The Darkest Dawn

  © 2021 Marc Mulero. All rights reserved.

  Contents

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Part II

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Part III

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Please Read! It’s Important!

  Other Books by the Author

  About the Author

  Part I

  A Shallow Legacy

  Chapter 1

  Storms of Ombes

  A chair too large for a child made him look like a ruler who’d inherited the throne too soon. But this was no kingdom, just a rickety old cabin in the midst of green lands. And this boy was no king, just a kid tucked away for no one to know. He was curled up, barefoot, staring past curtains of silk that fell from his head, through panes of glass that painted a forest beyond. Waiting… always waiting, for the storms to come.

  Amber eyes began to brighten from cloudy light. The elements were brewing slowly, but it could have been a tease like last time – a rumbling and nothing more. Enthusiasm was kept at bay, for he was let down too many times before.

  In an effort to calm his thumping heart, focus switched from the great outdoors to an opaque reflection looking back at him. He was again reminded of the strangeness of his appearance: smooth, tan skin and soft features that happened to be overwhelmed by two T-shaped marks of dull green running under his eyes. A finger traced one of the discolored patches shining reflectively in the changing light, making him think back to the thousand questions he’d asked before. What was wrong with him? Why did he look different than the few people he’d met in his short life? Why did their eyebrows always scrunch up when they looked at him? Why?

  “Eres! Tighten the shinnons. Mists are rising.” An elder woman’s voice rang from another room.

  “Already done, Ooma!” Eres shouted back, a glimmer of excitement peeking through his voice in anticipation.

  Strong winds were strange in Ombes. Not because of their intense velocity. It was because they could be seen. And once that show started… well, let’s just say that it was known what would follow.

  Eres knew.

  And so, he eagerly got to his knees on the puffed-up pillow that was his seat and shimmied the chair closer to the window for a better look - all jitters and smiles in anticipation for what came next.

  Chemicals clashing made for a lustrous display of grey and purple that raked through the air like an aurora up close. It was happening… the storm was coming. And when the first liquid spear burst against the window, Eres was now sure that it had finally arrived. Mountainous clouds began to form in front of his eyes, not high up in the sky, but on the ground, stirring trees within the Dolseir forest and whipping off their leaves. Another spear, then another, until there was a barrage panging against the window to get in, all shooting out from the sides of freshly formed mists like quills of an angered beast. And then the thunder came - a sound so intense it shook the ground beneath him, sending with it bursts of rain that shot upward straight into the sky.

  Where any other child would be shivering in fear, Eres was alive, for his fondest memories bloomed from the tempests, the only times when his boundless father came to visit.

  The tapping of a wicker staff pinged between the orchestra playing outside, but Eres paid it no mind.

  “Oh, little one, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you would rather be out there.” Ooma smiled at the sight, and then placed a calm hand over his. “Come now, be at ease. The night will be long. Euwos padnas… patience. The Umboro people wait for what is right. We do not rush into the darkness. Come now.”

  Eres’ light eyes shifted to meet inky ones. “He’s coming back. I can feel it, Ooma.”

  “’Course you can. Tell me, what do you feel?” She pulled his hand further to lightly drag him from the cushioned seat.

  Eres looked down to his hairless legs pacing slowly behind his grandmother’s. “Like there’s a race against time… and he’s losing. Danger. Guilt. Everything I felt the last time. Umus tou…”

  She shook her head and stopped in the next room before turning slowly to face her grandson. Varying shades of light brown speckled her face. Sunken lines were carved deep like rings of an ancient tree speaking to her age. But it was her eyes that contradicted the wheel of time. Black pearls shined with life, scanning what she loved most in this world.

  “Your fata’s temperament, through and through.” She snapped her tongue. “I hope a bit of your mota blossoms in you… you’re going to need a touch of peace if the only Umboro phrase you will speak is ‘all things bad.’” A playful whack of her cane made the thin kid smirk, but then the words registered.

  “I… I miss her,” he admitted.

  Ooma was taken aback by the sudden somberness. It was hard to swallow how long her daughter had been gone, more for the child’s sake than for hers. Though she did what she could to keep her memory alive: prepared the same meals, laid out his clothes, told him stories about her life. Though, that didn’t always subdue the pain. Often times it enflamed it. And now with a potential visitor at their doorstep for the first time in months, old memories reignited for the both of them.

  The lone ring bent around Ooma’s finger began to pulse with a fuchsia-colored glow. Swirling designs were etched deep into what appeared to be hardened wood, and beneath it, tiny leafy roots found a home in her skin, discoloring the area around it.

  “Why now?” Eres asked. “Does it mean he’s close?”

  “No, little one. It’s time for you to know, yes, but not amidst a storm.”

  Eres deflated further, always curious and rarely sated.

