A Revised Prologue for The Birth of a Shade
Prologue
The time of dread returns
Tremors shake the land
Terror fills the hearts of all
The Shadow Mother shall bear a child of darkness.
Far to the north in the land of Razorvanny, shadows gather around a small village. The light of Hikari’s eye fades into the horizon, his sunlight to be replaced by the light of the traitorous moon. Small buildings of wood shake, tugging the curiosity of those inside. The unnatural winds slow as they gather around the stacks of logs and patches of farmland, leaving nothing but a dark spot on the ground. This sharp curiosity is tainted by the knowledge of what they are so near to: the Devil’s Hideout, where the spirits of long slain demons and other corrupted things stalk. And not far beyond it, the shape-altering shades.
Before there is time to inspect the spot, it bubbles in boiling fury. The liquid jets out, breaking free from the constraining ground. The crowd retreats inside their houses as quickly as they exited, looking for someone who may know how to deal with this, though no one is certain what this is. Someone like the chief, Landor, or even Eileen.
A figure rises from the spot. It starts as a torso. Arms and legs crawl out from it, nails like daggers jutting from its fingertips. Yellow, piercing eyes pop out from what could only be its face. The mouth tears through the skin, revealing sharp teeth that guard the chilling darkness of its throat. Two slits cut through the skin above the mouth, sharp ears jump from the sides of its head, and crystals line themselves on top to create a crown of deep crimson. The skin changes from the black of the abyss to a dark shade of sapphire. The form writhes, attempting to contain its form. Its limbs bend and crack into place. In an instant, all movement halts.
The villagers, hiding behind doors and fences made from wood, as nearly everything else is, mutter amongst themselves in increasing fervor.
“It’s not moving. Is it dead?” One asks.
“I hope not to discover either way,” says another.
The village chief stands in the open, having left his abode, as humble as the rest, coming to see what causes the commotion. There is wide-eyed contemplation on his face. His hand reaches for the sun mark carved into all Lightborn at birth. The villagers debate what must be done, hands growing tighter around their pitchforks and axes. The lack of movement becomes a growing source of discomfort.
A hefty man with dirty blonde hair and blistered hands moves towards the form with a large shovel, only blocked by a spindly villager with a crooked nose. “What are you doing, Lander?”
“I’m doing something, which is more than you are, Jorges,” Lander responds, standing chest to chest with him. The difference in size is clear, Jorges backs down, losing his footing.
The elder takes his place. “I do not think this creature is aware. I feel approaching with antagonistic intentions will scare it.”
Lander gives a harsh, rushed exhale as his hands become more antsy. “From how it appeared before us, that thing can only be a shade. Are we truly considering the feelings of a shade, Father? You know better than any of us, they never come in peace.”
The chief’s face falls into a disapproving scowl. “You don’t have the experience with shades I do, child. Attacking everything you don’t understand is certainly an effective way to hasten your demise, but don’t drag us into your suicidal approach to the unknown.”
Lander grabs him by the collar, lifting him off his feet. He speaks through his teeth. “If you want to talk about feelings with creatures of the abyss, fine, but do it when there’s not a village at stake.” He throws the chief out of his way, the man barely catching himself with exhaustive effort. His wife, Eileen, runs to the aid of the elder with a disapproving look, but Lander only gives her a passing glance, his focus returning to the creature.
“I don’t know why I even protect you imbeciles,” Lander says quietly, more to himself than anyone else. His face only sours further as he encroaches upon the creature. “Such a horrid thing.” Reaching the body, Lander checks to see if it’s still alive. The body remains motionless, but it still breathes. He reaches to grab it. A sudden twitch causes Lander to step back. “Damn thing.” He shakes his head, grabbing at it once again with a steadied hand. As his finger touches the form, it shakes. Without warning, spikes thrust from the creature, stabbing Lander’s shoulder and knocking him off his feet.
The creature’s head swings up. Its eyes open. The stare cuts deeper than the wound in his shoulder. Eileen runs to him, tearing off a piece of her dress to bandage his arm. Jorges and his brother follow her lead to protect him, as shakily as they can, while the rest of the village stays in hiding with prayers to Hikari and his guardians.
