Xeredahl

Part 1

(Since I'm not so cruel that I would slam the entire thing on you in one post, I'm just gonna have short parts)

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From day one he knew exactly what was expected of him. As a demon born with a type of one of the four horsemen, it was no secret that the next ninety years or so of his life would be meticulously planned out so that he could be sold. If he didn't prove strong enough to survive until thirty, he would be thrown away as fodder. If he made it, then he would be sold as a showcase, a trophy to demonstrate the immense wealth of his new owner, so rich that they could buy a horsemen demon as a prize.

Being sold as a trophy was only one of the options, though. Once he hit forty he would start training to be sold as a fighter demon, one that could be bought to strengthen the pack of his owner. Sixty was the age that he would be transferred from the trophy auction block to the fighter auction block. After all, every demon pack wanted a horseman in their group. A famine demon was no less sought after than a death demon. If anything, they were sought after more, since famine demons usually took less effort to break in if they weren't already properly behaved.

If he wasn't sold by ninety, he would be let loose to fend for himself in the outside world, where he would likely be killed within the first few days. Not many demons survived without a pack of their own, and not many packs wanted a rogue demon. Often too much trouble to deal with, so they would kill the rogue. After all, since they weren't bought, there must be something wrong with them.

It was the life that Xeredahl was destined to live. His entire life from the day he was born consisted of three options, and none of them were up to him to decide.

**

By the time Xeredahl hit thirty, it was already clear that he wasn't going to be sold as a trophy. He had everything that the buyers didn't want. Bulky horns too thick to even be remotely considered elegant, hard features, and an even harder stare. His white hair was chopped unevenly from where he refused to sit still and his wings were studded with little bone teeth on all the edges, perfect for ripping into something. All that with a rotten attitude to boot and there was no hope for him.

Nevertheless though, he was put up on the auction block every year, dully repeating the same routine every day until he started his training at forty. It was there he began to show some semblance of life, never resting until he was ordered back to his quarters.

Although he shared it with many other horsemen demons, Xeredahl didn't know any one of their names. You didn't make friends here, you didn't try. Those who did were ultimately torn apart in some way or another, so Xeredahl had never bothered. He went through his laid out life with bitter eyes and a stubborn jaw.

The only plan he ever had was to reach ninety and set off so he could make a life on his own. Dangers of the outside world without a pack be damned. He knew he could do it. He didn't need a pack to survive. But the only way to get there was to not be sold, and he had already succeeded in making a name for himself on the auction block. No one wanted to buy a stubborn horseman. They were usually bad enough when they were docile. Stubborn horsemen were more hassle than they were worth, since they were more powerful than other types of demons. Even the young ones were a pain to deal with.

He was seventy when he started feeling some glimmer of hope, deep down in his chest. Ninety meant freedom. And surely seventy was close to ninety.

When the time rolled around for the auctions again, the famine demon went emotionlessly to his usual block. It was the pre-auction showcasing, when the buyers could "examine the merchandise" as they put it. It was the same every year.

Xeredahl growled at his handlers as they fastened the collar around his neck, the long chain attached to the wall with his hands chained in similar fashion. Standard procedure, to make sure none of those being sold accidentally took out a buyer's eye.