"You can't possibly be serious. To think that Jamethon could find himself high born." He was in a beautiful adorned marble room with marble statues of barely clothed beautiful vixens lining either side. Each of them were misrepresentation of the high born queens, the supreme rulers of Ahkivir. The back of the room was a towering balcony. Sitting on the railing was senator Marcuio. A balding, middle aged man with a block head and large lips. He had judgmental stare that Jamethon hated.
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The brunette man from before stares at the senator quietly. His messy hair now kept groomed to look professional. "With the darkness growing in the east many new positions have opened up in the Ahkivir. If I want to go to the high born college, there are no rules to stop me."
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The man he was arguing with is a recent acquaintance. A man well known for being part of the academy and having radical views.
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"Even so, a lower born citizen, even of the renown Stark family, couldn't possibly succeed. There is more to being high born than being a stuffy pompous ass. That's just a perk."
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"What else could it possibly be?" he inquires passion burning his eyes.
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"You know how no one speaks about Asbjorn Lancaster? Everyone says he's away at the academy. You want to know a secret?"
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"Sure," Jamethon gives in.671Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTb3VH0hXc6
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"The Lancaster boy is dead," Stark gasped. "Hundreds are dead, but to protect the privacy of the parents, their death remains a secret. The ancestor judge us. They decide who lives and who dies. Nobility is not a birth right but earned through blood."
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This intrigued Jamethon who had never heard of it. He took his gaze off of the statues and looks at the senator. "Tell me everything."
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"What do you know of the burrow downs," asked the senator.
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"Father says they're haunted and to avoid them. It's generally accepted to be true."
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"This much is true. We don't know when it started. We've been burying the ancient kings and high queens for centuries. It doesn't seem to disturb the dead. But high queen Elisif Mede banished her treasonous son to the desert. The man awoke the dead within the burial mounds who took vengeance on him. They found his body years later. Ever since then we've been, sending noble born children to be judged. Some pass without incident, others hearts are found corrupt. You must go into the burrows. Find something or not. The dead will judge you."
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The dream shifts and weaves as a result of the sandstorm that rages all around him. Far off is the sound of skeletons rattling.
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"The reason the lower born do not try to become higher born is because they don't have financial mean to undertake the ancestors quest. What are you going to take? That puny iron sword and regular clothes?"
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"Marcuio, what brings you here?" Jamethon was generally surprised to see him. He hadn't seen him in a few weeks. Not since he went to meet the high queen.
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"You, in fact. Your not alone. Many of lower born are rooting for you. You represent men rising above their station. But it's not just them. You have the support in the high born."
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"Your kidding," his eye brightens up with surprise and hope. "Why would they want to support me?"
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"Something is changing," Marcurio says "The high born are breaking centuries of old taboos to become friends with the lower born. It all hinges on emperor Tiberius Mede supporting the movement. He needs a champion, someone the people can rally behind."
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"Is it going to be me?" he asks looking into the man eyes.
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"Not without sacrifice." There was a uneasy pause. "The emperor has requested you to participate in the Colosseum Militarum."
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"I hardly thought I would survive my trial. Now this I'm definitely not sure of."
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"We aren't afforded such luxuries as certainty. We play our roles and hope it works out for the best." Marcuio rests a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "The emperor is paying for a full suit of armor. Furthermore, the Lancaster family is offering training."
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Jamethon's jaw dropped, "Really?"
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Before the dream can continue, Jamethon is suddenly awakened. He looks around trying to find the source that awoke him, but finding nothing. The dream was leading to a violent time in his life, a part of his life he rather left forgotten. Such old memories, why were they coming up now. The cold was biting into his flesh, hunger tearing into him. An endless sea of sand in all directions. Hopelessness gripping his soul. The sun started rising to confront him. He stood up and packed his tent and continues onward towards his brother's grave.
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The ground turns from sand to sharp rocks that cut away at his sandals. The wind picks up tearing away at his robe, the hood whipped off of his head by a gust of wind. His vision blurs from the heat. The world falls away ...
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The roaring of ten thousand spectators. The glorious visage of the emperor. His sword parrying another blow. A calming breeze giving brief respite from the fight. Suddenly a calm, a impossibility amongst the pain and agony. The realization that this is hopeless.The next strike comes from him, bloody and raw. He parries the next swing unconcerned if he misses. The opening he had been planning, the retaliation strike comes in quick leaving his opponent falling to the sands, wounded but not dead. The crowd screams for the killing blow. He throws the sword down. "I wont kill him," he screams. "It's the difference between a warrior and a barbarian."
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The emperor stands up and the crowd goes silent. "I will allow it."
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