The Sting of Victory

by S D Simper

  Soliel stepped back, hands raised in defense. “I would not have harmed her. I only need-”

  Again, the monster roared, the sound reverberating against Flowridia’s entire body.

  “We have a bargain-”

  This time, behind the inhuman screech sounded a single word, one that held the rumbling threat of a god, but with it the fury of its undead hostess, their voices combining in an abominable, ear-splitting sound: “Leave!”

  Soliel stepped back, fear in his human eyes. A God he might be, Flowridia realized, but he had yet to attain his true power. When Izthuni leered forward, Flowridia tucked safe against its form, Soliel nearly fell back. “I will leave-”

  Flowridia felt the roar more than heard it and curled into Izthuni’s grip to cover her ears. When she looked up again, she saw the last vestiges of flame as the God of Order disappeared – to where, she did not know.

  Then, light.

  Blinding light touched The Endless Night. From the cathedral, Meira emerged.

  Not Meira. Meira’s sightless eyes glowed with holy light, her entire form lit from within by divinity. Her figure swelled and grew, glowing from every pore as Sol Kareena’s form emerged. The Goddess pulled aside the cowl covering her face, and her hair, as golden as the rest of her sunlit features, flowed behind. A spear appeared in her hand, the other cradling something unknown.

  Those in the crowd gasped. Some bowed. Eionei stumbled to his feet, then knelt on one knee. Ayla – Izthuni – actively shrieked as the Goddess stepped closer, and Flowridia saw its skin begin to burn before Sol Kareena’s light.

  Sol Kareena stepped forward, standing twice the height of the godly interloper. Spear aloft, she threw it forward.

  Perhaps to Ayla and her demonic possessor, it was a fleeting moment – Flowridia felt herself wrenched as The Endless Night twisted, standing between Flowridia and the Goddess of Light. But to Flowridia, the seconds grew long, feeling the tension in her capturer’s form as it curled to protect her.

  The spear pierced through the monster, driving straight through Ayla and through Flowridia. Flowridia felt nothing, the weapon passing harmlessly, but realized the spear had thrust out the possessing demon. She saw Izthuni fade in tandem with the weapon, returning to his realm with nothing to anchor his form to this world.

  Flowridia fell to the ground, the orb kept tight to her chest and saw Ayla, only Ayla, but infused with holy light. She burned from within, the elven woman’s skin cracking, divinity shining out. The unholy scream tearing from her throat spoke of agony, every piece of her bursting as light shattered her undead form.

  The Goddess turned her sights onto Flowridia, but she barely felt it. Instead, she ran to Ayla, the light fading and leaving only a blackened husk. Ayla withered before her eyes, mummified and stiff, the thousand-year-old monster returned to her natural age.

  She fell forward; Flowridia caught her and, oh, she was cold. Colder than Flowridia had ever felt.

  Flowridia screamed. In her hand, the white orb glowed, blinding even to her, but she screamed, anguish escaping her throat. Yet, she heard nothing. Her throat burned, but the world turned grey, like the demonic realm from whence Ayla had come.

  The white orb sang, and from far away she felt something dark resonate, some other half yearning to be joined, a manifest destiny beckoning her to come.

  Ayla felt so cold.

  The world ruptured into sound and color. Flowridia curled around the corpse of her love, weeping amidst the chaos.

  Sol Kareena’s voice – Meira’s voice – boomed above all. “This body burns from within. My time is short.” In her arms, she set down her precious cargo – a body.

  Sora’s body.

  The half-elf began to glow, more blinding than the Goddess looming before her. “Sora Fireborn,” the Goddess said, “you will not die this day. Rise, and be my new champion.”

  When the light faded, perched on Sora’s chest was a small bird, one that rose and fell with her gasping breaths.

  Then, the Goddess knelt before the prone, still body of Khastra – returned to her natural state in death. “There is a place among mine for De’Sindai. For her sacrifice, Khastra’s soul will-”

  “Sol Kareena, please,” came the reply, and Flowridia saw Etolié, returned to her natural form, fall to her knees. “You can save her.”

  Sol Kareena turned her searing gaze onto Etolié, whose tear-stained visage dared to face the Goddess. “The cost is one you cannot pay, Daughter of Staella. Sora’s life is repaid in Meira’s sacrifice. Khastra has pledged to no one, but she has given her life for my people. If she will accept me in her afterlife, I will care for her soul like my own child.”

