Embedded Files
James Abraham Carter
The early morning sun cast its golden light upon the city of Tathmar, painting the domes and towers in hues of amber and rose. The graceful architecture—adorned with bright tiles of red, blue, and gold—seemed to sing with joy, for within the palace walls, a miraculous event had transpired. Queen Asa, the young and beautiful wife of King Varan, had given birth to twins: a boy and a girl.
Inside the royal suite, the air was thick with the scent of incense and maru flowers. The queen lay exhausted upon her bed, her dark hair flowing across the pillows like spilled ink. Against her breast, she cradled the infant girl, who suckled contentedly. The boy lay beside them, his tiny fists curled like the buds of flowers. The royal physicians had departed, the wet nurses had been dismissed, and for a brief moment, the young family existed in perfect peace.
Yet on the balcony, standing beneath the arch of carved stone, King Varan stared out at his city with eyes that held no joy. The wind carried the distant sounds of celebration—the strident blare of trumpets and the cheering of citizens—but the king's face remained grave, etched with worry that seemed to have become permanently part of his features.
His older brother, Prince Rayju, had been dead to these walls for ten years—banished into the wilderness beyond the Golden Jungles of Kash by their father, the old King Sothar, when Edara, their mother, had pleaded for her elder son's life rather than his execution. Rayju had been caught practicing the forbidden arts: thaumaturgy, the manipulation of matter and spirit through blood and starlight, through compacts signed in languages that no human being had ever spoken.
King Sothar had wept when he signed the decree of exile. Varan remembered standing beside the throne that day, fourteen years old and terrified, watching the ink dry upon the parchment that would reshape their family forever. Rayju had not wept. His brother had stood straight-backed and defiant; his gaunt face was pale with fury, and he had spoken words that still echoed in Varan's dreams:
"I will have my revenge, little brother. You have stolen what was mine—the throne, the crown, the future—but you cannot hold it forever. One day, I will return, and when I do, I will take from you everything you have taken from me. Your crown. Your kingdom. Your happiness."
The words had seemed the ravings of a bitter man, cast out for his crimes and raging against a fate he had brought upon himself. But Varan had learned, in the decade since, that the wounded often remembered their hurts with perfect clarity and with a burning desire for revenge.
Now Varan stood on the balcony of the royal suite, his hand resting upon the carved dragon’s head that adorned the rail, and he wondered if that day of reckoning had finally come.
"You're thinking of him again," said a gentle voice behind him.
He turned to find Queen Asa propping herself up on the pillows, their daughter cradled in her arms. She was pale from the ordeal of childbirth, but her eyes—those dark, knowing eyes that had first drawn him to her—were bright with concern.
"Always," he admitted, crossing to the bed. He sat on its edge, taking her hand in his. "What if he comes for the children? What if he—"
"Shh." She pressed a finger to his lips. "The palace is guarded. Your soldiers are loyal. Your brother’s evil cannot reach us here."
Before he could respond, a heavy knock sounded on the chamber’s entrance. The king stood, his hand going to the hilt of the sword that never left his side. “Enter,” he commanded.
The door to the suite swung open, and Commander Caban entered. The captain of the palace guard was a massive man with a spade-shaped beard like black iron and shoulders that seemed carved from the mountains themselves. His armor gleamed in the lamplight as he approached; his boots rang against the marble floor.
"Your Majesty," he said, bowing his head. "I come to report that the building is secure. My men have been stationed at every entrance, every window, and every possible point of entry. No unauthorized person will enter this chamber."
Varan breathed a little easier at this news. Caban had served the royal family for three generations; his loyalty was beyond question. "Thank you, Commander. You may—"
But the words died in his throat.
The king caught movement in the corner of his eye. Something was coming. Something fast.
Caban saw it too—the commander ran toward the balcony, his hand flying to his sword. Far in the distance, growing larger with each heartbeat, was a shape that seemed born of nightmares. It blotted out the sun as it approached; its wings—vast, bat-like wings—scattered shadows across the city below.
"What in the name of—" Caban drew his blade.
The creature landed on the balcony with a thud that shook the chamber. It stood nearly eight feet tall, its body covered in overlapping scales that glistened like polished brass. Its face was almost human—but twisted, corrupted, with eyes that burned with a sickly green light. Clawed hands flexed at its sides, and from its shoulders, those enormous wings continued to beat, filling the room with a wind that scattered papers and knocked over vases.
