1 Prologue

Art never thought he'd be reborn.

It was something he had heard about of course. The privilege only appointed to great mages or heroes, those with a substantial amount of power. Not some foot soldier. Not a nobody like him.

But as he lay there, blood trickling, seeping slowly and warmly into the earth, he did hope. He recalled the last few moments in his head. The hero sending out shot after shot of magical attacks against the demon king's armour until the black iron helmet finally cracked and sugar white hair had tumbled out over the demon King's ebony chest plate, royal purple horns revealed as they curved around his head like a ram's.

Maybe it was that which took Art's breath and drew gasps from the surrounding army.

No one ever expected the demon king to look so young. Art had frozen, staring at gold eyes with pang of empathy. The king looked about his age, twenty and fighting a war beyond his control. Deep set golden eyes and smooth features set into honey tanned skin, irises resolute and resigned.

Perhaps it was that sudden empathy which had done it.

The king had caught his gaze, golden eyes seeming undeniably weary and desolate as the hero plunged his sword through his chest. The body gave a sickening jerk as blood pooled into the dark mud, contaminating the pure silver tresses. Art remembered himself stumbling forward until he was on his knees before the feared entity.

"Come to watch the wretch die have you son?" The hero had asked cheerfully despite the fact that the boy bleeding into the ground was at lest ten years his junior. Art had not responded, to caught in the dying king's gaze to rip himself away.

"I'm sorry", he had mouthed and the demon king had smiled slightly, a twitching of the corners of his mouth that might of once looked mischievous, before weakly lifting a hand. His once tanned skin was fading, losing the glow of health. Art had found himself taking it, wrapping his narrow fingers around a rough palm. The demon's eyes had twinkled slightly as, somehow they both understood each other. Neither of them had asked for this war. Neither of them could prevent what was about to happen. The demon king's death was inevitable. Art just found himself not wanting him to die alone.

It was then the sword had plunged through Art's chest. Behind them, a half dead demon had pulled itself up and enchanted his sword, shooting it across the cavern towards the Hero's back. But the demon was dying and the magic was weak, so it had hit Art instead. He had collapsed on to his side, mouth open in surprise as blood started dripping down his poor excuse for armour. The king's eyes were wide in shock, hand still tucked in Art's.

Above them, the hero was laughing, joking about the failed assassination attempt. He paid no attention to the dying boys on the ground. But why would he? The battle was over, the demon king vanquished. Never mind the expendable foot soldiers who died along the way. Don't care about the cause of this so called holy war. He was the hero, the one who had won the battle.

Art watched with a dull horror as the hero took the handle of his golden sword, still sticking from the demon king's chest, and gave it a savage twist. The king gave a choked gargle of a noise, blood tricking from the corner of his mouth as he body spasms slightly. Art lay there, watching as those golden inhuman eyes went dull and the hand slackened it's grip. He felt a stab of pity and sadness as those eyes closed. It was a shame that those eyes would never open again.

His mother had always said that he was a empathetic and sensitive soul. He remembered her warm hugs and soft touches. "You're too warm Arthit", she would say. "One day someone is going to take that warmth away. I hope that day never comes". At lest there was one thing the war did not take from him.

He lay there, still clutching the cold limb as around him, the army moved out. The noise of metal and feet fading away until he was left with nothing but his own shallow breathing. It was then he hoped. Fighting for the last four years had practically rid him of that warm feeling but he tried. And tried. He lay there and hoped for another chance, hoped for a life worth living. And as his vision began to dim, he gazed at the dead demon king and hoped for him too.