The shade’s body springs up, stretching out its limbs, joints extending and cracking, then pulls them in, shrinking to the size of a child.
It examines the villagers, studying their features. A smile spreads across its face. Grabbing between the two slits above its mouth, it pulls, creating a pointed tip nose. It pushes the bladed tips of its fingers back, shaping them into oddly pointed but normal nails. It closes its eyes, its brow wrinkling and face turning purple as small crystals pop out between the larger crown to create something resembling hair. The dark form returns its gaze to the onlookers with its wide smile, pointing at itself.
The villagers stare in silence. Dread shapes their faces, mimicking the stone statues that line the Gorgons’ Garden.
A scream breaks the silence. “They have sent a royal to slaughter all of us,” Jorges cries, all attempts to look strong long gone. Many take back every step they made towards the creature at Lander’s fall. Another, drunk on centaur wine, throws the man in front of him forward and runs, tripping himself in the attempt. The creature giggles at his failure.
Lander returns to his feet, taking the makeshift bandage from his wife with a gentler hand than he had for his father. He grasps his wound tightly, but waves her away. “Calm down, cowards! Are you running from an imp? I would understand you fleeing from its original form, but now it’s the size of a child! Do you not have an axe and other sharp things? Just surround it and get me my spear. I’ll impale the beast and end our troubles.” Most of the villagers collect themselves at his words, staying together in packs, while a still shaking Jorges is swift to do what he asks. Though not all of them listen to his call, the drunk and a few others hide as far as they can from the shade.
The chief, helped to a rock, regains his breath. “The danger is calm yet,” he says to the crowd in a controlled, strained voice. Villagers, whether hiding or doing their best to present a strong face aside Lander, listen to his words calmly. “Thank you for your help, Eileen,” he says to his returning daughter-in-law. Whether she heard is a different matter. She splits her attention between caring for the old man, helping her husband, and gaping at the creature. The chief refocuses his words on the crowd. “This seems to be a shade, but why it’s here still escapes me. I had hoped to never see one again, and that none of you would see them either, but I do not control the world. None of us hold love for these creatures for what they have done to us, and because of that, my son thinks we should attack it. I’m sure he would say it’s to prevent the shade from attacking us, but none of you have dealt with a shade, and none of you know how odd this is…” His voice trails as he looks back to the shade. It studies the movements of their mouths, mimicking what it sees.
“I think it’s copying us,” Eileen says. The observation sends the elder deep into his memories.
Lander overhears her while he finishes bandaging his shoulder. “So you act like a spy too? Tell me who sent you, and I’ll kill you painlessly.” The creature stares blankly at him. Lander’s eye twitches. “A spy who can’t speak? Pathetic. The tales always made you out to be so proficient,” he mocks, putting on a vicious smile.
“Pa... the... tic.” The shade giggles at the word. The elder tries to speak, but his voice doesn’t come out, caught again with his mouth agape.
Lander tightens his fist. “So you can talk, you foul excuse for a spy.”
“You foul excuse for a spy,” the creature echos, unable to fully capture the deep voice.
“You mock me?” Lander’s tan skin shifts to red. The creature falls to the floor, breaking into laughter.
“Something’s wrong. He doesn’t understand you,” the elder says, his joints unwilling to rise off the rock despite his earnest attempts.
“Quiet with your endless warnings. You trained me to fight threats, and that is what I’ll do.” There’s only rage in Lander’s eyes now. He tears the spear from Jorges just as he returns from fetching it. “I tried to give you a pleasant end, beast, but I see I must return you to the abyss by force.” Lander charges the creature, his hands gripping the handle as if it were the creature’s neck.
The chief pulls himself to his feet. “Lander, no!” But it was too late. Before the spear could land, something rises from the ground, knocking Lander back with a resounding clang.
“What happened?” Eileen asks, grabbing a stone without seeming to notice.
“Something grabbed my leg,” Lander says, trying to pick himself up. “Did you see anything, Eileen?”