  Flowridia clutched the stiff corpse to her body, flinching when Sol Kareena set her gaze to her. Like staring into the sun itself, yet Flowridia couldn’t look away.

  “Your fate is a thousand tangled strings, Child of Odessa, but you were mine first. Pledge to me, and I will unravel them for you.”

  Flowridia cowered and clutched the withered corpse, her tears evaporating under the Goddess’ light. When she hesitated, the Goddess said, “Be careful, lest you become no different than the monsters you seek to tame.” Sol Kareena pulled her cowl back over her head. Light faded. She began to shrink.

  Meira deShamira fell to the earth, utterly still.

  Then, a wave of nausea struck her. Dizzy, she realized everyone had been hit by the same vertigo. Flowridia held tight to the body, ignoring the wolf pup who desperately licked at her feet.

  It began as a sizzling in the air, then it pulled into a line. A rip in space, one that opened wide like a door.

  A demon stepped out of the portal. Sickly blue, like a drowned corpse, colored nearly eight feet of monster, a monster wearing a frightening ensemble of jagged, blackened armor. White hair pulled back into a tail accentuated his sweeping horns, and familiar red eyes surveyed the scene.

  They landed on Flowridia. Heavy, armored steps echoed against stone.

  Somewhere, Flowridia heard the crowd whisper. “Imperator Casvir-?” “The Tyrant of Nox’Kartha-?”

  Enormous claws reached out to snatch her from the ground.

  He lifted her up. Demitri snarled. Flowridia clung tight to Ayla’s body, unwilling to leave her behind but with no will to resist the arms that stole her. She stared down, vision blurred by misted eyes.

  The demon was gentle as he cradled her to his chest. The crowd stared wide-eyed as he stepped back toward the portal.

  Until Etolié rushed forward, standing with her small body between he and the rift in space. Her swollen eyes conveyed desperation, tears still streaming as the Celestial said, “Set her down.”

  The demon – Imperator Casvir – spoke with reserve, yet despite his quiet words, Flowridia heard unquestionable menace. “The girl’s soul is mine. I gave her all she has.”

  The flicker of confusion in Etolié’s demeanor was enough for Casvir to step beyond her, but Flowridia saw, in the seconds before the portal ate them whole, realization on the Celestial’s tear-streaked face.

  And fear.

  Then, Flowridia covered her eyes, prepared to face whatever hell had been prepared for her.

  Fresh vertigo struck. The world grew black and dotted with stars.

  Then, a hallway, well-lit and lined with stone and pillars of swirling black sand. Imperator Casvir pushed open a door before them.

  He set her on her feet, helping steady her as she surveyed the dark room, one lit by globes of light. Flowridia trembled as she stepped forward, clutching the cold and withered form of Ayla in her arms. The globes were not pure light, she realized, but glass orbs covering nearly every surface of the room – a bedroom by appearances, but with no bed.

  Protected within each globe lay some odd object. Flowers, so many flowers, but also a sliver of soap, a tea cup painted with lavender buds, the queen from a chess set, and so much more. A white tulip, small pastel buds – she gasped at the large, yellow blossom centered on a vanity. She had worn
this to Marielle’s ball.

  Flowridia realized she knew every flower – most from her hair.

  On the walls were drawings illustrating a story Flowridia had lived – portraits of her face, her smile, her blush. Some with Demitri, the pup lifelike as he leapt to kiss her, and others alone but surrounded by floral life, her garden, every individual lock of her hair meticulously drawn and braided with flowers.

  There was one, unfinished, lying on a desk beside a lock of black hair, preserved in glass and braided with icy blue flowers. In it, the couple danced, Flowridia’s eyes practically shining with adoration but her small companion was unfinished, her dress a mere sketch, her hair unshaded. Yet, brilliant, vibrant eyes looked back at the drawn Flowridia, pure joy in her gaze.

  A voice met Flowridia’s ears. “Her spirit lingers. I can feel it.”

  The gasping breath that tore from her throat could hardly be called that, but Flowridia managed to turn and face the demonic figure watching from the doorway. She clutched the blackened corpse to her body.

