A MAN WITH NO HOME
Tell me, sweet stranger, do you know the story of Normant Lumensky, the man from a mystical land universes away from Earth? Making an ark out of his chains, he turns from a prisoner of war into a fugitive.
A WOMAN AGAINST THE WOR...
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AND WHAT ABOUT THE HOSTAGE whose dream was not to escape his cage in triumph and return to his family in relief? What did history make of men with no land to call home, not a soul to share their story with, and not a morsel of greatness flowing in their veins? Could someone be a hero when no one knew of their heroism? Could someone remain a hero when they had no more heroism to showcase?
Philosophies had turned out to be my trusted friends ever since that summer night I had been taken away from my homeland, the Gap World, as a prisoner of war. Yes, it was a long time ago. No, I did not remember exactly how long. Being locked in a remote tower on Kastri, the windswept island where dark oceans kissed each other at midnight, made the days blur into each other and the concept of time go missing at the sea. Not that it mattered. Not anymore.
Walking through the iron door on the tower's rooftop, Ι was greeted by the howling wind and a few mewing seagulls. It was a nice change of scenery considering that lately I had been spending my days in dungeons, staring at the chains on my wrists and the spiderwebs on the walls. Yes, it was definitely a nice change. Two guards followed close behind me, trained to notice every breath I took that was sharper than usual, every glance I gave that was more daring than what was acceptable. Tonight there was nothing for them to notice though. I just kept my eyes focused on the white flag that stood at the center of the rooftop. It swayed in the wind with such fervor that someone would think that all wars were over. Not a single one was.
The sun had sunk down for good, which explained why standing there, in complete darkness, on top of the world and almost touching the clouds, had that harrowing effect on me. I stopped walking, choking for breath. If I were still a child, I would have jolted awake from bed, convinced that all was a nightmare, the result of me taking the magic-riddled tales of my mother way too seriously. But I was not a child. And that was not folklore. It was real. The darkness, the chaos, the tower. All of it. Madness had a name, it was Amanda Livernal, and she was standing right in front of me in a night-blue gown, pearls adorning its sleeves and neckline. Her mission was arcane, consisting of plans to conquer my homeland, and I had the cruel honor of being her most beloved soldier, the one who would help her achieve exactly that. That's how she liked to call me—her soldier—but I had this theory that slave would be more fitting a noun.
I swallowed hard. What had kept me sane here at first was the thought that sooner or later I would get used to being treated like an onerous secret, hidden from the world and steeped in shadows for wicked purposes. I had thought that somehow I would find a way to accept my fate and adjust to that new way of living. After all, they said that adaptability was the only chance people had at survival, so there was not much anyone could do but accept and let go, right? The thing was that in my mind to adapt meant to settle and I had never been particularly great at neither of those things. So I had not adjusted, had not even attempted to. There had not been a night that I closed my eyes in peace. If anything, the desire to escape had kept flaring up, setting my whole existence on fire. And tonight I would burn this place down.
