IZOGIE

The raw stench of sweat lingered in her nostrils while it seeped behind the mask. She inhaled the scalding sand inside her nostrils, her watery eyes staining her vision. Sand burrowed in her face like a glut of needles piercing her skin. The harness held her in place while her convulsive coughs turned into sharp outbursts. Izogie dragged her feet further along the desert, agitated breaths searing the back of her throat. The only thing that kept her going was the rancor of dying at the hands of pure demons.

The blazing wind clawed at the scars on her back. As she hunched over, gasping for air. Her mind focused on Katara's virtuous heart and how she longed for a purpose beyond those chains. The only thing Izogie could feel in the expanse behind them was soulless Purifiers turning her compassion into bitterness. Because the only escape from their shackles was a public execution at The Moon's Edge.

It was the battlefield where mankind fought for its humanity and the boneyard of those lost souls. At the edge of the world, they say golems take one final look at a heap of bones before they fall in battle, eventually joining the pile. No one lamented over their bodies, and no one sung heroic praises about their final moments.

Hell, no one even buried them.

"Her benevolence stretches across the volcanic lands of Azgeda." A slave hummed restlessly to a song with no notes nor verses, but it had absolute control over his heart. The song wielded him as if it was his Baird, and the man himself was nothing more than its vessel. Izogie leaned in closer to listen to the golem's strange tune. Her lips parted as he held most of the weight of the left tongue of the wagon with his bony arms.

Before her hand reached him, a slash broke through the air, and a searing pain erupted across her back. "Ahhhhhhh." A primitive scream rang through her chest, tears clouding her vision. The man stood in his soiled loin cloth, his ribcage pressed firmly against his skin. His heavy, sporadic outbursts wheezed inside his esophagus.

A slash of gold tainted the darkness in his bloodshot eyes. His abrasions ravaged every inch of his sable black skin except his forehead. A ghoul helm was screwed into the man's forehead, concealing half of his face. He had a strangely grey beard that mirrored the ashes floating in the air, except patches of black blended into his facial hair.

He stared at the ground while his nostrils flared. His muttering continued while his focus shifted to the sands ahead, unfazed by their growing footsteps.

"Her benevolence stretches across the volcanic lands of Azgeda." The slave repeated, his voice trembling slightly.

"Move it," The blight grunted, cracking his whip. "YA WORTHLESS CUNT!"

"I said move it, Bitch!" He yelled, hurling his arm back until he released a surge of wind. She collapsed on the ground, her hand burrowed deep within the blistering sand. The blight pressed his foot against her back, reveling in her agonizing cries.

Izogie squirmed relentlessly against his boot, reaching for the wind, for the golems saddled to the front of the carriage would not come. Not when they looked ahead at the trail before them, an expanse of sand fading into nothingness. It was like they looked upon their freedom with the eyes of imprisoned beasts.

They had a man and two women strapped to the head of the wagon like common horses. Their cold stares drove forward, void of any emotion. Their exposed chests protruded forward while they stood tall in their full steel-plated masks. A dark-skinned woman loomed among them with clenched fists, enduring most of the crew's scrutiny. They jested while they fondled her tits with a knife held to her throat.

"If the whore squeals, cut off her left tit." As he flicked her nipple, his sharp cheekbones carved shadows across the lines of his razor-edged sideburns. His steely eyes were as blue as heated apatite crystals but more unmoving than stone. He wiped his hand on his leather chestpiece, looking straight through her.

"And ruin this masterpiece," the elf scoffed, "Dreymon, I dare you to name an Elfete with better tits than this."

Dreymon calmly exhaled before he roared the blight's given name. "SOLOMON."

"This cunt hasn't been ridden in a long while." He said, spitting into the ground. "It'll take some time before the helm digs its hooks in er'. She's almost there."

"Solomon," He spoke again. "Saddle the bitch."

Dreymon launched a harness into the air. The blight caught the reins in his right hand, kneeling over her body. His skin was paler than a pile of bones, with a slew of purple veins glistening beneath the surface. He gave Dreymon a sickening smile. The right side of his face sagged as if it was claimed by the hangman's disease.

She held her breath while she looked amongst the blight and the elves. She mentally prepared herself for another strike. Her heart leaped inside her chest, succumbing to a raging typhoon. Solomon grabbed her hair and thrust her face into the sand. Her cries were so raw she thought they'd been heard past the world above until they made counsel in the heavens.

Each grain sparked against her temple, searing her flesh like molten glass. Thick ridges of flesh bubbled and festered, swelling across her face. Solomon ripped her filthy shirt off her body, releasing her from the malignant heat, but not with her shame.

He strapped the leather harness across her bare chest, pulling the last strap around her neck so tight it felt like a noose. Solomon turned his back to her, heading straight for the wagon. "Keep resistin,' and you'll find we don't send bitches in heat to the gallows."

