by S D Simper
From her pocket dimension, Etolié withdrew her letter. She offered it to the half-demon she adored, who risked martyrdom to save a woman she had led an army to destroy.
Sora had the boat and began positioning children within its confines, balancing their weight with care. Khastra tucked the letter into her armor, safe from blood and by discovery from her superiors. “I—” Etolié cut herself off, the words fluttering in her stomach and rising in her throat. They burned, but they longed to be free, and Etolié, in the midst of a carnage-stained canal, clasping a child on the verge of falling asleep, covered in sweat and blood and her own tears, whispered the words, “I love you.”
Khastra said nothing, merely bent over and touched their lips together, gentle until Etolié deepened it with her tongue. All the pain and sorrow and hope of the past few days sealed them together, and for a beautiful, breathless moment, Etolié kissed the woman she loved, cupped her cheek and tangled her hand in her matted braid.
Against her lips, Khastra whispered, “I have loved you for so long.”
Etolié pulled back, fresh tears brimming in her eyes. A great divide sat before them, carved by politics and regret and cruel, evil men, but their hearts were one, and for a brief, exhilarating moment, Etolié felt hope.
Lunestra lived, and with her the heart of the Theocracy. The tragedy would never be forgotten, thousands of souls awaited vengeance, but a flickering candle shone through the darkness.
“Etolié, we have to go.”
Etolié placed a final kiss upon Khastra’s lips, lingering in her presence a moment before turning to Sora, who beckoned for her to come. Seven children sat in the boat, with Lunestra and Sora waiting on the shore.
Etolié squeezed Khastra’s hand and released. She walked toward the boat.
She was stopped by a slow clap and a chuckle that chilled her heart.
From the shadows emerged Murishani, flanked by a small battalion of skeletons. “Such a beautiful reunion! General Khastra, you and your love truly are a story for the ages—two lovers, divided by fate but stealing kisses upon the battlefield. It warms my heart, truly.” His smile was infectious, yet it filled Etolié with dread. “Sora, dear, you won’t get far.” He snapped, and the skeletons lifted bows, aimed at the boat full of children. “Do not fear. Imperator Casvir wants the story to be told, for the tale to spread of his victory here today. What use is there if there are no survivors?” He looked to Etolié, mischief spreading into his grin. “Now, kindly come with me. The imperator surely has words for you. Valliant of you, to come this far.”
Sora drew her dagger. The skeletons drew their bowstrings. “My friends aren’t particularly intelligent,” Murishani said, gesturing to the undead around him, “but endlessly loyal and absolute perfection at their one task. Now, Sora, you wouldn’t wish to be responsible for more deaths than necessary, would you?”
Sora slipped her dagger back into her sheath. The skeletons lowered their bows. “Come with me,” he said. “All of you.”
They were escorted through the streets: Etolié, Lunestra, Sora, and the eight children in their charge. Etolié stayed as near to Khastra as she dared, busy shushing the trembling girl in her arms. “Ceile, it’ll be all right, I swear,” she whispered. “They said they’ll let us go.” The girl tucked her face in Etolié’s shoulder, hiding from the carnage.
What remained of the cathedral were ruins, shattered by the dragon who sat in what was once the chapel. Entire walls lay stripped away, revealing the statue still standing, the benevolent Goddess cursed to gaze upon her ruined city. A battalion of death filled the entire square and beyond—the sea seemed endless, filled with nightmares sure to haunt Etolié all her life.
She prayed she lived long enough to fear them.
Standing triumphant at the footsteps of what was once the cathedral, Casvir was as still as a statue, stone until Murishani waved for his attention. “Casvir, won’t you take a look at the marvelous gift General Khastra brought for you? She found them attempting to sneak out through the canals.”
Casvir removed his helm, revealing his glowing, red eyes, his severe face pulling into a frown as they approached. “Magister Etolié,” he said, nodding in acknowledgement, and then to Sora, no name, but a slight nod. Then, he looked to Lunestra, and Etolié’s very soul recoiled at the slow spread of his smile. “Viceroy Murishani, separate them.”
