text: [Themes: fantasy, action, war, fantasy]
  
  In a monastery deep in the mountains, Brother Samuel mulls over the scattered parchments on his desk. The lone candle in the center offers little light, but Samuel is used to reading in such circumstances. The mug of mead helps with eye-strain, at least that's what he told himself. Earlier in life Samuel might have complained at the project in front of him, but with age comes a sense of responsibility along with a greater appreciation for tasks that didn't stress his aching joints.
  
  Brother Samuel lifts the mug to his mouth only to discover the contents empty.
  
  "Bah, one of these days I'm going to get a bigger cup," he mutters to himself and rises from his seat.
  
  As he moves, his plain robe sways in the air as if drapes hung over an open window. With one hand around the mug, and the other grasping his walking cane, he exits the monestary's library. The simple gray stones lining the hallway appear black, except for the small area around the lit torches, not that Brother Samuel required sight to navigate his way around. The silence of the night is disturbed by the steady tap, tap, tap of his wooden cane on the stone floor.
  
  Samuel enters the kitchen to discover it's not empty. A young girl with bright blonde hair is on the floor with a bucket and rag. She scrubs at the floor, purposefully, ensuring every inch of the floor is spotless.
  
  "Child, what are you doing? It's the middle of the night," Samuel asks.
  
  "Brother Trevor said I need to scrub every inch of the kitchen to atone," she answers.
  
  "Brother Trevor can lick a slug. Children need their sleep," Samuel replies.
  
  She girl laughs. "Ew!"
  
  "What are you atoning for?"
  
  "Complaining."
  
  Brother Samuel begins to answer when he hears a noise from outside. Was it from within the monastery walls? No, the sudden crash wasn't muffled or distorted at all. It had to have originated in the open air. The girl hasn't returned to scrubbing, which means she heard it too; it wasn't just the mead.
  
  "Go back to bed, girl. I'll handle Brother Trevor in the morning," Samuel quietly speaks.
  
  She nods and leaves the kitchen. Brother Samuel places his empty mug on the counter and heads to the outside door. This time, he walks upright without the use of the cane. The open night air stings Brother Samuel's wrinkled skin. The full moon illuminates the surrounding grassy hilltops. Trees sprinkled on the slopes cast dark shadows, creating pockets of darkness. No bandit had come close to the monastery in years. Even criminals were smart enough to keep their distance. If they weren't, they learned quickly. Subtle movement on the hill catches his eye. The night air suddenly felt much colder.
  
  Drawing on a lifetime of training as well as several cups of mead, Brother Samuel calmly walks towards the movement. Nearing the origin of the movement, Samuel suddenly feels the presence of someone, or something. Then he sees it. A boy lies collapsed in the grass. His clothes are tattered and several deep scratches line his arms and legs. His skin appears dark, although closer observation reveals it to be dirt.
  
  Brother Samuel approaches the boy to check for signs of vitality. His fingers check for a pulse. It's there, but barely. As Samuel leans to pick the boy up, a chill runs down his spine. He feels another's presence. Samuel slowly brings his gaze up in front of him. A figure, masked in shadowy wisps, stands unmoving before him. Two crimson eyes peer through the darkness directly on Samuel.
  
  "You'll not harm the boy, shade," Brother Samuel speaks. He activates the divine magic seals on his cane for emphasis. The wood begins to emit holy light infusing its strength through Brother Samuel's body.
  
  The shade doesn't react. Then Samuel begins to hear a slow, resonating laugh. The laughter isn't audible, it feels as if it originates and echoes within Samuel's head. In a swirl of black mist, the shade vanishes into the night. The mocking laugh begins to slowly subside within Samuel's head. Samuel scoops his arms under the unconscious boy and lifts him from the ground.
  
  "You're safe now, child," he whispers to you.
  
  [Author's Note: There is no escaping our nature. It simply exists. The voice within me, the one that causes me to commit terrible deeds, burns a low ember. Still, it remains, always present, always looking for fuel to burn. It wants to escape. I feel its lust. It wants to devour. This day is no different. I must battle the darkness within. Author's note: In various sections, you will be given the option to view a simultaneous event happening in the story. While not directly affecting you, the reader's path, they may create a more cinematic feel to the story. Originally written as the last page for Sixteen Words, I hope you enjoy my full adaptation of Contemplation.]
  
  > Chapter 1: Childhood
  When I reflect upon my childhood, mixed emotions rise. On one hand, I appreciate the strict devotion of the monks. They knew who they were, which is more than could be said for the average person. On the other hand, a sinister, underlying ideology tainted their religion; the monks would only accept infants without any worldly or familial experience.
  
  I imagined my arrival to the monastery to be a result of loving parents wanting a better life for me. It was a good lie to believe at a young age. The monks accepted me, even though I was much older than an infant. That fact alone made me different from my peers and hurled me straight to the bottom of the hierarchy. The lie I told myself about my parents was one of the things that kept me going.
  
  The monks were zealous in their beliefs, not allowing impurities of the body and mind to affect their training. I'm grateful for the discipline instilled in me at a young age. It made things easier. Not that it was an easy life. Rising before the sun to train, only to spend the daylight hours training even more, wasn't an easy life. Habits are hard to break and the monks broke all of mine early on. My training became much more than lessons in discipline; it became a way of life.