In the land of the gods, there was not much deference for foreigners. As his father taught him, Arn understood that there were two words that the Ancients had for foreigners— Xenos, meaning traveler guest; and Barbarian, meaning savage. Now that he could understand all the languages he encountered, Arn truly felt that he could understand that difference between the two words.

  As his consciousness came and went, he felt the warmth of the stone leave him for the cool feeling of wood. Rope bound his hands. Arn’s eyes barely opened to a crowd of people yelling at him ‘foreigner’. Yet, most of the words were not meant for him. ‘Harlot’, ‘cursed’, ‘bastard’ all hurled in his direction but did not hit him. With what little strength he had left, Arn looked to his right and saw Shanti clutching her daughter in tears, crouched beneath men that stood above them.

  The wood was smooth under his knees, and time felt like it slowed down. What the next few moments held for Arn, he could not say. The smell of smoke meant fire, but for whom? He could not believe he would die by fire, not after what the white woman said. Arn believed he would die by the sword, just as he had before.

  His scar on his chest ached deep into his core. When the long blade so clumsily ripped into him, it tore everything in jagged and frantic cuts. Arn felt it. He could never forget that feeling. All that anger and sadness he felt before then paled in comparison to the death by the sword he earned.

  As his head tilted back so he could see the sky, it looked so clear and blue, as if it were perfectly still water. A lone figure that looked like a dragon the size of a bird, broke its tranquil emptiness. Such a pleasant day to die, he thought. Arn knew this would not be his day to pass. That day would be a stormy one.

  “Burn them!” The crowd chanted in their own harsh tongue. “Burn the harlot. Burn the bastard. Burn the foreigner. May Kali free us from our torment. Burn them!”

  Arn heard logs of wood being stacked behind him in the shape of a box. It was nearly up to Arn’s hip if he stood. So much wood for an inferno that would consume them. A man dressed in many gold adornments took to the scaffolding and walked between the crowd and the captives. His attire fit with the fine nature of the city, with so many bulbous towers and white walls with gold and deep green painted as far as the eye could see. The man wore many earrings and what looked to be a funny-shaped crown. Even his robe and trousers had gold on them. Arn thought it had to be a heavy burden to bear all that metal. Perhaps, Arn thought, one day he would be buried in it.

  “Beloved!” The man in gold called out. “False-King Yama is dead, and Bharat lives without him. For all he claimed, it is not from his line that life shall come to the world. Goddess Kali, queen of the gods and giver of life, did not bless him. His bride and his spawn fled from these walls, taking even a foreigner into her bed so that he would fight for her. She curses us all!”

  The crowd hissed like snakes and screeched like birds, abhorring the beaten and captured on the scaffold. Arn’s world became clearer and time seemed to move again. His scare ached, but under that he felt a burning sensation, though the fire had yet to consume him.

  “We must remember, beloved, that our goddess has promised us a king, chosen to have her power. No more will we be born again as babies or flowers or insects. Through him, our lives will never end, and the cycle of death and rebirth will pass while the time of life shall come.

  “Yama has died. The god of death has claimed him and named his line cursed. And we see it now!” Arn watched as the man in gold went to Shanti and Amala, ripping them from each other and holding them each by their hair. Shanti screamed while her daughter kept sobbing in fear. “While other women and children sought their honor in dying with their corrupted king, this whore and her bastard escaped. Their pyres went cold while Yama’s body and his wives and children were purified by the flames of life and cast back into the cycle to wait.”

  Arn could hear the crackle of fire behind him. He struggled to turn his head, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw three pyramids of blackened wood with flames licking all sides. They stood tall behind the scaffolding, read to have their victims cast into it. In a way, it looked like fire out of an illustration, lined and purposeful, as if someone was conducting it.

  Travelers to Ji long spoke of their gods and holy places. Bharat was no different. Shangri-La was a place cobbled from three peoples, becoming the dwelling of all of their gods. Nepal and Tibet and Bharat each held this place as holy. Arn knew that from speaking with good natured traders from this place. The stories they told however, all spoke of the realms of gods and torture, that fires from below the mountains made the world warm. And in those fires, only the most evil and vile are sent to be punished in their next life.

  The platform was cold, but the stones of the city were warm. With what little he could see, Arn looked and saw that the fires streamed from the stones like crooked sticks being swayed around by a dancer. Something was indeed there below the stones.

  “And worse, their sins have brought a man marked by death!” The priest continued, the crowd gasping in fear. He grabbed Arn’s hair and wrenched his head around to show the mark of the crow. “In the east, this mark means death is upon him. Our city of life is defiled. The goddess who keeps us will abhor him and cast his soul into the fires just as we will his body.”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Arn’s neck hurt badly, as did the rest of his body. Having been so injured and disoriented, the pain was almost unbearable. But he was still alive. As he had been told by his goddess, the fires would not consume him. He believed her.

  All those years ago, when he woke from the dead, Arn knew he followed her. Unlike all the other men in the world however, he felt he had no choice. To go from an old god and embrace the new, that was commonplace, though being forcefully converted was taboo. For a god to take a follower and not grant them their freedom, that was unheard of. But Arn knew it to be true for him, and for some reason, he was fine with that.

