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.