The Ash Rogues Chronicles: Part One

The Ash Rogues Chronicles

World of Phantasm
Country of Amnesia

Prologue
Ten Years Ago

         It all began when they took it.
         “Run!”
         His chest heaves for more of the air that rasps through his cracked lips as he hears shouts echoing down the hall of King Malik's castle behind him. His sweat drenched bangs cling to his forehead and his hood hangs in his eyes. His right hand clutches the stolen prize rapped in his wool cloak closer to his stomach, hoping it won’t slip from his grasp.
         He throws a glance behind him at the dark hallway and just before he goes around a corner, he sees his three companions run down branching off corridors.
         “Take it!” they yell as they disappear, “we’ll distract the guards!”
         He hesitates for a moment, knowing he should help them, but knows the guards are only after him. My only objective is to get this out of here. He shakes his head clear and sprints down the hall. A stairwell appears on his right and he skids toward the steps.
         He pauses for a few seconds at the top of the stairs to confirm that the guards are chasing his companions instead, thinking they have it. He feels relief when he hears shouts all over the castle: everywhere except where he himself is. He gasps thanks under his breath as he tumbles down the stairs.
         He leaps down the last five steps and crashes onto the landing, sliding into the stonewall at the bottom. He winces as he crunches his right shoulder against it, but continues running, shocks running down his arm and for a horrible moment, the precious treasure slips in his hand. He panics, forces himself to slow down so he can readjust his grip. He scrambles around a corner and finds himself in a familiar candlelight corridor and he gasps when he sees an open window. Finally, something going according to plan.
         He leaps out the window.
         The cold wind burns his face as he falls through the air. He barely has time to suck in a mouthful of air before he hits the small lake below. The splash explodes in his ears and he almost lets out his breath at the stabbing pain of the cold water. But he allows his now heavy wool cloak to drag him down until he reaches the bottom. He wiggles out of his cloak and kicks off toward the surface.
         He gasps for air when he breaks the surface, but the heavy object in his hand immediately weighs him back underwater. A wave of panic washes over him as he is dragged back into the darkness. He kicks and battles with the weight of the prize until he manages to reach air again. He treads water so he can raise the prize above his head then tosses it toward where he thinks the shore is. He hears a great splash as it lands, which is followed by splashes and a few curses from an unseen figure.
         He desperately kicks toward those sounds, his vision blurry from the water and fading from exhaustion. The cold is making his limbs numb. Maybe I won’t make it. I should have learnt to swim better. But just as he feels he might give into the cold, his hands scrape dirt and he gratefully drags himself to dry land. He collapses in relief on the ground and closes his eyes, struggling to breathe, the cold air attacking any of his exposed skin it can find.
         He hears a chuckle above him. Exhilaration and left over panic makes him laugh shakily in reply. He opens his eyes and a strong hand helps him to his feet. His eyes take a moment to come back into focus from the water, but when his vision clears he sees his third accomplice standing before him. And she is holding the prize, which is only the size of a loaf of bread: so small for such a powerful thing. The precious object they had gone through so much trouble to steal, the most beautiful and deadly thing that would bring them untold riches and power over their business, the object his master has been scheming to steal for months.
         They both sneak into the forest surrounding the lake to wait for the others. The woman hefts the dangerous object. “This is it,” she smirks triumphantly. “Our first dragon egg.”