"Varan," it said, its voice a grinding scrape like stones against stone. "You have something that belongs to my master."
Guards, alerted by the commotion, came rushing through the door, their swords drawn, forming a protective ring around the royal bed. Varan and Caban positioned themselves between the monster and Queen Asa, their blades raised.
"Stay back," the king commanded, his voice steady despite the fear that gnawed at his heart. "Whatever you are, you will not take my children.”
The creature laughed—a horrible, rattling sound. "I am but an instrument of my master's will. And your children are but pieces in a game that began many years ago."
It moved with terrifying speed as it leapt among the guards. Its clawed hands swept across them like a farmer scything grain, sending bodies flying. Swords struck its scales, only to shatter or slide away as though the creature's hide were made of adamantine. Caban's blade struck its skull, the steel ringing like a bell, but the monster barely seemed to notice.
Varan attacked, his sword driving toward the creature's heart. The blade struck true—but bounced away as though hitting an anvil. The king staggered, and before he could recover, the creature's tail whipped around, catching him across the chest. He flew backward, his head striking the wall, and knew nothing more.
**********
When Varan regained consciousness, the first thing that struck him was the silence. The terrible silence that seemed to hang over the chamber like a shroud.
He struggled to his feet, his vision swimming, his head aching from the blow that had knocked him unconscious. The room was destroyed—furniture overturned, curtains torn, the mirrors shattered. And everywhere, everywhere, were the bodies of his guards. Their sightless eyes stared at the ceiling, their blood pooling on the marble floor.
"No," he whispered. "No, no, no."
Queen Asa lay upon her bed, her beautiful face frozen in a mask of terror, her throat torn open. The sheets were soaked with blood. She was alone. The twins were gone.
Varan fell to his knees beside his wife's body. He could not breathe. He could not think. The world had become a void, a darkness that threatened to engulf him in endless night.
“Asa. My Asa. My love.”
He did not know how long he knelt there. Minutes, perhaps. Hours. The sun climbed higher, casting golden light through the balcony, illuminating the horror of the chamber.
Then he heard it.
A baby's cry.
Varan lifted his head, his heart suddenly hammering. The cry was thin and reedy—an infant's wail, frightened and hungry. He rose on shaking legs and searched the chamber, pushing aside fallen draperies and overturned furniture.
Under the bed, he found her.
His daughter—his tiny, trembling daughter—curled in a ball beneath the wooden frame. She was alive, somehow, miraculously, wrapped in a blanket that her mother must have tucked around her in those final moments. A final act of love, a final protection.
Varan pulled her into his arms and wept.
**********
Meanwhile, high above the golden Jungles of Kash, the winged monster flew with its precious burden. The infant boy—barely an hour old—screamed and cried in the creature's grasp, but it held him firmly; its clawed hands were surprisingly gentle as it cradled the child against its scaly chest.
The creature soared upward, over the canopy of the jungle where the aureate trees grew so thick they formed a second floor of the world, past the glittering rivers that wound through the wilderness like veins of quicksilver, until it reached the jagged peaks of the Crimson Mountains. These mountains were said to be the bones of dead gods, and their crystals glowed with a pulsing inner fire that made them seem almost alive.
The monster descended into a cave mouth that seemed no different from a thousand others—until one looked closely enough to see the faint sigils carved into its surface, glowing with a power that had been ancient when the first king of Tathmar had taken his throne.
Inside, the cave opened into a vast chamber lit by crystalline torches that burned with an eerie green flame. The walls were covered with shelves upon which rested jars containing preserved organs, scrolls made from human skin, and tools of such intricate design that their purposes were impossible to guess. At the center of the room, surrounded by occult mandalas of power drawn in crushed gemstones, stood a figure in robes of the deepest black, embroidered with mystic symbols in crimson thread.
Prince Rayju—though he was no longer a prince—had changed much in the ten years of his exile. His hair had turned white as snow, his face had grown gaunt and hollow, and his eyes had deepened into pools of shadow that seemed to drink in light - marked by dark sorcery of which he was now a master. But his smile—the cruel twist of his lips—remained unchanged.
"Bring him to me,” he commanded, and his voice was the rustle of dead leaves, the whisper of serpents slithering across graves.
