Some trigger warnings!
Sooooo just so you know what you’re stepping into, this story is set in a violent, sad world (although there are some happy moments…..) (….some) and I want you to be warned.
The prologue gets dark right at the beginning, but I promise it gets better afterward (for a while at least) 😅
I’ve included those TW into the text, so you can skip those parts if you’d rather.
TW:
Stillbirth – Prologue
Mention of SA (character talks about SA, no explicit scene) (but still) – Chapter 9 and 10
Graphic violence, especially in chapter 3 and 11
English is not my first language, so there might be some grammar/spelling mistakes, as hard as I try to avoid them!
I also need to edit chapter 1 to 4 to make some things more coherent, as some parts of the story have changed a bit since I wrote those first chapters and I haven’t gone yet to the editing part. But it’s ok after chapter 4!
Finally, I’d love to have your feedback about:
- the characters: are they relatable enough, do you find them coherent in their actions and thoughts, do you empathize with them or find them dislikable at any point? Who is remarkable/totally forgettable?
- the story: are the characters’ drives evident enough? Is the general pacing ok? Did you stop reading at one point because of difficulties understanding the plot/the action/anything else?
- any other comments you may have are appreciated! 😊
Thank you for reading, hope you enjoy it! 💗
"Come on, Babygirl. Breathe."
His pleas grew more frantic, and even the flickering candlelight couldn’t hide the infant’s lips turning bluer by the second. Her small body lay lifeless on the old dusty table, despite the frantic pressure he had been applying to her chest for the past minutes.
"Arden... It's over." The old lady’s voice was soft, barely audible in the silence thickening around them. "Let her go."
Arden pretended he hadn’t heard her, pretended the horrible truth she voiced hadn’t been clawing at him ever since she placed the frail, motionless body in his arms. He kept pressing on the tiny chest—pushing, releasing, pushing—over and over again.
It couldn’t end like this. He couldn’t lose both of them on the same day. The Old Gods could not be so cruel as to rip two beautiful, innocent souls from the world in a single merciless stroke. He would not allow it.
A hesitant hand lightly brushed his shoulder, and he abruptly turned to face the healer, his usually soft features constricted in a rage so white his jaws hurt.
"It is. Not. Over," he forced out through gritted teeth. "Not until I said so." The pity in her gaze was too much to bear. Arden turned away, resuming his hopeless effort to bring his daughter back. On the bed beside him, where he couldn’t dare to look, Leagh now lay forever still, her damp hair spilling in heavy curls around her serene face. He barely noticed the door’s weary creak, perhaps Alda going to fetch some help downstairs.
His own hands felt disproportionately large as he gently tilted the delicate head up. “Please, please. Come back. Please.” Tears were threatening to fall from his eyes, and he wiped them away in an angry swipe. “You can’t go yet, baby. You need to come back to me.” His heart clenched as he let despair take over for one everlasting second, everything in the room frozen around him, as if even the specks of dust floating in the air were suspended forever in the pale moonlight.
It was not supposed to go this way.
For months, life had felt miraculously lighter, ever since that day Leagh came to him, her eyes sparkling with a joy he had never believed could exist in their messed up, dangerous world.
Every little moment came rushing back to him. Her hands resting peacefully on her barely rounded belly as she sat by the fireplace during that bitter winter. The sweet, knowing smiles she gave whenever she caught him staring during a briefing. That night they never slept, waiting for hours after feeling the baby’s first kick. And their mock heated arguments about names, always ending in laughter so wild she begged him to stop…
How could it go so wrong, so fast? How could he be the one still alive, while Leagh was gone forever, before she could even lay eyes on her daughter?
She had been so sure they were having a boy, and he had silently let her dream aloud about how their son would grow up to be as brave, wacky, handsome, and stubborn as his father. But deep down, he had known—hoped, really—that she would give him a little girl, blessed with her mother’s fair hair and mischievous smile.
She would never know she had been the answer to every dream of his youth, and the gift of more than he had ever dared imagine.
The second ended and a sob rose in his throat, burning. He swallowed it like poison, knowing that letting it out would mean admitting his defeat. So he kept trying. Again.
Again.
Again.
The stench of blood was filling his nose, his brow covered in cold sweat, the lump in his throat getting bigger and bigger as he relentlessly went on.
Concerned whispers rose outside the door, and he couldn’t fathom how much time had passed since Alda had left them. A minute? An hour? It felt as if his whole life had been swallowed by this dreadful instant, his existence reduced to praying, begging, and even threatening the Old Gods to come for them himself if they didn’t let him keep the only thing still worth living for.
A loud creak told him he was no longer alone, and the heavy steps were so familiar he didn’t need to turn to know Talak was approaching.
“Out.” Arden spat the word, low and menacing, and felt his friend recoil at the harshness of his voice.
“Arden.”
No.
He wouldn’t—he couldn’t—acknowledge the sorrow in his friend’s voice. His fingers kept pressing against the baby’s chest in a rhythm growing hectic, as reality settled insidiously around him.
“Arden, come on, we need to -”
“Don’t. Don’t you fucking dare finish that sentence.”
His second-in-command fell silent at once, and Arden sensed rather than heard him shift into a tense stance. From the corner of his eye, he saw Talak cross to the bed by the window and adjust Leagh’s blanket, as if she were only napping. Then Talak bent to place a light kiss on her forehead before turning back to Arden and drawing a deep breath.
“Let them go together.” He paused, just long enough for Arden to hear the raw pain in his voice. “She’s gone. They’re gone.” Another pause. “Let them go together… so they’ll have each other while waiting for you.”
Arden went utterly still. His hands curled into fists, knuckles whitening as a buzzing filled his skull. The infant’s eyes remained closed, the deafening silence of her still heart driving an icy dagger into his chest, again and again.
“I can’t. I – I can’t.” He lowered his head, eyes shut tight, shoulders trembling as repressed sobs crept up his throat. “I failed Leagh. I did, I… I can’t. I can’t fail her too.”
He looked up as Talak stepped closer and gently took his arm, trying to turn him from the small body. “You didn’t, brother, you hear me? You didn’t fail her. You did everything that was in your power and then some more.”
Arden let out a lifeless sneer and raised his chin toward the bed in a brief nod. “Tell her that. Tell her how I did everything I could and still let our daughter die. Tell her…” His voice broke as he finally looked at his friend’s face. It was streaked with dried tears—tears he probably tried to hide before stepping into the bedroom.
Seeing the grief already etched into Talak’s features suddenly made it all feel unbearably real.
He would not be waking up.
This was happening.
Turning his gaze back to the baby, he admired her plump, round cheeks, and those small pouting lips that would never smile at him. Her fingers, so tiny, looking as fragile as ten little twigs, that he would never feel grasping his own. In the dim light he thought he could see the shimmer of her mother’s fair hair. Silent tears spilled down his face, and this time he made no effort to hold them back.
“Let me help you,” Talak whispered, “let me, please.”
With a softness Arden would never have guessed his friend could display, Talak wrapped the woolen blanket around the newborn and took her in his arms.
“Let me hold her,” Arden choked, “I need to hold her. Don’t take her away, let me—let me carry her, just this once.” Stretching out his shaking arms, he sat down on the armchair he had knocked aside in his frantic attempt to revive the baby, as Talak laid the almost weightless bundle in his lap and gave him a solemn nod.
“I’ll be right outside. Take as long as you need.” Quiet as a shadow, he left the grieving father to share his first—and only—moment with his daughter.
Arden could not tear his eyes away from her little face, so peaceful in her final rest. He placed a light kiss on her forehead, his tears slipping from his cheeks onto hers, clinging to her as if he could keep her with him. Her small head nestled in the crook of his neck. In a hushed voice, he began humming the old lullaby Leagh had taught him, slowly rocking back and forth.
As he finished, the quiet atmosphere fell once more heavily around them and he bathed in it, pretending for a moment that she had only fallen asleep after a dreadful night of crying herself hoarse. Just yesterday, Leagh had teased him that he would soon be begging for rest once the baby arrived.
Tonight he would have given anything to prove her right.
Raising from his chair, he finally mustered the courage to walk up to the bed, his vision blurring with each step he took, until he was standing right next to Leagh.
“You did so well my love.” Words started to spill raggedly from his lips. “You did so, so well Leagh… She’s…she’s absolutely—absolutely perfect, our little baby girl.”