Malik

         “They did what??”
         King Malik rises from his desk so fast that Cedric, the captain of the guards, takes a step backwards. Rage and disbelief burns in Malik’s chest at the news, making him feel like he could explode at any minute. Cedric composes himself and stands straighter, probably hoping his king didn’t notice his informal step back.
         “Your highness,” Cedric repeats, “the three thieves were spotted outside the experimentation room and the dragon egg is gone. The guards managed to arrest two of the thieves, but were unable to capture the criminal with the egg.” Malik grips his sword hilt hard enough to make his fingers tingle from lack of blood.
         “The thieves were in the experimentation room,” Malik confirms, “but they did not get into…the room?” Cedric shakes his head firmly.
         “No my king,” he reports. “The nesting room was untouched and all fifty of the other dragon eggs are intact.” Malik lets out a breath of relief. At least those are safe.
         “Send out a search party to track the thief down,” Malik orders. “And if you find him, do not hesitate to do what needs to be done.” Cedric nods to show Malik he is understood. But he remains standing in front of the king’s desk.
         “Your highness,” Cedric swallows hard, as if there is more bad news. “Your son…he’s gone. He has left a note in his chambers to announce his leaving. He claims he will not be coming back.” Malik swears his heart stops for a moment, as if the world is standing still to let the words sink in. My only son?? How could he leave me? He is my heir! Malik clears his throat to loosen his tightening throat, feeling like he will suffocate.
         “If that is all,” Malik says with a strangled voice, despite his attempts to hide it, “you may go, Cedric.” Cedric bows deeply and leaves the room.
         The moment the door closes, Malik drops into his chair and sags down. He covers his face with his hand, which is shaking from old age and shock. My son is gone and so is one of the eggs. They would be very dangerous in the wrong hands, especially criminals’. Dragons were going to be exclusively for the rich, but now… If any more eggs are stolen, we could have a revolution on our hands. Malik presses his lips together when a thought comes to his mind. How could anyone have found out about the project, it was top secret? The only people other than myself who know of the project is Cedric, the scientists and my family. My friends or family would never betray me, would they?

Present Day

         Ten years after they stole their first dragon egg from the king’s castle, the thieves have thrived.
         Royalty all over the country of Amnesia have been robbed of their miniature pet dragons and trained as companions to the thieves, to slip into small places and under doors. Dragons in the process of being trained as guards for prisons and banks were kidnapped and trained to help on raids, to scare away a rider’s horse and to smash carriages. But the thieves had a main goal.
         They snatched eggs from dragon breeders and raised the dragons from birth for the thieves to become dragon riders. The thieves’ organization consists of roughly five hundred men and woman, spread across the country of Amnesia. And after ten years of dragon egg snatching, every one of them is a dragon rider. On their dragons, they fly long distances all over Amnesia, they sneak into farms from above to pillage crops and they slip past defenses and over battlements of castles.
         People of all ages who have been rejected from society join the guild to build their own place in the world. Homeless people or loner thieves all over the country pledge themselves to them. Small time thief agencies or illegal dealers look up to the thieves. This underground organization is well known, feared by all and unstoppable.
         They are the Ash Rogues.

Kathena

         Kathena, an Ash Rogue, plants her left foot on the folded arm of her dragon and swings herself up onto his back. She settles into the leather saddle, slipping her legs into the straps on the sides and tightens them.
         “Okay, Sleet,” Kathena gives the word. The dragon straightens until he is at his full height of seven-and-a-half feet. His deep violet scales gleam in the flickering light of the torches. Cold wind blows through the open doors in the wall of the hallway, tingling on Kathena’s face. There used to be a balcony outside the doors, but it had crumpled away years ago and the doors open to a valley, stretching below the mountain the castle rests on, overgrown and forgotten.
         Jasper, a fellow Ash Rogue, joins Kathena at the mouth of the doors. He looks out into the dark night and squints at the thickly clouded sky, searching for a glimpse of the quarter moon.
         “Hard to tell what time it is. Maybe wait a minute or two, just to make sure,” Jasper states. In a few minutes, Kathena has her shift of border patrol here, Base Two of the ten bases, to keep an eye out for the king’s men, who are often searching for the Rogues’ bases. The king’s search parties are getting closer and closer to their bases everyday.
         Kathena nods and pulls a pair of black leather gloves that reach up to her elbows. She clasps her cloak shut and flicks up the hood. Kathena reaches up and pulls her flight goggles over her eyes. The firelight reflects off them, brightening her vision in the dark.
         “Can you hand them to me?” Kathena asks Jasper. He nods and picks up the bundle from the floor. He hands Kathena her long sword, which she buckles onto her belt underneath her cloak. Next she is handed her bow and quiver of arrows. She slings these both over her back and checks that everything is secure.
         Finally, the clouds part overhead and reveal the moon, a mere sliver in the sky. Jasper measures the height of it from the top of a mountain across the valley with his fingers.
         “It’s time,” he confirms.
         Kathena nods to him and Jasper steps back. “Good luck!” he grins. Kathena grins back. Here comes my favourite part of being an Ash Rogue. Flying. Sleet shifts to the edge of the doorway and stretches his neck into the dark. The frills framing his face lift and shiver at the brisk night air. Kathena leans forward in the saddle over Sleet’s neck. She braces her knees against Sleet’s tense shoulders and lifts herself an inch above his back, as if she were about to go over a jump on a horse.
         “Lets do this.” Sleet unfurls his wings every so slightly, teeters on the very edge of the hole and drops into open night air.
         Kathena’s stomach lurches as her dragon dives from the highest floor of the castle. She lets out a shriek of excitement as they fall, which Sleet replies to with a triumph roar that vibrates through his whole body. Her cloak snaps and ripples behind her. The cold air flows though the space between her and the saddle and roars past her ears. The wind smacks her face and Kathena’s eyes instinctively close, but she opens them, knowing her goggles are protecting them.
         The mountainside slips past below them and Kathena watches as the ground becomes closer. Just as a rock ledge appears out of the dark ahead of them, threatening to crash into the pair, Sleet extends his wings and they swoop out into a glide. Kathena’s stomach settles back and her breaths come in quick gasps. She lets out a whoop of laughter and raises her fists triumphantly above her head.
         “I am an Ash Rogue! I rule the night sky!”

