Chapter 36 Leila #6
Leila’s hands stirred to life, catching the woman’s wrist and holding it in place.
She didn’t know where the strength had come from, but She didn’t question it, summoning every ounce of power within Her.
She gritted Her teeth as the dagger crept closer, its tip grazing Her exposed flesh.
The woman stared Leila hard in the eyes, and between her crazed smile and violent colors, everything about her seethed with hatred.
Leila’s hands were slipping, wet with blood and sweat, and She let out a strangled cry as the blade broke through a layer of skin. The woman let out a husky laugh.
“Fuck Thessen and its sovereign.” Her chuckle turned into a growl. “And fuck the sovereign’s daughter.”
Something inside Leila ignited. The redness surrounding them no longer belonged to the prisoner. It was Leila’s rage to wear and wield.
Behind her.
She burst into darkness, reappearing paces away.
Leila wasn’t sure how She’d done it. Harnessing Her light during extreme duress was nearly impossible, but She’d become something greater than Herself.
The prisoner scrambled on her hands and knees, stupefied by the nothingness beneath her, and Leila wasted no time sweeping up Her sword and plunging it through the woman’s back.
The prisoner howled, then wailed again as Leila ripped the weapon free. Grabbing her by her hair, She lurched the woman upright and sliced her across the throat, letting her tumble lifelessly to the ground.
Her rage retreated, bringing Her back to Her senses. Lorne. She rushed to his side, taking his face in Her hands.
“Lorne?” Her fingers shook as She fought to unbutton his tunic. “I can heal you.”
He lay still, his eyes far away. A whimper tore from Her lips, and She planted a hand to his exposed chest. Nothing, not even a flicker of life. Tears welled in Her eyes as She sank to Her knees.
Another death.
The surrounding cold disappeared. Leila was swept up in Her thoughts, in the familiar ugliness.
I could’ve saved him. Logic told Her otherwise, but the voice in Her head wasn’t Her own—it was that of Her father.
She couldn’t bear it, not after everything She’d endured, and She let out a primal scream.
Her voice died, and the silence of the forest returned.
She was alone, Her body marked and marred, and though She’d seen the worst of man, still She persisted.
My Dark One. Her father had called Her that, yet it was Her darkness that fueled Her shadow walking, that kept Her alive.
A blistering rage echoed between Her ears, sending Her heart quaking and hands trembling, but She didn’t fight it.
The burn of Her holy light had turned into a hellish inferno, making Her new, better.
She wasn’t solely The Savior. She could be a destroyer too.
The bitter cold nipped at Her flesh as She peeled Her cloak and mantle from Her body.
With a grunt, She ripped a long strip of Her cloak and wrapped it thrice around Her ribs, wincing as the injured skin puckered and pinched.
She used fresh snow to wash the blood from Her lips and cupped a handful to Her swollen jaw.
Her light would heal Her soon enough. What She needed was wrath, and She had plenty of it to spare.
She sawed off a finger from Her most recent kill, then turned to Lorne, looking into his lifeless eyes.
Emotion pricked at Her, but She wrenched the spear free from his body, then fumbled through his purse, retrieving his two trophies.
Whispering a prayer, she closed his eyelids and covered his wound, situating him gently in the snow as if he were sleeping.
Soldiers would retrieve him so he may receive a warrior’s burial. She had to prepare for the night ahead.
She was a predator, and tonight She would stalk Her prey.
The first thing She did was choose Her weapons.
A part of Her wanted to take them all. If someone found the bodies, they’d likely steal whatever weapons remained and use them against Her.
But She couldn’t possibly carry so much steel through the forest without draining Her reserves, so She had to be strategic.
The spear, the sword, the dagger, and the sparrow—those were Her choices, so She buried the bardiche and mace under dirt and snow.
Then, with Her nostrils flared, She unfastened the mantle from the prisoner’s dead body and secured it around Her own neck, leaving Her cloak behind on Her adversary’s corpse.
The mantle stunk of piss and offered little resistance to the cold, but She pulled the hood overhead regardless, spear in hand and the other weapons fastened at Her hip.
The sun was just setting, which meant She had a bit more light at Her disposal.
If She wanted to track Her prey, She needed to do it immediately.
Holding tight to Her spear, She trekked up a nearby hillside.