The creature knelt before him and placed the crying infant at his feet. It bowed low, its wings folding against its back, and then seemed to collapse in upon itself, shrinking until it was no larger than a common bat. It fluttered away to roost in a corner of the chamber, its eyes still glowing with that terrible green light.
Rayju looked down at the child—at his brother’s son—and smiled.
"So,” he said, “the game begins at last.”
He raised his hands, and his fingers traced flaming symbols in the air. The mandalas on the floor began to glow, and from somewhere beyond the boundaries of the world, something began to answer.
The air grew cold. The torches flickered. And then, with a sound like the tearing of the universe itself, a being stepped through from the nether-dimensions.
It appeared as a pulsing starburst of diamond light, beautiful and terrible, its form shifting and changing with each passing moment. This was an elemental spirit—one of the beings that inhabited the spaces between worlds: creatures of pure cosmic force that could bend the laws of reality to their will.
"Rayju the Banished," the spirit said; its voice was the ringing of crystal bells. "You have called me from my plane. For what purpose have I been summoned?"
"I want you to infuse this child with the essence of iron," Rayju said, his voice steady despite the immense power the creature radiated. "I want his flesh to become living metal—impervious to all blades, invulnerable to all weapons."
The elemental considered this. "Such a transformation is possible," it admitted, "but it is not natural. The child will be changed in ways you cannot foresee. And nothing," it added, its tone growing stern, "is completely invulnerable. That is a lesson you would do well to remember. All things have a weakness."
"Make the transformation," Rayju commanded, and his voice took on the weight of binding spells—the words that forced elemental spirits to do mortal bidding, whether they wished to or not.
The elemental shimmered and changed. It flowed down toward the infant, surrounding the child in a cocoon of diamond light. The baby's cries faded, replaced by a silence that seemed almost holy. And then, slowly, the transformation began.
The child's flesh turned gray, then silver, then the deep blue-black of polished iron. His bones hardened, his muscles thickened, and his skin became living metal that moved with the pliability of flesh. It was horrible and miraculous in equal measure—the making of a child into a weapon.
When it was done, the elemental withdrew, assuming its previous form. "It is done," it said. "The child is now resistant to all mundane weapons. But remember my warning, Rayju the Banished. Nothing is completely invulnerable."
Then it was gone, folded back into the dimension from which it had come.
Rayju looked down at the child—at the son of his brother, transformed into something that was no longer quite human—and smiled.
"Welcome, little one," he said. "Welcome to your new life. Your name shall be Zaris—that which means 'vengeance' in the tongue of the ancients. And you shall be my instrument. My weapon. My son."
He raised the child in his arms and laughed, and his laughter echoed through the caverns of the Crimson Mountains, spreading terror to the small things that lived in the darkness.
**********
Twenty years passed.
The boy who had been the prince of Tathmar—who had been stolen from his murdered mother’s arms as an infant—had become a man. His skin gleamed like polished iron in the torchlight, his muscles were corded with power, and his eyes held the cold gleam of someone who had never known love.
Zaris stood next to Rayju in the sorcerer’s laboratory, his massive form dwarfing the already gaunt occultist. They were looking at a huge scrying crystal mounted on a plinth—a crystal imbued with mystic power that showed scenes from afar, as though it were a window into distant vistas.
The scene shifted. An armed caravan was making its way through the golden jungles of Kash. Its wagons, drawn by creatures resembling dwarf elephants but covered in thick brown scales, rolled slowly along the jungle road. Guards rode on either side of the convoy, their swords ready, and their vigilant eyes scanning the undergrowth for danger.
"The young woman in the second wagon," Rayju said, his voice a whisper of malice. "Her name is Princess Teela. She is the daughter of King Varan—the man who stole my throne, who cast me out into the wilderness like refuse. The man who stole my birthright from me."
The crystal zoomed in on the vehicle, and the scene resolved into an interior view showing the princess. She was young and beautiful. Her raven hair framed an oval face. Her eyes were large and expressive; her lips were full, and her figure curvaceous in ways that appealed to men.
Zaris nodded. His face was expressionless, his mind a blank canvas upon which his master had painted his reality. He had been taught, from the earliest age he could remember, that King Varan was a monster. That Varan had been jealous of his elder brother, had plotted against him, had engineered his exile so that he could take the throne for himself. That Varan and his family were the embodiment of all that was evil in the world.