***

         Sleet skims the rocky ground, slowly making his way around the mountain. Kathena loves the view of the castle from below, firelight spilling from the windows and giving the castle a warm glow. From here, the sounds of Rogues training is silent, giving the illusion of peace inside of the base.
         Everyone knows that a war is coming. The king has tried to overcome the Ash Rogues for ten years, but he has never been able to find any of their ten bases. Though spies of the king had been seen very close to Base Three, a hollowed out mountain. Kathena knows an attack on the Rogues will be coming any time now and she knows she will have to be prepared.
         Nothing will be the same once one side strikes. Five hundred Ash Rogues against the king’s army, a number of thousands. But we have dragons and the king is too proud to give mere soldiers the privilege of dragons. I will not let the Ash Rogues lose.

Sage

         Sage runs down the tunnel in Base Three with a stack of extra bows and quivers full with savaged arrows that make her arms ache from the weight and threaten to tumble from the pile. Her legs are sore from running weapons around the refuge for most of the night, climbing up ladders and running across the bridges that are scattered across the underground cavern.
         A group of fellow Ash Rogues run past Sage deeper into the tunnel behind her, only one of the many man made caves that sprawl out from the central cavern. One of the Rogues shouts over his shoulder as he passes.
         “Sage, we’re headed for the lower exits. The warriors on horseback are coming in fast. Those weapons need to get to topside straight away. Reinforcements are coming from Base One, but they haven’t arrived yet. We have barely a hundred rogues.” Sage nods grimly and pushes herself to run faster, panting hard.
         Sage reaches the end of the tunnel and breaks out into the open space of the main cavern. Bridges and precarious ledges spread across the twenty-foot chasm. The sounds of rogues heading to their battle stations echo up and down the vertical man made cave that fills the inside of the mountain. Torches give the place a warm glow, but this time Sage doesn’t stop to admire the overwhelming magnificence of the sanctuary. Battle is upon them.
         Base Three is one of the larger of the ten bases of the Ash Rogues, carved out of the very heart of the small mountain centuries ago and is still being expanded on. It stretches about half way up and has many secret exits scattered all over the mountain. The camouflaged compound was designed to be a shelter for retired Ash Rogues and a bunker for wars.
         Only Ash Rogues know of this sanctuary, but a few days ago an inexperienced rogue was captured by the knights of Amnesia and interrogated. The rogue accidentally let slip about the compound and word was sent to the king, who could hardly resist a chance to crush the criminals. The rogues didn’t know about the captured rogue until tonight when it was too late. A scout had seen the king’s army marching toward them, but by the time the rogue had sent a warning to the shelter by a message eagle, the army was nearly upon them. And now they are here.
         Sage stumbles across a bridge to one of the baskets that are on pulley systems, which she throws the bows and quivers into. She jumps into the basket with them and pulls down on the cable of the pulley. Sage’s arms burn from the struggle, her hands scraping along the rough rope, but her years of training as a Rogue has built sturdy muscles. The basket begins to rise to the top of the compound, passing by caves chipped out of stone that serve as root cellars, living areas and infirmaries.
         Ash Rogue apprentices are urging retired Rogues, children and mothers out of their living areas and are leading them down staircases and into baskets on pulleys, down into the lowest levels of the compound, where they should be safe from the battle.
         Rogues stomp by all around, bows and swords clutched in their fists, heading to their battle stations. This sanctuary had never seen a battle and was not designed for one. The Rogues would be quickly overwhelmed if the army finds the undefended lower entrances, which are made to be camouflaged, not protected. The Rogues do not do well fighting against large numbers: they are trained to fight one-on-one. But now they will be the ones outnumbered and they will be uncommonly matched in combat.
         Sage’s basket finally reaches the top, as far as the cavern will go and she climbs out, piling the weapons in her arms once again. She steps onto a stone staircase that leads outside and she pounds up it, passing rogues decked in black leather armour.
         Sage can now hear the army outside, the beating of horse hooves mixed with the dauntless war chants of hundreds of men, creating a booming that fills Sage’s ears and echoes into the deep of the compound, like the pounding of drums. Her heart thumps in her chest, mimicking the growing sound of approaching doom.
         Sage reaches the top of the stairs and bursts out of a door to come out onto the highest level of the refuge on the mountain. The cold night air blasts Sage in the face, goose bumps immediately breaking out on her skin. The sound of the army is much louder out here, the wind carrying the soldiers’ chanting to the rogues’ ears.
         Right away, Sage notices that the reinforcements have not arrived, leaving them with very few rogues: not enough to win. Sage curses under her breath and jogs across the flat stone ledge that is perched half way up the small mountain, where about a dozen rogues are gathered at the edge. Their black clothing blends in with the backdrop of the dark clouded sky. They are crouching low, peering down at the army that is nearly upon them. Sage can tell even before she reaches them that things are worse than she thought from the grim looks on their faces. Sage drops the weapons at their feet and joins them at the edge. She wishes she hadn’t.
         Sage sucks in her breath. Below, at the very foot of the mountain, is a huge seething mass of men and horses. Their yells and chants are overwhelming, filling Sage’s ears. Flaming torches are dotted randomly among the army, illuminating not hundreds, but thousands of soldiers. The men look small from the rogues’ height of a few hundred feet, making the soldiers look like mere game pieces moving in for a finishing move. Sage feels overwhelming dismay and wonders how they will ever win this game.