  “We must flow with the stream of time, submit to it,” her shaky hand clenched to emphasize this importance, “so that if we’re lucky, we may partake in its story. Grace is one of the most important parts of being Umboro. Do you understand, little one?”

  He nodded.

  “And right now, that stream is yelling and stomping so that we may have water and electricity tomorrow.” She shook a finger in his face and smiled. “But we still must survive today. I must teach you why we crank the shinnons, how our home breathes.”

  She took a few hobbled steps over to a wall and ran her finger across a seam. “You’re sprouting before my eyes, Eres. It makes me feel proud and old all the same. It felt like just yesterday that you were in my arms kicking and screaming to be let free. Now here you are,” her eyes scanned him lovingly, “lanky, strong, beautiful and handsome… such a unique being. But that’s not enough, you must be taught more than the basics, for one day I may not be h
ere to help.”

  “Ooma, please don’t say th-”

  She interrupted him by grabbing his hand and pressing it against the seam. “Do you feel that? There’s almost no crease. Air tight. We fasten the shinnons so that the skin of this cabin is squeezed against its skeleton. Bocktali bones, hunted and stored by your parents once upon a time, are what holds this shack in place. We must loosen the walls when the winds are light, so the bones can breathe. Air strengthens them, little one, and there’s nothing more robust than an oxidized bocktali bone. Care must be taken, so this home can continue to prevail over the winds. If you treat your time in the world with this manner, you will find purpose, appreciation, and peace, like your mota did.

  “She was taken too soon, little one, but she was fulfilled. Make every day count, okay?” Her eyes became glassy, but she sniffed heavily to retain her stoic appearance.

  “I… I understand Ooma, thank you.” He bowed.

  “Good, now come. One more thing before I send you off.”

  Ooma hobbled into the back room, humming to herself as she set down her staff and reached for a fraying rope that hung high from the ceiling. It was fastened on a pulley system that scratched as she tugged. Feeble hands trembled on every alternation. Eres took a cautious step to offer aid, but she waved him away. “No, no. These hands need to work, otherwise what would I be?” She paused, smiled and turned back. “We all must do, Eres, when we can. Timing and grace. Always.”

  “But Ooma, don’t you want me to learn?”

  “Euwos padnas,” she said merrily.

  “Patient biddings, I know…” Eres sighed.

  “Learn with your eyes, so when it’s your time to do, you won’t fumble like the reckless Dagos, or hesitate like the cautious Eplons, or flaunt like the ruthless Swuls. You will do like the Umboro people, like your ooma teaches. Like your parents…” She stopped herself, her ring pulsing a flamboyant pink once more.

  A moment of silence followed while she continued to pull, before a bucket finally loosed from the ceiling, making a plucking sound as it popped from its nook and swayed on its way down. A fresh opening above let in two small waves of water that splashed over their hair and faces.

  They looked at each other, the seriousness of her lessons fading, and then both burst into laughter. She pushed away plastered strands of hair that came undone from her bun, still smiling when she looked back up to the hole, and with one strong heave, pulled the rope so that another bucket would plug in place of the lowered one.

  She nearly lost her balance in trying to grab the swishing container, until clasping her fingers over the top with one hand and unhooking it from the pulley with the other. Kneeling low so they both could inspect it, she ran her finger around mesh edges.

  “You see these? Flisers gifted from the Eplons. They extract water from humid areas and filter it before releasing it into a container. A remarkable survival tool, created from fear of our lands, but brilliant nonetheless. Great things come from city folk, Eres, but the key is not to lose sight of what doesn’t come from them.” She waved her hand and plucked one of the flisers. “The point is to understand how these work and their uses.”

  Holding the small cylinder up to her lip, she sucked inward and gulped. “You won’t get much water in here, but out there, in the Dolseir forest, this could save your life.” She passed it to Eres for a try.

  He slurped and coughed immediately after, choking on the spray.

  “Too hard!” She chuckled.

  He tried again, this time more subtly.

  “Good.” She patted the back of his neck and held out her hand to take the device. “Now I would tell you to get some sleep, for the night will be long otherwise. But I know my Eres, and that would be like telling the storms to be quiet.”

  Eres smiled widely.

  A triage of lightning strikes suddenly bolted sideways past their cabin, brightening their faces like a strobe light would.

  “Listen to me, Eres. If he returns, you must give us words first, alone. Understand? Stota pres… there are pressing matters that must be tended to. But when we’re done, I promise there will be time for you to see him.”

  “But Oom-”

  “No buts.” She was firm. “Be a good child and I promise that our next lesson will not be of my teachings, but of answering your questions. Dela?”

  Eres exhaled deeply. “Dela,” he replied, agreeing against his wishes.