“I can’t say. It’s as if the ground swallowed your leg.”
Before Lander can stand, something pulls him back down, a hand of pale blue. A blur appears above them. It flings daggers at the villagers that tear the makeshift weapons from their hands. The newcomer falls on Lander’s back, their knee forcing his head to the dirt. He is a shade fully formed, similar to the first, with its crystal hair and dark sapphire skin, but muscled where the other is lanky and poised where the other is loose. He holds a hate that is only restrained by weariness in his stare.
Eileen rushes to fight him off with nothing but the stone she doesn’t yet know she holds, but freezes at a voice echoing through the ground. A voice, feminine, yet with the power to make the world stop at her whim. “Stop where you are.” A tall, dark figure stands before the first creature. “Have you not learned to chain wild dogs?”
-
The chief trembles as she rises. He expected to see members of the dark army, even a high-ranking officer, but he didn’t expect her. And a royal with her. It may be too late, but now he understands his expectations to be foolish and the fear he hid in his heart to be true.
The mysterious woman strikes a menacing form. Seven feet in height, she has limbs lanky yet somehow refined, with nails that could cut through bone. Long obsidian hair falls across her sickly pale blue skin, converging with the pitch-black dress that moves of its own volition, smoke that falls instead of rising. Her face’s aged beauty only makes her deathly features more terrifying. The beauty mark beneath her eye, a temporary distraction from her pupils that shine a glowing crimson. Any remotely familiar feature only makes her more foreign.
“I don’t know how your culture treats newborns, but I personally don’t believe impaling them is the correct response.” Her voice is calm, but it has a venom that makes the villagers shudder. Her hand stretches out, stabbing a finger at Lander. “If you have an explanation, give it now.”
Lander moves to make a mocking remark when the chief speaks up to quiet him. “Why are you here, Dark Mistress? The treaty prevents your kind from entering land under the Light’s protection.” His voice is more put together than he thought possible before her.
“Don’t worry, elder, I haven’t come to bring harm,” she answers, “and the Treaty of Daybreak is of no issue for this occasion. Our deal has exceptions for these situations, so I may handle my business without interruption.”
“If it causes no harm, may I ask what that business is, mistress?” He knows the answer. Ever since he was a soldier in the Great War, he has felt the answer before he asks in matters of the shades. It is as if the light placed in him by Hikari tries to keep the question locked to him alone. But he asks, as he always does, in hopes the truth isn’t the case.
“I have given birth to a child. While that should be a source of trouble, I have certain... problems… that don’t let me decide where my child rises.” Her hands ball into a fist. She releases the tension with an exhale.
“Are you sure it’s such a good idea to be telling all of this to them, Mother?” The figure on top of Lander asks.
“No need to stress, Grisha, it’s only natural to question an enemy in your lands,” the Dark Mistress says.
“Very well.” He shrugs, returning his half-closed eyes to the crowd.
-
The shade child had moved to a nearby rock, examining everything that plays out before him. His eyes shift from person to person, his gaze stopping at Grisha. The shade-ling locks his eyes onto his brother, gaining a sparkle at the sight. Grisha glances to see the observing shade-ling. He waves back with a chuckle.
-
The dark mistress returns her gaze to Lander. “That said, the time for questions is over. Let’s hear the response of this fallen ape.” The chief tightens his grip, which already threatens to break his staff into splinters. Grisha lifts his leg enough for a response as the mistress’s stare falls heavy on Lander.
He begins with a practiced voice. “I am named Lander, for I am a lion among men. We are a fairly isolated village, one in a place near multiple lands of great danger, so I have taken the role of protector. I’ve fought off bandits, beasts, and demon spirits alike, any who...”
“Did I ask for a monologue?” The mistress interrupts, smiling with false kindness. Her voice transitions from a gentle hum to violent screech. “Why did you attack my child!?”
“Sorry, Mistress...” Lander restrains his voice, taking a step back, a sign the elder hopes to be a breaking of his overconfidence. “I attacked your child... because I felt he was a threat to my people. Even you should understand the need to protect your own. So, I apologize.”