It happened quickly—Khastra grabbed Etolié’s shoulder and yanked her back, her grip iron. Sora stood between Lunestra and Murishani, wielding a dagger in her off-hand. The woman would die to defend the Goddess’ speaker, Etolié knew, but neither expected Casvir himself to approach.
“In deference to our kingdoms’ alliance, you live this once.” The imperator backhanded Sora across the face, sending her dagger clattering to the stone steps and her stumbling into Murishani’s grip. When she struggled, the viceroy’s eyes suddenly flashed silver, and Sora gasped, frozen as a faint glow surrounded her body.
“Be still,” Murishani whispered in her ear. “A soul would be a terrible thing to lose.”
Casvir gazed upon Lunestra and the cowering children, the ancient archbishop standing tall as he surveyed her. He glanced to Etolié. “And that one.”
He meant Ceile, and for what purpose, Etolié feared to truly contemplate. But she knew—fucking hell, she knew. Trembling, Etolié struggled to place the now-shrieking child upon the ground. “No, Etolié, no—don’t let them take me!”
“It’ll just be a moment. Close your eyes. It’ll—”
“Close your eyes, Starshine—”
Etolié’s stomach lurched, lip quivering as she clutched the sobbing girl to her chest, her cries so familiar, reminiscent of a little Celestial girl cowering from a monster. Beyond, the ghouls watched the group of children like fresh meat. She looked to Casvir, his stare nothing less than relentless, piercing through to her very soul. And though it took every ounce of courage she still held, she stepped forward.
She felt so very small, but though he was Imperator, godly blood flowed through her veins. Steeling her resolve, she recalled the truth she should not know—that her life had been paid for.
Imperator Casvir could not kill her.
“Imperator, these children mean nothing to you,” she said, strength and fury rising in tandem with each chosen word. “If you slaughter them here, before Sol Kareena’s statue, you’ll be known as a monster.”
“Then I shall slaughter them behind her back, if that would preserve your sensitivities.” The barest glimmer of annoyance threatened to break through his forced stoicism—Etolié saw the faint twitch of his lip, the narrowing of his red eyes. “My forces slew thousands of children this day, and you would bargain for these eight?”
At the word ‘bargain,’ Etolié’s blood pounded loud in her ears. She pressed Ceile’s face to her shoulder, hiding her lest Casvir chose to kill her nonetheless. “I suppose I would.”
Subtle intrigue shone in Casvir’s gaze. “They mean nothing to me, but everything to you. What will you offer?”
In the tense moments of silence, Etolié dared not look to Khastra, nor to Sora, still held in Murishani’s grasp. She thought a thousand different things, of money and trinkets and all manner of useless tripe Casvir wouldn’t care for, but the loudest thought of all was Ceile’s gentle gasping, her cries quieting as she clung to Etolié’s hair.
Anxiety stilled her tongue. Casvir waited. She merely stared, her racing thoughts stilling, settling on nothing.
“Well?”
“I-I . . .” Etolié glanced back to the children and Lunestra, wondering how many she could carry if she tried to run, and how quickly the dragon would drag her down. “What do you want?”
“I want every last citizen of this city dead. Offer me something better.”
Etolié stepped back—and perhaps that was her mistake, for Casvir came forward, and in his hand he summoned his weapon of dark matter. There was murder in his stone visage. “Set the child down,” he said, “or mak
e me an offer. I grow impatient.”
In a moment either too brave or too stupid to fathom, Etolié spread her wings aloft and shot into the air, Ceile in her arms—
Only for a large, clawed hand to grab her foot and tear her down. Pain radiated from her ankle, until the ground came to cushion her. She heard herself cry out, heard Sora’s scream of “no,” saw blood drip from her head onto the stone floor, and when she looked up, it was Casvir’s fearsome silhouette, illuminated by silver moonlight leering above her. She pushed Ceile away; if she were to die this day, she would not sacrifice a child to go with her. Instead, she alone stared into the shadowy visage of the man who would be god—
A great hammer came down. Thunder sounded upon the steps, along with a caustic wash of black ichor splattering across Etolié’s body. Children screamed; beside her Ceile was covered in that same viscous substance. Between them was a massive shard of metal—any closer and it would have impaled her.
