Pain woke him. He groaned as his mind became reacquainted with the current state of himself. The early morning light showed through cracks in the wood. Violet-golden rays pierced his eyes reflecting back the same color. He gingerly raised his hands attempting to grab the light through gritted missing teeth. The boy gently grasped at the light, which exposed swollen knuckles, covered in cuts. For a moment he forgot how he acquired such marks. For a moment. The past evening's events had proven forgettable except for a run in with a specific group of boys his age, who happen to have had some choice comments about the boy's recently dead father. They hurt him, but he hurt them worse. A sly grin painfully crossed a bruised and battered face.

  Head pounding, he reached to touch the back of his skull. Blinding pain ran throughout his body, the shock forcing him to sit up. He now recalled the very big hammer that introduced itself so feverishly to the back of his skull. Before he blacked out for the second time, he thanked the boy who struck him by eagerly reciprocating the formal introductions that had begun with the hammer, but this time it was an informal amount of continuous blows to the other boy's head by his fists. Fortunately the boy with the hammer was able to create an ice barrier before he was struck, protecting himself. The last thing he remembered as his vision darkened, was the hard crunching sound that both his fists and the barrier made and the look of a boy completely enthralled in the jaws of death.

  He struggled to his feet, using the bed as support. It creaked and bemoaned under his weight, the sound carrying through his small room. He looked at himself and he was impressed with the work done to him. He had been bandaged well. Someone with careful hands who knew what they were doing, moved swiftly across his body. He stopped himself from touching such wonderful patch work even as he still bled in some areas. He looked around his room, the morning sun still had not risen high enough to illuminate the poorly constructed space. Wooden panels rotted and splintered. What passed as a desk was a large box used for the carrying of goods. Strewn across it, his various drawings; some were of people, others of his home, most were of his dead father.

  He opened a crooked door and it took everything not to collapse where he stood. He breathed heavily, he hoped that would ease the strain on him. He supported himself in the frame of the door. His attention was drawn to the small kitchen. Where he lived was far too small to be called a home, and still that is what he had called it for as long as he could remember. Not including his room, his home offered only two other rooms, one belonging to his father and the other the bathroom. An old table sat in the middle of the kitchen, two chairs on opposite sides. On the table lay crescent cakes. His inability to smell from his room was a very good indication that he had broken his nose, he thought. Not wanting to touch his nose and further inflict greater pain on him, he instead chose to sit down. As he wolfed down the crescent cakes, the sweet nectar hidden in the center of the soft bread slid down his throat. A warm sensation emanated from his stomach. The rest of the cakes lay in a basket next to a letter the boy had refused to open since the death of his father. Instead he continued to indulge himself in the cakes. As he belched the last of the cakes, a note fell off one of them. This he did not know, and picked it up. It was Her writing. He could spot it anywhere, other than his father, she was the only other person who taught him to read and write. He opened the note, half expecting a long message about why he should deliver that letter. The contents of the letter were not long nor was anything written of note, yet he found himself reading the words in her voice, and a profound sense of longing grew within him after every word.

  His swollen eyes filled with tears again, he had struggled to stop crying everyday since his father was taken from him. The pain washed over him in waves, each one eroded a piece of him even more. He wished she had at least stayed so he could talk to her. But he knew better, and she did too. Even if he tried he would never find her again. By now she would have left the city walls, putting enough distance between them. Or she would hide somewhere within the city, a labyrinth itself to even some of its own inhabitants Akkad was not easily tamed but she was one of the few who could do it.

  He sat there for hours, as the morning turned into midday. Half asleep, the other half lost in thought. The sounds around him did not bother him. The ringing in his left ear dampened much of his hearing. Children played and dogs barked, and those still engaged in the sensual activities that had taken place after the coronation made their voices and movements known. Akkad was awake, alive and a new day had begun.

