at me, his sword striking through the air. I deflect with my own, charging up from my side.

  “Whore!” He bellows, as I draw first blood, “Jus’ wait ‘till I get my hands on you’s neck.” He threatens, thrusting out with a brutal slash that turns him red in the face when I avoid it once more.

  His sword throttles wildly, his movements becoming more rash with every passing second. He grunts furiously with each poor swipe, and eventually resorts to his free fist, desperate to grab hold of my hair.

  As he steps within my range, I whip my sword up and crack him on the nose with the hilt. He yelps and staggers backwards, wiping away the blood that’s steadily pouring down his face.

  He gawks when he pulls back, “You’s going to pay for that.”

  “So you keep saying.” I sigh, my carelessness thick enough that he bares his teeth.

  He screams with maniac energy, lunging like a beast, his movements fast and brutal. But as he steps to the side, he leaves himself open, and despite his frantically swinging sword, he soon finds my own smashing into the weak spot of his hold, sending his clattering to the ground.

  Taking hold of his disbelief, I press the blade into the tender flesh of his neck, drawing a line of blood that somehow makes his face even more grotesque.

  I would feel satisfied with the, truth be told, expected outcome, but from the look on his face, I know in my core he will not let this go. A man like this does not do well when a woman overpowers him. Especially here, where the others will berate him to no end.

  So maybe it’s a good thing he’s so foolish, and maybe it’s a good thing he gave me no other choice. But that won’t help me sleep tonight. Not when I have to add yet another face to the death toll that plays constant treachery on my mind.

  Despite the sword I had pressed into his skin, the unnamed boy grasps a once hidden knife, cocking back with an outraged bellow teasing the room. But the sound soon turns into a cry, his eyes falling to that familiar mist as my blade sinks into the soft flesh of his stomach, blood pooling so quickly it seems as if it was always meant to be.

  His blade falls forgotten at his feet, and his knees soon join as he wilts on the ground. The boy's body stills on the cement, now sticky with fresh blood, spreading along the platform, and tipping over the side, the echoing drip, drip, drip consuming my mind.

  It is times like these that I feel most like a monster, when it is impossible to deny what I have become.

  ? ? ?

  The dining hall is just as rambunctious as this morning, just now with the new guys giving me a wide berth. Word of my kill spread like sickness, turning every new, innocent eye wide as I strode by. It is times like these that I replay my stories, as silly as it may be. And while this tale is not one of joy, it is better than the numbness of my mind.

  ? ?The Fall of Hythalla? ?

  After many millennia of fae, when the Mother was most comfortable in her home, our beloved land was met by a visitor, one who would claim Hythalla for his own.

  This foreigner named himself Varkashi, prince of the far land of Dravashik. And while the newcomer played the innocent, he was far more than he seemed. For this new prince, from the void of ash, came with his plain laid clear. Varkashi intended to gather the Mothers gifts, to take what was never intended to be his.

  He came with his own powers, ones that would allow him to do just this. For Varkashi was no ordinary man, being gifted with much of his own, and used them effortlessly to take the throne.

  The Mother’s daughter, Jamsiya, was the first betrayal to our people, for she soon sided with this outsider, allowing him her many people. The Verhman hastily took their place, choosing the hand of darkness, but this shadow was not contained to her people, soon to expand and swell, manifesting in the way of the artifacts.

  The forming of the artifacts, powerful objects that would bind the Mother’s gifts, making them his own, was the greatest draw of his power. For it was the creation of these unholy things that led him to consume our power. But it was not until he took down Shavira, having captured the only remaining gifted, Fridrama Dashka, did he at last have it all.

  By the time he found the Mother, cowering in a temple of stone, there was nary a thing to do to stop him. The Mother no longer had power, nor did she have the help of her beings.

  The prince then carved the heart out of her chest, storing it for himself, now turned into the emperor of the land, a name that would not be soon forgotten. Her body was destroyed, though it is said to remain in his Palace of Vershka, forever on display.

  Hope was lost for all those in the land, even the strongest of fae now cowering before the mighty man. Even the whispers of remaining gifted were soon extinguished by the threat of execution, leaving the Hythallans empty as ash.

  The lands were then separated, communications cut cold. Beings of love were destroyed, and born were those of hate, entirely composed of shadow and mold.

  Hythalla had fallen, and in turn rose Neidra, a land that would never be the same.

  ? ? ?

  Three sets of trays clatter onto the table, followed by the squelching of wet and muddy shoes. I look up to find the cheery grin of Reed, Carter and Thomas flanking his sides.

  But I can’t seem to understand why he’s so happy, not when dinner looks worse than any before. Their tray’s are piled high with a lumpy, brown sludge, and an incredibly suspicious slice of what looks like meatloaf?

  “No new friends?” Reed teases, “Too scared of our Thorny, eh.”

  “Jealous, more like it,” Thomas nods seriously.

  “Jealous?” I snort, “What for?”

  “Who else could kill someone tha’ fast?” Carter looks accusingly at his food, almost as if he expects it to bite him if he looks away, “Swear you was a blur.”

  Before I can respond, the large double-doors swing open. The attention of every person in the room drifts to the new presence, each and every one falling silent and still.

  I know without having to look who has caused such a reaction. I can feel it in the air as the room turns cold. I could swear even the flames flickering along the walls have grown dimmer. All life, warmth, stolen by the presence. By his presence.

  I look over slowly, my heart hammering. Seeing him makes my body go rigid, every part on full alert. His soulless eyes are locked on mine. His mouth spread into a demonic sneer. The boys recoil as he passes by them, each seeming to shrivel to guts and bones.

  The General plants his feet in front of me, the stance lazy and arrogant. He picks at his teeth, flicking a chunk of something nasty onto Carter’s plate without even looking at him.

  “If it isn’t our little Della.” The haunting voice croons, “You and I are going to have some fun.”