And there beneath the purple, glowing gem, nearly as long as Etolié was tall, she saw the remains of mutilated flesh and broken bones, crushed armor and a twitching, clawed hand. Beside Etolié was a second one—all around, the imperator’s remains lay strewn.
“Oh, my,” came a breathless, tenor voice, and though Etolié struggled to sit up, she did with Ceile’s coaxing. Murishani released Sora, who collapsed into a heap. Never had Etolié seen him look so pale.
Khastra stared blankly upon her carnage, the quiet rage in her glowing eyes steadily falling into something pained. When she released the hammer, it remained a stone statue upon the ground, sealed in black ichor upon the cathedral steps.
Etolié finally breathed, realizing she’d lost feeling in her limbs. She watched Murishani’s gaze drift slowly from Casvir’s remains to Khastra, who took an idle step backward, and then another. The half-demon’s exhausted gaze never left her fallen imperator.
The world shook.
The dead shrieked. Khastra’s stance faltered. The children screamed, and Etolié looked out to see Lunestra stumble and Murishani look to the sky in wonder. Etolié’s stomach lurched, and had she been standing, she surely would have fallen to her knees. As it was, she vomited on the ground, her head reeling at the sudden influx of magic.
The entire sky illuminated in silver.
As though the moon itself had exploded, silver light radiated across the sky, its origin far away, yet the entire fabric of the world lurched in response, threatened to tear at the seams.
When the light faded, it left the lingering question of why.
Etolié stood up, grime and gore coating her body, and stepped away from circle of children. Her gaze shifted between the sky and the carnage before her, the remains of blood and skin and armor forever cursing the steps of this once holy place.
In the residual silence, the whole world held its breath.
* * *
The door creaked open, and an irate voice immediately cried, “What have you done to my home?! My wards are all but—” Odessa’s voice faded at the sight of Flowridia in the doorway, shaking from the weight she cradled in her arms.
Flowridia’s lip trembled, and she brushed past Odessa’s ghostly form, ignoring the floating phantasmal as she stepped toward the back room.
The cauldron waited, Ayla’s body still dried and withered inside. With all the tenderness her exhausted muscles could muster, Flowridia laid Lara’s body onto the floor, cringing at the blood splattered along her arms and clothing. But there was no time for revulsion and no time to grieve; instead, Flowridia pulled up a chair and stood upon it, arranging the chains and hooks above the cauldron.
Odessa’s voice startled her. “And this is your dearest Lara?”
Flowridia nearly shattered at the thought but nodded nonetheless.
“Flower Child, what happened? Even I could feel the energy swirling in my swamp.” When Flowridia didn’t immediately respond, Odessa flew directly into her face. “I would like to clarify that I’m dead. I don’t feel things.”
“The God of Order was here,” Flowridia whispered, stepping down from her chair. “Lara sacrificed her life to save me.”
Trembling, she stole a knife from the wall and cut a careful line down the center of her ruined dress. She removed the gown and set it aside, along with the rest of Lara’s clothing. With all the care her limited strength could give, she scooped Lara’s mutilated, nude form into her arms and cradled her close.
“Good of him, to slit her throat for you.” Odessa grinned; Flowridia’s blood turned to ice.
Flowridia said nothing, merely heard his hateful words and wondered how in the hells he had known. He knew her future, always stood a step ahead of her own fate, and now he’d slaughtered someone she held dear and it came with the dreadful question of why.
He’d thrown Lara at her feet. Paved the way to victory. Someday she would hold a knife to his throat and demand the truths he veiled.
But for now, there was no rest. Get up. Move forward. Yet she trembled as fresh sobs shook her form.
With her arms clutching Lara’s corpse, she mourned a friend—dear and true and perhaps something more—who had given her life to save her.
For a terrible moment, she contemplated the dangerous notion of restoring Lara’s life. Her hands stroked tender lines upon the empress’ face, the radiant potential of undeath waiting at her finger tips, asking only for a host.
But wouldn’t that be the cruelest act of all? Lara herself had called it a hellish fate. Undead foxes were one thing; what would Lara’s life be besides stagnation and grief?
