It was hot. Too hot. Sweat clung to Roan Anik’s thick coat of fur as a warm puff of air escaped his lips, the gentle rise and fall of the young sergal’s chest being the only indication that the young recruit was even still alive. How long had he been hanging down here in this like dungeon, chained to the wall and forgotten? It couldn’t have been longer than a day or two, though it felt like it had been much longer.

Most people tended to assume dungeons were damp and dank places. This wasn’t true of the cell Roan had been placed in. The simple, sandstone cell was dry as a bone. During the day the sun beat down upon the underground cell and raised the temperature to the point where it was near unbearable. At night, however, the desert cooled to below freezing…and even Roan’s thick coat of fur wasn’t enough to keep out the chill. It was midday now and Roan’s cell was beginning to feel like a brick oven. His mouth was dry, parched from the desert heat…at this rate he was like to die of thirst before his superior officers decided on a sentence for him. Chances were they were planning to simply leave him down here to rot. Why wouldn’t they? He was a freak. A ‘monster’ some said.

While most Northern Sergals were born with a pelt of black, blue, or gray colored fur, Roan’s was a stark, crimson red in color. Likewise instead of the common grays and blues that were typical to see in a Northerner’s eyes his own were a brilliant emerald green. Roan’s atypical coloring was likely due to some odd genetic mutation. Either way it had caused him no end of misery during his life. Mutants were not treated kindly within Roan’s community. He was seen as a freak…a disgrace upon both his family and the sergal race as a whole. As far as others were concerned he was an abomination that should have been killed at birth. Still, he had enlisted in the military, hoping that he, at the very least, could make use of the training his father had given him to restore at least some semblance of honor to his family name.

As for his crime…he had admitted to it openly. The young male sergal had killed no less than four other recruits on the training field during what had supposed to have been a routine sparing match. His opponent had been a joke. He had been the son of some highborn noble, and while he spoke with bravado and confidence enough but it was clear by the way he had held his lance that he had no idea how to properly wield the weapon. Likely he had joined the army thinking to make a name for him.

Roan had exposed him for the green idiot he was. With three simple strokes he had knocked the weapon from his opponents hands, swept the legs out from under him, and held the sharpened end of his lance against the other’s throat, commanding him to yield. He had done so willingly enough but it seemed the young noble was not one to take such an insult lightly, especially not from a freak like Roan. The instant the red-furred sergal had turned his back the young noble was upon him, this time with four of his friends. They had come at him with the intent to kill…and Roan had had little choice but to defend himself against his attackers.

Fortunately for him the noble’s friends had proved as laughably inept at fighting as he was. Even after knocking their weapons aside, however, they had still come at him with their fangs and claws. He had struck them with the flat of his blade at first, but no matter what he had done they would not yield. Not to an abomination like him. Doing so would have meant sacrificing their honor. There had been no choice but to kill then. Even if he had knocked them out they would have come after him later, likely to kill him in his sleep. They had gotten what they deserved, as far as Roan was concerned.

His superiors, unfortunately, had been of a different mindset. While a common sergal might have been praised for his valor at such an act, Roan was not so lucky. He had been labeled a murderer, stripped of his weapons and armor and chained up naked within the dungeons. The lordling’s father had not been pleased to hear that his precious son had been done in by a crimson-furred freak of all people, and as far as he knew was calling for his death. His superiors, however, had decided it would be more apt to let him rot in the dungeons instead. Roan almost wished they had just killed him on the spot.

The jingling of keys caught Roan’s attention as he lifted his head weakly, blinking to clear his vision. During the day the sun’s rays would glare from his window, blinding him unless he squinted and looked away. It was the gaoler approaching, no doubt, perhaps actually remembering he had a prisoner to feed for once. As the door to Roan’s cell swung open, however, he saw that the ragged old man was not alone. He was accompanied by another; a tall, somewhat gruff looking sergal with raven black-colored fur. A jagged scar cut across his right eye, which was a cloudy, milky white color…no doubt he had been blinded by some opponent on the field of battle. Judging by the style of his armor and the way he carried himself he was a captain of some sort, though Roan did not recognize him.

“Crimson fur…green eyes.” The raven-furred sergal glanced Roan’s body over appraisingly, as if sizing the younger male up. “You must be Grail’s son. The Crimson Demon, some of the recruits are calling you. I can see why.” He waved the old gaoler away, the elderly sergal muttering to himself as he closed the cell door behind himself, leaving Roan and the captain alone. A few moments of silence passed before the black-furred male spoke up again, chuckling a bit dryly. “Is it true you slew not only Lord Irving’s son, but three of his idiot friends as well? Though I can’t imagine any of them gave you much of a challenge. Stupid boys, the lot of them. What the son of a fat merchant thought he was doing joining the army is beyond me. You, however, seem to be cut from a different cloth.”