Ferin

         Ferin flexes his gloved hands nervously and shifts atop his fire orange dragon Fanghur, adjusting the heavy and unused silver armour that he is clad in. The cold, fierce wind tugs at the tips of Ferin’s long amber hair that sticks out from underneath his silver and bronze helm. The sounds of the king’s army marching towards the Ash Rogues’ base rises from the ground a hundred feet below the precipice Fanghur is perched on.
         “I don’t know if I can do this,” Ferin says with a slight quaver, feeling panic rising up inside his chest. His heart is pounding in his ears, nearly blocking out the sounds of the soldiers below. Ferin’s mentor, Caspian, approaches Ferin’s left side on his poison green dragon, Jarkin. The older man grins at his apprentice from underneath an identical helm, the scar on his chin stretching into the shape of a crescent moon. When Ferin was younger, he used to love hearing the stories of how Caspian had gotten his battle scars in his years of service for the king.
         “I know this is your first battle, but you’ll do fine,” Caspian reassures. “The element of surprise is in our favor. The Ash Rogues have no idea that the king has been training his own band of dragon riders!” Ferin nods, but can’t speak over the knot forming in his throat.
         “We’ll wait here until the army reaches the Rogues’ base,” Caspian orders the group of riders, “then when the Ash Rogues are distracted we’ll attack the exposed archers on the mountain sides from above.” Ferin turns in his lightweight saddle to see the other three riders nod and take their bows in their hands. Ferin follows suit and unslings his bow from his shoulder and draws three arrows to clutch in his leather-gloved hand.
         The chants of the army has turned into a collective roar that is muffled through Ferin’s helmet. Siege catapults are leading the troops: although Ferin can’t see them from here, he knows that they are loaded with boulders. The army is planning to break into the mountain and storm the compound. The soldiers do not know what is inside, but they plan to drain the place with firebombs.
         Ferin swallows hard. I never wanted to see the horrors of war so early in my life. But I must honor my people and fight for my king.
         Just then, an explosive boom that uncomfortably pounds in Ferin’s chest echoes through the night air. The apprentice watches as the first boulders rain down on the mountainside. The stone billows up clouds of dust as cracks break its surface. Even from here, Ferin can hear distant screams mixed with the cheers of the soldiers.
         Caspian grins and nocks an arrow in his large recurve bow and pats his dragon’s neck, who is shifting excitedly in his silver and bronze battle armour.
         “Ready!” Caspian orders. Ferin’s heart starts beating so fast that he begins to feel faint. He nocks an arrow with shaking hands and clutches the other two arrows with his bow hand. Sweat begins to coat Ferin’s forehead, making his helm stick to his skin uncomfortably.
         Fanghur senses his rider’s fear and he claws the ground restlessly, turning his silver clad head to look at Ferin with lips drawn back in an uneasy snarl. Ferin grits his teeth and nods at his dragon to follow Caspian’s orders. Ferin feels a grumble vibrating in Fanghur’s body and he can see the frills rising on the dragon’s head, the way they only do when Fanghur’s upset at Ferin.
         Guilt heavily sets in Ferin’s heart like a dropped stone. Neither of us wants to fight this battle. I know that we’re the king’s secret weapon, but I expected it to be, I don’t know, years until we saw our first battle. But it’s up to us to solve this unrest.
         Caspian urges his dragon to the edge of the precipice and leans forward in his saddle eagerly.
         “Brace,” he calls to his fellow Riders. Ferin’s heart starts pumping as if he were running for his life. Fanghur clenches the stone edge with his claws and he shifts his weight for pushing into the air. Ferin’s heavy, panicked breathing fills his ears and—
         “Arise!!”
