Ghosts
It's been a year, a full year since he clawed his way out of that Krull-infested hellhole, yet the tendrils of those memories still grip him tight; they choke the air from his lungs like they did back then. He closes his eyes, willing the images away, but they persist. He sees it all again - the dank, suffocating dungeon, the gnawing hunger, the despair that clung to the air like a shroud. He can hear the rattling of chains, the broken sobs, the manic laughter of those losing their grip on sanity.
---
The Krull's had been thorough, ruthless. They'd crushed the Varnells, shattered their kingdom as if it were a child's toy. Lorn and his brothers and sisters in arms, the elite of the elite, who'd fought tooth and nail for their homeland, were reduced to caged animals. They were chained in that godforsaken hole, forced to watch their strength wither with each passing day. Then the Krulls came, like vultures circling their prey, selecting members from the group each week to battle for their twisted entertainment. This was no noble combat, it was sadistic entertainment for the depraved and the cruel.
They started with the nobles. Lorn recalls the sickening dread as they were tasked with slaughtering their very own. He remembers the horror in the eyes of his friends, the whimpers of the children, the desperation of the mothers. They had refused at first, but the Krulls had a way of persuading, of twisting the knife, and soon, they were executing their own people, a macabre mockery of their once honorable duty. They held their food, they hurt their loved ones, the Krull had even captured Darrow's bride, forcing them to participate, and so they did, playing the part of a quick executioner. When innocence ran out, the Krulls turned them on each other, pits filled with their own warriors, blood, and bone.
He recalls the bleak acceptance that settled over them, the hollow eyes, the resigned sighs. Each battle was a slow death, each swing of the blade a step closer to being free of the living hell. He watched as his friends fell, one by one. And then there was Darrow. His death had been the cruellest. He'd watched, helpless, as his own Master, Soloman, the man who had shaped him into a warrior, reduced his best friend to a ragged, broken corpse.
It was a bleak, lonely existence in those dungeons, and as the numbers dwindled, conversations grew few and far between. Soloman, his mentor, his rock, he too seemed to be drifting into madness. It was a slow, agonizing descent, a slide into the abyss of despair. Then, one day, they came for Lorn and Soloman. They dragged them from the dungeon, not to death but to another grotesque display.
They stood them in that grand hall. The perimeter was lined with the faces of the Krull's, Vik Krull, Virginia, Isla, all watching with a terrifying anticipation. They threw vibro-axes and blades to their feet, a macabre offering, a prelude to a bloodbath. Lorn stared at Virginia, trying to find some semblance of the girl he once knew, a flicker of recognition, a spark of humanity, but there was nothing but the cold, hard gaze of the enemy. She had barked orders at them, to begin, with a sickening smile that still haunts him.
He'd looked at Soloman, his Master. "I can't," he'd said, his voice barely a whisper, raw with pain. "I can't do it."
Solomon's eyes were feverish, his face gaunt, and the echo of the cold madness he'd been drowning in for the last few months was prominent "This is my last lesson, young Lorn", his voice rasped, "I will give you everything I have, the strongest must survive..." He'd truly lost his mind, Lorn had thought, his own teacher, and he couldn't blame him, not after all the trauma he'd endured.
He remembers the chaos of that fight, the deafening roar of the crowd, the clash of steel. He remembers Soloman's fierce, unyielding attacks, the rage that twisted his face into something monstrous. Lorn had tried to defend himself, to deflect his Masters blows with a hope that Solomon would eventually come to his senses, but it was no use. His blows became more frantic, more brutal. There was no sign of the man who taught him everything, just a broken soul lashing out in fury.
Lorn had been forced to fight back. It was kill or be killed, his master's teachings, the ones he revered now turned against him like a curse. The battle was a blur of pain, a brutal dance of desperation. He felt the sting of Soloman's blade, the crushing weight of his blows. He could taste his own blood, hot and metallic. And then, in a moment that would forever haunt him, he struck the final blow. He watched, in horror, as his Master fell, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Lorn remembers the anguished scream that tore from his throat. It sliced through the hall, a raw plea of agony. He'd killed him, he'd killed his Master. They had dragged him back to the dungeon after that, his body battered, his soul shattered. He'd been alone in the dark, the echoes of the fight, of the screams, of the loss reverberating in his head. He was the last.
---
Lorn feels a sharp, searing pain shoot across his chest. His breath becomes shallow, ragged. The clanging of metal, the shouts of his Vanguards, they all seem to fade, replaced by the cacophony of Mirater. The world around him closes in, the dungeon is back, the faces of the dead are all around him.
Hands clench into tight fists and his nails dig into his palms, drawing blood. He crouches low, trying to ground himself, but the anxiety claws at him, suffocating him, pulling him back into the darkness. He beings hyperventilating, his body trembling as he fights to get his breath back.
"Lorn!"
He registers the shout, the familiar tone of concern. He feels strong hands on his shoulders, gently turning him. He looks up and sees the worried faces of his Vanguards, their steel clad forms kneeling low before him. Each of them had seen him fall into this state before, and each of them knew what to do to get him back. He couldn't speak, he could barely breathe, but slowly, he allows them to guide him.
He lets them lead him away from the training pit, from the echoes of the arena, back into the sanctuary of his chambers. The memories still linger, the ghosts of Mirater still haunt him, but for now, he's safe, he's grounded, and he knows he's not alone. He has them, his Vanguards, his brothers and sisters, who understand, who see the darkness he carries, and who will always pull him back from the edge. They are his family now, and that, in this bleak galaxy, is everything.