  Her demon from the woods – one with an offer she hadn’t refused.

  “Ayla is dead, but she is not gone. Save your tears; perhaps you can save her, in time.” His relentless gaze left hers. Imperator Casvir cast his eyes around the room. “All that was hers is now yours. I will leave you to collect what you would keep.” She let him leave, tears streaming freely. The door clicked shut.

  Flowridia sank to her knees, the weight in her arms the heaviest she had ever carried. Ayla’s face, blackened and mummified, held no semblance of her vibrant self – a shell with no vessel. Empty.

  Flowridia set the corpse upon the floor, and as she leaned over it, what dangled from her ruined shirt fell out – the ear, still chained, and as withered and decayed as the rest of Ayla’s body.

  Two earrings pierced the dead skin, shattered and cracked. The last shone a vivid blue – the final reminder of Ayla’s eyes.

  Whisper with intent . . .

  “Ayla,” she said, more a sob than words, “I wish . . . I wish . . .” She stopped, gasping for breath amidst her cries. Broken words spilled from her mouth. “Ayla, come home. Come back to me.”

  The earring cracked. All three shone a dull grey, ruined like their mistress. In the ensuing silence, Flowridia felt something dark caress the hollow of her heart.

  She let the ear fall back to her chest, tears overwhelming the lingering shambles of her strength.

  Flowridia cried herself to sleep.

  * * *

  “Flower Child, your tears make a terrible mop.”

  Flowridia clung to the wooden handle, vision blurred by her swollen eyes. She trembled, pushing the mop through the dripping puddle of blood, vain in her attempts to clear the floor of gore. Her mother’s blood, and that of the infant boy, mingled together and stained the dark wood.

  Even through her tear-stained vision, she saw the small, mutilated body on the table.

  The woolen cloth slunk across the absorbent floor. Her mind already glossed over what cleaning spell it would take to remove the rust-colored stains. Had she grown so calloused? To think of blood as simply another substance to remove from clothing and walls?

  No. The gaping wound in the infant’s stomach and the clenching in her own was testament to that.

  “Your empathy so often betrays you.” Mother, cleaned of blood and other fluids, wore a fresh gown and leaned against the doorframe. Sallow skin, paling from blood-loss, reflected the firelight, a demonic touch to her angelic beauty. “I never thought a protégé of mine could have such a tender heart, but any weakness can be purged.”

  “It’s a weakness to think murdering a newborn is sickening?” Flowridia’s tongue trembled, and she regretted the quiet words the moment they tumbled from her lips. She tried to catch them, to stuff them back down her throat, but before she could say more, a sharp slap met her face. Ear ringing, Flowridia merely stumbled, Mother’s strength subdued in her post-partum state.

  But it held no effect on her words. “Anything that holds power over you is a weakness,” Mother spat. “For something so simple as death to cripple you-”

  “This child committed no crime!” The mop clattered to the floor. Flowridia stood firm, rage loosening her tongue. “He was minutes old, and you murdered him!”

  Mother held a hand to her chest in mock offense. “I’m sorry, but who twisted the knife?”

  One blow hadn’t done it. Flowridia’s own hand had gutted the boy and stopped the painful wailing.

  Mother, with care to not stain her fresh clothing, took the corpse in her hands. “We’ll feast well tonight; a pitiful reward for nine months of labor, but a reward nonetheless.”

  Every fiber of Flowridia’s being screamed in revolt as she processed Mother’s words. Breath seizing, and compelled by a notion she couldn’t comprehend, Flowridia ran toward the front door.

  Thrown open, the noxious vapors of the swamp bombarded her senses. Daylight filtered through the dense trees, but only just. Phantom figures watched her, ghosts cursed to linger and guard their place of death.

  A new one had joined them. An infant boy watched her from the windowsill.

  “Running away? And where will you go, Flower Child?”

  Flowridia stopped in the doorway, hand gripping the damp wood as she shut her eyes and fought back tears. “I’m going home,” she wished she could say, but there was no home to go to.

  “I won’t stop you. But do you think running away will change the past?”

  Ice seeped into Flowridia’s veins, each pump of blood growing pained and loud.

  “Sometimes, Flower Child, despite all our efforts, all our labor, fate steals what we want through no fault of our own.”