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  As his father lay dying, there was no mention of this letter he held in his hand. Their chance to talk was sparse as his father drifted in and out of consciousness many times. The moments they did speak, it was through tear filled eyes. The boy expressed how much he loved his father, every opportunity he felt he had no other choice but to let him know. As though through the action, through enough repetition perhaps the boy's father would get better on his own. But the father only managed labored words of love in return. The act of talking caused him great pain, but he would not stop. This is how they went for weeks, the boy watched as the life drained from his father, bit by bit, until there was nothing left but the husk of a memory of the man who raised him. He read the name on the letter to himself again, King Antares Xerxes II.

  It had been ten years since he last saw the now-king. Back then he was a young prince not that much older than himself. Those days still clear to him, he remembered as Antares had come along with three others whose names he did not know but all of them of the same age. The one standing out to him the most was the largest one with fiery red hair. Antares spoke with the boy's father, the contents of their conversation alluded him. What he could recall was that, just as quickly as they arrived, they left. The only thing of note that happened was that the prince approached him and squatted in front of him. His violet storm filled eyes overlooking golden beaches raged on violently. The presence of the prince made the hairs on his arms stand, he did not yet learn the word but he felt reverence. Antares told him that his mother was dead and that he was responsible.

  Ordinarily a child finding out the death of their parents would be consumed with hundreds of emotions, rage nearing the largest reaction. But the boy felt nothing. He did not care that his mother was dead, she had abandoned them both and the outcome of her life meant nothing to him. His only concern was for his father's safety, he summoned up the courage to ask. The dismay apparent on everyone's face, but Antares. The prince rose, patting himself down and running a hand through his short braided hair, he waved his hand dismissively stating that his father was under no arrest or danger. Their arrival was merely a personal courtesy extended by the prince alone. With that, they left.

  Below the name a snake's eye insignia was stamped. The golden glow illuminated his face slightly. He knew the insignia belonged to the king because he felt the same reverence as he did all those years ago. The intensity even more so apparent as the eye seared with golden luminosity while skeletal snakes tightly coiled around the crown around it. The boy had seldom seen magic in his life, neither he nor his father were adept at it. His mother shunned many of her duties, her own desires outweighed all else. And the woman who taught him to write, also taught him many things, but magic was something she could never bring herself to do. So as he stared at the letter, his first ever piece of magical item in his possession, he was enamored by it.

  He fidgeted with the seal but shame prevented him from breaking it. Curiosity had soundly beaten him many times in attempts to open the letter, but each time he steeled himself he could not bring himself to follow through with his endeavors. He frowned, which hurt him, but nevertheless he frowned. He followed that with a large exhale and got to his feet. He paced in the tiny apartment and argued with himself, lost in conversation as though he alone existed in the world. Upon the conclusion of a debate he had lost, he grumbled and stormed into his father's room.

  Like his own, his father's room was smaller than his. As many times as the boy complained to his father, he had always asked him to take his room but he denied the request every time. With a single step the boy was already halfway into the room. Nothing had been touched since he carried his corpse to be blessed for burial. Only there was no opportunity for his father to be given his last rites because the day he had died was the same day as the crowning ceremony for the new king. He begged and pleaded at the gates of the church but his words were drowned out by the cheers of ascension. Unsure of what else to do the boy carried his father to the Weeping Chambers below the church. The cold soulless chambers housed many of Akkad who could not afford the absolution the church of the Multitude offered to those whose souls had departed this realm in search of the next.

  He rummaged through his father's clothing, found what he considered his father's best clothes and wore them. The boy did not fit the clothes, his lean frame exposed. He was still only thirteen years old but he stood at a worthy height. His sandy hair was a wild mess; tried as he might to fix it. He headed for the door, as he stood at the frame he looked back into the only place he knew, the only place that made sense. All his life lived in this small room with his father, holding powerful memories that etched themselves into his soul. Tears welled in his eyes and he gripped the hinges tighter. He sighed once more and left through the narrow corridor. He pushed his way into the loud sounds of the day calling out to him, Akkad calling out to him. Like all others, he answered her call.