Vasharti sat by the lakeside, the moonlight casting a silvery sheen over the still water. The gentle lapping of the waves against the shore was a soothing contrast to the turmoil within him. He gazed into the lake, his reflection blurred by the ripples, but his thoughts were far from the tranquility of the night.
As he stared into the depths, the world around him faded, and the past began to unfold like a hidden stream. He was no longer by the lake but back in the shadowy confines of the arena—a secret place known only to a select few on Thet'hea. Here, in the depths of secrecy, his training had taken place when he was just sixteen or seventeen, a young Starcaller thrust into a world of violence and expectation.
The arena was a place of hidden horrors, where Vasharti had been forced to battle creatures from other worlds for training purposes; their ferocity matched only by his father’s ruthless demands. Amir, the King of Thet'hea, had orchestrated these clandestine fights, concealing his brutal tactics from the Starcaller people. The young Vasharti had been thrust into this grim spectacle, his every move dictated by the harsh, unyielding rules set by his father.
The rules were as stark as they were simple: win and the creature would die; lose and the creature would gain its freedom, a fleeting chance to escape the arena’s deadly embrace. The stakes were high, and Vasharti had been pitted against fearsome opponents, each battle a test of his strength and will.
The memory was vivid: he was a boy, just stepping into the crucible of combat. The air was heavy with the scent of blood and sweat as he faced a towering beast, its eyes burning with a mixture of fury and desperation. The fight was fierce, a blur of movement and power. Vasharti, young and fierce, fought with every ounce of his training, his cosmic silver eyes flashing as he battled to fulfill the expectations placed upon him.
The clash ended with the beast lying defeated at his feet, the weight of victory pressing heavily on his young shoulders. As he stood over the lifeless creature, the voice of his father echoed in his mind: “No mercy.” It was a chilling command, a reminder of the ruthless legacy that had shaped his upbringing.
The memory ebbed away, and Vasharti was back by the lakeside, the calm of the water a welcome reprieve from the turmoil of his recollection. He took a deep breath, trying to shed the shadows of his past. But as he looked down at the lake’s reflection, the serene surface was disturbed.
There, in the shimmering water, appeared the ghostly image of his father. Amir’s cold silver hues seemed to pierce through the calm, a haunting reminder of the legacy that still lingered. The vision was fleeting, but its impact was profound.
Vasharti blinked, and the image vanished, leaving only the peaceful reflection of the night sky. Yet, the unease remained, a whisper of the past that would not be silenced.
Comments