The Metaphorical Key Book I- Call of the Raven

Prologue

The battlefield raged.
It wasn't supposed to go this way.

The battle raging at the quaint, coastal town of Eastcliffe was supposed to be short and easy, nigh-effortless in execution as The Ravens - the last group fighting against the totalitarian government known as The Catago - drove their enemies away from the peaceful town.

To be completely honest, it wouldn't contribute much of anything to the rebellion - at least not in the long run. The Ravens could win the battle and the Catago could shrug off the blow, or vise-versa. It was a battle for morale, a signal to the rest of the world that The Ravens weren't done fighting, even if the Eight Year War had already concluded ten years prior to the battle at Eastcliffe.

Whether The Ravens won or lost, the battle wasn't supposed to strengthen or loosen the Catago's ironclad victory.

But nothing ever goes the way it should.

Because the thing is, the battle at Eastcliffe was important, and it could've changed everything, had The Ravens accounted for the ambush that came out of left field and decimated their far too-small fighting force.

If only we'd sent in more people, one of the rebels, Rico Espinoza thought, mind running itself ragged with alternate scenarios in which The Ravens were the ones winning this battle.

"Sir?" Somebody asked from behind him. Rico jumped.
He turned to face the woman he was leading out of her house, which happened to be in right in the middle of the cross-fire.
"Are you alright?" She pressed.

Rico cleared his throat.
"Yes, yes, I'm fine. Just, uh - don't call me sir. I'm only sixteen."
"Alright, sir!"
Rico rolled his eyes and withdrew a dagger from the pouch at his side, chopping off a small section of his cloak and handing it to here.
"Here."
"What am I supposed to use this for?"
Rico froze as he tucked the knife away, the golden undertones in his skin becoming more apparent as his face heated. "Kerchief," he said, grasping the woman's hand and tugging her along as she pressed the ratty piece of fabric against her mouth and nose.

As they ran through the town, Rico felt an overpowering sense of sorrow rush over him.
He'd visited Eastcliffe a handful of times before - it'd always been a pleasant place, smelling of fresh fish and coffee shops - heaven to Rico's senses and a welcome reprieve from the chaos of his life.
But now? Now it smelled of blood and sweat and death and all Rico could hear was the screams of allies and enemies alike as they fell victim to guns and knives and swords.

Every single one of Rico's instincts screamed at him to run and run and run until Eastcliffe was out of sight and out of mind.

Buth his conscience wouldn't let him do such a thing - and neither would his job. The leader of The Ravens - Rico's father - Jacinto, had ordered him to get the citizens out of harm's way and to the transports (taxi cabs and buses and beat up minivans brought along by The Ravens for the express purpose of getting the civilians out.)

"C' mon," Rico muttered, jogging beside the woman he was helping. He'd pulled the remains of his cloak - he'd chopped off so much of it for 'kerchiefs that it was little more than rags - up to cover his mouth and nose to avoid inhaling more smoke.

As he scrambled over the hill that separated the town from the road, tears sprung into his eyes. Heavy smoke, Rico figured. He coughed several times, hard enough that his ribs throbbed and tears started to drip down his ash and dirt smeared face.

Where is this smoke coming from? We're getting pretty far from the fires.

He saw the source soon enough.