"If I am the devil's son, doesn't that make me a monster?" I asked, frowning deeply.

  I stood once again in this surreal dreamscape—a realm beyond space and time, far removed from reality. With me stood Lucien Valerius, the man who claimed to be my father.

  "You are not a monster, Kane," he replied.

  "Then what am I?" I snapped, the frustration boiling over. "You've made it clear that I'm your son, and you keep showing me your memories in my dreams. But what does it even matter anymore? You're dead. I'm here, living a completely different life. We aren't alike!"

  Lucien tilted his head, a flicker of sadness in his eyes. "Oh, is that what you believe?" he said softly. "You think I was born into greatness, that I was always the man you see now?"

  I said nothing, crossing my arms and looking away.

  "I was raised on an island too," he continued, his tone gentle, almost nostalgic. "By a mother who loved me fiercely, even as the world scorned us. She made oils from crops and sold them at the market, while I worked under fishermen, hauling nets and learning the tides. My life was as simple as yours, Kane—until, in the blink of an eye, everything changed."

  I turned back to him, my brow furrowed. "But why are you telling me this? You're gone. What difference does it make now?"

  Lucien stepped closer, his presence towering yet oddly comforting. "Because I am not here to demand anything of you, Kane. I am here to prepare you. You are my son, and the road ahead of you will not be easy."

  A chill ran down my spine. "What does that mean? Will something happen to me?"

  Lucien's gaze softened, and for the first time, he looked almost human. "No... and yes," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Kane, out lives are not like others. The world will challenge you, reject you, even hate you for what you are. You will face trials that will make you question your very existence. And yes, you will lose people along the way, but I want you to always keep fighting and pressing on. Do"

  I swallowed hard, the weight of his words pressing down on me. "Why?" I muttered. "Why was I even born if the world doesn't want me in it?"

  "Because against all odds, you were born," Lucien said, "Even your late mother didn't believe you'd make it, yet here you are. Alive. Breathing. A miracle in a world that fears miracles."

  I met his gaze, searching for answers, for solace.

  "You are not just human, Kane," he said, his voice resolute. "And you are not just a god. You are both. And that duality will feel like a push and pull, tearing at you from both realms. You will feel the weight of humanity's struggles and the burden of divine purpose. But that is also your strength."

  My throat tightened, and I whispered, "I'm not as strong as you. Sorry to disappoint you if I fail."

  Lucien placed a hand on my shoulder, "You won't fail, Kane. You carry my blood, yes, but your destiny is yours to shape. You will falter, you will doubt, but you will rise. Because that is what we are. And when the time comes, you will understand your purpose of existence and set the balance I failed to provide during my time."

  I felt a lump in my throat, the overwhelming mix of fear and hope threatening to drown me.

  Lucien stepped back, his form beginning to waver like smoke in the wind. "You are more than you believe, Kane," he said, his voice echoing as the dream began to fade. "But only you can discover what that means."

  And just like that, he was gone. I woke with a start, the weight of his words pressing heavily on my chest, the faint scent of saltwater lingering in the air.

  ***

  Time passed like the wind; before I knew it, a whole year had slipped by, and I found myself celebrating my seventeenth birthday. The famine era had ended, and life in the village gradually returned to normal. The fields were green again, the markets bustling, and the laughter of children echoed through the streets.

  But ever since that encounter with my father, I hadn't seen or heard from him. His cryptic warnings still lingered in my mind, like a shadow that refused to fade. How could he abandon me like that after scaring the life out of me?

  Despite the quiet, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. It wasn't a dream this time, but an unsettling tension that gnawed at my gut. Something was coming, I could feel it—a force that would rise from the waters and reduce everything I knew to ash.

  "Kane! Get over here and lend us a hand!" Thaddeus' voice snapped me out of my thoughts. He and his father were standing by the shore, waving me over.

  The sun glinted off the waves, and the air smelled of salt and fresh fish. The fishermen were busy with their daily work, hauling in nets brimming with silver-scaled catches.

  I jogged over, trying to shake the unease from my mind. "So many fish!" I said, grinning as I reached them. "How did you manage this haul?"

  "Good weather, good tides," Thaddeus' father replied with a satisfied chuckle, wiping the sweat from his brow. "And maybe a little luck from God."