“Very well. Although not noteworthy in any aspect, that is acceptable. You may all leave with your lives. I hope for both of our sakes this will be our last interaction.” She turns, calling her children. The chief regains himself, feeling the slivers of his chafing staff in his hand, and loosens his grip.
The younger shade rushes to his mother, grasping at her hand. “Finally,” Grisha mumbles, standing up in turn. “Been waiting to nap for weeks.”
As the shade is halfway to his feet, Lander pushes him off, taking his shovel and slamming it against the foreigner’s temple. A loud crack resonates through the village, dislocating the shade’s jaw as the body falls limp. The mistress twists back to the scene, eyes wide. Lander aims to continue his onslaught, but Jorges and his brother hold him back, as much as they can. “I wasn’t done! I apologize for not sending that putrid imp to his grave sooner.”
The elder crumples to his knees. Eileen rushes to catch him, though her eyes remain on her husband.
Lander knocks Jorges away. “I will not stand by as beasts slaughter my people.” Lander’s arms flex as he tears out of the brother’s hold. “It’s time someone rid the world of your festering scar!” He launches the shovel at the mistress’ chest without stopping his stride. The shovel cuts through the air as if it were through curtains. A blade of the shifting shadow that forms her dress cleaves the spear in half, breaking it into splinters. Unshaken, Lander grabs his fallen spear, rushing at the mistress like a red-eyed bull. He twirls his weapon, pouncing. She stands surprised as the spear pierces her chest. Lander rolls onto the ground behind her and leaps to his feet. She collapses.
He turns to the child with his burning gaze, who returns it with one of uncertain confusion. The crowd cheers at the fantastic spectacle, all fears a distant memory. Eileen leaves the chief’s side, a wide smile upon her lips. The elder himself can’t help but feel the Light may have truly prevailed in this lowly village of orphans. Lander turns triumphant to the villagers, and coughs.
Blood drips from his mouth. Shrieks tear through the momentary glimpse of joy as his arms fall limp to his sides. His head slumps, staring at the long arm piercing his ribs, the Mistress’s hand curving to meet his face. “But... the spear... it hit you...” Lander whimpers.
She turns his head to him with her impaling hand and speaks into his ear. “Commanders and monsters and mighty prophets have all fallen in their attempts to slay me, yet you truly believed you would be the one to do it?” Her voice snarls as she drags her arm out of him, letting him crumple like an unused puppet. She throws Lander behind her, his body thumping to the ground. With the last of his energy, Lander looks at his spear and widens his eyes, becoming like that of a bug. Where the spear was supposed to have pierced, now lies a copy of her body. It loses its form, dissolving into sand like shadow and returning to her dress. His weapon, which he held onto with the tightness of a scared child, finally tumbles to the forsaken soil.
He reaches for his wife, frozen with shaking hands a few steps away. “Eileen, stop the…” The light in his eyes fades. The chief becomes numb, everything but the pouring blood fading to a blur.
“Any wounds of concern?” She asks the form approaching behind her.
“I’m fine. Didn’t have the energy to fight, so I just played along,” Grisha responds, gently touching the slowly closing scar upon his forehead.
The elder sees the trembling of his people as his sight returns fully.
The mistress ignores them. “Leaving your mother to deal with such a violent creature, how cruel.” Grisha responds with a chuckle.
Turning to her younger child, she smiles with serene kindness, one that doesn’t match her still bloody arm. “Are you okay, little one?” She caresses his cheek with her clean hand. He thinks for a second, then nods excessively. “I’m glad.” The Mistress turns back to the villagers. “Now then, I believe we must discuss what just happened. Before I begin, do any of you have something to say?”