Roan met the unnamed captain’s words with a cold glare. Though he had been weakened from his time in the dungeons without water or food his green-colored eyes still burned with a fiery expression of indignation. “They would not yield. I had no choice but to kill them. Even if I had shown mercy and let them live, I could expect none in return. It was them or me.” He replied. “Kill or be killed. That is our way, is it not? Had it been the lordling that slew me and not the other way around he would have been praised, not imprisoned.”

“Hah. For a demon you certainly speak well enough.” The captain laughed at this, not seeming to be bothered by the younger male’s insubordinate nature. “There is truth to what you say, though. However it seem the other officers aren’t like to praise a mutant for his valor on the training field, no matter how skilled he may be with a lance.”

“The others…” Roan spat. “You mean to say you are different?”

The captain laughed again at this, seeming amused. “Who’s to say? I try and keep an open mind, even when it comes to ‘demons’.” He chuckled. “A pity others do not see things the way I do. You certainly have inherited your father’s fierce nature…as well as his natural prowess with a lance from what I hear.”

Roan was surprised to hear this, his expression of anger fading to one of slight confusion. “You…knew my father?” He inquired.

“Grail Anik. A fine soldier if ever I met one. He would have gone far, were it not for not for that wound he took to his arm. As skilled as he was I suppose the army has no used for a crippled warrior.” The captain mused, rubbing at chin thoughtfully. “I see even with his disability though he found the time to bed a woman and sire a son, mutant though he may be. I assume he’s the one who taught you to fight. Even with his off-hand he was pretty deadly. I hear some illness took him recently. Pity…I’m sure he would have preferred to die with a lance in his hands.”

Roan fell silent at this, not really sure what to make of this. “Why are you here? I can’t imagine you came simply to make small talk with a prisoner.” He asked bluntly.

“Straight to the point. Then again your father was the same way…” The captain replied, rubbing the back of his head and letting out a deep sigh. “Let’s just say I’m carrying out a final request of your father.” He took a step closer, examining Roan’s face a bit more closely. “My name is Leiv. We’ve met before…though you likely don’t remember. You were no more than a suckling babe at the time. Your father made me swear. He asked me to look after you should anything happen to him. Harsh as he might have been…he did love you in his own way.”

Roan averted his gaze at this, falling silent once more. While some parents might have doted over their only sons, neither of his had shown him any form of tenderness. His mother likely would have killed him at birth were it not for her fear of his father’s wraith. As for his father himself…he had saved, him, yes, but he wasn’t the type to extend a gentle hand or a kind word to his son.

“It is a cruel world we live in, Roan.” He could remember his father saying. “People will view you in one of two ways. You can live your life as a disgrace…a mutant, an abomination that was never meant to live. Or…” He had paused then, turning back to look at his only son. “You can become a demon. You can make people fear you…bend their knees to you for fear of your wraith. Show no kindness to others my son, for you can surely expect none in return. Not from me. Not from anyone. No matter what you do, you will always be regarded as a mutant. Better that people fear you than laugh at you.”

It was the first and only advice his father had ever thought fit to share with him. From the time he had been strong enough to hold a lance, Grail had drilled into him every technique he knew, shaping Roan into a warrior, giving him the strength he’d need to face the world, and steeling him against the cruelty he’d no doubt face from his peers. Grail had loved him in his own way, Roan supposed, though he had an odd way of showing it.

Roan looked back toward the raven-furred sergal who claimed to know his father. “Leiv, was it? I can remember father mentioning your name to me once…” He admitted. “Still, why should I trust you? Why would you show me mercy when no one else has?”

Leiv shrugged his shoulders at this. “I have no answer for you other than the respect and friendship I once held for your father. I promised him I would protect and guide you should anything happen to him and I intend to make good on that promise. The world has use for you, Roan, even if you are a ‘demon’. And as a captain I have the power to pardon you for your crimes and draft you as a member of my unit.” The black-furred sergal produced a key from his belt, making his way over to Roan and unlocking his shackles, reaching a hand out to steady the younger male as he stumbled, legs weak. “The choice is yours. Join me or rot in this dungeon.”

“…” Roan took a moment to consider the offer before sighing deeply. “I suppose I should thank you then, captain.”

A wide smirk crossed Leiv’s face at this. “Don’t thank me just yet. I don’t intend to go easy on you.” He chuckled. “Once you’ve recovered you’ll join your peers for special training. My unit is a bit…unique compared to your standard infantry. Still…you’ll learn given time. Perhaps you’ll even make a name for yourself.”

Roan again had no reply for his captain. It seemed for now though, that he would continue living.

“The world has use for you, Roan, even if you are a demon.”

Leiv’s words echoed within the young sergal’s mind. Well then. He thought. I suppose I’ll have to show them just what this ‘demon’ is truly capable of…