Cold Principles
By
Evan Drake
© 2019, Evan Drake, All
Rights Reserved

Day of the execution.

Nebran took a deep breath. Every muscle relaxed as his
blood surged oxygen through his body, but the tension quickly returned. The
room was quiet, but offered no luxury. Those luxuries were bought with blood
money. He sat on the floor, knees pulled to his chest like a small child. No
warmth came from the setting sun beaming the last of its rays on his black and
gold scales. He usually hated the quiet, but today he welcomed the silence. He
needed it. The sounds of gun fire and laughter wouldn't stop echoing in his mind.

His tail tapped restlessly against the floor. He firmly
held the appendage against his back. He always hated that habit, the way his
tail wagged when he was excited or restless like some kind of dog. But this
time it was neither of those things.

He wished it was.

*

20 years before execution

Nebran and his closest friend Devur stared up at the rebel
leader Skral. His muscled frame and black scales reminding Nebran just how
small and weak he truly was, a reminder that made him silently clench his
fists.

Skral grinned, showing off a row of yellow fangs. “So
what do we have here? What do you whelps want?"

“We want to join the rebels," Devur said proudly. Nebran
nodded his head in agreement. “That treaty is a joke. Why should we make peace
with the filth who murdered our families and burned our homes?"

“You punks? Why would I let a couple of young punks like
you join me?" Skral stood up and without warning, threw a powerful punch into
Nebran's gut.

Nebran immediately doubled over and threw up all over his
feet. Devur was quick to follow. The room filled with laughter as the two teens
struggled to stand.

“What do you two weaklings think you can do?" Skral said.

Nebran was the first to lift his head. Even with bile
dripping from his chin, he said proudly, “We'll murder every last one of those
worthless Vilera."

*

30 years before execution

The smell of burnt flesh made Nebran nauseous. He cowered
in the back of the closet, holding his hands over his ears, trying to block out
the sounds of his mother's pleas for mercy and his father's cursing them for
being born.

The Vilera had no sympathy. They laughed and taunted them.

He tried to ignore their dying screams, the smell of their
burning flesh, and the howling laughter of their tormentors.

Only one thought gave him comfort: I will destroy all
the monsters.

That thought and the comfort it provided vanished as the
closet door opened and the grinning Vilera stood over him.

“Hey, we got a survivor!"

*

Day of execution

He shuddered as a sob escaped him. It had been years
since he last cried. Crying was a sign of weakness. Acceptance of one's
futility. A feeling of sadness and revulsion mixed within him as more tears
fell.

He looked up at the sun setting outside his window,
thinking back on the his former days when he thought he knew how the world
worked.

How many of them were true believers? How many were only
in it for the fun, the freedom, the lawlessness Skall provided them?

*

12 years before execution

Nebran's chest swelled with pride as he stood over the
Vileran corpses. It was an insult to call it a battle their defenses were so
poor. But that was okay with him. His family didn't put up a fight either, yet
they still suffered, they still died.

That
was why they needed to be stopped. The Vilera knew nothing of peace,
compassion, or mercy. They were little more than mindless beasts, drunk on what
little power they thought they had.

Well,
they learned what true power was that day. He promised to destroy the monsters.
And they would learn that day.

Devur clapped his friend on the back, a wide grin on his
face. “That was a damn good hunt today, wasn't it?"

“Good
enough."

The
only difference was he gave them a quick death they didn't deserve. Foolish. He
should've took his time, played with them, made them scream and beg as his
mother had, and curse his name and his existence as his father had.

“Hey,
we got a survivor!"

Nebran
turned to the source of the shout. The Vileran was barely older than Nebran, no
more than 16. Her bright orange scales shimmered as her body shook with fear. A
puddle formed on the ground beneath her and the others laughed.

  She
received no mercy or compassion. She was their prisoner, their slave, their
toy. Every night, she begged and pleaded for mercy, for release.

 They
always laughed in response. Just like those Vilera who murdered his family,
stole his innocence and childhood.

Unable to take it anymore, he killed her when the others
weren't looking.

*

Day of the execution

 With
a shuddering breath, he climbed to his feet. Crying like a child wasn't going
to help him. He learned that lesson already—no point in reviewing it now.   An adult moved on and made the difficult
decisions.

 The
sun had set, placing his room in darkness.

*

Six days before execution

 Devur glared at
him from the other side of the table. “What do you want, traitor?" he spat.

 “I
just wanted to see you," Nebran replied. “You know I could convince the council
to give you a lighter sentence if—"

 “If
I lift my tail like you did and think only for myself?" He spat at Nebran's
feet. “No, thanks. I'd rather die than live as their puppet."

 “Do
you not see what's happening? When we were young, all we dreamed about were
killing the Vilera and getting revenge. Don't you see? Over the years all we've
done is murder, steal, and rape then claimed it was justice. This is not us vs
them. The world is more complicated than that."

“Tell
that to the heartless bastards who murdered my family."

Nebran
slammed his fists against the table. “If we hadn't grown up orphans, would you
still feel that way? Or would you think about finding a solution that doesn't
turn you into the monster you revile! Grow up! You can't solve all your
problems with a gun!"

Devur
stood up. “You grow up. This isn't a children's story where everyone listens to
reason. The Vilera had their chance to listen. And now they pay the
consequences."

“And
so do you." He turned walked away. Gone was his childhood friend. Torn between
loyalty and duty, he wondered if he should've tried harder to convince Devur to
the right things. Skal and his rebel group were little more than children
throwing a tantrum because they didn't get their way.

No,
he couldn't think that way anymore. Devur made his choice; that much was clear.

And
Nebran had to accept that like a grownup.

*

Day of execution

Nebran woke up that morning, the reality it was the day
he would betray those he once called his friends sinking in like a stone in the
water.

The plan was simple. Raid the rebel's stronghold and put
an end to their spree of mindless murder once and for all.

One day he saw them as the true defenders of his country,
the next they were the  monsters they
vowed to destroy.

And he promised to destroy the monsters. He didn't know
when he changed sides. He was just glad he did. He could never live with
himself if he became like them.

The rebels defense was pitiful at best and they
surrendered quickly. They had become used to attacking those who didn't have
the weapons or the experience to fight back. They were nothing more than
bandits claiming to rally behind a noble cause and they didn't even realize it.

I promised to destroy the monsters. That thought
gave Nebran the strength to search the halls he used to roam, the rooms he used
to sleep in, and hunt down those he once called friend.

Devur was right about one thing. They were no longer
children. Accepting the consequences was part of growing up..

Adult or not, Nebran couldn't bring himself to watch the
execution. To see his former friends and comrades in arms marched up to the
executioner's block and hanged while a crowd watched and cheered.

The sun was setting by time the last of his old family
had stopped swinging from their ropes and the sounds of the crowd outside had
died down.

He sat on the floor, knees pulled up to his chest like a
small child.