Mila tightened her robe over herself. The night is cool, a consistent, gentle breeze chased away the warmth of the day, a prelude to the coming change in seasons. These were typically the nights she could sleep soundly, with the windows to her and her husband's bedroom open, and the sounds of the wind a lullaby to help her drift off to sleep. Perhaps it is because she misses Bomin that she cannot sleep. His absence is glaring, and what compounded the feeling is that once again, her eldest sons are away on another continent. It felt short-lived to have all her ducklings under one roof, and it will only get worse as they grow. The duties of a patriarch are pressing during times of peace, but when war breaks out, a tribal leader must answer the call if he wants his people to be protected.
Bomin has never been one to hide things from Mila; he comes to her seeking counsel as much as she will come to him. They prioritize the safety of their family and people above all else, so neither of them can afford to be ill-informed. He told her about Domino Adeola—about his death and in what state Patriarch Griff and his company found the man in. Her husband is weary, and his demeanor calls forth memories of the Ethospar War. They had been young, newly wedded, and were forced to separate immediately after. Bomin had to become a soldier, and Mila, along with the rest of the women in their tribe, aided in whatever way they could. It made every small moment together blessed, bringing about a new appreciation for the other, but Mila does not want to go through that again. Domino was a wretched man, and even in his death, he continued to cause strife.
“Lord, rebuke me,” Mila said softly under her breath. If she must place blame, then she would be hypocritical not to hold her father-in-law accountable as well. However, it is a worthless endeavor, as the man is dead and Domino is now dead as well. There is also no fruit in ruminating over the ‘what shoulds’ have happened. Patrairch Karna did not enact fair sentencing, and Domino escaped punishment. The consequences that come must be faced—it is as simple as that. What she should be doing is praying, praying that God is with them.
She supposes it is a defense mechanism for her to focus on the past doings because she does not want to think about what else Bomin told her. “It’s a conduit. They don’t have to be objects as we had speculated—they can be living.”
“So the man who murdered Domino… he’s—”
“A Sinful Cultivator who has made a covenant.”
Davar, for all their scholarly worth, has yet to find what parameters must be met to enter into a covenant with sin. Those attempting to follow in the ways of sinful cultivation could never form a pact, no matter what they tried. The Five Founders had been the only ones, and were thought ever to be the only ones, but the finding of Domino’s body has shown them otherwise. How ironic that is not the most troubling part, what is, is how the tribes will defeat a covenant-bound? According to historical records, the original tribal leaders were deeply devoted to their faith, trusting that the Lord’s will would combat the will of sin and men. Their faith bestowed upon them sacred favors, and they utilized those to defeat the Founders they faced.
Sacred favors elevate an individual’s God given talent, their gifts becoming living works of faith, but they have not been seen since the days of the eight tribal leaders. Bomin once confessed to her that he did not believe the current leaders held enough conviction, presenting himself as an example, for he had once begged for a favor during his fight with Clan Leader Neos, and none came.
All of it was concerning, and Mila did not fight the frown that took residence on her face. She should quit pondering the road ahead; it did her no good, and she was deathly tired. From her perch on the roof of her home, Mila cast her eyes away from the sky to look in the direction of Fallen Petal. She has been up there for an hour or so, her children long asleep, and Warden keeping a watchful eye on her from the yard near her husband’s study. It was best that she get inside because she had already stayed long enough to see the sun rise… No, that is impossible. An hour, she is sure, has only passed; then why is the city being illuminated?
“Warden!” Mila cries out, pointing ahead of her. Not a moment sooner did the man run, leaping to catch the side of the roof and pull himself up. He was beside her in a matter of seconds. “What’s wrong, Greatwife?” Warden asked, following Mila’s line of sight, and she did not need to give a response as Warden looked upon their city.
Fire. Flames. Someone had set their city alight.
