I’ve always been afraid of the dark, or rather what lurks in its shadowed sanctuary.

I’d heard the stories. Of course I’d heard the stories: The tales of monsters and darkness and heroes, stories that held a place in the hearts of everyone. These were stories of valour and victory, but what lay with me those cold nights as I tossed and turned, were the looming faces of the alien creatures, chthonic faces not even a mother could begin to love. Nights like this, I woke in deep sweat, if I slept at all. Even now, almost seventeen, the thought of these… things made me shiver. They never left me a moment of peace.

Not even the theatrical yarns and chilling nightmares could have prepared me for facing the real thing. Especially not in pitch black.

I stood in the arena, ready to prove my worth to this village I could hope to call home, welcoming the fear that boiled inside me.

“Fear is good. It makes you alert,” my mother had said that morning as she kissed my forehead and offered goodbyes.

The creature glared down at me, all 10 foot of its ugliness bristling and growling. It’s desperate, hungry eyes were a familiar orange, like a candle flame or small spiral sun. Despite the immense darkness, I felt as if I should be wearing shades, or simply shielding my eyes from the glow of its.

I wanted to screamed, to yell, to signal for aid but I knew I must face this alone. I was a ruthless fighter, like my mother and her father and the man before him.

I was a warrior.

Or I was supposed to be.