He gently laid the girl in her mother’s lap, his heart tight with unbearable grief as he lifted Leagh’s slender arm and folded it around her daughter. His legs gave way at last and he collapsed to his knees, reaching for the baby’s tiny fingers while pressing his face against his wife’s chest.
Empty.
Utterly broken.
Unable to feel anything anymore but the devastating void that was taking hold of his soul.
A burst of heat escaped his body as an agonizing cry tore from his tear-stained lips, leaving him shaking with cold and weeping like a child, knowing he would never be able to stop now.
He was so deeply lost to the world it took him a full second to register the small fingers squeezing back his own.
Lifting his head slowly, unwilling to believe what his mind was screaming, his eyes found the baby’s face.
Just in time to see her open her mouth for the first time.
The piercing wail that echoed through the house was the most magnificent sound he had ever heard.
The old man was crawling back as far as he could, each movement sparking an excruciating pain in his broken leg, until his back hit the hard stone wall. The small house was miraculously still standing behind him, but would probably collapse any minute now, as the fire was slowly but surely licking the roof into a rain of ashes.
He lifted his arm to shield his face, waiting for the enraged soldier to swing his weapon in a blow that was certain to be fatal.
The moment seemed to last for an eternity, probably because to the entity watching the scene, it actually did. Time had no real meaning in its everlasting existence – if one could call it existing anyway.
For a reason based on nothing more than a fleeting hunch, it had a vague sense of being female – however, that fact was not relevant when its only task was to cut the last remaining tether of energy binding each human to life, as the countless other Harvesters around it were already busy doing.
A dozen twisted ribbons of light were flying upward in a spiraling motion, severed from their mortal sources by the inaudible snapping sound of silver shears. It would truly have been a breathtaking sight for any human, had they not been oblivious to the way people dying manifested on the invisible plane of nonexistence.
The long, colorful stripes were ascending as if carried by an upward wind, lining the sky with pulsing veins of every imaginable shade, all seemingly converging to a central point far above the ground and then spreading in every direction in an apparently random fashion. The celestial dome was nothing short of mesmerizing, an infinite canvas made of intertwined ribbons of life, the pattern only comprehensible for its creator who had left no clue about its intended design.
It went back to the execution scene, watching the old man’s bluish aura. It almost looked like a tight-fitting coat of mist being stirred up by invisible hands, the angry flapping of the thread that linked the man’s aura to the sky undoubtedly announcing his impending death. Readying its peculiar shears, it took a step forward but stopped almost immediately, noticing something that was somehow unexpected.
The soldier’s crimson aura was also growing restless around him. Small tendrils of energy were caressing his body like the flames of a newly lit fire, moving from his legs to his torso, his face, and finally twisting in an upward motion around his own life thread.
It tilted its head to one side, evaluating all the possible outcomes of this unusual setting. Centuries – millennia? – of not being had certainly deprived it of puzzling occasions like this one. Of course, once in a while humans went and did something wonderfully stupid or astonishingly tragic, and it had seen its fair share of epic battlefields and large-scale deadly epidemics. But really, most of it was boring and it did not really care anymore, not sure if it even ever had.
It crouched next to the elder, searching for a concealed weapon he would be about to drive into his unsuspecting opponent’s body but could find none. It doubted the broken stick lying next to him could do any permanent damage to the soldier, so it raised up and examined the warrior about to strike. His face was glowing with a vicious grin, ready to end his prey’s life, unquestionably enjoying the surge of power he was feeling in this fated moment.
The red aura was flickering, but as it passed its hand through the intangible essence, there was no visible darkened tint that could have indicated the man was sick and about to die from an undiagnosed heart condition out of nowhere.
Meaning the answer was obviously to be found outside the two men… Looking up, it saw the burning roof increasingly breaking apart, sheltering its two potential victims in a menacing embrace. Well, that riddle was probably solved. The building would soon collapse and kill two very human birds with one stone. If so, another Harvester was presumably about to join them, as both life threads couldn’t be cut simultaneously.
Inch by inch the sword was falling onto the old man, whose cringing face was covered in blood and ashes. No other entity came closer, and it wondered which of the two mortals had won the chance to experience an excruciatingly long agony, before their death arrived at last.
A gurgling sound answered that question as a swift, piercing arrow perforated the soldier’s throat in an exploding red mist.
What a disappointment. Archers always took the fun out of guessing, really.
A look of incredulity flashed in the soldier’s eyes before the shears freed the crimson thread in a quick cut. But whereas life ribbons were supposed to shoot upward, this one, as every other one it had ever harvested, did not join the others up there. Sure, at first, the sectioned thread began shaking and twirling freely above the head of its very dead owner. Until out of nowhere, a wave of energy bristled from its end, climbing up, up, up until it almost touched the central point of the tapestry. There, it broke with a dry, brittle sound and fell to the ground, gliding slowly in an elegant carefree dance. It watched it, knowing what would happen next. Indeed, the red ribbon never landed, but was suddenly aspired through the entity’s gaping mouth, passing through its ethereal body and dissolved into its chest.
The soldier’s corpse tumbled after a pause – a mere second for the mortals, another eternity for the Harvester – his sword keeping its initial trajectory. However, the lucky survivor had wisely taken advantage of the brief halt, shifting just enough for the weapon to plant itself right next to his foot.
Today was not the day for the old man to die, as his gradually calming aura, which had turned a striking blue once again, attested.
Sure enough, a small group of four people hurried toward him, two of them helping him up as quickly and carefully as possible. The other two, a petite woman with an unsophisticated blade and a tall, lean man with a longbow, were monitoring their surroundings, wary of any movement that could mean instant death.
“Move, move!” the archer shouted, aiming at an enemy warrior who was running toward them from the devastated village entrance.
The man might have been a killjoy when it came to the pleasure of speculating, but his aim was undeniably perfect. His enemy fell with a loud thump, but he didn’t waste any time witnessing him hit the ground. He began running with the others, disappearing shortly after in the deep forest surrounding the area.
It kept standing next to the soldier whose blood had pooled under his punctured neck and looked blankly around. Soon, the dead bodies would begin to decompose into the soil, the parched walls of the abandoned houses collapsing one stone at a time, leaving little evidence they had once been inhabited. Plants and flowers would invade the small town as no living soul would prevent them and weave their way up the empty fountain under the unconcerned stare of the forgotten goddess carved at its center.
Finally coming out of its contemplation, it felt the next commanding tug of fate and left the silent village without a second thought.
Arden surveyed the room that was getting fuller by the minute. Word had spread that the reconnaissance team had returned and people were growing anxious to learn what they had discovered, knowing the Vanguard’s next strike would be a decisive one.
Talak was standing by the entrance, greeting everyone with a slight nod, his frowning face betraying the exhaustion and apprehension he was failing to hide. Arden could not help but notice how his friend kept shifting from side to side, arms crossed on his broad chest as his narrowing eyes were scanning the assembly. Their squad hadn’t had time to rest for more than a couple of hours these past four days, and Arden too was feeling the weight of those sleepless nights on his shoulders. To be honest, he could not wait to collapse into his bed – however uncomfortable the tainted, thin mattress was – and spend the next twelve hours in a dead slumber. But people were expecting answers, so he would postpone his plans for a while longer.
Finally, two women dressed in light armor entered and stood against the wall in the back of the briefing room, which was buzzing with the hushed sounds of people whispering. Talak took a quick glance outside, then closed the wooden door, raising his chin to signal his commander they could begin.
Arden took a deep breath. Fate had made him their leader, but even after ten years, he was painstakingly aware of the consequences a poorly delivered speech could have on his people. Panic, for instance, could drive anyone to desperate measures, like selling information to the Order, bargaining for protection for their loved ones in return.
Distrust, on the other hand, would lead to someone fleeing in the middle of the night with precious resources that were already scarce to begin with, as had happened two days ago.
The thieving bastard was now buried somewhere on the rocky banks of the Illye while his grieving wife and son were being held in the decaying basement of an abandoned warehouse. The Rebels sometimes used it as a hideout when they needed to disappear for a while, but the isolated place also had the advantage of ensuring that no living soul could hear anything that happened there. Not that anyone in the neighborhood would have cared, really. The people in the slums were not very inclined to ask questions. Arden would have to deal with the unfortunate captives sooner or later and was hoping they would be reasonable enough to understand what a precarious situation they found themselves in, for their sake.