—————
Chiron Tenshi carefully placed the stand of filled vials in the wooden cabinet, ensuring the doors were locked before breathing a sigh of relief. He stretched his limbs, his back popping before a yawn escaped past his lips. He untied his apron, noting once again how it came away clean, while his robes of peach, pale pink, and cream were dirty. His off-white hair fell loose around him as he freed it from the high bun he had put it in while working.
It is late, and Sonya will not be happy with him. “Why would I be? If you had let me help you, you would've been finished a lot sooner.” Chiron jumped before turning around, clutching at his chest. “Woman, you almost sent me to an early grave!”
Sonya, his beautiful wife, stood before him in her night robes, the same color as his, and her usually tied-back off-white hair was loose. She is looking at him sternly, arms crossed, and she seemed about to say more before a horrendous coughing fit overtook her. Chiron is by her side in an instant, providing support as the coughs rack her body. When the fit ends, Sonya is left weary and leans against her husband, allowing him to be her strength.
Chiron will not voice it, but this is why he had her go to sleep ahead of him. It has been a concern of his that her rich olive skin, a hint darker than their children’s, has been losing its color. He may have a rough time of it, replenishing the pharmacy’s stock alone, since their son and daughter are at his brother's home, but he does not want Sonya overworked. They are both getting on in age, having begun their family in their later years, and were blessed with the strength to see their children come so far. That is not to say they are frail individuals—both of them are like oxen, strong in mind and body, yet some sort of illness has taken root within Sonya, and has been persisting.
“The children will return in a month, and I won’t have to cause havoc on my sleep. Or perhaps I will plan better so as not to have to compound medicines or brew herbs so late,” Chiron said, shepherding his wife upstairs. He had not really made a mess, so he could worry about cleaning up in the morning. “You better,” Sonya warned good-naturedly. “Our bed is too cold with just me in it.” Chiron laughed, hugging his wife close as they ascended the stairs. They were halfway up when the sound of a window breaking startled them.
As an alchemist, Chiron is prone to keeping many ingredients to produce the remedies he does. Some of them are innocuous, of the simple garden variety, that do not require much thought when handling them. Then there are the ingredients that, if left in the sun, can become volatile due to the heat. He is careful in storing those, and when using them as components, he is precise in his measurements. Chiron’s adherence to safety means nothing when an outside force throws a dull glass bottle, its neck wreathed in flame, through the window like a thrown torch. Following it are three further crashes, and Chiron, in a panic, tells Sonya to stay put as he sees what is happening.
He is met with a scene of fire, large hot flames licking about, feeding on cabinetry, and whatever else it could burn. One cabinet in particular, the one he had just locked, was surrounded by heated tendrils. Glassvine Oil; unable to be kept in the cellar for the cold turns it sour, and unable to withstand tremendous heat lest it begin to bubble and explode like the fireworks during celebrations. Chiron did not think as he tore off the apron still worn around his neck and tried to smother the flames with it. He gritted his teeth in pain, the heat from the fire biting his skin, when he felt arms wrap around him, pulling him away. “Stop! We must flee, otherwise we’ll die!” Sonya shouted, her voice and poor attempt at pulling her husband enough to ground him in reality. Chiron abandoned his attempts, scooping her into his arms as he ran away from the cabinet that already began emitting noises of warning.
Before Chiron could reach the door, the vials of Glassvine shattered, releasing their contents. The moment the flames' fingers touched the oil, the fire became like an unstoppable monster. The pharmacy was consumed whole, and without it to contain the beast, the flames lashed out, grabbing at the nearby buildings. Screams began to fill the night as the people of Fallen Petal were awoken to smoke and heat, but not all the shouts for help were near the pharmacy. From other sections of the city, more fires broke out, and the people were desperate to either escape the devastating flames or find buckets of water to extinguish the fires. The people were too engaged by the immediate danger that they failed to see the threat coming from behind them.
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A man with his wife and young son fled their home the moment sparks caught on the roof of their cottage, but their moment of relief at not being caught in the fire was short-lived. Sharpened steel tore through the man’s stomach, and before the wife could scream, the steel turned on her, cutting into her neck. They did not have to witness their child facing the same fate, nor were they the only ones to come to such a horrific end.