“Something to say?” Eileen roars through her shock, her garments torn and tears streaming down her face. “Of course we have something to say. You murdered my husband!” She grabs a fallen spear and calls to the villagers. “Can we let this witch kill our people and leave without consequence? My husband’s words were harsh and his temper short. But I’ve known since we met, in his heart, he was kind and cared for us more than anything. Shouldn’t we die to avenge the man who protected us all these years? Or would you prefer to let every beast and murderer that walks into our lands slaughter us like sheep?” Her speech breaks through their paralysis. The mob grabs their fallen weapons and surrounds the shades once again, even those who only shook and hid before coming together to fight. Jorges still shakes, but now his tightened jaw shows his fears have twisted to anger, a look he only expressed once before, when his sister traveled too deep into the Devil’s Hideout. The elder stares at the growing anger, as distant from the events as he is from the theatre of traveling performers.
With a sigh, the mistress mumbles. “They never let me talk.” She glances at Grisha. He nods in response. She breathes in deep, closing her eyes.
The movement finally breaks his trance. He turns to the crowd, the loss he saw as a soldier against just one of her children flaring in his mind. “Wait! Let us not throw ourselves into flames. Even if we kill her now, dozens will die in the attempt. We should wait until we’re prepared.”
“You coward!” The widow says. “When will we find the chance to kill her again? Do you think she wanders unprotected all the time?”
Not deterred, the elder continues throwing any word that can slow their assault. “Has being around Lander caused your sense of reason to weaken? None of you have experience of true battle. We need support, we need light, and we need steel. We can alert the Army of Light. With trained men by our side, we have a better chance of avenging Lander.”
The widow wails. “When you first tried to persuade us against attacking the fiend, I thought you were protecting us. But now I see that you’re only trying to save your skin. I thought you were our guardian.” The chief falls into silent guilt, unable to douse the flames of wrath building in the mob.
The widow reaches the front of the crowd, eyes red. “Anything you have left to say, Mistress?”
With eyes shut, a smile spreads across the Mistress’s face. “How kind of you to let me speak before you set your hounds on me. Sadly, I lack the trust that you won’t kill me before I finish.” She shoots an arm into the air, her dress of smoke gathering around it, a chunk of black crystal suddenly in her hand.
With a charge, the widow shouts to the crowd, “Stop her!” The dark mistress slams the crystal into the ground, cracking both. The elder shade grabs his brother, the remnants of shattered crystal pulling them inside. A wave of smoke bursts from the crack with the force of the sea, stampeding beyond view. The waves engulf them all.
-
The chief opens his eyes to nothing but black. At first, he thinks he’s been struck blind, but quickly realizes the thick dark prevents him from breathing as well. He shouts for help, but is rewarded with nothing but a mouthful of smoke. Yet as he comes to terms with the fact that he will be trapped forever in his blindness, pitch-black turns to gray. Silhouettes gain depth against the depthless. He stands a few feet from the village outskirts as the mist unveils the Dark Mistress. Around her are his villagers, his children, Eileen locked at the center. They stand stiff like soldiers in training.
He reaches the crowd, and the Mistress turns to him, her entrapping smile spread wide across her face. “There you are.” Thick obsidian chains wrap around them, over their bodies and across their open mouths. The chains lead back to the Mistress, who grips them behind her back, still standing with the elegant horror of her reputation.
“Now that everyone’s here, I’ll continue where I left off. I hope you all have moved past your need for aggression when faced with inconveniences, and we can finish without further delay.” The Mistress gives the widow a quick glare, one matched with another just as hateful. Unable to comprehend why she remains, the elder keeps his tongue still, for any reason is one to fear.
The Mistress speaks in a calm, melodious tone. “I mourn beside you for Lander’s loss. I understand he was an important person to each of you. Despite my personal views of the man, I understand the care for a defender. That said, I cannot and will not allow the assault of my children to be excused. Although I don’t hold your kind in high regard, I was hoping to walk away from this town without causality. He gave me no choice, and I had to make a lesson of him.”
The widow growls, helplessly struggling in her chains, and the villagers follow her lead. The Mistress sighs. “I expected your stubborn nature to prevent you from listening to reason, but I had to try. Thankfully, I’ve come prepared.” She glides towards the elder.
The village grows silent, only the whistling of the wind remains. An ache fills his chest as she places an arm on his shoulder, her stare falling upon him with the weight of a mountain.