And, well, his own.
Getting rid of living liabilities would never be something he’d get used to, however quick or merciful he tried to be.
He suddenly realized all eyes were on him, waiting for him to start.
“First, let me thank you all for coming under such short notice,” he began in a confident tone. “I know some of you were on guard duty all day and I’ll try to keep this as short as possible, so as to let you enjoy a well-deserved rest.”
“Well, if you ask me, this one should get a double shift,” someone snorted in the back of the room, pointing to the man sitting right next to him. “He was literally drooling on my shoulder this afternoon!”
“Sorry Din, your sister exhausted me last night, I’ll ask her to go easy on me tonight!” The comeback elicited a few discreet laughs, and Arden welcomed the inappropriate comment that made the air feel less heavy, shaking his head with a grin.
“Glad to see the two of you are still competing for the lamest, most uninspired joke.” He hinted another smile, enjoying the brief respite the two soldiers had offered him after noticing how tense he seemed. His face grew serious again as he carried on. “So… As you know, the Divine Execution celebrations will take place in a week.” He paused and pointed to the city map hanging on the wall. “We’ve spent the last four days in hiding to learn the guards’ patrol routes and shifts, see if there’s any weakness we can use to our advantage.” His mouth twitched and he shook his head slowly. “I’m not gonna lie to you, there is an almost impossible task ahead of us. I won’t blame any of you for choosing to sit this mission out. Each one of you is entirely free to leave this instant. No harm, no foul.”
But just as he expected, nobody moved. The twenty or so men and women just kept staring at him, a few of them nodding slightly to encourage him to go on. Arden couldn’t help the feeling of pride and fear that rose in his chest. Each one of them was fully aware of how suicidal this operation was, and still they were willing to trust him, to give their life for something that was so much bigger than any of them. Clearing his throat, he bowed his head, acknowledging their courage – or stupidity.
“There is a heavily guarded building north of the palace, where they keep the prisoners until the Execution. The main entrance faces a widely open area, which makes it impossible to use without being seen.”
A lethal smile appeared on Arden’s face. “But as you know, we want to be seen.”
Murmurs of approbation mixed with concern arose from the crowd.
“We’ll need to divide into two groups,” he went on confidently. “The first team’s goal is obviously to rescue the prisoners and get them to safety. We’ve been in touch with Maghee, and she has gracefully agreed to hide them in the tavern’s basement.” Sarcastic chuckles echoed, as no one would ever begin to think of describing the blunt tavern’s keeper as “graceful”. “We’ll take the underground networks to get out of Corrabane and from there, head straight to Salthills.” The hidden base was the perfect place to lay low for a few weeks, as it was secluded enough to have remained secret since they established it a year ago.
“The second team’s objective, well…” He smirked and turned to Talak.
His second uncrossed his arms and his eyes lit up with a vicious glow.
“Chaos.”
The assembly was mainly made up of trained soldiers – quiet, level-headed people who usually showed restrain when it came to feelings. But as Talak uttered the word in a predatory, deadly tone, a fierce growl of approbation ran through the room.
“We’ve decided to target two locations far enough apart that the guards will have no choice but to divide their forces, giving the first team the greatest chance of success,” Talak went on, “As Commander Kilinvoy just reminded us, we want the Order to be painfully aware of our presence. But more than that, we want everyone to remember fighting back is a possibility. We want to give them something to believe in. This – ”, he gestured to the map “ – has to be the day we ignite a new spark of hope, anger and fire among the population.”
Hope, anger and fire indeed. But Arden knew that blood, terror and loss were the unspoken truths that inevitably came with their fight, no matter how justified they believed their cause to be.
He glanced at the people gathered in the room. Their faces showed nothing but unwavering, harsh determination. As their leader, he could not let them see anything less in his own eyes, as he spoke again. “There will be three groups of five, six people at most. Talak and I will each command a team, so we need someone to lead the last one. I’d also like a small group to be ready for us at Maghee’s, in case anyone gets injured and needs help getting out of the city.” If he was to be honest, this was truly not about whether someone would be injured, but rather how many. “Those who want to volunteer shall find us here tomorrow night, we’ll discuss the plan in detail then.”
Many acquiesced in solemn agreement, and Arden knew he would have no trouble recruiting more than enough willing fighters.
“Now if you don’t have any question…” Letting the sentence hang in the air, Arden prayed inwardly that people would take the hint at his visible exhaustion and was relieved when no one spoke. “Then you’re all dismissed.”
Nothing in this world would keep him apart from his bed any longer.
When he tentatively opened an eye, many, many hours later, the sun was already high in the morning sky. Arden groaned, putting his arm on his face to shield himself from the bright light coming from the curtainless window. A slightly annoyed voice spoke up beside him, and even if he couldn’t make out any of the words, he knew that his rest was definitely coming to an end.
“Come on, Clo…” he grunted as he turned his back to the girl watching him, her head tilted in an impatient way. “If you want your father to be a somewhat functioning human today, you’ll let him sleep for another hour or two…” Silence answered him. He closed his eyes again, his cheek resting on his crumpled pillow, ready to doze off in the warmth surrounding him.
A soft breath on his face made him suddenly blink. Cloheen’s nose was barely an inch from his, her head resting on her crossed arms on the edge of the mattress.
“Old Gods’ mercy, you won’t leave me alone now, will you?” Arden moaned while she stared at him with her deep blue gaze. She shook her head, grinning, and raised her head toward the foot of the bed.
“You haven’t even taken your clothes off from last night,” Cloheen sighed, the corner of her mouth curling upward in a disapproving way. “Or your boots.”
“Well, you obviously haven’t brushed your teeth this morning, so…”, he replied with one raised eyebrow.
She snorted and slapped him playfully, then got quickly to her feet, her strawberry blonde braid bouncing with the sudden move. “Come on now, get up! We have much to do today, remember?” Her joyous, overexcited tone was all the motivation he needed to wake up for good. Arden sat up and put his feet on the wooden floor, stretching his arms above his head with a humming sound, his muscles still sore from too many days of crouching in silence, carefully noting the Order’s members’ whereabouts. Running a hand in his unkept dark hair, he crossed his reflection in the mirror above the small wooden desk on the side of his bedroom. “Might be time for a haircut,” he frowned, pushing a greying strand away from his forehead, nature’s nice reminder of his upcoming fortieth birthday. As if having his daughter teasingly call him “Elder One” on a daily basis wasn’t enough.
“Might be time for a bath, you mean…” Cloheen answered slyly, putting her hands on her hips in a very judgmental attitude.
She disappeared through the door with a laugh as the pillow barely missed her giggling face.
A bucket of cold water and some fresh clothes later, Arden started feeling like himself once again. Following the promising smell of some infusing herbal tea, he opened the door to the kitchen and was not surprised to find Talak already waiting for him, reclining in his chair with his arms crossed behind his head. Helping himself to a small loaf of dark bread and some dried fruits, Arden sat down across from him, looking around with a searching gaze.
“Upstairs,” Talak answered his silent question with a grin. “Went looking for her lifescale, said she’d only be a minute and that you’d better be there when she came down.”
Arden scoffed, easily picturing his daughter saying those words out loud with a serious frown. She reminded him of Leagh in so many little ways. And today, out of any other day… Well, it was impossible not to think about Leagh. His eyes fixed on his steamy cup, he couldn’t help but wonder how different Cloheen would have turned out, had her mother survived. The girl was a blessing – a breathing, talking and laughing blessing – and his daily source of joyful wonder, as he watched her grow up, so slowly yet so fast. But… There were days he couldn’t help but feel crushed under the weight of loneliness that had never left him since she had come barging into his life. An instant wave of guilt came crashing over him. He missed Leagh with every fiber of his being, but she had left him the most precious gift of all.
As if reading his thoughts, Talak stretched his arms over his head. “Cloheen’s fine, Arden. Leagh would be proud of how you raised her”.
“Well, thankfully, I had some help,” Arden answered after a pause, smiling faintly.
His daughter’s noisy footsteps resonated down the stairs not a second later. “Oh great, you’re both here!” Cloheen leapt in the kitchen, hiding something behind her back, and gave her father a quick onceover, her lips twisting in a mischievous grin. “And you even managed to clean yourself up, Old Gods be thanked!”