"You will attack the caravan when it reaches the bridge that spans the Nu River. It is a narrow point that will work to your advantage," Rayju commanded. "You will kidnap the princess. You will bring her to me. Varan is evil, but he loves his daughter. With her as a hostage, I can force him to abdicate and, as the rightful king, take the throne. This is why I created you, my son. You will be the instrument by which the people of Tathmar are freed from the tyranny of Varan’s intolerable rule."
Zaris bowed his head. "Yes, Father."
Rayju smiled at the word. He had taught Zaris to call him Father from the time the boy could speak—to treat him as though he were the boy's true parent, to believe the lies that had been woven around him since birth.
"And there is one thing more," Rayju added, his smile turning cruel. "You will use Teela for your pleasure, as you have seen it done in the scrying crystal. That is what women were created for, after all. That is what the gods intended. Ignore her tears and objections. They mean nothing."
Zaris's expression didn't change. "Yes, Father."
The young man turned and walked from the laboratory, his bare feet silent on the stone floor, his body entirely nude, for he was unaffected by either heat or cold. In the bay where Rayju kept his magical conveyances, there waited a flying boat—curved and sleek, propelled by two pairs of bat-like wings that fluttered of their own accord. It responded to Zaris's commands, rising into the air as he stepped aboard, and carried him away into the sky.
Rayju watched him go, his grin widening with each passing moment.
"Little does he know," he murmured to himself, "that he will be committing incest with his own sister. The laws of karma are absolute. And when Zaris and Teela lie together in this sin, I can then use her cursed blood in a final ritual to bring complete destruction upon the kingdom that rejected me. It is the perfect revenge. It is the ultimate punishment for Varan and his line."
He turned back to his work, already planning the spells that would complete his nefarious retribution.
**********
The flying boat moved swiftly over the golden jungle canopy, its wings beating the air with a rhythm that seemed like thundering drums. Below, the aureate trees blurred past, and the rivers sparkled like threads of silver woven through a cloth of gold.
Soon, the caravan came into sight. Zaris waited until the convoy began to cross the long bridge that spanned the broad expanse of the Nu River, where it was hemmed in by the structure’s stone railing. When the princess’s wagon was at the midpoint, he swept down toward it. Someone spotted the flying boat. Alarm horns blared. Fingers pointed in disbelief and consternation. Zaris buzzed the caravan. The zofara pulling the wagons panicked. Men fought to control them. The convoy halted in milling confusion. Zaris hovered over Teela’s carriage. Guards rushed toward him as he leaped from the magic vehicle and landed on the wagon’s roof.
Fighting men swarmed the wagon like enraged ants, striking Zaris with savage blows that would have cleaved an ordinary man in two, only to recoil in horror as their swords bounced off his skin as if it were plate armor. In desperation, they leapt upon him, trying to drag him down, but he flung them off as if they were infants, not grown men. His fists lashed out like sledgehammers, denting armor and hurling broken men to the ground. In mere moments, his foes were slain; the survivors fell back in consternation, their eyes wide with disbelief and fear. Now free of the annoyance, Zaris punched through the roof of the wagon, his iron-hard fists making quick work of the wood. He leaned in and grabbed the screaming princess, hauling her out as if she were a doll.
Teela fought like a wildcat. She pummeled him with her fists, kicking and screaming, but her blows were as nothing against his iron flesh. He carried her onto the flying boat with a mighty leap, and within moments, they were soaring into the sky, leaving the caravan far behind in a state of chaos and disarray.
For a long moment, Teela sobbed, her tears flowing freely. She stared at her captor in terror. He stood before her, shamelessly and utterly nude. His massive body was the color of burnished iron; his cold eyes were pitiless. What manner of creature had captured her? The only thing she knew was utter fear. Zaris gazed at her, remembering the sorcerer’s words and the scenes of rape that Rayju had shown him in the crystal. Believing this to be normal and his right, he pounced upon her and began to tear the clothes from her body.
"NO!" she screamed. "Please! Don't do this!"
But his hands—strong as iron, impervious to her struggles—made quick work of her garments. His inflamed gaze, hot with desire, devoured the bared flesh of her voluptuous body. Pinning the whimpering woman with his inhuman grip, his massive hand seized both wrists and hauled them effortlessly above her head, denying her the ability to shield herself from his lustful appraisal.
