Hellion's Reckoning

Sylvis’ new bedroom was something straight out of a king’s palace. The white marble floors gleamed under the soft glow of crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. A massive four-poster bed dominated the room, its carved wooden frame draped with rich velvet curtains. Plush cushions and silk sheets promised a comfortable night’s sleep, but Sylvis found little solace in the luxury surrounding him. Golden candle holders flickered with dancing flames, casting a warm glow across the room, and illuminating the shelves.

The doubts and fears that plagued his mind crept up on Sylvis despite the lavish furnishings and grandeur of his surroundings, which were fit for a prince. He knew that his destiny lay on a different path, one filled with uncertainty and sacrifice. And as he gazed out of the ornate window overlooking the sprawling city below, he knew that the choices he made would shape the fate of his people for generations to come.

“There are many who wouldn’t miss him if he were gone.” Those words danced in his thoughts all morning. He hated them. Hated the longing he felt in his chest when he heard them. Maybe once upon a time his father had been a man of duty and honor. Power and control had beguiled him and turned him into a fat, lazy and licentious maggot. He had turned against his own creed to exploit the labor of prisoners.

Every time her words crossed his mind, the thoughts stirred. What did he need with the old man? It was Sylvis who wielded Devilsbane. The spear had chosen him to lead their family once he came of age. “He’s my father,” Sylvis whispered as he paced the white marble floors of his new bedroom. Killing your own to claim power, that’s how hellions behaved. The golden age, the promise of a better future. Sons who slay their fathers could not build it. Heaven would turn against their clan.

The truth had always been there, the words he never let himself think or say aloud. It’s not you, it’s the spear he cares about. Without it, you’re useless. His father had grown to love one thing: power. If he could claim it for himself, he would. That’s what made him a worthy son. The world his father had described. Sylvis wanted so desperately to believe in it. To think that somewhere at the end of it all, their people could finally rest in peace. He had been born into a centuries-long spiral of chaos, and his father always soothed him with stories of hope.

The hellions had taken his mother; they had ripped their family and the kingdom apart. They were the source of all their people’s sadness. He had sworn to wipe their scourge from the vale. He was the savior that would lead their people home and if he wasn’t, he would at the very least lead them to a better future. That had been his father’s dream, but now he wore it like a shroud to hide the selfish ambition growing beneath.

His father, once a figure of respect and guidance, now loomed over him like a malevolent shadow, tainted by greed and cruelty. The echoes of his father’s manipulative words, the twisted love for power, and the hollow promises of salvation all reverberated in his heart.

The bedroom offered no hope of solace, so he threw on a light shirt and made his way down the hall. His father had ordered that he always have guards, but three guards were still undergoing intense healing when they tried to enforce it. He did not want anyone to follow or spy on him, and his father picked his battles in this rare instance.

Sylvis tiptoed past his father’s room in vain, “Ah! There you are!” He heard the man call out, “Come! You must see this!” Sylvis groaned and opened the door to find his father peering at a collection of jeweled bracelets. He traced one of them as Sylvis approached to look. They were all magnificent, arranged neatly in a glass case upon his dresser.

“More gifts from the king?” Sylvis asked in a bored tone as Ailog drooled over his treasures. Why did he think Sylvis would care about his jewelry? “It’s a collection! I’ve nearly completed it! What do you think?” There was a smile on his father’s face. Sylvis couldn’t help but return at that moment. Looking closer, he noted the markings on each of them. One held a spiral flame he recognized, the Rouans. Another held a phoenix and his gaze lingered as he tried to recall it.

“The Redwoods!” Ailog exclaimed, sensing his son’s confusion. “King Onas Nightfang gifted each clan one of these for their loyalty. Endolyne had this one. Soon I’ll have the Ravenmoons.” There were eight there, precious heirlooms from the clans he slaughtered.

Sylvis blinked. It was almost charming, the way his father had smiled over his collection. Now that he realized what it was, his stomach turned. This was not the charming hobby of an old man; it was a madman’s trophy case. “How nice for you,” he said quietly, doing all he could to keep his tone level.

“I know!” Ailog opened the case and stepped aside, “You should have one.”

Sylvis stepped back and swallowed. “I’m afraid I’m not, uh…worthy of such…nice things.” He stammered, fighting back his anger as he stumbled out of the room. Sylvis gave him no chance to answer as he slammed the door and half sprinted back to his room. He slammed the door shut behind him and took deep breaths.

The blood his father shed; he wore it like a crown. He built his power upon the bodies of fallen clans.

A crackle of lightning echoed across the room and Sylvis looked to find the blade of his spear had glowed. Even from a distance, Devilsbane had felt his spike in anger and drew power from it. Sylvis crossed the room and took the spear in his hand, running his finger over the blade. What a simple thing it would be to free himself of this burden. Devilsbane seemed to purr beneath his fingers as his thoughts turned.