Her legs burned from the exertion, but the burn of Her anger was deeper.
Reaching the peak of the rocky ledge, She gazed out at the Queen’s Forest—a mass of frosty white speckled with knotted black.
All She needed was a hint of color, no matter the emotion it carried.
The icy wind tousled the loose hair of Her braid, but still She searched.
The tiniest green speck fluttered in the distance, discreet enough to miss if She weren’t so vigilant. She had navigated that area earlier in the day. She channeled the roaring power of Her light.
Closer.
Snow crunched beneath Her feet as She landed amid a trail of hoof prints, the path She had traveled upon entering the Queen’s Forest. She trained Her eyes on the green peeking through the tree line, allowing it to guide Her.
It wasn’t long before the color became widespread, reaching through the air like fingertips and weaving between boulders and branches.
A well-muscled prisoner was crouched behind a fallen log, and though he was stoic, his colors betrayed him.
He was deathly afraid. Leila could use that.
She took a light step forward. Another. Holding Her breath, She reached for the spear on Her back, then readied it at Her side.
Still, the man was crouched in place, a battle axe locked in his fist. With one swift thrust, She threw the spear, and it cracked into the trunk of a tree paces from his hiding place.
The man bolted upright, axe readied. Perfect.
He scanned the forest in front of him, and though he was surely more than twice Leila’s size, his fear thickened around him.
She tapped into Her holy light, and it swept Her away from security, placing Her directly behind the prisoner, his broad shoulders pointed Her way.
She slammed Her swallow into his spine.
A crack rang out, and the prisoner wailed before collapsing face-first into the snow.
Leila wrenched him onto his back, then plowed the swallow into his upper thigh, watching remorselessly as he screamed and writhed beneath Her assault.
Rivers of red poured from his flesh as She ripped the weapon free.
“Don’t worry.” She wiped the sparrow clean against the snow, then fished for Her dagger. “You’ll bleed out soon.”
She wrenched his axe from his grasp before searching his person.
Something hard was tucked into his belt—a second dagger, one She gladly added to Her collection of weapons.
The life had mostly faded from his eyes once She began sawing at his finger, another trophy for Her pocket.
Perhaps a different version of Her might’ve mourned the moment, but She was compelled by the fire within, certain She’d melt the surrounding ice and set the forest aflame.
She buried the axe and spear, but not quite as carefully as before.
The sun was nearing the horizon, and Leila had limited time to work with.
She climbed the nearest, tallest tree, venturing high into its branches until She had a meager view of the treetops ahead. Color. That was all She needed, some semblance of life amid the frost and decay.
Grey billowed in the distance, but it wasn’t emotion. Someone had lit a fire, and smoke was eddying into the sky above. Leila scurried down the tree and headed for Her newest mark.
The sun descended quickly with each passing step, blackening the forest around Her.
A part of Her was grateful for the cover of darkness, as the glow of Her skin was no longer a factor, and it was much easier to hide among the shadows.
But that meant Her opponents were hidden as well, and the air turned especially frigid at night.
She trained Her eyes on the smoke, hypnotized as it crept closer.
The scent of burnt flesh tinged Her nostrils—meat. She salivated and carried on.
Her destination materialized—a man seated on a log, rotating a skinned rabbit over a sizable campfire. His hair hung in greasy strings around his face, and he licked his dirtied fingers between bites of his meal.
Leila stopped short. A sword was leaning against the log, reflecting the flickering flames. She pulled Her ragged hood over Her head before pressing on.
A twig cracked beneath Her foot, and She ground Her teeth. The prisoner looked up from his meal.
“Show yourself,” he barked, hand winding around the hilt of his sword.
Holding Her breath, Leila reached beneath Her cloak, grabbing tight to one of Her daggers. Slowly, She continued forward until the light of the flames cascaded over Her.
The prisoner eyed Her for a short while before easing back into his seat. “Thought you were one of them.” He dropped his sword and tore into a rabbit leg. “How many are left, do you think? We’ll be here all night.”
The foul odor of Her tattered mantle hung over Leila, and She was glad for it. He thought She was one of the prisoners. She came in closer, eyes on his weapon.
The prisoner eyed Her sidelong. “Can you not speak?” His gaze panned between Her and his roasting rabbit. “Fuck off. Catch your own meal.”