“Seriously,” Arden said with a desperate sigh, “when did you start being such an insufferable smartass?”
“Watch your tone when speaking to my Lady, Elder One.” Talak tilted his head at Cloheen with a wink, and Arden rolled his eyes. He could tell when he was being outnumbered.
“Remind me again why I let you spend so much time together?” he groaned, shaking his head in mock disapproval.
“Mmm…”, she mused, her index finger resting on her chin. “Honestly? It’s could be because we both need to vent about you. But hey, who knows? Maybe we just like each other.”
Talak raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “On most days.”
Cloheen let out a sneer and shrugged, impervious to the teasing reply. Stretching her arm, she let Arden see the small, round wooden box he had made for her, when she was just a few months old. At some point, Cloheen had carved her name on the lid in a shaky handwriting, as well as a few other childish drawings, some easily recognizable, others… Well, let’s just say he was glad he had never encountered any of the half-bird, half-bug chimeras that came out of the kid’s wild imagination.
Cloheen gently put the box on the table and opened it with comically ceremonial care, then took out the long leather strap that was tucked inside, letting it unroll to the floor. Stretching it with both her hands, her eyes travelled its length, reviewing each marking her father had added on it since the day she was born. One for each year, one for each accomplishment. There, the height she was when she said her first word, and not very far, another fine line for her first steps. The first time she told him she loved him; the day she managed to climb a tree without help. That time she swam across a shallow pond; the first bone she ever broke. Cloheen collected those markers of time almost religiously, however insignificant they might seem to other people.
So did Arden. Glancing over his daughter’s shoulder, he spotted an inconspicuous but distinctive cross that made his throat tighten. The first seizure she had – well, not the first ever actually, but the first he had recorded when she had another some months later. He had thought it wise to monitor their frequency, just in case. The small symbols were evenly spaced at the beginning of the stripe but grew closer as years passed, disappearing around her seventh birthday mark. The seizures had been occurring on a weekly basis ever since, so Arden had decided to stop recording them.
Dragging a finger along the leather from above her shoulder, he pointed to the line he had carved a year ago. “Yep, just what I thought…”
Cloheen raised her head to him with a puzzled look on her face.
“See, right there?” He lowered his voice to a conspiratory tone. “That’s about when you stopped respecting your old man.” The joke drew a chuckle out of her and she turned to face him, just in time for him to lightly flick her nose.
“Come on, let’s add another year on this scale, Babygirl.” Stepping aside, he motioned for her to lean against the nearest wall.
“Dad. I’m turning twelve. Stop calling me that.” She adjusted her position, touching her heels to the bottom of the wall, and stood straight, fixing her gaze on a point far ahead, as if she could see past the faded tapestry, past the decrepit state of the house.
Arden took the thick iron nail that was still in the box and pushed it through the usual spot at the base of the wide strap. That hole was getting bigger each time, and the leather was beginning to tear here and there. But it should hopefully hold until she’d turn twenty, when the final birthmark would be added, thus completing the ancient custom from Leagh’s country.
“All right,” he said, nailing the lifescale right next to her left foot. “Let’s see how much you grew this year. Now don’t move…” He unrolled the strap along the wall, and took a kitchen knife, cutting a small line just above the level of her hair. “There!”
“Let me see, let me see!” she shouted, jumping up and down and reaching out for the lifescale.
Arden clicked his tongue, holding her back until he had carefully removed the nail. Cloheen practically ripped the strap from his hands the second he got up and laid it on the table. Without even watching her father, she held out her palm, ready for him to give her the nail so she could carve her age next to the new line. But before Arden could obey the silent command, Talak leaned forward over the table and took her other hand, turning it up to place a small package wrapped with rags in it. Cloheen raised her eyes to meet his, as he gave her a satisfied smile. “This should prove handy, should you need something with a pointy end.” Arden stiffened instantly at those words, biting the inside of his cheeks. Talak purposedly avoided his angry stare, but his body too had lost its casual nonchalance.
Her eyes wide with disbelief, Cloheen opened the gift and couldn’t help but yell in excitement as it revealed a short, sharp knife, its blade adorned with some delicate bugs, while a blooming poppy was curling its leafy stem around the handle. “It’s magnificent!” she whispered, admiring the beautifully crafted weapon from every angle. Her cheeks were flushed with gratitude as she nodded to him, grinning from ear to ear.
“You’re welcome, Lady. But -”, Talak raised a finger, “- it comes with a price. You are under strict obligation to come and train with me and your father, so we’ll teach you how to use it properly.” He risked a careful glance at his friend.
The hardness in Arden’s green eyes as he stared back at him spoke volumes. Between them, Cloheen was thankfully still in deep contemplation, utter delight written all over her smiling face. Had she just let the knife out of her sight for even a second, she couldn’t have missed the heavy unspoken words about to be fired.
Feeling the heat of anger burning his cheeks, Arden finally looked away, gritting his teeth.
This was a conversation they would be having later, just the two of them.
“She’s only twelve.”
The dawning sun was casting angry crimson shadows on the pavement, perfectly mirroring Arden’s foul mood as he strode down the busy street. The sweaty shirt that clung unpleasantly to his skin was doing nothing to improve his temper. The day was still hot, enhancing an incredible diversity of revolting smells from the shady stalls displaying not-so-fresh-looking products. It was almost impossible to tell what the merchants were selling, their bellowing attempts at baiting gullible customers drowned by the confusing mix of loud conversations and resounding laughter.
“She’s already twelve,” Talak answered matter-of-factly in a composed voice, keeping his commander’s swift pace and looking straight ahead. “We knew how to skin rabbits since we were barely half her age, Arden.”
“You had no fucking right, Tal,” Arden hissed through grinding teeth, not slowing down even a bit. “I’m her father.”
Talak sneered and gave him a sideways glance. “Don’t I fucking know it, brother! You’re as stubborn as she is.” Arden stopped abruptly in his tracks, a cloud of dirt rising around his boots, and shot him a deadly look.
“Now listen up, brother -” Arden snarled, raising his finger aggressively toward his second.
“– No, you listen and shut your big mouth, for once,” Talak interrupted him with a bark, his dark eyes shimmering with a barely restrained anger. He lowered his voice to a menacing whisper. “She’s. Ten. Her foolish father plans to take down an allegedly immortal dictator not a week from today. She spends more time around trained warriors than with kids her own age.” He paused, his jaws tightening. “She needs to learn how to defend herself. Not a year from now. Not a month from now. Today. That’s your fucking job as her gods-damned father.”
Arden’s right arm flexed as his fingers curled into a clenched fist. The words were scornful and harsh, but even amid the raging thoughts clouding his mind, he could hear the genuine concern buried under those bitter statements. Talak remained totally still, his narrowing eyes the only evidence he was getting ready for whatever would come next. The silence grew heavy between them, the two men gauging each other as if waiting to see who would strike first. Arden finally exhaled a deep, cooling breath, forcing his rapid heartbeat to slow down, and ran a hand through his damp hair. “You should have told me first.”
“I know,” Talak answered simply, his eyes unwavering. There was no denial in his voice; he knew he’d hurt his friend’s trust, going behind his back. But there was also no apology either, as he’d done what he’d thought had to be done. Cloheen was his family too, and he would stop at nothing to protect the girl.
That thought made Arden’s anger evaporate altogether. Shaking his head slowly, he sighed and rolled his eyes. “Well, at least she’ll have a moderately skilled teacher.”
“Why?” Talak smirked. “I thought I was the one supposed to train the girl.”
Arden scoffed as he turned on his heels and kept walking at a less hurried pace, Talak’s face still bright with a grin. Arden would never openly admit it, but his smug friend was indeed the most fearsome warrior he knew. And the only one he would ever trust with his or Cloheen’s life.
Still, the idea of his daughter holding a knife filled him with dread. Not that he didn’t trust her to learn how to use it efficiently; the girl was quick on her feet and could be as slippery as an eel when playing catch with the other kids from the neighborhood. She was somewhat short for her age, but that could give her an edge later on, if she indeed inherited her mother’s below-average height.
No, what left him numb with overwhelming fear was the knowledge that she would one day have to use it.
On someone.
And that this day would come sooner rather than later.
The knife wasn’t a mere weapon; it was a painful reminder of what her future would hold. Fear. Violence. Blood.