  Eres rested his elbows on the windowsill, fists pushing his cheeks into a forced smile. His eyes began to grow heavy. The constant pounding of rain and clashes of thunder were erratic, but soon revealed some kind of rhythm that lulled the boy into a daze. Hours had passed since Ooma sent him off – it was dark now, and the bouncing colors outside became more vibrant like an endless fireworks show in the night. But that could only entertain a young mind for so long, for this one was waiting for something more. He imagined scenarios in the frayed book on his lap that had been read a hundred times before. Fingers grazed over the etched words on its cover: Illiad’s Octor – A Transcribed Journey. Longing for adventure usually invigorated him, but even that was proving to be of no use. There was nothing left to keep him awake… sleep had come to claim him…

  As his eyes finally closed, a noise he hadn’t heard in half a year touched his ears. It sounded like the poof of a magician’s smoke bomb. His head perked up, legs twitched to nearly throw him off his seat. Once, twice, more puffs of air from outside. They were coming closer, growing louder, until a figure burst from the clouds.

  Sparks of purple and blue lit parts of the man and cast shadows upon the rest. His legs cycled slowly in the air like he was running on it while descending, and when his feet finally touched the ground, steam blew from his boots – hydraulics worked to keep his legs from crumbling.

  Eres was alive again, thin nose plastered against the window, amber eyes wide. He had come. His father had returned.

  The last thing he saw was the man holding his head down and bolting toward the front of their shack, liquid spears sliding off of his matte black suit and messenger bag flailing behind him as if the wind were trying to steal it.

  Finally... I knew it. I felt it.

  Eres sprung off his seat and ran to get his ooma, but just before he was about to yell for her, he saw that she was already waiting at the front door, back facing him. His legs froze and thoughts raced. Every ounce of him wanted to be there next to her when his father arrived, but he would just be shooed away as per his ooma’s request. They had important matters to tend to first. And so, he chose to be quiet, to pretend he wasn’t there. He crouched low until his bottom silently plopped to the floor, tucked behind a small staircase, knees hugged to chest so he would be scrunched up and unseen. Excitement, curiosity, resentment – all of it was swishing around in the pit of his stomach.

  I’m sick of being protected… not knowing what’s what and who’s who. I’m old enough now, so if they won’t tell me, then I’ll figure it out myself. I want my own octor, like Illiad. My own ocular travel log while I explore the great world of Ingora. There’s so much to know. Maybe I can learn something now if I can stay hidden. Maybe they’ll speak about their esper rings, or the other Factions, or… me.

  Soft fingers wrapped around the spindles beside him, his head peeking through two lacquered bocktali bones like he was in a prison cell waiting to be freed.

  The door swung open and a sideways bolt of lightning flashed along with it. When Eres blinked away the spots in his eyes, resentment faded along with them. All seeds of doubt washed away… the mere presence of the figure in the doorway stopped a mind from thinking. He was rapt.

  Sleek oversized goggles were flattened over eyes, sections of which beamed to life, analyzing surroundings and remitting information to its user. Directly beneath them rested a tight weather mask lined with ridges that echoed the entirety of his suit. Grey scraggly hair still shined like his son’s. His frame was average for an Umboro, but appeared giant next to Ooma. Arms glossily reflect
ed candle light as he worked to unhook the messenger bag – an item strapped four times from different angles to protect its contents.

  Ooma waited patiently with a grin on her face, both hands folded over her cane.

  He nodded to her, and she took a small step back, still smiling. Two fingers pressed into an indent near his shoulder, igniting a flare of fire that started from his boots and rolled up his body like a dynamite fuse in fast forward. With a puff, he was dry and decontaminated from his travels.

  Eres’ eyes widened, the delight in his face was that of a little kid’s on Christmas. He wanted nothing more than to have his own gadgets, to be next to his boundless father as he bounced from place to place. A dream of dreams. Such a mundane, sheltered life lured him ever closer to the unknown whenever it presented itself. Love for his ooma couldn’t keep him obedient forever. But Eres had to breathe, hold back, consider why although his legs were restless, he was able to keep still against his body’s wishes. Self-control didn’t come naturally to him. It was taught. This was the first realization of the benefit of her teachings – that right now, in this incomprehensible moment, he possessed the discipline to watch and listen, as an Umboro should. With grace.

  The next toggle his father touched unwrapped his matte black suit from its back to its center point like a thousand tape measures being called to their home at once. Within a second, his armor condensed into a disc clasped in his hand small enough to be stashed away. His posture drooped slightly when it became undone. And then he lifted his goggles.

  “Lorfa,” he said with a mix of happiness and sorrow.

  “Agden,” she replied in kind.

  He reached down and hugged her tightly, then let go, still holding onto her shoulders. “How is my boy?”

  “I don’t know why you’re still calling vim that… ve’s beginning to look like anything but…”

  “Because he’s strong.” He smiled wide just before she whacked him with her staff.

  “And what is that supposed to mean?” She cackled, then nodded her head to the other room. “Ve’s sound asleep on vis favorite chair, where ve was waiting deep in the night for you.”