With his free hand, he eagerly mapped every curve of her shapely figure, his fingers roving across the full, generous swells of her breasts before drifting lower to caress the flat expanse of her belly. Teela's mewls of terror morphed into suppressed moans as his probing fingers delved deeper, seeking out the hidden recesses of her most intimate place. And then he pulled her to him and, with a brutal thrust, Zaris claimed her, his gigantic member spearing into her clinging warmth with powerful, unrelenting strokes.
The screaming woman struggled madly, ineffectually as she wept and beat her fists against his iron shoulders. His vigor and strength were tremendous. Her pain gave way to involuntary pleasure. Rational thought fled, driven out by the all-consuming delight of his overwhelming dominance; her struggles became unconscious caresses. And soon, she was crying out in ecstasy, her body arching beneath his as waves of orgasmic sensation crashed over her again and again.
In the laboratory, watching through his scrying crystal, Rayju laughed with dark delight. "Perfect," he murmured. "Perfect! The karma is working! They are committing incest—brother and sister—and when they reach the climax of their passion, their souls will be forever blighted and the girl will be ready for the ritual that will complete my diabolical revenge!"
But fate—if such a thing exists—had other plans.
The sky, which had been clear and bright, began to darken. A frightful storm rose from the Crimson Mountains—clouds of swirling, glowing energy that seemed to pulse with their own terrible light. Strange lightning cracked across the sky, as straight as laser beams, and a howling wind erupted from nowhere.
The flying boat was caught in the claws of the raging tempest and driven far off course. It tumbled through the air, its wings flapping uselessly against the gale. The two occupants of the magic vehicle clung to each other in mutual panic. Even the mighty strength of Zaris was no match for Nature’s wild fury. Two terror-stricken hours passed, and then—so suddenly that it seemed almost a miracle—the flying boat cleared the storm and found itself over the open water of the Xyarian Sea.
The ocean stretched endlessly in all directions, gray and ominous beneath the now-clear sky. The storm had abated as quickly as it had begun, leaving only the heaving swells to mark its passing.
Zaris guided the flying boat toward a small island that had appeared on the horizon—a verdant jewel set in the midst of the endless blue. He landed it on the beach of glittering sand, allowing the magical vehicle time to recharge its occult power.
As Zaris examined the craft for signs of damage, Teela, who had been silent since the storm had struck, saw an opportunity to escape her rapist and kidnapper. She looked at the man, her heart pounding with a strange, unsettling mix of conflicting emotions. His iron body had given her pleasure she had never known before, but it had been a forced pleasure she had not consented to. A mix of hate, desire, and revulsion at being taken by this inhuman creature welled up in her. But hate and revulsion were stronger than pleasure. Thus, seizing the moment, she suddenly leapt from the boat and raced into the jungle with the fleetness of a speeding gazelle.
"Wait!" Zaris called, but she was already gone, disappearing into the thick, vibrant undergrowth.
For hours, Teela continued on, forcing her way through the jungle and pushing aside the clawing, steamy verdure. Hot and exhausted, she broke through a bank of tall fern-like plants and saw before her a bubbling stream. The princess uttered a silent prayer of thanks to her gods. She fell to her knees and began to drink the cool, refreshing water, then cast aside the rags of her apparel and began to bathe. Absorbed in her ablutions, Teela was unaware of the fearsome creature sneaking up behind her until it was too late.
The beast emerged from the undergrowth behind her. It was scaly, ape-like; its muscles bulged beneath its hairless hide; its fangs were bared in a roar that shook the trees as it leapt upon the unsuspecting girl.
Teela screamed as the creature’s claws closed around her—screamed and knew that death was upon her as its slavering jaws neared her throat.
But then Zaris burst from the brushwood. With a roar of his own, he flung himself upon the creature, his hands clamping on its neck with crushing force, hauling its dripping jaws away from her throat. The beast released the terrified girl. She stumbled away as man and monster began their deadly battle.
The creature was strong—almost as strong as Zaris himself. Its scales were nearly as tough, and its claws were deadly. They fought ferociously, striking each other with powerful blows, grappling fiercely, and then breaking apart to rain down further hammering strikes on each other that would have slain a mortal man in seconds.