  The voice held charm and light. When Flowridia turned her head back, she saw Mother’s hand resting sweetly on her chest, her demeanor kind, playing the mother Flowridia longed to have.

  “So, what do we do?” Mother asked, and she let her hand fall, landing lightly on her womb, now empty and cold. “We make do. We move forward.”

  Flowridia gazed out into the swamp, felt the damp odors threaten to nauseate her stomach. Should she step forward, the water might drown her. The trees smothered all light. Flowridia reached a hand out, her fingers caressing the invisible wards surrounding the home. Three years ago, she felt nothing. Now, they had become attuned to her being, and she saw the indiscernible cracks.

  Alone, she could not run, but if she could reach through the wards, perhaps she might find someone to rescue her. Perhaps she could reach out and bring someone in.

  Flowridia let her hand drop and pulled the door shut.

  “Good girl,” she heard from behind, and then Mother’s soft footsteps returned to the kitchen.

  Flowridia stooped down to pick up the mop from the floor, silent as a plot formed in her head.

  It was as Mother had said: Flowridia would move forward.

  Marielle paced. The events of the evening had shaken them all, and Zorlaeus knew that Marielle paced when stressed. Her hand kept coming up to her bosom, to touch the artifact no longer there, and each time he saw her flinch. He longed to comfort her.

  The time to steal away his beloved would come soon, but first a meeting. Zorlaeus stood behind the throne, knowing he was the outlier in the room.

  Thalmus’ hands shook, the only indicator that the half-giant registered the scene.

  A visitor stood among them – Empress Alauriel Solviraes sat in Etolié’s chair, speaking to a small hand mirror. “I’ll be here and awake. Call if there’s any sign of Flowridia-”

  Zorlaeus couldn’t make out the blubbering words spewing from the mirror, but Etolié sobbed. That much he understood.

  “At least we know she’ll be cared for.” Lara’s lip quivered, regal as she subdued her own sorrow. “Khastra’s mark on this kingdom will never be forgotten-”

  Again, Zorlaeus heard crying. Lara continued to try and console her.

  Khastra’s death weighed heavily upon the room
. Meira’s too, but her place at Sol Kareena’s side was assured. Her life would be celebrated, her end as spectacular as a devoted acolyte could hope for. Khastra would be mourned, beloved by all in her kingdom and others.

  Little mention of Ayla, however, beyond a muted delivery of facts. News of her death was, selfishly, a relief, though Zorlaeus feared it would be short-lived.

  What was something so petty as death to a creature such as Ayla Darkleaf?

  The empress put the mirror down, countenance heavy. Thalmus spoke, volcanic in his brewing anger, the threat of eruption constant, inevitable. “None of this explains or justifies Flowra’s kidnapping.”

  “Flowridia’s apparent kidnapping is an act of violence against Staelash,” Lara said softly, “unless Flowridia herself comes forward to defend him. In the meantime, we must consider retaliation. My kingdom is sworn to act on your behalf.”

  Zorlaeus saw fear in the young empress’ face and understood.

  “I’m willing to consider a diplomatic approach,” Marielle spat, “if Nox’Kartha will comply.” She stopped, fists clenching. Zorlaeus hesitantly reached out to grab one, feeling her hand relax in his. “Zorlaeus, there must be something we can do.”

  Zorlaeus stepped forward, cringing as the attention shifted to him. “I worked for Viceroy Murishani, but I’ve had enough interactions with Imperator Casvir to say that he is ruthless above all things. Honorable, yes. He’ll bring no harm to Flowridia, but for him to come and steal her-” Zorlaeus’ voice hitched, acutely aware of the vengeful half-giant who had stood up beside him. “Imperator Casvir would not have taken her without a purpose.”

  “What purpose?” Thalmus asked, and Zorlaeus held no doubt that if he misspoke, he would be a puddle beneath the man’s feet.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But with as strict an honor code as Casvir holds himself to, it makes me wonder-”

  A knock at the door pulled all focus.

  The door opened, and Flowridia herself stood between the doorframe, shadowed by the red-eyed Tyrant of Nox’Kartha.

  Zorlaeus immediately fell to one knee. Whatever protections granted by his betrothal to a foreign dignitary, it meant nothing if Casvir sensed any level of disrespect from a citizen, former or not.