  "Luck?" I laughed, grabbing one side of the heavy net to help them. "More like hard work. Don't give God all the credit."

  Thaddeus snorted. "Says the guy who spends his time staring at the horizon like it's going to swallow him whole. You've been acting really strange lately."

  "Me, weird. I'm not acting weird," I shot back.

  "You were acting strange but now you are acting weird," Thaddeus laughed.

  Thaddeus's father clapped a firm hand on both our shoulders as we stood by the shore. "You boys take this catch to the market and sell it," he said, wiping his hands on a rag. "I'll tend to the boat and clean up here. Make sure you get a good price for it, alright?"

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  "Yes, sir," Thaddeus replied, adjusting the sack of fish on his shoulder. I hoisted a smaller basket, following him up the path toward the village market.

  The market was lively, buzzing with the sounds of bargaining, laughter, and the occasional clatter of wares. The air was thick with the scents of fresh produce, spices, and, of course, fish. We found a spot near the center and started arranging the fish for display, calling out to attract buyers.

  But then, over the din of the marketplace, we heard a commotion. A group of men stood near a vegetable stall, loud and unsteady, clearly drunk even though it was barely midday. People gave them a wide berth, casting wary glances in their direction.

  "Lyon and his crew again," Thaddeus muttered, lowering his voice as he nudged me. "Because he's the chief's son doesn't give him the right to do whatever he pleases whenever. This is a market for God's sake."

  Lyon Martell, the chief's son, was tall and broad-shouldered, with a sneer permanently etched onto his face. His companions—Orrick and Halden—were just as rough-looking, though clearly they followed Lyon's lead.

  They had cornered a smaller boy, no older than us, by the fruit stall. The boy clutched a small pouch, his knuckles white as he refused to let go.

  "Come on, Alric," Lyon drawled, his voice dripping with mockery. "You've been holding out on us. Hand it over, and maybe we won't rearrange that pretty face of yours."

  "I told you, I don't have anything!" the boy, Alric, protested, his voice trembling.

  Orrick snatched at the pouch, but Alric twisted away. "You're lying!" Orrick snarled. "We saw you with it earlier. What's in the pouch, huh? Rubies? Food? Give it here!"

  Halden stepped closer, cracking his knuckles. "Maybe we should beat the truth out of him."

  "Kane," Thaddeus whispered urgently, grabbing my arm. "Don't get involved. Just leave it. They'll turn on you if you try anything."

  I looked at the terrified boy, his back pressed against the stall as Lyon and his friends loomed over him. Something inside me churned, a mixture of anger and resolve.

  "They can try," I said, shaking off Thaddeus's hand.

  Before he could stop me, I stepped forward, raising my voice. "Hey, Lyon! Don't you get tired terrorizing people. Are you that jobless."

  The marketplace fell silent as all eyes turned to us. Lyon slowly turned, his sneer deepening. "Kane? Did you say something?"

  I crossed my arms, planting my feet firmly. "Get lost from here."

  ***

  The marketplace was alive with chaos and energy—a cacophony of merchants barking prices, the metallic jingle of coins exchanging hands, and the unrestrained laughter of children weaving through the throng. But all of it dimmed, as if muffles by an invisible force, the moment Lyon's fist clenched at his side. He took a deliberate step toward me, his sneer dripping with menace.

  "So, you've got guts," he said, voice low and cutting. "Let's see if they spill just as easily."

  Before I could respond, Thaddeus seized my arm, his fingers digging in. "Kane, don't!" he hissed, his breath shallow with fear.

  I didn't move. I couldn't. Lyon's cronies circled like wolves, eyes gleaming with anticipation, ready to pounce.

  And then... the world shifted.

  A rumble, distant at first, rose above the marketplace din, growing with relentless intensity. It wasn't thunder—it was the pounding of feet. The ground seemed to tremble beneath us as the noise grew deafening. Screams followed, raw and panicked, cutting through the air like a blade.

  "Run!" a man bellowed, his voice cracking. "They're coming!"

  For a moment, the market froze. The stillness was more terrifying than the noise. Then pandemonium erupted. Merchants abandoned their stalls, goods scattered as they fled. Parents yanked children by their hands, shouting in terror. The once-lively square was now a maelstrom of shoving, tripping, screaming bodies, each one scrambling to escape.