         The wind smacks Ferin in the face when Fanghur pushes off the stone edge and into the air. Ferin lurches back in his saddle and he grasps the ridge at the top of the saddle, his grip tight with fear. The air on both sides of him is a flurry of dragon wings and tails, silver armour flashing in the feeble moonlight.
         Ferin feels Fanghur’s muscles stretching and pulsing beneath the thin saddle and suddenly Ferin is scared of what his dragon will be like in battle, with such power at his dispense.
         This is war.

Felix

         Felix curses as he trips over a tree root in the dark and he tumbles onto the ground covered in dead leaves, his wool cloak tangling around him. His hands scrape the ground and his face lands in a pile of leaves, their dry skin crackling under his weight. Felix shivers at the unfamiliar and unwelcome contact of nature, drags himself to his feet and leans against a tree.
         “Disgusting,” Felix snarls to himself. He swipes at his formerly clean cloak to shake the leaves off and brushes the dirt off his hands. He looks down at his hands that were untouched by hard work, but now have scratches and scrapes covering the pale, smooth skin.
         Felix curses again and brushes his wavy hair behind his ears. His mother had always been so happy that Felix and Ferin looked so alike, the same amber blond hair and brown eyes. Felix’s mouth tightens as he thinks of his only brother. As they were a comfortably rich family, they lived off of supplies from markets and shops, rather than working on farms like most families. Living in the city, the family of four had a comfortable life and regularly went to local parties. And since both Felix’s father and Ferin had jobs, their parents had enough money to spoil both of their children if they wanted. But no.
         Only five years older than him, nineteen year-old Ferin had gotten all the attention. When they went to gatherings and parties, Ferin was introduced to all the rich people and all the pretty girls. Felix was just a seat saver. When they visited the marketplaces, Ferin got to spend money on trinkets and candy, while Felix had to help his mother buy bread and cloth.
         But then last year, Ferin got invited to a private meeting with the king himself. Felix eavesdropped on Ferin talking to his parents after the meeting and heard the Ferin was chosen to part of the king’s personal band of dragon riders! That had been the last straw. Felix was the one who had…abilities.
         Felix stomped on through the woods, wrapping his thin cloak around him to protect himself against the fierce wind. The bare trees creak overhead, but Felix ignores the sounds and darkness pressing around him.
         “It’s not fair,” Felix growls with a slight quaver. “It’s always been about Ferin,” he spits out angrily.
         “Why was he chosen?” he says, his voice rising. “He’s just a pretty face. But I have powers!” Felix smirks at the clouds flooding the sky. “I have powers Ferin could never dream of!” Felix’s voice surges into a shout at the last words. He stops to slam his right fist into his other hand, ignoring the pain as the cuts on his hands open at the contact.
         “Ferin gets to be a Rider! He gets to go to war!” Felix yells into the dark. “He gets to be a legend while I get to stay at home like I’m a myth!!” His breath comes in quick gasps and he glares at the sky, knowing that Ferin would be flying through that air into battle on his dragon Fanghur right now.
         “I’ll show him,” Felix grinds his teeth. “The Ash Rogues will understand. They’ll have to accept me. Then I’ll be a Rider too.” He grins despite himself.
         “Besides,” he smirks. “They can hardly turn down this.”
         Felix unfurls his hands and spreads them palm up, the tender skin splitting. Felix rubs them together quickly, as if to warm them up. He brings his clasped hands up to his mouth and he blows gently on them. He feels a tingling in his hands, like they are waking up. Felix smiles proudly and rubs them together one more time. A flare of light flickers through his fingers and comfortable warmth spreads across his hands. Felix grins and spreads his hands, flames dancing across his palms.

