Before – Homeworld, Millenia Ago, After the Burn #3
“Good girl,” Rynna touched her mouth to the mare’s fuzzy nose, coating her lips with the dead man’s remains.
Then she ran her fingers through the horse’s now drenched mane, before drawing them over her face, leaving four muddied crimson streaks spanning from one cheek to the other, crossing over her nose.
When she looked back at the Horsemen’s followers, one dropped to his knees, hands shaking. Another followed, whispering broken words as he cut his own wrists, blood pooling beneath him in offering. A third muttered something guttural, forehead pushing into the dirt, arms stretched out before him.
Around her, the hardened killers knelt one by one, eyes wide as if afraid to even blink.
She looked over them—worthless shitstains lapping up the destruction of life like it made them something more than carrion. Her lip peeled back in disgust, the sound in her throat low and feral as she stepped forward. Turning from the kneeling crowd, she moved toward the center of the village.
Behind her, the raiders snapped. Squeals filled the air as they swung wildly, weapons slashing.
They threw themselves into the grime and gore, letting death’s ichor baptize them in abandonment.
And when they rose again, men who had once fought side by side now turned on each other in a frenzy.
Allies became prey in the blink of an eye.
Rynna moved through them, unbothered. She knew this place would soon be a graveyard for the damned. By day's end, the bloodlust would fade, and silence would reclaim the village.
The village’s center loomed ahead. If any fight remained in this rubble, if any defiance yet stood, it would be there. Her pace quickened at the thought of an actual challenge after the mindless slaughter.
As the tower rose into view, something lit at the base of her skull.
The sensation rang through her spine like the first strike of a bell, clean and cold, each vertebra buzzing with electric tension.
Another immortal. Muscles tightened like a bowstring drawn too long. Her legs nearly took off without her, hunger rising in her chest.
This wasn’t the Horsemen. She knew their chimes well. This was someone new.
As she drew closer, the sound of steel reached her, each clash crisp and controlled, rather than frantic.
“Dammit,” she muttered, the itch to join already crawling under her skin. “They’re already at it.”
The strikes stopped.
A brief silence stretched in the air, and for a moment, she wondered if it was over, if whoever fought had already been bested. But then the clash resumed, faster now. Whoever held their ground down there wasn’t just skilled; they were dangerous.
She crested the final rise when the high-pitched wailing of children sliced through the air.
Well. That answered that.
Whoever was down there knew they wouldn’t survive the day. No immortal mistook the chiming. It was a signal—a warning to any others nearby that one of their kind had taken the field. And entering a fight against more than one? That wasn’t recklessness. That was a choice.
The challenger hadn’t come to win. They’d come to die. Sacrificing life unending to protect the younglings cowering behind them.
She slowed to a saunter.
Malekar, Vorian, and Kaelric stood off to the side, their attention fixed on the duel unfolding before them.
Steel clashed in a burst of sound, each impact booming through the scorched clearing.
The other was a beast of a man, towering over Daziel by two full heads. His brow jutted heavy over deep-set eyes, his frame thick and broad like something carved from an older, meaner version of the world.
No one that old survived this long by accident.
Rynna shot Malekar a questioning glance.
“We told him we’d spare the children if he could defeat one of us,” Malekar said, still watching the fight with unreadable calm.
Vorian scoffed. “And of course, you’ll hold us to our precious word, won’t you, Death?”
“It matters that people believe us,” Malekar replied. “Whether our promises are holy or horrific, the point is they’re true.” He shrugged. “Besides, it only matters if Daziel fails.”
Vorian grunted, conceding the point. They all understood what a broken promise would cost, not just in blood, but in myth. Every lie would chip away at what the Horsemen were. What they meant.
Below, Daziel ducked a wide, arcing strike that would’ve shattered bone if it landed. The stranger followed with a thrust, quick for his size, aiming for Daziel’s exposed side.
Daziel spun away, the blade only skimming his ribs, tearing through leather. Blood darkened the fabric but went unnoticed. He countered with a brutal elbow to the giant’s face—bone meeting bone—then drove his sword forward, aiming for the heart.
The stranger caught the blade and shoved Daziel back, forcing space between them. Both men huffed air, feet planted in the dirt as they circled. Every strike now came heavier, more calculated. The challenger was wearing Daziel down.