  "What's happening?" someone cried.

  "A big boat!" another voice shrieked, barely audible over the chaos. "A whole army of soldiers—they're killing everyone!"

  The stampede reached us like a tidal wave. Stalls crashed to the ground, baskets of goods spilling underfoot as people surged forward. Even Lyon and his gang, all bravado moments earlier, paled with terror. They shoved their way through the crowd, fleeing without so much as a backward glance.

  The basket of fish got tumbled over by the stampede, its contents scattering across the dirt. My legs felt anchored to the ground, unwilling to move, even as my mind screamed at me to run. The madness of the moment blurred into a whirl of sound and motion, too overwhelming to process.

  "Kane!" Thaddeus's voice cut through the haze. His grip on my sleeve tightened, his face pale with desperation. "We have to go!"

  But then his expression shifted, his eyes darting toward the shore. A new kind of fear filled his voice, sharp and anguished. "My father," he whispered. "He's still at shore!"

  Before I could react, he let go and bolted, shoving through the panicked crowd, shouting for his father. His voice grew fainter with every step.

  I tried to follow, but something stopped me—a sensation, an oppressive weight that settled in my chest. It wasn't fear or confusion, but something colder, more alien.

  The noise around me seemed to dull, the chaos of the crowd fading into a strange, suffocating silence.

  A figure of someone stepped out of the chaos, his movements unnaturally calm amidst the frenzy. He was clad in a foreign attire with little armor, polished to an obsidian sheen, etched with intricate patterns that shimmered like black flames.

  His presence was wrong—an unnatural void that seemed to draw the light, the sound, the air itself toward him.

  In his hand, he carried a bow, sleek and cruel in design.

  He didn't move. Every fiber of my being screamed to run, but my body betrayed me, rooted to the ground as though bound by invisible chains.

  With a deliberate grace, the figure raised the bow. His hands moved fluidly, nocking an arrow with the precision of a predator toying with its prey. He drew the string back, the weapon groaning with lethal tension.

  "Kane!" I heard Thaddeus's voice again, distant now, calling out to me from the direction of the shore. I turned just in time to see him shoving through the crowd, his face a mask of desperation as he fought against the tide of fleeing villagers.

  But the figure had seen him, too.

  "No—Thaddeus!" I screamed, but my voice was swallowed by the chaos.

  Thaddeus didn't see it coming. The figure loosed the arrow in a single, fluid motion, the shaft gleaming in the dim sunlight as it streaked toward him. It struck with a sickening finality, burying itself deep into his skull.

  Thaddeus's legs crumpled beneath him, and he collapsed to his knees before falling face-first onto the dirt.

  He didn't move again.

  ___

  Additional note.

  The attack on the Samarians was as brutal as it was unexpected, a tragedy carved into the annals of their history.

  In the early days of humanity’s march toward civilization, when the people of Lume Island were only beginning to emerge from their primal existence, they faced a calamity that would alter their future forever. Lume was invaded by outsiders wielding weapons of unimaginable power and riding strange, swift beasts that devoured the ground beneath them.

  The attackers came clad in garments unlike anything the islanders had ever seen—armor that gleamed like the sun and cloth dyed in colors no Lum could name. With fire and chains, they swept across the land, taking not only lives but the freedom of countless souls. Many of Lume's inhabitants were forcibly taken, shipped across vast, unknowable waters to Oakwyn, where they were reduced to slaves, their humanity erased beneath the lash of cruel masters.

  For those left behind on Lume, survival became an uphill battle. Entire families were ripped apart, and the island’s flourishing communities were left gutted, struggling to sustain what little remained. Generations passed, and though the remaining lums rebuilt what they could, the pain lingered like an unhealed wound. They never heard from their stolen kin again—lost to the far-off land of Oakwyn, where their fates were sealed.

  It was a stark reminder of how unprepared they were to face an enemy so advanced—armed with lethal weapons and mounted on those terrifying creatures that were nothing like the gentle beasts the islanders knew. The memory of that dark chapter haunted their culture secretly for centuries, a shadow that reminded them how fragile peace could be in the face of the unknown.

  Today, this day, the Islanders on Samaria have faced the same fate.

  ___