A Bored Lich

Author's note: Word errors because wifi is down. Will revise soon.

Cerlius's bare feet scrambled up the jagged stone stairs. The tormentor seemed to wait until he had finally found his footing to shove him again. Cerlius did not care. He was finally out of that cell. They came to a stop before a large metal door, the only entrance and exit to the dungeon. The tormentor fumbled a key into the lock and creaked the door open.

Cerlius shivered as a breeze swept through his baggy clothes and pressed into the dungeon's stale atmosphere. After five days of captivity, one hundred and twenty hours in hell, warm sunlight finally struck his skin again.

The War Monks kept the magic-restricting manacles on. There was no telling what a seven-year-old, who could barely talk anymore, could do to an organization of hypocritical, idiotic, deplorable killers and liars.

Cerlius did not stand and gawk at the sun. Instead he stared at the tormentor and committed the man's face into memory. That man had twisted and pushed Cerlius again and again and again. On day three, something had snapped within him. No matter what he would say, pain would come. Accompanying the realization was an unnatural determination. He did not question its origin. He had taken hold of it with the skin of his teeth and survived. Tracking him down could take years, but Cerlius could easily find him again and plunge a sword into his gut.

Two guards, brown-robed War Monks, closed the metal door before escorting Cerlius and the tormentor past a sparring ground, up a set of stairs, and down a hallway. "So the masters are really doing this?" one of them asked. "I find it hard to believe that they let an apprentice War Monk act as an intermediary between us and the heretic."

"Why else would we let that demon out?" The other replied as he jabbed an accusing finger at Cerlius. "Can't we just execute him? It's not our way to hold someone hostage."

The tormentor's glare shut both of their mouths. "A lot of our brothers agree with you. I was against this negotiation too. Then I heard that we were one of the last monasteries left in Enloa. Our monastery can handle Maximus Draken, but others cannot. Do not forget that the heretic has allies as well. This ignorant child can save the last bastion of us, so you better protect him with your lives." Both of the escorts swallowed their saliva and continued in silence.

Posted guards were spaced out evenly all throughout the monastery. Whenever Cerlius passed them, they would rub the symbol of the goddess on their robes. The usual quiet was broken by hushed voices and hurried steps. 'What did we do to you people to deserve this?' Cerlius thought. He had to stop his hands from curling into fists or his wounds would open.

Thunderclouds rolled in from the distant horizon. The monastery's entrance, two enormous wooden doors, soon came into view. Standing just before the gate was a circle of eight red-robed War Monks. Next to them was Cerlius's brother.

Like Cerlius, Doevm was also bound. He was even bandaged in all the same places. Despite his deplorable condition he was calm like the eye of a storm. One of the red robes stepped forward and touched the symbol on his robe. Before he even parted his filthy lips Cerlius had internally named him: dead number three. "If you have something to say…" Dead number three said. "Now is the chance to say it, while we're waiting for your father to arrive."

Cerlius and his brother looked at each other with emotionless expressions. Neither were gagged yet they were silent. The storm clouds drew closer. Raw power struck the ground with bolts of searing light, and thunderous roars echoed throughout the valley. The brothers' gazes did not waver in the slightest. They nodded to each other.

Dead numbers one, three, four, and five saw this and frowned. "They didn't cast a spell or anything did they?" Dead number four asked as he checked their bindings.

Dead number five turned to the tormentor, also known as dead number one: "You broke them, didn't you?"

The tormentor shrugged: "They might be the children of Maximums Draken but they are just kids after all." He smacked the back of brother's head and Celrius twitched. "Why aren't you speaking?"

Doevm slowly parted his cracked lips and coughed: "Little brother of mine, do you know how long I've been waiting to pay you back for your prank?"

"A little," Celrius replied slowly. "I already know you're trying to make a white stone statue to scare me."

"Well, that's alright," Doevm coughed again. "I thought of another way to get you back." He slowly raised his manacled hands towards the tormentor and smiled. Another deafening blast vibrated the winter air and drowned out his next word: "Dibs."

Cerlius laughed, which quickly turned into a coughing fit. "You really should have kept your mouth shut. That was lame."

"I did keep my mouth shut." Doevm replied.

Cerlius smiled and nodded again. "Do you know how long you will have to keep your dibs for? We will have to train for years. Who knows if I'll surpass you by then?"

"I doubt it," Doevm shrugged. "I'm an unnaturally determined person."

"So am I." Celrius replied. "I think it's something we both inherited."

The tormentor chuckled, seemingly able to read in between the lines. "A threat? Do you think either of you will get out of this negotiation? We have the goddess and an army, yet you kids think you can get close to me?"

The entrance was slowly pushed inwards by a familiar face. Dead number two, Eric Guildri, walked in front of the group of red-robed War Monks. He pulled his white hood over his panic-stricken face and said in a shrill voice: "He's here."

"Of course I think we're getting out of this, because…" brother continued, acting as if he had not noticed the traitor. Through the open doorway was a sky filled with plumes of smoke and ash. Raging fires burned down the remnants of towers and scouting outposts formerly under the monastery's control. Walking down a path of blood and corpses was Maximus Draken, his legendary sword drawn and a bright white aura engulfing his sculpted figure. Two gold eyes bore down on the group of War Monks with a pressure that could put the ocean's deepest depths to shame. "He is the strongest."