Death.
Arden had already lost countless loved ones to the massacres orchestrated by the Order. Fighting back was all he knew or could conceive, and against all reason, he kept a withering hope they would one day manage to overthrow the one who called himself their Living God.
Stupid, stupid hope.
These days, that foolish, flickering flame was the only thing keeping him from taking his daughter and running as fast and far away he could manage.
The house Arden and Talak finally stopped by had nothing appealing to anyone looking for a cozy place to settle, should someone be delusional enough to be looking for such a thing in the slums. The narrow two-story building was stuck at the far end of the blind alley, which was empty as ever – except for the occasional drunken fool getting lost in the dead of night. The house’s front door might have mirrored the wealth and fanciness of the owners, many lifetimes ago, when the poor districts were still a flourishing part of the city, with its flowery ornaments twisting and turning into elegant arabesques, some still bearing just the hint of scrapped-off faded paint. But the upper panel had since been fractured in several places, and someone had nailed a raw wooden plank on the inside to prevent a potential lurker from getting a glimpse. There were a few distinctive holes where an elegant iron handle should have been, which left people with no other option than to kick the already splintered bottom corner to let themselves in.
Yet, in many ways, that wooden door remained the most preserved element of the grim building.
Two windows, boarded up and covered by grime, loomed ominously over the filthy street; the blackened, crumbling walls were stained by countless streaks of a questionable liquid that pooled at their feet, increasing the stench of mold and rotting garbage that weighed in the air. People avoided lingering around, especially since rumors had started spreading about local mercenaries using it as a torture facility.
A few buckets of animal blood thrown on the threshold every few weeks were enough to keep the frightened whispers alive in the neighborhood, making this house the safest place in the capital, as far as the Blades were concerned.
A shred of greyish fabric was nailed to the frame of one of the second-floor windows, which elicited a sigh of relief from Arden. In some of his most vivid nightmares, he was frozen in front of the door, the small thread of cloth nowhere to be seen above him. Which could only mean that the Order had found them. In those horrific dreams, he could not bring himself to enter the house, knowing the bloodshed that would welcome him.
Talak knocked briefly twice on the smallest window on the ground floor, paused, then knocked three more times. After a short while, the front door opened silently, just long enough for the two men to enter. The room was shrouded in shadows, and it took their eyes a second to adjust, the only source of daylight coming from the stairs leading up. The inside of the house was far larger than its narrow front suggested. Over the years, the locals had constructed numerous sturdy – albeit modest – additions around the original building. Every shadowed inch had been utilized, with new walls leaning against the old, weathered structure. This created mismatched, uncanny layers, changing the original house into a towering edifice amidst the more recent constructions.
“Commander, Lieutenant,” the sentinel on duty greeted them with a brief tap of his right fist against his heart.
Arden nodded back, mimicking the salute. “Anything noteworthy while we were gone?”
The soldier shook his head. “Nothing out of the ordinary. The roof sentries spotted two Priests earlier this morning near the Eyrie Bridge; they spent two hours preaching about Our Holly Shittiness and left before noon.” He grinned. “There was some bet about whether any of us would be able to shoot an arrow that far, but we thought it unfair not to let you participate.”
Talak rubbed his chin, a wicked sparkle igniting in his eyes. “Well, I guess we might be able to settle that during the Execution, won’t we?”
“Indeed, Lieutenant. My bet’s on you, so please don’t disappoint,” the soldier finished with a wink. “Oh, and Carrick requested to see you as soon as you got back, Commander. He’s still with the kids.”
Arden thanked him and hurried up the stairs, careful to avoid the holes in the floor on his way, leaving his second with the sentinel.
There used to be at least four or five rooms up there, as suggested by the few rotten planks laid aside and the faded imprints on the floorboards where walls once stood, but time and the new occupants had taken care of dismantling them, leaving the whole floor open. Several mattresses were lying in the far-left corner, an improvised barrier made of dark curtain delimiting the sleeping area, where a woman fully dressed in her combat gear was napping. On the other side of the floor, far enough from the makeshift beds so people could sleep in relative quiet, a large table displayed a collection of blades and arrows, a few empty plates and bowls, a blank scroll and a small pile of discarded clothes.
It was also there that Arden spotted Cloheen sitting, tongue sticking out of her mouth while carving something on a small piece of wood with her knife. Her squinting blue eyes kept going from the book opened in front of her to her current task, her intense focus keeping her from noticing her father’s arrival.
A tender smile grew on Arden’s face. After a day of meeting with unsavory people of all kinds, enjoying the sight of her was a much-needed breath of fresh air. The Crimson Vanguard might be his whole life, but ultimately, she was his heart and soul. Which was why she would be leaving the capital tomorrow, along with the two younger kids who were watching her intently from either side. Carrick was to depart at sunrise to escort them to safety back in Salthill, where his team would join them after their upcoming operation.
It had been two months since Arden and Talak had temporarily settled in Corrabane in anticipation of the Divine Execution. Their plans to turn the celebration into chaos were easier to set up if they were already in the capital. Meaning Arden had had to take Cloheen with them, leaving her behind for such an extended period of time not being an option in his anxious mind.
Carrick was talking to a sentry near the south window but took his leave from the soldier shortly after noticing the commander was back. The old man whispered a few words to Cloheen as he made his way to Arden, making the girl raise her head for barely a second. Her sparkling blue gaze acknowledged her father’s presence with a joyful expression, before hastily returning to her carving.
“She spent most of her day working on it,” Carrick said in an amused tone. “That book you gave her has got the most fascinating species of bugs I’ve ever seen, she couldn’t stop talking about them.” He paused. “For hours.” The old man’s mouth twitched in an upward curl, leaving Arden with no doubt about how incessant his daughter’s chatter must have been. “The girl is an endless well of knowledge when it comes to small creatures.”
“She sure is,” Arden answered apologetically with a shake of his head, watching Cloheen as she proudly showed her art to her gasping audience. It was hard to tell from a distance, but it looked like a bunch of butterflies dancing in tall grass. He was glad she loved his birthday gift to her so much. Books were awfully hard to come by and came at no small price.
Carrick gently touched his arm to get his attention back. Sad concern was written all over his face. Arden’s eyes darkened. “Another one?” he asked in a barely audible voice.
“Yes. Her nose started bleeding out of nowhere and then she was falling to the floor before I could even catch her.” A heavy sigh. “It was a bad one, Arden. The last one was only three days ago... I’m not sure the tonic is effective anymore, it’s taking longer and longer each time for the seizures to stop.”
Arden’s shoulder slumped under the crushing weight of the news, the lump in his throat bobbing up and down with anxiety. “How is she?” The words came out with a sharp exhale.
“Tired. Otherwise, she seems fine, acting like nothing happened but… Well, you know her. She wouldn’t tell anyone, especially not you, but I saw how scared she was afterwards.”
Arden winced. Hearing about his daughter’s distress drove a gutting pain in his stomach.
“I’ll talk to her, tonight,” he declared, his voice trying to contain the insidious fear crawling up his spine. “She’ll get better once we’re back in Saltmills. I’ll go to the apothecary later tonight to get something stronger. She’s growing, and these episodes are leaving her weary. Of course she’d be tired.”
His muttered attempts at self-reassurance weren’t fooling anybody.
Not even himself.
It was no surprise to find the door closed. At this time of the night, the only souls wandering outside were either stumbling home, drunk on cheap liquors or expensive lust, or hunting for anything they couldn’t in broad daylight. A potential target. Weapons. Drugs.
His dark cloak wrapped around him, the hood hiding his resolute face, Arden fell into the second category. Moving silently around the apothecary’s shop, he made his way to the back entrance. A soft light was filtering through the gap under the door, inviting him to knock lightly. A chair moved inside, with a rustling of fabric. The window curtain opened for a second, letting Arden catch a glimpse of a familiar face. He took a step back as an unlocking sound was heard.
“Arden Kilinvoy,” the apothecary’s voice greeted him, “I was expecting you a bit earlier.”
“Sorry, Maeve,” he apologized with a smile, raising his palms up. “You know I hate to make such a pretty face waiting.”
“Such a flirt,” Maeve sighed, rolling her bright green eyes. “Come on in and lock the door behind you.” She strode through her cluttered office while he obeyed, her long flaxen hair swinging gracefully with each step.