Cyborius

         Cyborius leans over the map on the large table, his two second-in-commands stand around the table on either side of him. Griffith stands on the left, his arms crossed over his lean body while he frowns thoughtfully. On the right, Hexia traces out the Ash Rogues’ ten bases on the map of Amnesia. Cyborius rules from the headquarters, Base One, a hollowed out mountain in the center of a lake, far from the city.
         Cyborius shifts the heavy black fur cloak that swathes his back, all the way down to his feet. It is burned around the edges and there are many repaired tears from years of fighting, but it is well taken care of, for it is the cloak of the Ash Rogues overlord.
         “My lord, our headquarters are failing fast,” Hexia reports. “Too fast.”
         Cyborius nods. The guild of Rogues has flourished, ever since Cyborius stole the first dragon egg ten years ago and risen to the position of overlord. But the king started taking action last month: there was higher security everywhere and soldiers were sent to investigate even the smallest of rumors of whereabouts of Ash Rogue headquarters. And the Rogues started receiving rumors that the king was building a secret force, a personal band of heroes.
         “Any news from Base Three?” Griffith asks. The refuge was currently under siege and there had been reports of the king’s secret force arriving at the battle, but they had not received word for several hours. Hexia shakes her head
         But suddenly, there is a knock on the door. The three of them lift their heads as the heavy door opens and a women walks in with a Rogue in his teen years. The boy is covered in dirt, his face streaked with dried blood and his black clothes disheveled.
         “My lord,” they greet. They both thump their chests with their right fists before bowing, the customary greeting for the overlord. Cyborius nods, allowing them to speak. The women stands to attention and nods toward the boy.
         “My lord,” the women says, “Jay has just arrived with news from Base Three.” Cyborius’ and his co-leaders’ eyes widen and Cyborius leans forward expectantly.
         “Jay, report,” Cyborius orders. Jay snaps to attention and looks him in the eye, his hands quivering slightly at his side, either from all the excitement or for standing so close to the leader of the Ash Rogues, Cyborius does not know.
         “My lord, I flew from Base Three as soon as I could,” Jay reports, his eyes wide. “There is an army of thousands of men and the king’s secret league of men arrived not long after the battle began.”
         “The king’s secret force?” he asks. “What are they?” Jay licks his lips before answering, his eyes wider than ever. “The king’s secret force are…” he pauses for a moment, like he doesn’t want to make it real by saying it. “They are…dragon riders.” Cyborius’ heart misses a beat and he clutches the sword at his side.
         “Dragons?” Cyborius repeats in disbelief. But then a grin spreads across his face. “So the king is playing our game,” he muses. “After ten years, he finally caught on that he should fight fire with fire—literally.”
         Jay fidgets. “My lord, that’s not all.” Cyborius’ momentary smirk disappears. “How does the battle go? How is Base Three?” Jay clears his throat and bites his lip. “Base Three’s perimeters was breached,” the boy says nervously. “My lord, the Rogues lost the battle. Base Three is destroyed.”
         Rage fills Cyborius’ chest. Under his command, his people lost and all the Rogues at the refuge are either dead or prisoners. Under his rule, for the first time in the history of the Ash Rogues, one of the ten bases was destroyed.
                   “You may go,” Cyborius waves away the two of them. Jay and the women salute him once more and exit the room, the door thudding shut behind them. Once they are alone, the three of them stand in silent disbelief.
         “An entire base, destroyed,” Hexia says to her self with a mixture of surprise and anger, shaking her head. Cyborius cannot tell if she is upset at the army that did it, or Cyborius for allowing it to happen. He opens his mouth to order a group of Rogues to investigate the base when there is another knock on the door. Cyborius swallows a growl at the interruption, for there cannot already be more news from Base Three, so whatever it is could wait. But the door opens before he can object and in walks a man named Stryker, who Cyborius knows was on guard duty tonight.