No matter her actions now, the Moon’s blood died with Empress Alauriel, and with it the Silver Fire. All she could do was let Lara rest.
“Flower Child!” A frantic voice interrupted her wallowing. “Come here!”
Though pained beyond measure, Flowridia gently laid the body onto the floor. She stood, frowning at the desperation in Odessa’s voice. Out in the dark main room, the ghost flickered faintly by the window, staring outside. Flowridia joined her. Lights in the distance met her view, flickering faintly.
“Do you know what that means?” Odessa said darkly, and Flowridia shook her head. “You’ve been followed.”
“Followed?”
“Your friends caused quite a bit of commotion here. It seems you attracted attention.”
Realization struck her, and Flowridia gripped the windowsill tight. She, the witch, had returned to the village, had killed to save herself, and then an earth-shaking catastrophe had ensued in the swamp.
“Over the years, countless mobs came to try and find me,” Odessa mused. “But my wards deterred them. Now, we’re an open wound. There’s nothing to stop them from finding you.” She stopped, and Flowridia cowered when she felt her gaze. “Do you know what they do to witches, Sweet Flower Child?”
Flowridia shut her eyes, but still the distant lights danced behind her eyelids.
“They burn them.”
Run, her mind whispered. She could take the body and live. But all else would burn. Lara’s sacrifice would be nothing, forgotten. Demitri’s fate would be sealed. All that work, all she’d done—
“NO!” she screamed. Something shattered in her mind, a glass barrier, translucent and confining. She shrieked as she punched the wall, uncaring at the pain in her knuckles.
In the ensuing silence, her cry echoed from the walls. She steadied her breathing, fury rising with each exhale. Her failures had damned Demitri, damned Lara and Ana, but she could still save Ayla.
“Damn yourself, and have no regrets.”
Flowridia returned to the cauldron, her mind static as she lifted Lara’s corpse into her arms.
Odessa’s light filled the room. “Did you hear anything I said?”
Flowridia ignored her, struggling to balance the small woman well enough to grasp one of the hooks.
“Gods, Flower Child, you were always prone to daydreaming. Fine. I’ll help.”
Around the chains, a ghostly hue suddenly illuminated.
Flowridia nearly stumbled from the chair, clutching Lara’s body protectively as they moved on their own accord. One wrenched through one of the holes in Lara’s back, the sickening squish of flesh sure to haunt Flowridia until her dying day.
Fresh tears clouded her vision, but Flowridia forced herself to watch the ghastly chains do their bitter work. “All but powerless, are you?” she said, and beside her, Odessa chuckled.
The limp body swung slightly as the chains ceased their sentience, Lara’s arms dangling down. The blood from her throat slowly dripped down her chin and face.
“Now,” Odessa said, her panic thinly veiled, “this could take hours. Or minutes. There’s truly no telling, though I might recommend slitting her wrists to help the blood flow faster.”
Flowridia stepped down from the stool, mind muted to all but the task ahead as she took back the knife.
“That said,” Odessa continued, her voice resuming its normal pleasantries, “I do know a few tricks for speeding this sort of ritual along.” Already, she moved to her wall of jars, her eyes studying the ingredients. “Just a sprinkle or two of a few herbs and we’ll—”
She stopped when Flowridia pointed the knife at Odessa’s throat. It would do nothing, Flowridia knew, but by every god—Mother’s words made her sick. “Don’t you dare.”
Sanguine innocence pouted Odessa’s lip. “Flower Child—”
“‘A few choice herbs and she’ll be mine to command,’ yes? If you even so much as look at that body, I’ll leave your house to burn, you bitch.”
For a beautiful moment, Flowridia forgot her sorrow and regret; for there in Odessa’s visage was a flicker of true fear.
She turned away, breaking their stare, and stepped up onto the stool again.
Skin sliced. Blood dripped from the fresh wounds on Lara’s wrists. Where it touched, Ayla’s body seemed to absorb it, patches of skin growing flush with life before fading again. Lara’s eyelids opened into an eerie slit, revealing only white. Flowridia withdrew the ear from around her neck, removed the chain, and stared a moment at the desiccated piece.