  In time, perhaps he would come to love her as other men loved their gods. For now, he would follow Aletheia dutifully and believe.

  “Death will not have me again.” He said, the words clunky and slow but loud. The language was unique, but it was his present state that limited him. It hurt to speak, yet in his soul he felt that he needed to say this. “I have died, but death has no power over me.”

  “Silence!” The man screeched. With the back of his hand, he slapped Arn and bruised his cheek. Warm blood leaked from Arn’s lips, but he turned his head to speak louder.

  “I will not die!” Arn yelled. It rushed out of him like no feeling had for twelve years. Perhaps it was the delusion caused by his pain and injuries, or perhaps his spirit burned brighter than the fires behind him, but he cried out. “Death has come for me, but he has failed. I live and will not die.”

  “Enough of this.” The man in gold cast Arn to the ground and motioned for men to come to the scaffolding. When they did, they began to strip their captives of their garments to disgrace them. While Shanti and Amala screeched, Arn made no noise, waiting for his shirt to be torn away. When it was, he shouldered away his assailant and showed his chest to the crowd, and a great silence fell. The man in gold quieted and his men stopped their actions to gaze upon Arn’s form.

  What they saw was a gruesome sight. It was his scar, once hidden behind his clothing with barely a tip of red showing. With no covering, they saw that it was not red like the color of flowing blood, but red like a dried scab. His skin rippled and stretched around such a wound, making him look deformed in a body he knew was strong. Everyone could see that he should be dead. It seemed that if Arn should be scratched anywhere from his neck to his waist, his life would flow out of him. Yet, he lived for all of the city to see.

  “He lives!” A woman in the crowd shouted out. Suddenly, many of the crowd fell to their knees and called out Rājā. Others followed after them, including the men on the scaffolding. The man in gold unbound him and knelt before him. Arn stood with power he did not know he possessed.

  “Oh Rājā, we have waited for you diligently as your servants.” The man in gold said. Arn could hardly hear him. His head pounded, but he did not fall. Shanti looked at him with wide eyes, tears flowing freely. Amala just clutched her mother and tucked her face into Shanti’s bosom. “We are at your service. Speak, and it shall be.”

  The fires from the pyres grew in heat where Arn could feel them from where he was. From the ground where the fires came from, the flames expanded, reaching towards the scaffolding.

  A screech broke Arn’s concentration. Great flames grew from the ground in the crowd and began to burn the citizens. Arn watched as all the men of Shangri-La began to burn. Curses from them all upon him for bringing death with him. The great buildings began to collapse in smoke, and charred flesh began to stink.

  The scaffolding beneath Arn began to burn. Before he could move away, the man and gold grabbed at him, trying to choke him. He called Arn demon and dishonored and most hated in all the heavens. With the same power that allowed him to stand, Arn cast him off into the pyres made for Shanti, Amala, and he. Flames licked at Arn, but he did not burn.

  Screams of men and women abounded around him, and Arn sought to escape. Through the chaos, he heard Shanti’s screams. The fires of the ground had reached her and began to consume her. When he looked, he saw that she would soon be burned into nothingness. That mattered little in comparison to what else he saw. Amala did not burn.

  Remembering his charge to defend them, he went and took Amala from Shanti’s arms, struggling against the girl who bitterly clung to her passing mother. He clutched her and turned away, he looked for a place without flames or smoke. As Arn searched, a bizarre face appeared above the mountains surrounding the city. A giant woman who smiled at him.

  Though her face appeared beautiful and smooth, she repulsed him. Instinctively, he sought to flee but stayed due to his weakness and Amala, who coughed in the smoke and fell into a deep slumber.

  “Hello there, Westerner.” The woman said in a whisper. For such a monstrous woman, her voice was soft and sultry. It was if only he could hear her, though she spoke from the peaks of mountains. "A pity that you have cursed my poor people.”

  “Who are you?” Arn croaked out, pulling Amala away from the woman.

  “I am Kali.” She answered, her lips curling into a deep red smile. “Servant of the Dragon and goddess of life.”

  “A lie.”

  “But it could be true, Westerner. See these people. It is true that they shall die. With my power I might save them. Worship me, and the flames will cease and you will be their king.”

  “I will not forsake my goddess. Flee from me, vile demon.”

  Kali’s face soured. One of her hands, dark like stones of cooled magma, came up and gripped a mountain. Rather than reach out with it, her face descended beneath the peak and soon she was gone, saying one final thing.

  “The Dragon will come for you.”

  Arn turned and ran with Amala, feeling the heat of torture beneath his feet. He desperately searched for a place to save Amala from the smoke. After a time weaving through the streets of the city, he came upon a building that had not burned. Arn broke in through the door and fell to a cool stone floor in an empty building save the many books and scrolls that lined its walls.

  He dragged his own body and Amala’s to the far side of the building and prayed for safety from Aletheia. Sleep came over him, and he rested until Amala had a coughing fit.