Tears fell from her eyes as she gasped for air. She tugged at the reins, barely lifting her body from the ground. She took a minute to catch her breath before he pulled the end of the reins until she was on her feet. She gripped the collar until her fingernails caved in and pushed against the leather.

Her eye twitched. "I-I'm . . ."

"Say it, and I'll cut out your tongue." His hot breath fanned the back of her neck while his hands caressed her breasts. Her vision focused on a whirlwind sweeping across the desert ahead. She wasn't enraged by her exposed chest or even being strapped to the wagon like an animal. She only saw the severed fingers Dreymon wore proudly around his neck.

Izogie wore shackles that weighed her down all her life, and she knew the penalty for defiance. One swift death was all any fool in chains could hope for, but she was nothing like the other kids in those tunnels.

When she first saw a child mowed down by the sword, she understood why they once raged against the Crown. The elves despised the light in their eyes, so they killed her people and pretended it was salvation.

"I s-swear that . . ." Izogie struggled to stand. "I-I am going to kill you. EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU!"

"Well, aren't we full of fight and fire?" The elf grinned, taking in every detail of her exposed bosom.

Dreymon took out his knife, slicing the blade inside his mouth until he drew blood. He stood before the man with charcoal skin and a ragged beard. He looked forward, avoiding eye contact as he continued to speak in fables. The elf pried his mouth open and held his tongue between his index and middle fingers.

He took the blade and carved out his tongue until it fell into the palm of his hand. As he choked on his severed tongue, blood gushed from his mouth. He held the wagon over his shoulder until the last of his life seeped into the sand. Then his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and his body fell to the ground with a thud.

"Death doesn't live here, Golem." Dreymon licked the fresh blood from his knife. "Not for folks like me."

Her heart dropped to her stomach while his blood trickled down her cheek. This man was born as a slave in this wasteland, and his blood now spilled back into the golden sands. It was a vicious cycle, but Izogie was his catalyst. His life was taken, and now the mutterings of the desert laid bare before her. Soft voices spoke to her in calamity, but the only tears that escaped were her own.

"You did this." The voice taunted her while she glared at the man's corpse.

Dreymon turned his back to the Neanderthal and continued stomping forward until he reached the wagon. Before he took another step, he turned to her with an indifferent scowl. "He was on your side. Now you carry his weight."

The other elf drew his sword from its sheath, balancing the weight in his right hand. With one shift motion, he sliced open the man's belly. Blood smeared across her face, resembling a rouge battalion of savages preparing for battle. Her heart rattled inside her chest, watching his body writhe until he became motionless.

She screeched in bitterness, her eyes tingling as she slowly raised the left side of the wagon. Her face scrunched up as she roared until her throat was raw. A fire ignited in her soul while her mind focused on the rage ahead of her. The elves put shackles around the necks of children and then slaughtered their fathers.

They stole our mothers and gave them over to their own twisted progeny and gave birth to slaves. His blood seeped in between her calloused toes. His life was never his own, but it's gone with the tempered breeze. She took another step, straining the muscles in her shoulders as she pulled the wagon another inch. Then his words whispered to her from the desert. "You did this."

Her eyes laid bare when the wagon pressed against her shoulders, pushing her further into the sand. She struggled against the weight, using her legs to keep the tongue from falling back in place.

"I have to do this!" Izogie yelled ballistically while her left shoulder caved against the weight.

A sharp pain erupted inside her shoulder as her arm hung by her side. Her arm felt like it was about to fall out of its socket. Then, the left tongue rose from the ground until it reached her temple. When Izogie looked ahead, a dark-skinned woman stood in front of her with dead eyes.

"March forward." As she led the command, her voice deepened beyond human comprehension.

The other woman nodded silently, a corrupted flame striking behind her mask. She exhaled with force, carrying the weight of the elves over her right shoulder. They trotted forward until their footsteps blazed into the sand. Izogie held on to the protruding piece of wood, racing to keep up with the other two. She held in her tears as her feet seared against the sand.

They moved under a cloak of darkness as they passed countless mounds of sand. The mighty winds subsided and the horizon stood nonexistent. Up top of a massive dune, a burning city illuminated in a basin.

A strange black structure loomed underneath their shadows cast by a sun made of burning sackcloth. An endless trail of smoke billowed from the fortress, consuming the entire valley.

After scanning the barren surface, Izogie stumbled backward. The darkness that engulfed the western flank of the valley was from the same elf that sealed the demon on her face. She felt the mask calling out to him even amongst the scattered ruins of the sculpted black rock.

He was somewhere in the center of the chaos, but this ache that throbbed inside her chest wouldn't go away. She stared into the distance, imagining two clashing powers struggling beneath the veil.

"Rhegon." She shuddered, stepping closer to the edge of the mountain. "That blade calls out to another."