Chapter 1 Azahara
Azahara
The sound of the pencil snapping under her fingers echoed in the empty chambers of the library.
Azahara could feel her eye twitch as she stared down at the paper, the powdered lead splotched across the page.
The tip of the pencil sat between the binding of the book, a painful reminder of the last sentence she had written, sending a sharp pain through her wrist. “Gods be damned,” she said, a bit too loud for where she was.
The monastery she now found herself in boasted the most exquisite library she had ever seen.
Its shelves were lined with ancient tomes and whispered knowledge.
The air was heavy with the scent of aged parchment and wisdom.
Yet, amid this sanctuary of enlightenment, she couldn’t help but feel the weight of her impious vocabulary.
She knew that the resident monks, dedicated to their sacred pursuits, would frown upon her choice of words.
The heavy rain drummed relentlessly against the stained-glass windows, creating a cacophony of sounds that echoed through the room.
The mingling scents of burning candles and aged books permeated the air, creating an atmosphere of tranquility and antiquity.
Azahara’s senses heightened, acutely aware of the profound silence that enveloped the space, broken only by the furious roar of Mother Nature beyond the grand library’s walls.
There was no one else here at the monastery with her, or at least there hadn’t been when she arrived a few hours earlier.
Her bag was tossed onto a table while she illegally and dangerously climbed the stone walls, up the arches and beams, until she sat atop a ledge of a window.
If it weren’t for the pounding rain, she’d be able to see out of it.
Alas, it only gave a blurred view of the landscape outside.
Her icy eyes peered from her journal and down to the floor. She was at least two stories up, with nothing but red and orange tile flooring to catch her if she fell. There was no fear in her eyes, but a solace expression as though she was yearning for something.
“I think I’m done writing for the day,” she whispered aloud, her sing-song voice barely audible amidst the lingering echoes of the storm. “I don’t want to break another pencil.” Those words carried a sharp bite, their taste salty on her tongue.
Closing her journal, she leaned her head back, her eyes fixed on the window. One leg hung over the edge, swinging in rhythm with the intensifying storm outside. The noise grew louder, overpowering any faint sounds within the monastery.
Suddenly, she craned her neck as she felt a shadow presence closing in on her.
Not that something could sneak up on her in her position, and while she has the memory capacity of a pre-pubescent boy, her instincts remained razor-sharp. It was as if the god had overlooked the natural human aspect of the brain—similarly to the ones that kept the body breathing without thought.
Something smells like shit… She thought, taking a deep breath, her nose crinkling.
A sudden tendril of fear went through her. No… no way… the Gorruk?
These horrifying fusion creatures of orcs evolved from the shadows of time.
Thick and leathery skin, ashen gray and green hues to help camouflage them.
They were grotesque, eyes glowing red and yellow, piercing through blackness like fiery embers.
Rows of razor-sharp teeth, jagged and uneven, easy to tear through flesh and bone.
Their limbs are massive and muscular, their hands enormous, tipped with wickedly sharp claws that tear through stone and armor as if they were paper.
What set them apart was their insatiable hunger for destruction of all kinds. They roamed villages and towns with ferocity, leaving nothing but devastation in their path.
They found desires in both their bloodlust and the people they came across. While they had mediocre intelligence, they also weren’t the most logical creatures. They sought to sate their insatiable appetite but enjoyed playing with their food.
This wasn’t the first time Azahara had come across them. She vividly recalled a previous journal entry that recounted her encounter.
She pressed her back against the unforgiving concrete wall, its jagged corners piercing her skin. The coldness of the stone seeped through her, sending an icy chill down her arms and legs, causing bumps to rise on her skin.
“Something smells so good,” one groaned. Their voices are worse than nails on a chalkboard. “I could eat whatever it is.”
“And fuck it!” one belted out. “And kill it.” Disgusting. All of them.
A sudden surprised look crossed her face, and she began looking down in a panic.
No, my bag. She didn’t see them yet, and her bag was directly below her.
Fear gripped her from immediately jumping down.