Unknown soldiers, wearing the colors of an unknown clan, and on their backs was a unique insignia, one Cian would have recognized had he been there, for he had seen it on Mr. Vritra’s back. The soldiers made their way through the streets of Fallen Petal, throwing incendiary bottles through the windows of shops and homes alike. As the people fled their homes, the soldiers would strike them down—pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears. They were brutal in their purge, ensuring that no one escaped, as per the orders given to them. “On this night the their tribe will be no more. Slay every child of Heartsease, and burn their legacy until nothing but ash remains.”
“Kill every last one of them! Mercy has no place here!” a centurion commanded. He is one of three centurions leading a cohort of one hundred men, and they are to converge on the patriarch’s mansion, trailing a path of destruction behind them. It is a siege based on the principle of surprise, allowing the invaders to gain ground before the opposing forces arrive. They had initially acted as assassins, sneaking into homes and taking the lives of sleeping people, before entering far enough into the city and forgoing their quiet assault. Their plan has allowed them to reach the city center without much issue, and even as he sees their opposition waiting for them, the centurion remains calm, as do his soldiers. The tribe of Heartsease boasts 1,500 soldiers, but their numbers mean nothing. “Forward charge!”
—————
Two short, curved kamas gleamed in Warden’s hands, catching the light from the fire that spread around the city. With a single step forward, he slashed low, the right kama cutting through a soldier’s ankle while the left hooked the edge of another’s shoulder, yanking the man down. He rolled under a desperate thrust, spinning back to his feet. Every one of Warden’s movements was precise, practiced—a predator in the midst of chaos.
Around him, swords clashed, his tribemen answering the blows of the enemy, seeking not to give them any more ground. Warden swung one kama down, knocking three enemies of balance, and he twirled his other in preparation for a frontal assault. The enemy in the center was few, and he had some of his men splinter off to engage the others in the other parts of the city. It did not make sense to him why a small legion of enemy soldiers thought they could overtake Fallen Petal. Who were these clansmen anyway? Their clan insignia was not one he could place, and the one enemy soldier he attempted to question simply said, “He is Vritra, the drought that even the living water cannot quench.”
Time seemed to stretch; each move was a flash of steel, a whirl of limbs, and streaks of red. He backflipped over a collapsing cart, slashing at an enemy behind him, then landed among his comrades, cutting a path for them to regroup. Warden stood, breathing heavily as his eyes roamed over the battlefield. They took in how the soldiers of Heartsease overran the invaders, and he felt a moment of lightness, victory seemingly within his grasp. That is, until he saw something out of place.
Walking through the throng of steel and blood, a lone woman, her hair tied in a neat, high bun with strands of loose hair framing her face. Her robes were the colors of gray, blue, and deep purple—the same as the small clan Harren’s. A memory comes to Warden of a woman seeking an audience with Patriarch Bomin, wanting to gain permission to put on shows at the theater. Her performer’s name was Madam Caylpso, and Warden had not gone to any of her showings, but Kumo had described one of them. His patriarch had granted her request, and Warden found his breath stuttering. In his mind, he sees an assuming woman, bowing to his patriarch in gratitude, but the woman walking toward them was not the same—she held a stifling presence that made his body lock with trepidation.
Slithering around her was a serpent, and it cleared her path, hissing and striking out at anyone who came near. As the woman walked, she reached up and undid her hair tie, allowing her charcoal-gray strands to cascade over her shoulders. Warden watched, eyes widening, when her strands seemed to slip down her figure like water. With each strand that fell, her hair became shorter—its color shifting to something darker. The jade pins she wore contrasted strikingly amidst the obsidian they stood in. The colors of her clothing fade away as she runs a hand down the length of her arm. The deep purples, grays, and blues were eaten by the black that chased them. When she removed her hand, a crimson print was left behind. She trailed that same appendage to her throat, almost as if smearing the black of her robes on her neck like ink; it formed the symbols χξ?. Still, the most startling transformation was her eyes. Never had Warden witnessed someone’s crimson eyes change as hers did.
