That evening, with a salute and a few simple commands, a soldier and a commander jogged to the training square. The wooden swords whacked against each other, the two men grunted with exertion and effort. Occasionally one of them would land in the sand with a triumphant yell from their opponent. Then, the man still on his feet would help the sand-covered one to his.
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After a long, intense training session, the two men saluted each other and went their own ways. One to the barracks to hit the showers and rest his sore body. The other to his throne room to contemplate and plan.
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Christopher nodded to the guards as he passed them, welcoming him back inside. He sat at the long table, recounting everything that had happened. First a burned-out fire, then an assassination attempt, a strange dream, a visit from the king, and a new knowledge that I am being hunted. He shook his head with a groan, running his fingers through his sweaty bronze hair.
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“Christopher.”
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The voice was that of a man, but no one was with him. “Christopher.” The noble looked around and looked around the room, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He whispered, “Where are you? Who are you?” Again the voice came and Christopher called, “Guards!”
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“Yes, milord?” They came in, their simple armor glinting in the torchlight, their faces normal.
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“Do you hear anything?”
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“Nothing other than the common, sir.” They shook their heads, curious as to why the noble was so on edge.
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Christopher nodded and dismissed them. So if they don’t hear it, am I going insane? His eyes scanned the room once more before resting on the letter on his desk. He hadn’t noticed it before.
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It had a red emblem waxed on. The picture it held was that of angels' wings and a crown. Not one of the houses of Razium. He glanced around the room again before returning his confused gaze to the letter. Christopher picked it up into his hands and turned it over and over again before returning to the side with an opening.
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He hesitated again, but slid his finger under the small fold, opening the fragile piece of paper. He gasped and dropped the note when he saw what it contained.
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The white paper was laden with a slightly smaller, black piece of paper. That, however, was not what made Christopher gasp. The ink, if it could be called that, was written in white, glowing blood. The same color as Christopher’s blood.
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It read:
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Christopher Wymond,
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You have recently been attacked, and you barely remember the wound. What would have terminated a man was merely a scratch for you. Yet, you do not seem to care or wish to know why.
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Here. I’ll tell you. You have inside of you, an ancient angel that your kinmen barely remember. Raziek. Your blood burns with the fury and strength of angels. You can not easily be harmed, but don’t be reckless. I will watch you, guide you, strengthen you. But you must listen to me. You MUST find your inner self. That is the only way.
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A clash of swords, an infuriated kingdom, and an enraged roar will mark the day fury bursts forth from his slumber.
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This prophecy is your destiny.
Find me.
Raziek
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Christopher read it twice through, his head spinning. He looked back down at the paper and shook his head. Folding it back up, he placed it inside of his desk.
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Find an angel? Pah. Who’s playing this trick? Christopher knew that it wasn’t a prank. He knew that this unexplainable letter was from the angel that visited his dream. His life was quickly becoming a series of unexplained events.
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But why me?
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