“You seem to be the only person with some sense of reason. I guess it does come with age, doesn’t it?” The chief nods slowly in response. “Do you know why I left you unchained, wise elder?” She continues without pause. “It’s because I think you are the only one who can control your emotions and stop people from getting themselves killed.” She bends down, matching her face, too pale to have ever taken in light, to his. The touch of her breath feels like the smoke that entraps the village, thick but unexplainably cold. “I want them to learn, which they can only do if they survive. So, if you want your people to live, restrain them. If you do that, I’ll release them from their chains alive.”
Eileen stares at him, the resistance she has always had burning bright in her eyes. The elder stares at his people, those he knew as children. He raised many of them, as famine and war orphaned most. And Eileen, a daughter in spirit who in time became one in blood. He found her in the woods, left by parents unable to feed her. He wants them to fight for their fallen friend and loved one; he wants to fight for his son; but what will their fighting bring but more death?
The Mistress pulls her chains, squeezing the writhing widow. “Choose quickly. Can’t you see the pain they’re in?” The chains drag across cloth and skin, tightening unrelentingly as it tears past the little protection given by their poor linen. It forces itself deeper into their jaws, robbing them of breath.
The chief slumps in defeat, the spirit of a warrior long gone in his age. He grabs the rope that lain by their well and walks towards them. Eileen resists, pulling away with muffled grunts. “I’m sorry. I failed you. I failed you all.” His hands pass through the chains like sand, allowing the new restraints to take their place. Each rope is harder to tie. As he ties the last rope, the chief turns back to the Mistress. “It is done.”
“You made the right choice, elder. Your people will live another day,” the Mistress responds. With a wave of her hand, the chains dissolve, blown by a wind back into her dress. As the villagers release, they fall to the ground. He runs to his daughter’s side. “Don’t worry, elder. Their struggling has just temporarily sapped their energy,” the Mistress says. “I may be a master of shadows, but I keep my promises.” She turns from the disheveled man.
Despite his better instincts, a burning question springs from the chief’s mind, and despite the sharp resistance of his mind, he asks it. “Why did you spare them?”
She stops and speaks in an entirely new voice, unbound by practiced regality. One tired, with the age of the world upon it. “To be honest, I don’t care whether you live or die, and I lean ever more to the latter with age. But when you’re responsible for the safety of your children, thousands of children, killing a village under the empire you treated with doesn’t go well.” Her voice trails off as her form disappears into the void.
Moments go by without movement or sound, just the chief standing amongst rubble. He examines his broken village. People lay scattered across the ground, hurt but alive. He smiles at their breath. He saved them. All of them, all except… The smile weakens, and water streaks his face. He shakes away the thought.
He walks through his battered village. Windows broken, the glass shards spread across dust-covered grass and crops, and doors torn from walls, blown inside the lonely abodes by the wave of smoke. The piles of wood now scatter throughout, many the cause of broken windows and shattered walls. Each broken shard of the village strikes at his heart, but nothing brings more pain than what lies at the center of the silent town. It stares at him, the face of his failure.
Every word he said to his son appears before him, more cruel than kind. The elder falls to his knees, his restrained tears becoming too heavy to bear. “I’m sorry, Lander.”
-
Amongst the metal and light of Sol Navis, Viktor taps his pen against his table. The general of the lightborn can tell the news is bad solely through the officer’s attempts to build confidence outside his door. He knows why men fear him. His position above all but the holy commander himself intimidates all below him enough. That isn’t helped by his lack of expression, his face naturally sitting as an uncaring scowl. He likes the distance the expression creates, allowing him to deal with issues more efficiently, but the side effects have grown tedious over the years.
He leans forward, taking one of the countless letters about rebellions amongst the flame-kin and the rejection to do anything from the dwarfs. The empire’s attempts to establish a political relationship with King Redmane and his minotaurs drag on, and thus more plans must be made for that as well. This isn’t helped by the easily noticeable, but hardly ignorable, pacing of officers whenever they have to say anything with a slight negative aspect. Viktor glances at the sun. More of the light passes by the moment, even with reflections brought by the steel-coated buildings. He looks to the door again, then returns to his organized letters. “Are you coming in, or do you prefer to report to yourself?”