Looking around, Arden removed his hood, inhaling the dizzying blend of scents. A heady mix of herbs, spices and flowers, along with a few he could not identify –for the best, probably. The desk was overflowing with flasks of all sizes and shapes, dried leaves and fresh flowers, some worn-out, leatherbound books and – was that a dead bird? His nose crinkled and he decided it was indeed best not to know where all the ambient smells were coming from.
“Olds Gods, I know I left them here…” Her annoyed voice was muffled as her upper body disappeared into a shabby pantry. “Ha! There it is.”
She came back holding two heavy-looking pouches and placed them carefully on the desk in front of him. Arden loosened the strings of the smallest one, examining the dark fine powder. It was shining with a threatening ruby glow under the dim light. He looked up at Maeve, whose lips were displaying a proud smile. Her eyes squinted as she crossed her arms and put an ink-stained finger on her chin.
“Some of those ingredients were really hard to come by, you know.”
“How much?” Arden’s voice came out harsher than he intended.
She stayed silent, scrutinizing the tense posture of the man standing in front of her. Finally, she let out a long breath, her arms falling to her sides.
“Take it.”
Now, that was not expected. Arden raised a questioning brow, waiting for her to explain.
“I’ve… I’ve been thinking. Ever since Talak came the other day to ask me for this,” – she gestured at the two pouches – “I’ve been pondering what my role should be in all of that. He told me a bit about what you idiots are planning, and I guess… I guess that’s just my way of helping.” Her slender frame shivered as she looked away.
Arden nodded, a silence full of unspoken words growing between them. As neither of them seemed inclined to break it, he stretched his arm to grab one of the small bags and –
“Stop.” Maeve said, putting her hand on his wrist. “What’s that?” She lifted his sleeve with her other hand to uncover the bloody cut underneath it.
“It’s nothing, really,” he said dismissively, trying to pull his arm free.
“Let me.” She covered the gash with her hand, focusing. “Maeve, really, it’s okay, you don’t have to –” She gave him a murderous stare. “Shut your gods-damned gorgeous mouth, if you know what’s good for you.”
Knowing there would be no talking her out of it, he did. He winced a bit as she put pressure on his forearm. Her skin was soft against his, a comforting warmth radiating from her body, finding its way into his. She had her eyes closed, her face a mere few inches from his.
“Gorgeous mouth, huh?” he chuckled with a grin. She clutched him a bit tighter, eliciting a sharp hiss from her patient.
“Don’t get cocky now. I was just describing the only good part of your anatomy and you know it.” She finally released him, a teasing smile on her lips. Arden smiled back, then brushed the skin of his own arm. It was smooth and pink, dried blood the only evidence of the shallow gash that used to be there a minute earlier.
“There,” she said with a satisfied tone, “as good as new. A shame you’re so eager to go and get yourself killed.”
A fugitive glimpse of bitterness crossed her face, then she abruptly turned her back to him, fumbling aimlessly with the clutter on the desk.
“You could come back, you know,” he finally let out in a barely audible whisper.
“Ha! That ship has long sailed for you and me, Kilinvoy,” she snorted, glancing at him over her shoulder. “As I told you before, I’m far too pretty looking to dress as a widow.” A flicker of hurt passed in her eyes. “Again.”
Arden shook his head, his mouth falling into a flat line. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.” He gazed at her intently and put a hand on his hip. “Salthills could really do with a gifted healer. We have kids there, old people. Injured soldiers. And don’t get me started on the state of those we manage to get out of the Order’s cells. They could really use your help.” He breathed softly. “I could really use your help.”
Her mouth opened slightly, as she heard the genuine plea hidden behind all those selfless excuses.
“Cloheen?”
He lowered his head in silent confirmation. Maeve sighed through her nose, concern and sorrow showing in the way the lines on her forehead deepened.
“How is she?”
Arden’s eyes suddenly felt hot and blurry. “She’s getting worse, Maeve. It’s almost every day now. She’s… I don’t know what to do. Those tonics you made for her, they’re – they’re not working anymore.”
He looked up and started pacing back and forth, running his hands through his dark hair. Maeve came closer and gently touched his arm. “I’m sorry, Arden.” Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, as she whispered, “I’ve searched everywhere. Read every book I could find, asked every healer I knew and…” She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “I’m sorry.”
The world went darker with those two damning words. Arden flinched, his fists tightening painfully. Something to hit – he needed something to hit, to crush, to smash. Now. Anything.
“I’m not giving up,” Maeve whispered, feeling the violence storming inside him. “You know I’ll never stop looking, Arden.”
He hissed a breath through his teeth and placed a hand on his forehead. “I know.”
Maeve looked away, and Arden caught something resembling guilt on her soft features. She bit her bottom lip, letting out a frustrated sigh with a shake of her head. She turned her palms up and watched them with disgusted contempt. “I wish… I wish I could do more, Arden,” she blurted. “I wish I had more than those useless parlor tricks, I wish I could –”
“Hey.” He grabbed the back of her hands and gently closed them inside his own. “Don’t. Don’t say stuff like that. Your little parlor tricks, as you say, have helped too many to count, whether in the Vanguard or in the slums. You should be proud – in fact, I forbid you to feel anything but proud of yourself, Maeve.” He raised her chin, and the flickering lights on her blushing cheeks reminded him why he had found himself in her bed, all those years ago.
Two grieving souls. Two broken human beings searching for something, someone to make them feel less empty inside, if only for an occasional night.
But Maeve had made her decision, and he couldn’t blame her. The Old Gods knew he didn’t expect to live for a very long time – it was already a miracle he was still breathing, to be fair. His only hope was that Cloheen would be old enough when it happened.
The moment passed. Arden slowly let his arm fall back to his side, and Maeve took a step back.
“I’ll give you something, for Clo,” she said with a confidence that felt a bit forced. She opened the bottom drawer of the desk and took out a small flask which was filled with the usual silvery tonic she’d created especially for Cloheen. “Give me just a minute.” She grabbed a few other things in the office, coming and going between her desk, the pantry and the several shelves nailed to the dusty walls. Mumbling to herself, she added a drop of this, a drop of that, a pinch of a greyish powder that could easily pass for ground pepper. Then she stirred the mixture before handing it to Arden.
“There.” She put her hands flat on her thighs, leaning back on her desk. “Now, I have to warn you, Arden. It’s stronger than what she’s used to. It won’t decrease the number of seizures, but hopefully, it will help with their length.”
Arden carefully observed the flask. The liquid was now tinged with green highlights, twisting and twirling in a mesmerizing dance. “Thanks, Maeve.” He put it in the inside pocket of his black cloak. “I was serious earlier, when I said you should come back with us.” He tilted his head, waiting for her answer.
“You know I can’t,” she said firmly after a short pause. “I’m needed here. There aren’t many healers around, but there’s an awful lot of people suffering. I just can’t leave them.”
“Maeve.” His face softened. “You’re not safe here. You know that. If the Order learned what you can do, they’d storm your office this very second, and you’d end up on the dais with those poor bastards they’re going to execute tomorrow. What you do here, it’s… It’s dangerous. It’s reckless. If any of your patients went to the –”
“You know my answer, Kilinvoy,” she interrupted. “And it’s dangerous everywhere anyway. I won’t leave.”
Her eyes were filled with determination and… regrets, maybe. He sighed and gave her a sad smile. “Can’t blame a guy for trying. If you ever change your mind…”
“I know.” She took the two leather pouches on the desk and put them in his hands. “Thank you, Arden.”
Knowing when to take his leave, he nodded and made the sacks disappear under his cloak. He turned to her one last time before opening the door.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Funny,” she said. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”
Humans were positively strange creatures.
Here there were, gathered by the thousands under an artistically weaved canopy of flowing strings of cloth.
Ribbons.
A gigantic maypole stood erect at the center of the vast esplanade before the palace. From its peak, thousands of shimmering threads radiated in every direction, their ends tied to the tallest surrounding buildings, creating a multicolored web that glistened in the daylight. The cool, striped shade it cast was a welcome respite from the scorching midday sun, and the artful canopy swayed gently in the light breeze. Two tall, white-marble fountains were flowing with crystal-clear water, the cool mist rising from the gigantic basins a blessing for the crowd squeezed tightly between them. No one dared to dip their hand in though, however hot the weather might be, however thirsty they might get. The punishment for desecrating the towering monuments involved losing said hand.