Finally, with a mighty blow that shattered the creature’s skull, Zaris emerged victorious. But he had been badly wounded—deep gashes across his chest and arms, his iron body seriously injured for the first time in his life.
Exhausted by the terrific battle and the loss of blood, he collapsed, his vision fading to darkness.
Teela, who had been hiding in the bushes, watching the primordial struggle with a mix of fascination and horror, had crept forth to see if he was dead. She now stood over him, breathing hard, her heart pounding. She had a choice to make. A simple choice. She could help the man who had kidnapped her, who had violated her, or she could leave him to die.
Her body trembled with hate as she looked at him.
But she didn’t walk away.
There was something about him—something in the lines of his face, in the set of his jaw—that made her hesitate. Perhaps it was a faint resemblance to the king, or perhaps some sixth sense told her that despite what he had done, he was not truly evil. That there was something within him that could be redeemed.
With a sigh, she tore strips from her tattered clothing and bound his wounds as best she could. She couldn't explain exactly why—couldn't explain anything—but she knew that this was the right thing to do.
**********
When Zaris awoke, he was surprised to find Teela caring for him. She had built a fire, had found fruit to eat, had done everything she could to make him comfortable.
"You're awake," she said, her voice flat. "Good."
"Why?" he asked, his voice a rasp. "Why did you save me?"
"Because it was the right thing to do," she said simply. "Even though you committed evil by forcing yourself upon me, it would have been just as wrong for me to leave you to die."
Zaris was confused. Everything he had been taught by the sorcerer told him that Teela was as evil as her father. But her actions sharply contradicted his assumptions, and what did she mean when she said he had wronged her? None of it made sense.
"My father,” he said slowly, “taught me that women were created by the gods for men’s pleasure. That men have a right to use them."
Teela shook her head, shocked that any man would give his son such evil advice. "You have been grievously misled," she said. “What you did to me is the antithesis of how a man should treat a woman. Who is your father?”
“His name is Rayju,” replied Zaris. “He is a mighty sorcerer who created me. I was not born of woman, but from magic.”
Teela gasped in shock. This creature was not a man at all, but the spawn of the Black Arts, the creation of Rayju, the foul nemesis of her fair kingdom. Now that she knew who his creator was, she wanted to flee in terror, but held fast to her courage. "Your father—Rayju—is evil. He was banished from Tathmar because of his wickedness. He dabbled in the Black Arts; he sought to tear open the boundaries between worlds, seeking power to dominate and to enslave. He should have been put to death, but the old king and queen showed mercy and banished him instead."
Zaris's head spun in confusion. The world he had known—the world that had made sense for twenty years—was crumbling around him.
"Please," Teela continued, overcoming her revulsion and reaching out to take his hand. "Please help me return to Tathmar. My father will know what to do. He will be able to help you understand the truth."
Zaris looked at her—this woman he now realized he had wronged so terribly, this woman who had nevertheless saved his life. He saw something in her eyes that he had never experienced from his sorcerous sire. Something that made his heart twist in his chest.
Compassion, mercy, and decency.
He didn't know what to believe anymore. What he thought was good now appeared to be evil, and what he thought was evil now appeared to be good. But what he did know was that he needed more than just Rayju’s perspective. He needed to meet Varan. He needed to hear the king’s version of events from the man’s own lips.
"I'll take you home," he said.
**********
They spent a week on the island while Zaris recovered from his wounds. His iron flesh healed faster than ordinary flesh—no doubt because of the elemental's occult gift—and by the sixth day, he was almost as good as new, recovering from injuries that would have required several months of convalescence if he had been an ordinary man.
During this period, the pair got to know each other better, and it became clearer and clearer to Teela that her initial assumption about Zaris was correct. He wasn’t evil; merely ignorant of right and wrong, of good and evil, led astray since childhood by a wicked man. The hardness in his eyes began to soften as, under her influence, something more human began to take its place when she spoke of family life and being part of a wider society. Slowly, he began to realize that the existence he had taken for granted - isolated in the fastness of the wilderness with only the reclusive and austere sorcerer for company, wasn’t normal.
She taught him about respect for women and how they should be treated. He listened attentively, absorbing her words, and in his expression she saw genuine regret and sincere repentance. He apologized to her for the wrong that he had done; his words were heartfelt, not shallow, and she found within herself the ability to forgive his dreadful crime and told him so.
