Swear On My Mortal Soul

Chapter One

Bear

Everyone on the Island had a past. Everyone had something they ran from. They say you grow from the mistakes you make, but he never felt any stronger. Looking around at the skulls lining the frail walls of his hut, Bear didn't see trophies out of their empty eye sockets. He saw the weakness dwelling within him from years of not allowing himself to have choices. Choices made you, and Bear had long since been crafted to his finished product. Besides, one didn't come to the Twins' Island to grow as a person. If you came to the Twins, you came to write the end of your story.

    When the sentry stuck his head through the entrance of Bear's hut and notified him that he'd been called upon by Arethusa and Aremenade, and that he would come without delay, Bear turned his last page. He'd survived too long as it was. Plus, no one had seen the Twins personally. Not anyone who lived to tell about it.

    He rose to his feet, chin held high, and his hand went to his neck ring. The ring that all freemen wore.

    The irony.

    You only took your neck ring off when you were dying, and he couldn't help but think about how he had no one to give it to in his final moments. That was the life he had lived. No one to care for. No one to drift into his dreams at night. He would leave his neck ring on, then. Leave it with the bones. After all, the skulls in his hut were about the only people he talked to. They didn't talk back much, though, and he couldn't blame them.

    He had killed them, after all.

    "Twinsman. We'll take our leave," the sentry said with little patience.

    Bear thought about saying his goodbyes to the skulls, but decided against it. He would approach them face-to-face in Kismet. He would soon join them in whatever fate they suffered after their deaths.

    A brief nod, then, and he pushed the curtain open to take the walk.

    The sentry couldn't care less the commotion going on behind him. No doubt he'd seen it countless times. Bear had, too, although he'd always pictured himself dying in battle. It was surely preferable.

    As he marched toward the dense forest that the Twins' castle was buried in, Bear planted his feet deep in the soil with every step. Maybe he'd leave an impression that way. More than the impression he was leaving on his fellow Twinsmen. One by one, the warriors dropped to one knee. Bear could feel the vibration of it inside his core. One knee, and both wrists crossed at the chest. Hundreds of eyes drilling into Bear. At his exposed skin. Into the scars that he wore, assessing that he was worthy of a knee. At the raised tattoos forever etched into his back, marking him a true Twinsman.

    If he could lay claim to anything, it was his scars. Surely, he'd done nasty enough deeds to earn such mutilation.

    "Gods be with you, brother," no one in particular yelled from behind him. He received several murmurs of the same empty prayer in an echo.

    Bear crossed his wrists and raised them above his head as high as he could. In complete truthfulness, he had no idea why the condemned did this. No idea why anyone participated in the walk, except from a certain respect. And truth be told, he wasn't made aware of reasons for anything on the Island. He and his comrades fought endless battles with kingdoms and queendoms alike, yet never claimed any new territory.

    Let it be the first thing he knew for sure about Arethusa and Aremenade—whatever they were searching for, it wasn't land.

    Bear had fought blindly for the Twins as far back as he bothered remembering, and wasn't particularly interested in questioning anyone's motives now. Not on his death walk.