Chapter 1: Mundane Quarrels
Staring out into the field of bloodshed, I cannot help but think how pointless it is. The humans' screams and minotaurs' grunts travel through the iron air. Bringing shudders to those awaiting death. But I do not shudder or quiver. That is for humans, or as others call them: the weak vermin of Ruzulia. But have I any right to call them humans? When I am half one. My father, kind as he is, is foolish. He believes the humans have been stripped of some eternal right.
When our former king took a fleet of men off into the minotaur's kingdom, they were attacked. Our king was just passing through to make religious peace with the dwarfish king. But minotaurs, hotblooded as they are, took no time to listen to our king's pleas. When he died, the humans became outraged. We declared war on the minotaurs and tried to ally ourselves with the dwarves and elves; as expected, they didn't help us. My mother, the elven queen, would never do such a thing. My father, being human was outraged at her. Twenty-two years ago my mother came to the human kingdom. She met my father and got pregnant. But what awaited her at home was an outraged elven king. When I was born she was forced to take me back to my father to be raised.
Unlike most other people, I have the right to two kingdoms. The elven and the human. Yet I am hated in both. The humans hate the strong, fair elf in me, and the elves hate the drastic, hard-headed human in me. But I don't care. The only person I see is my father; and it is impossible for him to hate me.
Snapping out of my reverie, I adjust the waist strap of my sword. My sword. The only memory I have of my mother. It's a classically made elven sword. The blade has a light blue tint to it and is long and sharp. The blade is very thin and one inch wide at the cross guard. As the blade grows longer it slowly and gradually gets thinner until it is an impossibly sharp point. The cross guard is adorned with two sapphires with an emerald in the center. The handle is strong steel with soft cloth wrapping it for grip. Lastly, the pommel. With the signature molding of a silver leaf sticking out of the end, there is also a crown surrounding it, in symbolism of its royal makings.
I hear a grunt and swerve around. A seven-foot tall minotaur is standing with axe drawn. The ring between his notrils quiver as he snorts. He stares with his bloodshot eyes and brandishes the axe that will soon swing for me. The minotaur charges. I don't even need to use my sword. As if second nature I spin to the right and grab his wrist. With my other hand, I use it to flip him over and off the cliff I was standing on. I hear a soft thud as he hits the ground.
Off the horizon there are many warships coming in from the sea. I walk off the cliff and land lightly as I walk toward the coast.
"The battle," I murmur to myself, "has only begun."
Its a bit short but it is just a self-reflecting chapter to start off the story.