The Shadow Wanderers

Prologue

They called him a demon because there was no other name for someone like him. They labeled him as if he was a monster in children's stories, and yet the children didn't know his name.

It was a name long forgotten, existed only in past manuscripts of ancient books. It was a name people feared but they knew they were safe from its bearer. He had been killed according to those childish tales; a result of a deadly war of his own doing. In some stories, the mighty King slashed him with his sword. In others, his own fury, his own powers became the end of him. They liked to believe the latter version of the tales; all evils ultimately eradicate themselves.

But there he was, alive if you could call it that; kept away from the land of the living, deep beneath the soil and away from the reach of light.

The demon had been counting down to the days he would finally make his escape. He knew a time like that would come, even if they said it wouldn't. After all, he refused to believe the ridiculous idea that his infinite, infinite life would be spent in chains in the King's dungeon.

The guards stationed outside his cell assumed he must be going mad in there, regretting his life, all hope lost. Perhaps it was because he never showed them his face that they assumed such baloney about him, for he had always a sense of calm on his face.

The guards stationed outside his cell assumed whatever they wanted to, to comfort themselves; for their fear was still radiating off of them, their hearts thumping loudly against their ribs at the mere prospect of having to guard a demon as vicious as him. Their fear kept him alive.

But one thing they assumed was right. He was always recalling his old days but never regretted them. He had lived a centuries-long life, perhaps even lives, and every day he had lived it like a free bird soaring high into the sky, without fear of death. He wasn't truly sure if he missed his life before being imprisoned; he only missed the fire in his fingers when he had felt enthusiastic, igniting things on the way. It had been a comfort, the fire; a sign that he could control things, that the universe was somehow in his grasp.

The images went as quickly as they came. They didn't stay for long, perhaps despising his unenthusiastic life now, as though feeling ashamed of the way the future disrespected and discarded them. Or merely because he had lived so long a life and could not create any more memories that the recollections only mushed into one another, creating a haze in his mind. The place was definitely doing something to him, even if he didn't like to admit it, because his memories getting blurry was something he did not believe could happen to him. As far as he knew, memories and past recollections were meant to be a comfort, as clear as the morning sky, the beginning of dawn, a sunset never quite forgotten.

It was always flashes of red, his fading memories. Red never seemed to forget him. It was the color of his fire, his place, his world, his whole perspective. His burning fiery anger and the ever-growing poison of vengeance.

"I don't know what you keep telling yourself, but your life is long over. It was over the moment you were defeated. It was over the moment the thought of defeating my father even crossed your mind," the naïve king said something like that every time he visited the demon. By now, he was bored of his ramblings about the King's victory against him. As if it was the only thing King could ever succeed in. But where did it lead him in the end? The old king was as scattered as ashes and already among the stars. The demon was still depressingly thriving.

Why not just kill me? He almost said it every time but stopped himself. He knew the young king wanted him to beg him for his death but the demon would never give him that kind of satisfaction. The young king's pride would never be able to handle it.

Besides, he knew the answer better than the adolescent himself. He would never kill the demon. He finds solace coming here, having something about his father to boast about, to mock someone.

All the same, the demon thought the king was smart. There was something in his tone and the way he held himself under the weight of a throne carved out of blood and bones. He was destined for greater things, and there was no other greater destiny than to be killed by the demon's hand.

He missed, greatly, the feel of blood on his hands; how it trickled down his fingers, a heavenly liquid; how it acted like fuel for the fire in his fingers; the way his flames turned a crimson red, the sudden excitement in his body and heart making him giddy.

The King and all the tyrants in the world could steal his freedom, but they could never steal his profound recollections. He would never allow them to.

Having no one for who knew how many years, he never got desperate for the feel of touch. Having eaten nothing for who knew how many days at a time, his body never grew slender. Having said nothing since the day he got there, his throat never felt dry or void of words.

He held out his hands in front of him now, examining the black vein lines that reached down his wrists. They would turn red when he summoned fire, but here in this cursed place, not an ounce of his powers would reunite with him. He moved his fingers and touched them with his other hand, absently watching the dirt smudging his hands.

A faint hissing sound seemed to come out of nowhere. He didn't notice it until he saw a faint light falling on the stones around him. He knew something was flickering behind him with the way the stones were getting brighter and darker at the same time. He didn't turn to see, for he knew the young king had arrived on his weekly tour; the light falling on the stones was probably from his illuminators. He had no interest in seeing the king so he stayed quiet, watching the black stone wall in front of him as he sat with his back to the threshold of his cell.

The silence stretched so long that the demon wondered if something was off. The king usually didn't stay silent for this long. If he was just standing outside the cell, and watching the demon without saying a word, he must have faced a big enough ordeal. The demon had no interest in hearing him vent about it. But the idea of seeing the young king's defeated face thrilled him and he pondered whether he should turn to face him.

Slowly, he found himself shifting his body expecting to see the young king. But instead, what he saw, hung his mouth agape. He stood up, gaining his balance, and put a hand to his chest, barely believing his eyes.

It was a portal.

Inside his cell. Unguarded.

The golden mist of the portal swirled and twisted around itself, creating a faint glow around it. The smooth swishing sound that it created was like listening to the ebb and flow of waves at an empty beach as they plummeted towards the sand and departed and then plummeted again.

In a haze, he took a step forward. Confused, he craned his neck to see the guards but saw no one there. He didn't know what was happening but he knew this was for him. This portal wasn't accidental; it was sent for him. Someone had sent it.

A crooked grin crept along his lips. With stumbling footsteps, he walked towards the portal, feeling each tiny step bringing him closer to freedom. And to something bigger than that.

There is a certain peculiarity in that feeling when you're rushing to your freedom and feel it so close to you and so far at the same time. And you still can't believe that freedom has made its own way to you until you smell the dizzying aroma of that door to that freedom. And then you finally step through it and only then do you believe, that miracles do happen.

And the first thought that enters your mind when you meet your freedom is that no one now escapes your wrath.