         “My lord, a boy arrived at the entrance demanding an audience with you,” Stryker reports. “He claims he’s the brother of one of the king’s dragon riders.” Cyborius stiffens. Whatever a family member of one of the king’s men could want with the Ash Rogues' overlord couldn’t be good. But he could have information about the riders.
         “Send him in cuffed,” Cyborius orders. Stryker nods and leaves the room. A moment later, he walks back in with another Rogue and between the two of them they firmly hold a teenage boy in handcuffs. The boy’s blond hair is ruffled and his clothes—which Cyborius recognizes as clothes from the king’s city—are dirty from traveling. He wears a look of disgust on his pale, smooth face as he looks at the guards holding him, clearly uncomfortable with the arrangement.
         “I hardly think this is necessary!” he bursts out with a haughty voice. Cyborius tenses at the rude outburst and the two men roughly force the boy onto his knees, which brings a noise of complaint from the boy. For a moment, Cyborius considers throwing the boy out right then, but he restrains himself, knowing that there must be something else the boy came to do other than insult the overlord.
         “Normally I would kill those who dare challenge me,” Cyborius pauses to enjoy the flash of fear on the boy’s face, “but instead I will accept an apology and whatever you came to tell me.” The boy’s expression hardens.
         “I apologize, my lord. Please accept my forgiveness,” he says with some difficulty. Cyborius nods, but keeps his hand on the hilt of his sword. The boy shifts on the floor and straightens his back as much as he can while being pushed to the floor.
         “My name is Felix and as your men may have already told you, I am the brother of one of the king’s dragon riders,” Felix says. “His name is Ferin and I have no love for him. I wish to leave my old life behind and join your league of Ash Rogues.” Felix holds a proud and determined look on his face. But Cyborius bursts into laughter, replacing Felix’s expression with a less proud one. Cyborius cannot help it. He has allowed people Felix’s age before, that is not the problem. How can the boy possibly think I would trust him after a claim like that?
         “You expect me to trust you, Felix?” Cyborius demands through a smirk. “And why would a city boy like you wish to join a league of criminals?” Felix’s eyes flash incredulously, but then his jaw juts out and his face hardens.
         “I have been underrated my whole life and now my brother has been awarded the highest honor of all. Do you really expect me to take this lying down?” the boy argues, his voice growing stronger and surer with each word. “My lord, I know that this is what you Rogues are all about, the outcasts of the world pulling themselves back to the top, earning a place in this world. I know your Rogues are willing to do anything to keep themselves at the top. And so am I.”
         Cyborius looks at him thoughtfully. I have seen his type before and they will indeed do anything to make things better for themselves. Do I really want this boy on my hands? How do I know if he is indeed only here to gain power as a Rogue, or if he wants revenge? But does it really matter? Now that Base Three is destroyed, we are short many Rogues. And if he slips up, we can get rid of him easily.
         “Well Felix,” Cyborius decides. “You have seven days to prove yourself worthy of becoming a Rogue. You will be assigned to a Rogue and you will help them and complete difficult tasks to determine your worth. You will be watched tonight and you will start tomorrow.” Cyborius catches a look of relief on Felix’s face before it is replaced with pride at his achievement.
         “Thank you, my lord,” Felix bows as much as he can, being pinned between two guards. “You won’t regret it.” The weight behind his words makes Cyborius think that Felix feels that in his heart, like a blazing fire.

To Be Continued in Part Two