Families and neighbors were exchanging news, their whispers carrying over the place in a hushed commotion. There was no laughter, no shout, no particular noise that could be singled out in the mass – for they feared what would happen if they were too loud. Even the children seemed to understand the solemnity this ceremony called for and did their best to contain their excitement, their tiny bodies bouncing from one foot to another and small necks extended in an attempt to get a better view.
Some of the people attending the event were luckier though – well, wealthier, obviously. A tall tribunal stood facing the palace, behind the overcrowded esplanade. Members of the nobility and the richest houses of the city were chatting with enthusiasm, enjoying refreshments while waiting for the ceremony to begin.
The harvester was no mind reader, nor could it predict the future in any way. But after two thousand years, the Divine Execution was nothing more than a tick on the infinite calendar of the world, a recurring marker that time was at least running in the right direction. The ceremony was always the same. The audience was always the same. The terrified look of despair in the prisoner’s eyes was always the same.
Still, something was sparking a faint hint of wonder in the Harvester’s otherwise unbothered mind.
Could any of the humans standing down there suspect how close they were to the truth, how similar all this ornamentation looked to the invisible land between life and death?
Watching from a rooftop above the scene, it could not tell with certainty. It was difficult to discern whether someone, somewhere, sometime, had glimpsed through the veil of Death, planting the seeds of an ancient cult, or if it was merely an immense stroke of luck after centuries of tradition waxing and waning.
Not that it mattered really. But to the Harvester, it was like seeing double, ribbons of life swaying beside the long, colorful threads of satin in a silent thunderstorm. A breathtaking sight, one might say – provided one still breathed of course.
One detail could not be seen on the living side of things though. Although calling it a detail was truly the biggest understatement of the universe.
Among all the thin filaments of life swinging in motion with their very mortal owners, a massive column of light was soaring above the palace. Threads of every color were spiraling wildly around the incredibly thick height of it, expanding at the top in a broad threatening circle dominating the skies. It looked as if someone had mastered a raging tornado, holding it in the palm of their hand, ready to release it on the world with a simple command.
As if they could see it looming too, the crowd instantly went deadly quiet. The grand gates of the palace opened in a solemn silence, revealing a lonely figure.
Standing tall and imposing, he exuded an aura of divine authority. Clad in a garment of the purest white, the fabric appeared almost ethereal, accentuating his godly stature. Intricate green embroidery traced the collar of his vest, delicate yet striking against the pristine white. His cape, a deep luxuriant green that mirrored the embroidery, flowed behind him, adding to his regal presence, while long, curly black hair cascaded down his back, framing a face that commanded reverence and awe. Broad-shouldered and muscular, his physique spoke of strength and vitality, a testament to his divine heritage. Every step he took seemed confident, every glance filled with the wisdom and power of a living god. His subjects, mere mortals in his presence, could not help but feel the overwhelming majesty that surrounded him, their Ruler and their Deity. Fortunately, there was still something they could not see.
The apocalyptic whirling storm of life threads swirled menacingly above him, emanating directly from his essence.
The Divine Execution was about to begin.
The wait was always the worst part.
Dominating the scenery, the grand facade of the palace rose like an impenetrable fortress, massive columns of white marble lined up as so many unshakeable guardians. Arden ground his teeth, letting out nervous, sharp sighs through his nose. Throughout his whole adult life, he had meticulously avoided treading the spotless paved floor of the plaza. Naturally, as the Crimson Vanguard’s leader, it was only prudent that he spent as little time as possible on imperial ground. Yet, it was the vivid memories from his childhood – streams of scarlet blood dripping from the ceremonial staircase in an excruciatingly slow flow – that made him steer clear of this gods-damned place. The relentless stomping of the gathered crowd was not the only explanation for the eroded cobblestones – the thorough scrubbing the palace servants would undertake tomorrow would claim its fair share of stone dust too.
Fiddling with the hood of his dark red tunic, he listened to the crowd gathered in front of the palace. There were two distinct types of individuals here. The first group awaited their Living God to address them, their whispers rising in a frenzied state of religious fervor. They yearned to see Him, desperate to witness the proof of His Undying Existence. Ecstatic tears of bliss ran down their cheeks, their humming a collective chant of devotion. Arden flared his nostrils, utterly disgusted by the zealous display.
The others, far more numerous, bore only exhaustion and fear, etched into the lines of their sweating, dust-covered faces. They cast wary, discreet glances at the guards stationed at the foot of the stage behind them, where carefree nobles exchanged pleasantries, seemingly unaware—or perhaps deeply indifferent—to the city's battered and somber mood. Attendance at the celebration of the Divine Execution was mandatory for the capital inhabitants, and the army had been tasked with rounding up the reckless few who thought they could hide, as well as those too worn out by age and hard labor to make the journey on their own. Arden was relieved to see that some among the gathered, however rare, still had the strength to glare fiercely at the soldiers, their bodies radiating contained hatred and contempt. The tense way they stood, fists clenched, the cold fury etched on their faces — all of it reignited the flame in Arden's mind, steadying his breath. The Vanguard’s Blades existed solely for them. They would fight for the oppressed, the small, the sick, the mourning. Die for them. Anything to restore hope and freedom. And as for the other fanatics wringing their hands in synchronized prayers, they could all freeze in the Eternal Void, for all Arden cared.
Old Gods above, did they think this year’s ritual would be different from the year before? And the one before that? The man – the Deity – had been allegedly giving the same performance for more than a thousand years, what novelty could those senseless fools expect?
As cynical as Arden sounded in his own thoughts, he had to admit, however, that no rational explanation was to be found, no matter how long he thought about it.
A sudden, deadly silence spread instantaneously, only broken by the determinate steps of the Undying Ruler echoing throughout the plaza. Arden’s heart was now racing with anticipation and claustrophobia, squeezed as he was between the edge of the fountain and the family standing next to him. The father was carrying his daughter, who couldn’t be more than four or five, in his bare, tan arms. The ominous arrival of the Divine Ruler made the girl's eyes widen with disbelief as he stepped onto the ceremonial staircase, silent and commanding. “But... Dad,” she whispered, her indignant voice loud enough for Arden to hear, “you told me he was old! That’s not him, right?” The man gave her a stern look to shush her. She tucked her head into her shoulders, making herself smaller, and pressed her lips tightly together.
She was right, though. Not a single wrinkle marred the perfectly-defined forehead, not a single greying hair in his luxurious mane. Their Living God looked at least ten years younger than Arden himself, but something in his menacing aura spoke of a creature from the Old Ages.
There was a time when Arden had been just as enthralled as anyone else, a little boy gaping in awe in front of the embodied divinity who kindly lowered Himself to appear in front of them. He probably had been no older than the girl the first time his parents had brought him for the Execution – hoping a single glance from their Undying Protector would bless their son and daughter. Sayree’s small frame was nestled in their mother’s lap, unaware of the Miracle about to unfold, while his father had propped Arden up on his shoulders for a better view.
The innocent wonder had long since faded, leaving behind an intricate mix of burning hatred and fierce determination. Had the Ruler met Arden’s icy gaze, he would have felt the full weight of it all at once. There was no telling if that would get Arden thrown into jail for years, tortured for sheer pleasure, or simply killed on the spot. But the God simply stared into the distance, displaying the powerful calm of an eternal being, his contempt for the gathered mortals hidden behind a blank, blasé mask of indifference. Nothing in existence could reach him — neither flesh nor spirit.
The absence of guards beside him was no oversight, Arden knew. What did the bastard have to fear – immortal as he was? The calculated display of power was a brilliant strategy to keep the masses in line. Nobody would dare make a move, the memory of the last Execution seared into their minds.
There was a stirring in the crowd. People rose onto their toes, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the approaching figures. Clad in robes of emerald green, reminiscent of the Divine Ruler’s cape yet devoid of its intricate embroidery, the five High Priests of the Undying Faith ascended the stairs with a solemn, measured pace. Like specters, they formed a column, converging from each side of the raised platform before uniting in front of their God. Their eyes remained fixed on the floor, a display of utter submission as they knelt before him. The crowd held its breath, hearts pounding with a mix of anticipation and dread, knowing what was to come.
