Bonfire 1

The oldest of emotions is fear, and the oldest type of fear is fear of the unknown. The Outlands embodied this fear. Mutants paraded its dark and vast plains like ants on a sugar bed, its boundaries speculated but unknown, its danger level unimaginable. It was a place that was feared even by Seekers, the only ones who dared trespass its lands.

Before the Outlands though, at the very edge of the empire, covered by tall trees and hills, was a small town—more like a village—known as Khun. It was a gathering of the homeless and the outcast, coming together to give themselves the very thing they lacked: a home.

Khun was a peaceful village, away from both the dangers of outsiders and the perils of mutants. Tall trees and hills surrounded the community, secluding them from the outside world. Children ran about, laughing and playing joyfully. Adults went about their business; scouts mounted their positions, the ladies set up fires for dinner, and the hunters were out to get meat.

The village was a tapestry of lives woven together by adversity and resilience. Dark and shiny like ebony, the villagers' skin reflected bits of the crimson light that blanketed the area due to the peaking of the blood moon. The buildings were constructed like igloos, except with mud and sticks instead of snow. It was amazing and beautiful, its craftsmanship immaculate. Each building had unique carvings, symbolizing its past and present inhabitants.

A soft breeze rustled the leaves, carrying with it the scent of roasting meat and the sound of distant laughter. In one corner, a group of children played a game of tag, their joyous shrieks echoing through the village. Nearby, an elderly woman meticulously carved a new design into the side of her home, her weathered hands moving with practiced ease.

Despite the tranquility, there was an underlying tension, a shared understanding that their peace was fragile. Every so often, a scout would pause, eyes scanning the horizon for any signs of danger. They knew the Outlands were not far, and the tales of what lurked there were enough to keep even the bravest souls vigilant.

As the blood moon reached its zenith, casting an eerie glow over the village, a sense of unease settled over Khun. The villagers continued their routines, but an unspoken question lingered in the air: How long could their sanctuary remain untouched by the chaos beyond?

Towards the back of the village was a small stream, its waters transparent. The crimson hue of the evening tainted its purity, making it seem more like watered-down blood. In front of the river, a boy sat on his knees. His shirt lay beside him on the stones, and he stared, unmoving, into the flowing stream.

"You look worried."

The boy turned his head, his eyes gleaming with recognition at the village elder, Khan. The aged man looked feeble, but his pale yet somehow deep brown eyes showed vitality no weaker than that of the youth. His smile was wizened, and his bearing was like that of a sage. Khan was said to possess a lot of knowledge; he was thought to have been a scholar before he took refuge in Khun.

"I have a lot of questions, Khan."

"You always do. Every day you sit here, pondering questions that only the gods can answer. Your mates are playing a round; shouldn't you join them?"

"I don't want to; it's a waste of time. I'm more intent on knowing things, finding answers," the youth replied, his eyes returning to his reflection.

A small breeze blew past, causing ripples on the surface of the river. Strangely, it didn't disperse the reflection of the youth; instead, it seemed to make it even clearer. The elder noted this, his placid expression showing that it was a norm. His gaze seemed to become nostalgic as he spoke slowly,

"Sometimes, knowledge can be a bad thing."

"But I don't mind the misfortunes that come with knowing. I'd rather know the reason for something than remain ignorant to it. You know, right? The reason this river is so tranquil, the real reason the moon bleeds every night… and the fact that the gods have not forsaken us—they are dead."

"Don't say that out loud; the people will become wary of you."

Although there was stern graveness in the old man's voice, his expression remained neutral, showcasing his experience in handling delicate matters.

"Like they don't fear me enough. Like they aren't wary enough. I'm not deaf, you know; I can hear them saying I'm cursed. Scars all over my body, eyes like dark clouds, and hair even greyer than yours. If not for the ebony skin atop my flesh, I would have been killed, mistaken for mink."

Mink was a derogatory term used for the Hengians, the foreigners who had trespassed into their lands.

The boy looked into the tranquil river, its surface the opposite of his state of mind. Across the lean body of his reflection ran beautiful tattoo-like scars, like ancient carvings across an antique object. His grey hair was a bit long, reaching just below his neck, and his eyes were piercing. To anyone else, this boy would have been a work of art, a gift to them by the gods. The stark contrast between the ebony of his skin and the ivory of his hair made him stand out even more, each beauty accentuating the other in an endless loop.

But to the people of Khun and most other citizens of Anubis, he was more of a curse than a gift. The idea of having to share similarities with those they called their enemies for so long made their skins crawl. They didn't even seem to acknowledge the fact that the boy had no control over how he looked. And his scars did nothing to help the situation, only making it worse.

"Your scars are a gift from God. You were born that way," Khan said, his voice gentle and reassuring. But the boy found no solace in it. He knew he was born that way, and he accepted himself for it.

You should tell them that, not me, he muttered inwardly, a faint bitterness in his thoughts as he gazed back at his distorted reflection.

The boy remained silent, his cloudy eyes flashing with a turbulent glint. Then he stood up, picking up his shirt and putting it on. It was a long-sleeved brown cloth, matching his brown trousers. The only pair of clothing he had and the only pair he needed. Those in Khun were poor, hence they managed with whatever they had.

The youth turned around, adjusting the edge of his clothing to make sure every inch of his scars was covered, before looking up to stare at the old man before him, his grey eyes staring into lifeless translucent brown orbs. Khan was blind but had no trouble perfectly navigating the area. The youth had his suspicions that Khan was more than he seemed.

"I'll be sixteen in a few months' time. When the time comes, I hope you will tell me what I want to know before I leave. Including your past."

The boy walked past Khan but only after gazing at him intently to make him know he meant business. Khan didn't mind; he knew the boy was someone of few words. Moreover, he may be blind, but the youth knew he could feel his gaze.

"Hehe, what a peculiar youth. Young Kohl, if only you knew the significance behind your birth," Khan chuckled, muttering beneath his breath as the boy headed back towards the village.

A wind blew over once more, shaking the trees around and rippling the surface of the river. Khan looked up into the sky, his nose twitching as he sniffed.

"Hmmm. Strange."

He turned around, heading into the forest towards the towering plumes of smoke and the joyful shouts of children in the distance.

"What a peculiar day."