5

  Omar gasped, awakening to the frosty airs of the Pale once more. He was no longer in front of his childhood home. The aurora in the night sky sparkled in the moonlight. Hours had passed while Omar was in his alternate realm. Hundreds of individuals were now walking past him in cozy fur coats and sturdy helmets, desperately searching through the ruins in hopes of finding those who survived.

  “What–” a rough voice barked at him.

  “Good, gods, you’re finally awake,” the man chuckled. Omar’s head flinched. “Liona. Lucy. You two go check the inn west of the tower. One of the men heard some kind of struggle there,” the man ordered two women that appeared to be close to Omar’s age. The young ladies bowed, following his command. They hurried up the hill and the man nodded at the sights of everyone hurrying to the village’s rescue.

  He offered Omar his gloved hand, but the Diborn stood on his own without help. He noticed the man’s scarlet beard hanging down to his chest. It was so long that he could barely tuck it all under his coat. The man’s wavy, red hair was tied in a knot. The man had amber eyes that were easy to look into. Omar felt a bit more at ease but still held his blade firmly, uncertain of who stood before him. “Who are you? Why haven’t you chained me?” Omar questioned.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  The red-bearded man laughed at Omar’s question. He lit up a cigar and blew smoke into Omar’s face. “I beg your pardon. Chain you? You are no slave of mine. Every mortal being in the Pale is a free man. Go where you please.” Omar steadied his hand down to his hip. The man could sense the restlessness inside of him. The man sighed, shaking his head. “You are more beat up than I remember, Omar Marshall.” The man side glanced Omar with a smirk.

  The Diborn took a nudge forward. “Huh?” His brows furrowed from agitation. “Who the hell are you? Answer me.” Omar reached for the knife strapped at his side but noticed the empty sheath. The red-bearded stranger was practicing balancing the stolen blade on his fingertip.

  “That’s no way to speak to someone, especially someone of your caliber and class, my Pale Prince,” The man joked. He handed the knife back with the blade turned towards himself. “I am Magnus, chief of the Venslerik Viking Clan. You remember us?”

  Omar hesitated to take his knife back. “You should all be extinct.” He took the knife and placed it back in its sheath at his side before grabbing his bag from the ground. He turned away from the man, ready to take his leave.

  Magnus threw out his arms. “You cannot run forever, Omar. Malakai isn’t out there. Not anymore…” Magnus softened his tone. Pain bristled his voice. His eyebrows tucked together as he muttered, “A war is coming. The Specters’ cult is growing. War is nearing, and so is their Diborn Army. And you have the option to run into the darkness alone, again, or… you come with me. And we take out those bastards who destroyed our families. We rebel and defeat the Diborn Army once and for all. We need your help.” Magnus paused. “We need Omar Marshall. You are the true heir as the Chronicler of the Lotus Wars.”