What if they were right there, standing at the door, ready to enter the library from the monastery’s entranceway?
As if the gods themselves answered her, the door to the library swung open hard, damn near cracking the oak and ripping it from the hinges.
Stifling a gasp and gripping her hands over her mouth, she curled her legs up to her chest. She pressed her body against the window, trying to hide behind the edge’s lip as best she could.
Shit, shit, shit! She wanted to scream in frustration.
The window did open, but they’d hear it.
Even with the pelting rain outside, they were stupid, not deaf.
With all the mud on the ground, would she even be able to escape?
She was quick, so much so that her speed rivaled horses.
However, the liquified ground would cause too much fight for her to get the distance between her and the monsters.
Her bag, she couldn’t leave it. It had several journals in it, and those are far too precious to lose.
Why are they even here? This seemed odd for Gorruk to show up here. Wasn’t there a village nearby? Why the monastery?
Azahara felt a sting of pain, thinking her luck brought them here. Fuck…
She looked away from her hands and down at the Gorruk—hey were picking up and sniffing her bag and passing it around to each of the five that stood around it.
“This is the smell. I want it. I need it.” Another grabbed it and shoved it into its face. It groaned, and they all followed with a disgusting laugh.
Azahara felt sickness flow through her. As vomit rose to her throat, threatening to project out, she tightly clenched her eyes shut.
Despite the presence of five of them inside, it didn’t mean there weren’t more lurking outside. This fact only fueled her frustration. She glanced out the window but saw nothing. Quickly, her eyes returned to the Gorruk as they resumed speaking.
“Come out, kitten.” The tallest one spoke, his words dripping with authority. Something told her that he was their leader. “You can’t hide from us.”
It was as if she had a band playing inside of her. The drums slapping against her chest, the chiming sending shudders down her bones, and the obsessive ringing throughout her ears.
She felt a chill as one of them began looking up at the tall granular windows that hung around every side of the monastery. The tears building at the corners of her eyes were hot with fear.
Azahara did not fear death; she welcomed it.
That didn’t change the fact that pain was still pain.
She couldn’t remember the details of the times prior and how it felt, only that they were horrid.
The worst part wasn’t the pain—it was knowing she’d wake up and remember every broken bone, every touch that stained her skin, and every fragment of herself they had shattered.
At least in death, one could find solace and escape from such torment.
All at once, they snapped their heads around. Her gaze dropped as she wondered what had turned their attention elsewhere.
“One stay, find that flower. Someone is here to stop our feast,” one growled as three followed him out the door.
Azahara wasn’t sure if they would eat her, or the monks if they found them, but she feared what they would do before.
They destroyed towns, raped and killed everyone else.
There seemed to be no apparent reason for their torment.
What were the odds that they would target this monastery while she happened to be here, peacefully writing in her journal?
The cruelty of this world never ceased to amaze her.
As they walked away, the same one who had spoken before said, “Let us all enjoy the flower. Don’t be greedy.” They let out a grunting laugh, and she couldn’t help but roll her eyes in response.
As only one remained, she took a deep breath, assessing the situation.
Dealing with a single Gorruk wasn’t a problem for her.
She felt vulnerable without her weapons, which were in her bag.
Perhaps she could seize the opportunity presented by the lone grunt and try to get to her bag.
She knew all too well the dire consequences that awaited her if she made the slightest mistake and ventured too close to him.
The pelting rain outside masked the unsteadiness of her breath as she let out a sigh.
With deliberate movements, she started descending the side of the wall, carefully navigating her way down.
The beast was preoccupied; scanning its surroundings, sniffing the air, and blubbering strange phrases that hinted at capturing a mouse in a trap.
Steadying her heart, her bare feet tipped the cold stone floor. She was silent, which was easy to do as the rain pounded the walls and windows of the darkened library. A bead of nervous sweat trickled down her temple and cheek as she took tentative, tiptoeing steps toward the table.
All seemed well, but her eyes briefly wandered to the door through which the others had hastily exited. Was that a horse? She could have sworn she caught a glimpse of one in the distance through the open door.