“Tanith,” she said—her voice rising over the sounds of combat, and feeling as though she spoke right next to Warden’s ear. The following words that came for her were slow, as if she was savoring the taste of them as they fell past her lips. “Tear them apart.”
The serpent let out a low hiss that increased in intensity, then it began to writhe as its body grew, becoming larger than a half-grown Abaia Eel. A squelching sound followed as four limbs protruded outward from either side of the serpent's midsection, their ends resembling the feet of a bird. At the same time, feathers sprouted from the ends of its tail. In that instance, the fighting ceased as soldiers from each side became entranced by the beast towering over them. Warden knew he must give a command—some sort of call for retreat, but he was not given the chance because the creature had no intention of letting its prey flee. It turned, whipping its tail against the dirt, sending tremors through the earth as its length coiled and uncoiled through the chaos of the battlefield like blackened sludge. The first soldier it set its eyes upon raised his sword, but the creature was faster in its strike, crushing the soldier in its maw, teeth cutting through garments, armor, and flesh like a knife through paper. Agonized screams of pain joined the chorus of the night, and the creature silenced them when it shook its head, rendering the body in half, legs and an upper torso falling while the beast feasted on the rest.
“Retreat!” Warden cried out, running toward the abomination, his men responding without much provocation. It was no use; the thing was not like a mindless beast. It moved with intent, its body sweeping through, avoiding the invading soldiers and biting the children of Heartsease. One soldier after another was picked off, and Warden felt enraged at the scene. He had stood alongside his patriarch, with Kumo opposite him, as the three watched what were the last moments of Domino Adeola’s life. A serpent, a living being as a conduit, seemed so far-fetched because the Five Founders needed tools to do their bidding; yet here was a serpent-become-monster emanating death and…something unholy. He can feel it, the clogging dread of something not of God, and he knew if the creature were allowed to carry on, it would mean the destruction of his tribe.
With a battle cry fueled by loyalty and determination, a kama met the creature’s side, slicing through with almost no resistance, but what spilled out was not blood. A thick black mist gushed from the wound, writing like something alive, staining the air with its stench of sulfur. For a heartbeat, Warden thought he had done it—slain the beast with a straightforward strike. But then the darkness drew itself back together, the rent in the serpent's flesh sealing smooth. He did not let this discourage him, bringing his other kama up, Warden slashed once more. Then again, and again. He became a flurry of swift attacks, slicing through the scales of the serpent, who had thus far not given him an ounce of attention. It continued to pilfer through the crowd of soldiers, sinking its teeth into another of Warden’s comrades.
He watched his effort bear no fruit, and as the blood of his fellow soldiers coated the dirt, Warden grew desperate. He avoided the creature’s feet, kicking off from the ground and landing on the serpent's back. Warden ran up the length of its body toward its head. His kamas were used to anchor himself when the serpent moved violently as it chased down another soldier. When he reached the creature’s peak, Warden was unsettled by the creature’s empty eye sockets, but was soon overcome by a thought. Common snakes do not need eyes to see; they have developed senses along their maws, and if the senses are attacked, the snake would be helpless. It might be able to heal, but if the Warden can cause enough disruption, it would give his soldiers the time needed to escape.
Warden should have known better.
There is a hissing sound, one not coming from the mouth of the snake, but from the empty eyesocket Warden was passing by in his quest to cut its snout. More dark smoke billowed out, making him gag as it clogged his nostrils and mouth. It lasted a moment before it began to clear, and where an empty hole had been, a large eye now looked right at him. In that exact moment, Warden felt a shock rack his body, a coldness settling over him. He did not understand why his limbs felt heavy, or why what felt like stone began to cover his face like a mask.
The creature gave a shake of its head, dislodging the statue of a man trying to harm it. Warden’s last thoughts before he hit the ground, his stone body shattering into a million pieces, were for God to help them. It seemed as though heirs had come to claim the seats the Five Founders left.
