Page 3 of Castor

“Out of the way, mortal,” he said. “I have no ill will toward you.”

She swooped me up into her arms and ran into the house. My heart thrummed wildly as I panicked. Who was he? What did he want? She slammed the door and locked it before grabbing my dagger off the shelf.

The door burst open with a loud bang, and the man walked inside.

She took a defensive stance between me and him. “I know who you are. And you willnottake my son.”

“He’s the child of a deserter,” the man calmly said, stopping several feet in front of us. “Caim betrayed his brethren and wreaks havoc on the world with Lucifer and his army as we speak.”

“Caim is a good man.” Her hand shook as she pointed the dagger at him.

The white-haired man glared. “He slaughters innocents. Tears families apart. And you think him good.” He took a step closer. “You’re blinded by your love for him.”

“I know who Caim serves,” Mother spat at him. “But he has a kind heart beneath it all.”

“A kindness he only shows to you and the child crying at your side.”

“There are many casualties of war,” she said. “Caim is helping cleanse the world.”

“Cleanse the world?” The man lurched forward and knocked the dagger out of her hand. “Humans are so selfish. Your husband is wicked, yet you still love him.”

She pushed against the man’s chest. “Leave!”

With a flick of his hand, he sent her flying to the side of the room.

“Mother!” I tried running after her, but the man grabbed the back of my hair and yanked me backward. “Let me go!”

“I should kill you,” he snarled, his eyes lethal as they burned into mine. “Yet, you’ll serve another purpose.”

I kicked at him as he dragged me outside, but I wasn’t strong enough. He was too big. His large white wings then lifted us into the air.

“Castor!” Mother ran out of the house and looked up at me, her cheeks wet with tears. “Don’t take my son! Please, I beg of you!”

I held out my hand toward her and cried as he took me higher.

That was the last time I ever saw her alive.

I learned the man’s name was Lazarus. He commanded the warrior class of angels and intended to train me to become a warrior too. I was shown to a small room with no windows and a lumpy mat on the floor. Days passed in my isolation from the outside world. I cried. Punched the wall. And cried some more.

I missed my mother.

Then, Lazarus came for me. He dragged me from my room and led me to a field that had targets at one end—the kind to shoot arrows into. I didn’t recognize my surroundings. Other than two small buildings and the training arena, there was nothing but fields of grass, trees, and a nearby stream.

“Here is where you’ll train,” he said.

“Train for what?”

“For war.”

“Why?”

“Your blood is powerful. And one day, you will defeat your father with that power.”

“Never!” I hissed before attacking him.

He easily dodged me and shoved me to the grass. “You’re spirited. Good. Yet, that spirit is wasted on me. I am not your enemy.”

“I want to go home!” I pushed to my feet and charged at him again.