“Not much longer now,” Kaelric observed with a grim tone.
Malekar’s gaze turned to Rynna. “I believe you’re next.”
“Yes.” A cold thrill ran through her as she lifted her sword to the side, arm steady, and flicked it once. Blood flew through the air, spattering the ground beside her boots.
Below, the challenger struck.
His blade carved a vicious path through Daziel’s neck, splitting flesh and bone in one brutal sweep. Daziel went still instantly—severed spine exposed—as he crumpled to the ground in a spreading crimson pool.
The giant threw his head back and roared, voice hoarse with fury and triumph. Then he dropped to one knee beside the fallen Horseman, raising his blade with both hands, aiming for the heart.
Rynna’s hand moved before thought could catch up. One knife flew from her fingers, slamming into the hilt of his sword. The impact knocked it sideways, steel clattering to the dirt. The second blade buried itself deep in the muscle of his shoulder, jerking his body backward.
“You must know we aren’t going to let that happen, friend,” she called across the distance.
“I suppose not.” He straightened, brushing off the pain with surprising civility. “But you will free the children, per the terms of our deal?”
“Yes,” Rynna answered. “Though I’m afraid you won’t be around to see it. We will honor the Trial and fight one-on-one, but you won’t best all of us and begin taking hearts.”
His shoulders slumped, though his stance widened. He understood what came next, but he wasn’t afraid.
She smiled. He was smarter than most.
“Very well.” He tore the blade from his shoulder with a grunt and raised his sword, grip firm despite the injury. “Come die, little woman.”
Then, with a quick twist, he hurled her own knife back at her, nearly as hard as her original throw.
Finally.
Satisfaction lit her nerves like a fuse.
She caught the spinning blade midair, the handle slapping solidly into her palm, and tucked it into her belt without breaking stride.
And in the next heartbeat, she lunged. Her body vaulted forward, landing in a crouched stance, her golden sword reaching out as if it could already taste his death.
Every muscle in her body hummed. It had been too long since she’d faced someone worthwhile.
The giant took a half-step back, eyes flicking to the blade in her hand.
“What is that?” he rasped.
But the words barely passed his lips before she moved. Their weapons met with a sickening clang, breaking through the quiet square and scattering birds from nearby rooftops.
Steel followed steel. Parry. Counter. Strike.
He caught her first blow, but she was already gone, vanishing to the side in a flash of motion, feet sliding over the ground as her sword swept up toward his ribs.
He turned to block too late, and the flat of her blade skidded against his, deflecting just enough to send the bite into the flesh above his hip instead of his heart.
His grunt was short, surprise lighting his face.
She saw it clearly then: the dawning horror of his own death.
This was going to be fun.
They circled, exchanging blows again. He moved with brute strength; she moved with a dancer's grace. With every attack, her strikes chipped away at him, prodding his defenses, mapping out the places he’d eventually fail.
She could already see the final opening. The stumble. Her sword finding its way home.
A smile touched her lips.
Striking again, she forced him back, drinking in his desperation.
He knew he was going to lose.
Almost there. Her insides tightened at how his eternal life would flee, searching for a new home when she carved his heart from his chest.
“Keep that foul blade from me!” He stumbled, trying to retreat. “You’ll take my life and my power but not my soul, demon!”
He hurled his weapon down between them, the blade sinking into the earth with a dull thud. Then, without hesitation, he drew out a long butcher knife from his belt.
Rynna lowered her stance, teeth bared, ready for the last mad charge of a man with nothing left to lose. But he didn’t come at her. Instead, one hand braced against the ground to keep himself from falling. The other drove the blade into his own chest, straight through flesh and bone.
The knife bit deep, carving past muscle with a wet, tearing sound. Air caught behind gritted teeth, then burst free in a broken gasp as he dragged the blade sideways. Sawing through cartilage with brutal resolve, blood poured over his hands, hot and fast, pooling at his knees.
Rynna’s jaw dropped.
He tore out his own heart, and, with the last of his strength, he threw it right at her.
What? she thought, raising a hand on reflex.
It landed warm in her palm, pulsing weakly. Mesmerized, she brought it to her lips, leaving a kiss to the steaming flesh—one final taste to seal it—as his knees buckled and he collapsed, eyes wide and empty.