I, Darian of House Cain, put quill to parchment in an attempt to preserve the only thing Time is capable of stealing from me now that my body defies its ravages. I let the ink bleed my life into the unsullied white, immortalising my mortal self as the centuries threaten to erase the He I was—the He that died, so I may forever be.
THE DEATHS THAT MAKE US
I could begin with the birth of the first-born son of King Cornelius Cain, with the first and only time he looked upon his son with pride; his chest puffed and chin aloft as if it were his screaming, ripping and bleeding that brought the child into the world and not that of his raven-haired queen. No. For this is not when I was truly born, but when I was first given life.
I was born on the battlefield.
My formative years were spent immersed in the art of warfare and court politics, my aptitude for cleaving enemies apart by sharp blade or tongue quickly honed to deadly efficiency. For all the natural talent for it I possessed, my father had twice as much and more for making enemies, ensuring I was never short of practice.
Such experiences would define most. For me, they merely lit the fire of the forge.
Death is what shaped me. Each brutal impact a tempering.
It is only natural then, that my story starts, not with a life beginning—
But ending.
The Battle of the Traitors at the age of thirteen was when I first learned what it meant to be heir to the House Cain throne. It was at age thirteen when I first learned what it would cost…
And what I was truly capable of.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales are entirely coincidental.
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© 2026 Cal C Long. All rights reserved

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