The officer rushes in, almost tripping, to salute. “Sorry, sir, something was on my mind.”
“I could tell.” Viktor glances up at the officer. He’s in good shape, with blond hair, and on the younger side. His brown eyes stick out like a pile of mud against the brightness of his hair, making his quick rise to officer more surprising than his age. Few have reached high in the ranks of the light army nor the government around it without eyes like the sky, the few including Viktor himself. Viktor returns his gaze to the paperwork. “What have you come to tell me?”
“Well… there were reports of trouble to the north. Dark clouds in our land.”
Viktor stops writing. “Where?”
“In a small village settlement next to the border. Near the Devil’s Hideout,” the officer says, his voice getting clearer.
Nothing good comes from that place. Things have only grown worse since they lost contact with the hunters inside the deep forest.
“Have you sent men to investigate the area?” Viktor asks, shifting his gaze to meet the officer’s.
“Not yet. The messenger birds just arrived with word from one of the settlement's neighbors, and I thought it should be reported to you first.”
“You thought well. What did you find?” Viktor places his pen down.
“It seems they couldn’t learn much. The villagers were quite shaken. Only the elder could speak, and even he was incons...”
“Did I ask what you haven’t learned?” Viktor clasps his hands, his scowl deepening.
“Sorry, sir...” The officer hesitates. “The report says it was the Dark Mistress.”
She moves once more.
Viktor leans forward, his eyes narrowing. “Why?”
“To gather one of her children who appeared in the village.”
A new birth. It seems he has decided to force her hand.
“How many casualties?” Viktor asks.
“Only 1, but...”
“Then we can’t do anything.” Viktor turns back to his paperwork with a sigh. One death can be too easily defended, isolated villages have many anxious hands hard to contain. They cannot gain support if she minimized the loss, and he knows she would. He will need to act in other ways.
“But, sir,” the officer says, “they were attacking our people in our land, and destroyed the village. Surely there is something we can do.”
Viktor stands, towering over the man with a piercing gaze. “We can investigate, using men with more tasks than can fit in their shaking arms, but she has followed the rules of our treaty. She only killed one person, and it was to defend her child. There may be some evidence hidden amongst the village, but it is highly unlikely. We would do better to prepare, to strengthen the southern fronts, for she will likely move again. If we attack, we’ll be the ones who broke our agreement, pushing other kingdoms, which we have spent far too much time and money on, to join with the shades.” Viktor sits back down, his eyes falling back to the buildings of reflective steel. “The war may be a distant past for you, but for many, the scars have yet to heal. We can’t be the ones to bring another upon them. One village, let alone one man, is not worth our entire empire.” The officer is struck mute, so Viktor continues, “You’re young, so I’ll ignore your resistance, but in the future, you need to keep it short.”
The officer turns to leave but stops at the door, a wave of courage visible in his rising posture. “Sir, please allow me to support the villagers. I want to at least get them back on their feet.”
Viktor’s head rises a final time. This is a man who will not drop the case no matter his discomfort, he does not have time to deal with a man like that. “You have two weeks. Bring only your direct unit and you will need to figure out funding yourself.”
“Thank you, sir.” The officer’s face brightens, his mood fully reversed as he heads for the door.
“What’s your name, officer?”
“Zealotes, sir.” He salutes a last time and leaves.
That should keep him in line for now, however, his eagerness to act could be a problem in the times to come. He will need to be watched. Nonetheless, maybe something more could be found amongst the villagers, many great warriors are found amongst wreckage. But there are more important matters to attend to. He may yet catch her and this child, if they act quickly.
Viktor waits for the footsteps to grow distant, then reaches into his lowest drawer. He pulls out a pre-written letter and a stamp. The rising sun marked on the stamp clamps against the folded paper. He opens the curtains of his furthest window and knocks upon the wall. A white bird with bright yellow eyes lands on the outside railing in answer. He hands the bird the letter, staring into its burning gaze. “It has happened. Tell them all, the sun shall rise again.”
