In the deep of the pool, where the smooth flat rocks above gave way to a sudden drowning shaft lined by sharp edges of jagged flint, where the earth was riddled with hidden passageways and retreats in which to dwell, Lazarus dreamed.

His mind was dull like a blade that had never been tested. What use had he for thought? Was thought the way of his ancestors? Seven-thousandth son of greatness, the beast was one of countless born on a nameless shore where the tides rushed towards the land and filled rock-lined pools at the coast with strange, petty life. In those pools were strangler octopi, and sharp-bodied urchins, thin herrings, yellow-shelled scavenger crabs, lurking flat mudfish, and whole colonies of life too small and too countless for their bodies to be told apart. All struggling to kill each other, and thrive.

The lobster-spawn were born as small as a human’s finger, with grey and translucent armor softer than clay. Their great ancestor gave birth to them in the shallows, venting a tide of scuttling children from its shell, enough to turn the waves silver for a moment. As it retreated back into the depths, the tides pushed its spawn towards the pools.

They flopped and struggled. Their claws were still unformed. Thousands were eaten, glistening bits of meat with no protection but the hope their predator would fill itself on their brothers instead. For days the stones were thick with their bodies and birds flocked to peck them away, the fish below gathering them up in gulping mouths, the sun striking their bodies if they tried to flee the drowning pits onto land, the sea washing them back if they tried to swim.

For days Lazarus had struggled as the waves swept in and out. At the tide’s height, the pool in which fate had put him was fully beneath the waves, and sleek sea-fish would dart in running their thin whiskers through the mud to search for his brothers and sisters. These were moments of hiding and laying-low as the predators circled above and cast their shadows into the depths of his fearful soul. When the tide retreated the pool kept none of the water, sinking to a puddle, and this was worse, for his world became four body-lengths high, barely enough to maneuver. In those moments the world shrunk to claustrophobia and madness. No room for escape, only for fighting, clawing, killing.

He survived.

Soon the shore was no longer heavy with a crawling layer of siblings. Only thin bits of their milky-grey husk remained in the depths of the pools, soft, never given the chance to harden.

Soon his body was black as wrought iron and tinged with blood where it rose to spikes.

Soon his claws were heavy crushing things meant for brute force.

Small terns and gulls come to dig slimy things from the sand were hauled down by his weight, as his claws hung him from their necks and his legs pulled. Great fat fish were dragged from the depths, up towards the light, for they would drown in air as those above would in water. It was good. The struggle made his muscles sting and the moment when sky became water his heart rung with fierce pride in his strength.

He would have done so forever. Until he lost, and his shell was laid open, the meat below picked clean. Until the world broke him, Lazarus would have fought and clawed and dreamed of his ancestry, of the distant shape he’d seen once, a vast shadow on the sea like an island of dark armor.

It would have been enough. He did not believe he had the strongest claw, the thickest shell. Stronger and harder siblings than him had died in the mad rush of birth. He had an animal’s dull instincts, and a burning thorn of hate in his heart, hate for fear and weakness, hate for knowing smallness in those first days. His world was small and brutal.

Then the world split open and he was here.

In a strange, calm water, sweet and free of the sea’s brine. Where the struggle was not so fierce, where the sky wasn’t full of predators and the depths knew him as their king. Just one of seven-thousand sons to an uncaring leviathan, what did Lazarus know of kindness? His brothers he had eaten without mercy, as they would’ve eaten him.

Yet he was given a name. Yet the voice spoke into his mind, as calm and clear as the waters.

The anger faded. Oh, it had flared and spat, it had been bitter till the end. But it had nowhere left to grow within him now. Lazarus had never needed a mind before. His claw, his shell, his spite - these had been enough.

But for the last few days he had thought, trying to find a reason he had been chosen. He could not.

There was one conclusion he had reached. Just one. In his slow mind the thought formed like an oyster making pearls of grit. Not just that he had to protect the great spirit that had sheltered him. No. That was already clear. His thought was that no-one else could.

They were too kind.

Now the second thought came, and it was treason. Once more he would have to take, having already been given too much. He would have to steal. He had no excuse, only the knowledge he was too weak to do his duty, and that the enemy would be upon them soon. It had to be done now, while the great spirit's attention was elsewhere.

Stirring himself out of his thoughtful slumber, Lazarus dove for the depths of the pool.

---

"Awaken."

The legion was weak. They had fought with fury once, their wings buzzing, their jaws biting. The world had been soft with meat to take and the red hunger had been easy to fill.

Now the world was ash, and they slept. Burrowed into cocoons of sickly-yellow amber that soothed their gnawing hunger-pains and cooled their burning war-minds. They stood like pillars of gemstone yellow in the depths of a black waste where all had been burned and that which remained, had been devoured.

The wind hadn’t moved for centuries. But now there was a thin, bloodstained scent that rose in the air, and the blankets of thin ash began to flutter as the wind lifted them from the ground. Bones glared up from beneath. The remains of the last enemy.

Cracking sounds rang out as the soldiers tore themselves free. Their bodies were no longer thick with muscle. It had been so long, so long, and they stared at their withered hands and pockmarked warskin with distress. Their jaws clicked as they cried out in anger.

How long had they slept?

“Go now. There is one you must kill.” The gods voice rang out. His word commanded them with no hope of breaking free, although they hated him, more than anything. “One last enemy, and then I’ll cure you of your hunger.” He lied. He always lied.

Already that hunger was taking their minds from them. They had been proud people, once, before it wormed its way into their bellies and made beasts of them. Before the days of the swarm, falling on all that lived and weeping with self-hate as the hunger drove them to strip flesh from bone.

It would have been a mercy if their god had let them sleep forever. Dreaming the only dream that mattered, the one where they had never lost themselves and done the unthinkable.

As they stared upwards, the sky broke open. A rift formed in space that showed them a desert, caught in a violent storm, the red sand taking to the air as the wind howled. A place where there was only a single jewel of green in an endless wasteland.

The part of them that had known mercy wept to see their world so lifeless. It was a world they had helped destroy, to their shame. But the red hunger only saw a last morsel to chew away.

“You are too weak to fight now, you have slept for too long, but we have time. Fill your bellies. Make yourselves ready. I’ll take the strongest five.”

They looked at each other, weary. They knew what he meant.

There was nothing left to eat but their brothers. And so the sky filled with war-cries.