Her revulsion of him also began to fade. Despite his strange appearance, she was sure a human soul imbued his iron frame. His emotions were far too human for him to be an entirely magical creation. The fact that she felt a growing attraction toward him added to her conclusion.
The night before their departure, this was proven. It had begun to rain, and the simple lean-to that Zaris had constructed provided scant protection from the chill. Teela shivered in her tattered clothes, which held no warmth. Zaris drew the girl to him. His body was warm despite its iron properties, and fearing sickness from the cold, she did not resist his comforting embrace.
As Zaris held her, the contact stirred up memories of her violation. But she did not recoil from his touch or from the memories of the extreme pleasure, albeit involuntary, that he had given her. Strangely, the thought aroused her, and she felt her sex grow wet with desire. She pressed herself against Zaris, and his hold on her tightened as he too was stimulated. Teela sensed his need. She grasped his manhood, her eager fingers feeling his length and thickness. Her breath quickened. She straddled him
“Are you sure?” He asked.
“Yes,” she replied avidly, and he entered her with passion.
**********
On the morning of the seventh day, they boarded the flying boat and set out for Tathmar. The journey took only a few hours, and soon the city came into view—its domes and towers rising from the jungle like a colorful dream of astounding beauty.
Under Teela’s directions, Zaris landed the boat in a courtyard garden adjacent to the royal quarters. As they stepped out, they were immediately surrounded by palace guards, who had rushed from the colonnade, their swords drawn, their faces set in expressions of grim determination.
But Teela stepped in front of Zaris, waving her hands. "Wait! Wait! He's not an enemy! He means no harm!"
The guards hesitated, looking at each other. And then, from the colonnade's shadows, a figure emerged—King Varan himself, his face a mixture of hope and fear.
"Teela?" he said. "Daughter?"
But before she could respond, a shadow fell across the courtyard. Looking up, they saw the winged homunculus—Rayju's creature—descending from the sky, carrying its master in its arms. The sorcerer, who had lost track of Zairs and Teela during the storm, had, after many days of searching, managed to locate them and was now hell-bent on bleak revenge. The creature landed near the flying boat, and Rayju leaped from its arms, landing on his feet with a theatrical flourish. His robes billowed around him, and his eyes blazed with malevolent energy.
The guards raised their swords, but Rayju waved his hand. A wall of magical fire leapt up around them, blocking their path and trapping them in a cage of green flame. He then turned his eyes upon the trio, and they burned with hatred no less fierce than the fire his dark magic had just created.
"Did you think I would let you escape me so easily?" Rayju sneered as he addressed all of them. "I have waited twenty years for this moment. Twenty years to see my brother and his children suffer. And now—" He turned to Zaris. "My son who is not my son, know this: You are Varan’s child, transformed by magic into an instrument of revenge. Teela is your sister with whom you have commited incest, thus damning her and yourself by this act. And now I shall use her cursed blood in a spell that shall bring doom to your entire kingdom."
Zaris, now realizing the full extent of the wicked sorcerer’s foul deception, looked absolutely stricken. For a moment, he stood utterly still, rooted to the spot by the sheer shock of the horrendous revelation. Then rage exploded within him, and he sprang at the sorcerer, the false father who had betrayed his trust, intent on tearing him apart.
But the homunculus swiftly leapt to protect its master. Zaris crashed against the creature in a clash that sounded like a hammer striking iron. Man and beast wrestled wildly. Varin, sword drawn, rushed his evil brother, the killer of his wife and the kidnapper of his son, a wild yell bursting from his throat. Rayju laughed contemptuously and drew a mystic gesture in the air. Varan froze midstride, alive but completely paralyzed with rigidity by the sorcerer’s dark spell.
Teela dashed to Varan and tore the sword from his rigid hand, but then she, too, was struck by Rayju’s magic before she could attack. Zaris glimpsed what had happened. He strove against the hissing homunculus with all his might as the sorcerer, grinning evilly, approached the stricken girl. But the creature pushed back with equal measure, its power equivalent to his own, holding him with its supernatural strength.
Teela tried to move as the sorcerer stopped before her. Her heart beat wildly as he drew a knife and cut away the rags that barely concealed her breasts. The blade flashed, and she uttered a silent scream as its razor edge sliced her nipple. Blood flowed. Rayju dipped his finger into the trickle and, with it, drew dreadful symbols of dark power in the air as he chanted in a hissing arcane tongue.
