Regicide

Chapter 7

The desert was always changing. Sand dunes moved and rippled across the land, storms shook and tormented trees in secluded oases, and its inhabitants were born and killed within it, replaced by newer generations. But one thing never changed- the scalding heat of the sun. It made the land parched and took the lives of many creatures.

Years passed, some crueler than others. Dune, throughout those years, trained himself. He healed from his wounds, managing to drag himself to a nearby source of water and survived off of carcasses and slow-moving prey, though one wound remained on him- his chest scar. He used it to motivate himself- whenever he felt exhausted to the point of collapsing, or like he would fail, he would look down at that scar and be reminded of the one who inflicted it onto him.

As he trained under the heat of the relentless sun, he perfected battle moves and transformed into a great hunter. He grew in size, as did his muscles, becoming well-defined. Occasionally, he would come across the scent of his pack, and he knew the five who left him for dead were still alive and well. He felt his veins pulsate with fury, but he knew that he mustn't attack all of them at once- he needed to wait for the perfect moment, when they were all apart from each other and could not gang up on him.

Indeed, his time alone and isolated in the desert had hardened him. He never felt emotion, but there was a powerful, suppressed rage within him. This rage was not of the kind most would experience- it was from deep inside, at a subconscious level. At first, a sliver of sadness tainted him at the fact that his sister had abandoned him, though that only happened in the beginning. The only reason that she had been able to hurt him at such a level was because of one simple factor- he had cared. But now, he knew better than that. He did not trust, or care for anyone, except for himself. He was a cold shell of a raptor, who only knew to roam and to kill. He never spoke, never smiled, never laughed or loved or felt joy. He had moulded himself into the perfect killing machine, a dark abyss of death.

When the time came to slaughter his sister, he would not fail.

And so, after years of harsh training and impatient waiting, everything began to pay off. There had been a huge sandstorm recently, and many members of the pack had been separated- about thirteen, to be exact. And of those thirteen, Dune had picked up the scent of the four slimy traitors who had assisted his sister in her plan for regicide- Blood, Shadow, Sand, and Bone.

(Soon.)