Slipping his hand into his pocket, Arden’s fingers cautiously searched for the leathery pouch hidden within.
He was ready.
Hidden from view behind the guardrail of a stone balcony, Talak swore silently, wiping the sweat of his brow. Two full days, the five of them had spent lying low in the tunnels branching out from Maghee’s basement. The city was swarming with guards as the Divine Execution was nearing, and it had been the safest way to ensure they could surface undetected in the heart of the city.
The damp stench of earth, fungi, and rotting roots, mixed with near-total darkness, had reminded Talak – once again – how deeply sunlight and fresh air were taken for granted. Time underground wasn’t unusual for the Vanguard. He still hated every second of it.
Now, he would have given anything for the slightest bit of shade, or clothes that didn’t reek of sweat, soil and fresh blood. Exhaling slowly, he took a second to check his team. The Vanguard fighters’ faces were stern and focused, a deadly determination burning in their squinting eyes. Like him, they understood the gravity of what was at stake. Like him, they had waited, yearning for this day with every fiber of their being.
Hope. Freedom. Revenge. The Blades wanted it all.
The High Priests had just made their chilling advent on the grand marble staircase, marking the commencement of an unspoken countdown before the attack could be launched. Their gliding figures stopped in front of the Divine Ruler, then groveled at his feet, the ridiculous exhibition of devotion drawing a loathing scoff out of Talak.
The glorious bastard doesn’t even seem to care at all.
The God’s face was indeed as expressionless as the many statues dedicated to his glory. Staring straight ahead, his powerful figure remained unnaturally still, seemingly unbothered by his overzealous devotees or the silent crowd. Well, that was about to change very soon.
The real challenge had laid in finding a vantage point high enough to keep the esplanade within shooting range while staying concealed. Their reconnaissance team had identified two buildings on either side of the plaza, in case one of the paths was too heavily guarded. Luck had been on their side, though. By the time they made it to the back entrance, the first target – a grand official residency usually reserved for visiting dignitaries – had been almost entirely vacated, save for the two now very dead soldiers lying in the adjacent bedroom. The wealthy occupants were presently indulging themselves in their private elevated pavilion, lounging comfortably in velvety chairs and colorful cushions, their every wish granted before it even crossed their minds.
A somber grin grew on Talak’s face. Those parasites were in it for quite a surprising – and bloody – show. Narrowing his eyes, he scanned the crowd below to trace Arden's path and found him already in position. Another Blade was stationed by the other fountain, poised and ready, waiting for the precise moment to act in synchrony with their Commander.
Raising three fingers, he signaled his squad to stand still. The litanies and rituals – unchanged for as long as anyone could remember – were the perfect time marker to coordinate their moves.
"So..." Talak whispered devilishly, a wicked gleam in his eyes, "I guess it's time to settle those bets, now."
In response, the four Blades armed their crossbows, each answering with a savage grin.
The words were the exact same Arden remembered from his recurring nightmares. He had witnessed his last Execution when he was barely out of childhood, but he could never forget the frenzied prayers the High Priests were chanting back then – the exact same they had just begun right now.
Praise Your throne, Praise Your reign,
Praise the divine flames that sustain.
Arden’s whole body trembled with those words, an icy shiver spreading from the nape of his neck to his tense shoulders and down his spine. For a brief second that felt like an eternity, he was seventeen again, his young eyes wide with terror, chocking on silent screams that were tearing him apart, body and soul – as the prisoners were gutted one by one on the dais. That horrific day was the last time he had seen his parents.
He banished those dreadful memories with a shake of his head, focusing on the ceremony unfolding before the eyes of the breathless crowd. Even the little girl next to him was still, watching in anticipation, as the central High Priest rose, his gaze still resolutely fixed on the floor.
In a precise, slow motion, the Divine Ruler unsheathed the spectacular silver weapon hanging at his side. A few amazed whispers ran through the audience.
“Threedseeker!”
“It’s Threadseeker, the Divine Sword!”
Even from a distance, there was no denying that the sword was magnificent. The shining, engraved blade was wide, and its sharps edges left no doubt about the lethal blows it would deliver if wielded in combat. The exquisite golden handle was expertly sculpted, with curling branches of ivy adorned with multiple green gemstones, running from the hilt to the base of the blade. It was the kind of sword meant to be drawn only for solemn occasions. The true emblem of a God. The deadly omen of the merciless executions to come.
Or at least, who would have come – had the Vanguard not planned to crash the ceremony. If everything went as planned, the only blood staining the staircase would belong to the Ruler – and hopefully some of his Priests.
Break the threads which our souls enslave,
In this sacred moment, life defies the grave.
The God held his sword, let his glance run along the blade for a brief moment, and offered it to the High Priest. His face, unreadable as ever, betrayed no fear, no doubt – not a flicker of emotion. Knowing what came next, Arden squeezed his fingers tightly around the pouch, tension rising in his every muscle. In a few minutes, the prisoners would be dragged onto the staircase, hands bound behind their backs, that hollow, defeated look in their eyes.
None of them ever fought. None of them ever ran. Not once.
Only the Old Gods knew what kind of torment they endured in the palace cells – what unthinkable cruelties were inflicted on them – to make them embrace the promise of death without flinching, no matter how long or agonizing it might be. Arden prayed some of them might still find the will and the strength to run away with them today.
According to the reconnaissance team’s estimations, the prisoners were likely halfway between the cells and the plaza by now, surrounded by imperial guards as they were marched toward their bloody fate. The royal jails were only accessible from the rear of the Palace – ensuring that the beaten, half-dead captives would remain out of sight of the nobility leisurely strolling the grand plaza. Time was slowly curling a fist of anxiety in Arden’s chest. But he kept breathing – deep, steady – again and again, until the world finally sharpened into focus.
The High Priest accepted the sword from his God with a solemn nod. The spectators stood frozen, their minds teetering on the edge of horror, as he drew the sword back.
And plunged it, swift and sure, into the Ruler’s chest.
Not a single gasp. Not a single horrified cry. Nothing broke the shroud of silence that had settled over the gathering.
And on the ceremonial staircase, not a wince of pain – not even the ghost of a reaction – crossed the Undying Ruler’s harsh, unyielding features.
Stepping back, the priest bowed his head, and the four others rose and followed suit. The sword still pierced the God’s body, a ruby bloom spreading across his immaculate garment. Blood began to drip – slow and steady – running down the blade, along the golden hilt, and falling into a growing pool at his feet.
Arden couldn’t help but cast a side glance at the child, still in her father’s arms. Her mouth hung open, eyes wide and unblinking – a mute testament to the terror that had struck her to her very core. Silent tears streaked her small, round face, and her little body trembled. Arden’s jaw tightened until it hurt. His sister had worn the exact same traumatized expression when their parents had forced her to watch for the very first time.
A quiet whimper slipped from the girl’s lips as the Undying Ruler gripped the hilt and pulled the sword from his chest, the crimson blade sliding free as effortlessly as from its sheath just moments before.
Arden took the pouch out of his pocket.
The God then placed the tip of the blade against the stained floor, his hands resting on the hilt. The five High Priest turned to face the crowd in a perfectly synchronized manner, the divine blood on the floor seeping into their cloaks.
Concealing his hands with a move of his dark red cloak, Arden dumped the powder into the glittering water of the fountain. On this other side of the plaza, he knew one of the Blades was doing the exact same thing.
The priests had begun chanting again, while a low hum rose from the faithful gathered near the dais.
Through the Blade, Truth is shown.
Blood spilled, life eternal known.
As the final word lingered in the air, and a swish echoed above, the scene seemed to pause – as three things happened all at once.
First, a gasp swept through the plaza as people pointed to the two massive fountains. The once-sacred waters now flowed thick and deep red, and the cool mist had turned into a drizzle of crimson particles, drifting slowly to the ground.
Then, the striped shade from the colorful canopy began to recede. Flames were licking the top of the maypole, and the burning ribbons – still anchored to the buildings around the plaza – began gliding down toward the crowd in a lazy, deadly fall.
And finally, the central High Priest – the one who had driven the blade into the Undying Ruler – staggered back a step, then another, before collapsing. His eyes stared blankly ahead, fixed on the arrow now jutting from his forehead.
For a long, empty second, everything fell still – the world frozen in sheer stupor.
Then a second arrow struck the Ruler’s right shoulder – and all hell broke loose.