As Zaris wrestled wildly with the frightful homunculus, he saw the sorcerer’s evil act and deduced its foul import. With a savage yell of utter rage, he gathered all his mighty strength and, with a feral cry of unrestrained savagery, broke the creature’s hold upon him and drove his iron fist with shattering force against its bony skull. The creature fell, disintegrating into dust as it hit the ground.
Zaris dashed toward the sorcerer. But Rayju had not been idle. The spell was now complete, and a nimbus of dark power began to gather around him—a terrible, all-consuming force that would obliterate everything in its path.
"Die!" he screamed. "All of you! Die!"
But then something went terribly wrong for the sorcerer.
The power that had been building around Rayju suddenly reversed direction. It swirled back toward him, surrounding him in a corona of crackling dark energy. The sorcerer screamed—a scream of pure terror—and then, horrifically, he began to burn.
The flames were white-hot, pure, cleansing. They consumed him utterly, leaving nothing behind—not even ash. And when the fire finally died away, the wall of flame vanished with it, as did the paralysis affecting those who had been stricken by the spell.
Everyone stood in stunned silence. Zaris looked at Teela. She had staunched the bleeding with a length of cloth. He wanted to go to her, to comfort her. But he remembered that she was his sister and remembered too what they had done, and he stood there, frozen in crushing shame, self-loathing, and remorse.
Finally, King Varan spoke. "I think," he said slowly, "I should explain something."
He walked forward, his face grave, and placed a hand on Zaris's shoulder.
"Teela," he said, "is not my true daughter. She is a body double—an actress named Nadis. She volunteered for the role, knowing that if Rayju ever came for revenge, he would target her rather than the true heir. She is a very brave woman. You have not committed incest. Nadis is not cursed, and this is why Rayju’s spell bounced back on him."
He looked at Zaris, and his eyes were filled with tears.
"My son," he said. "My true son. I have searched for you for twenty years. I have never stopped searching; never stopped hoping."
Zaris stared at him. "Then you are my true father.”
Varan nodded, his voice breaking. "Rayju stole you from your mother, murdering her with his winged creature when you were only hours old. He transformed you into... into what you are now. But you are still my son. You are still my blood."
For a long moment, Zaris didn't move. And then, slowly, he fell into his father's arms, overjoyed that at last he had found his true parent and that Nadis was not his sister.
The reunion was everything that reunions are meant to be—tears and embraces and promises of better days to come. And when it was over, Zaris turned to the woman who had saved his life and his soul from the path of evil.
"Nadis," he said—not Teela, but the name she had been given at birth. "I know that I am not entirely human. I am not the ideal husband. I have done many things that are wrong. But I also know that I love you. I love you with all my heart, with all my soul. Perhaps I ask too much. Perhaps I hope too much when I ask if you would consent to marry me."
Nadis looked at him—this man who had kidnapped her, who had violated her, who had also saved her life and shown her a kindness she had never expected.
"You are no longer the man you were," she said softly. "Your innate goodness, suppressed by Rayju’s evil lies, now shines through. Of course, I will marry you."
And then she was in his arms, and they were both weeping, and everything was finally, miraculously, right.
**********
In the weeks that followed, Zaris was formally welcomed back into the royal family. He met Teela, his real sister, who had been in another wagon in the caravan, disguised as a handmaiden, and they soon became fast friends. He was taught the ways of the court, the duties of a prince, and the responsibilities that came with being the heir to the throne. And slowly, he began to learn what it meant to be part of a loving family.
He and Nadis were married in a ceremony that was the talk of the kingdom for generations. The princess—who was now a true princess—looked beautiful in her wedding robes, and the prince—who had once been a monster—looked handsome in his.
And in the years that followed, Zaris used his powers—the powers that the elemental had given him, transforming them into something noble—to defend the kingdom and uphold justice. He became known as the Iron Prince, a protector of the weak, a bane to the wicked.
He never forgot where he came from. He never forgot the man who had created him, the man who had tried to turn him into a monster. But he also never forgot the woman who had saved him—not just from death, but from darkness.
He never forgot that love was stronger than hate, that mercy was greater than revenge, and that, in the end, good can overcome evil no matter how dark and powerful it seems.
THE END
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