Before - Homeworld, Two thousand years ago, After the Burn #2
The town surfaced against the horizon, its jagged rooftops striking at the morning light, familiar in shape, forgettable in name.
She’d seen hundreds like it crumble to ash under her hands.
The same patched roofs. The same muddy lanes.
The same buzz of ordinary life moving forward, oblivious to the danger that could come from within or beyond.
She swung down from the saddle, the soles of her boots thudding against sunbaked ground.
Exhaling, she let Empty Night fall in step beside her and started walking.
Chickens darted under hanging laundry, wings flapping.
A woman beat a carpet on a nearby stoop, each strike landing with a dull thud.
Cart wheels creaked under their loads. From the horse stalls, an elderly man hefted a bale of hay with visible effort, offering her a strained smile and a gruff, “Good morning,” as she passed.
Somewhere ahead, the scent of baking meat pies drifted from an open window, savory and rich, tugging at her senses with a hunger not rooted in blood.
There was something strangely comforting in the bustle. She was an outsider, but for now, she was welcomed. As one of Joshua’s companions, she carried a borrowed trust that softened the wary edges of this place. It was a novelty she had never known before meeting him and Malachi.
She caught herself walking slower, shoulders loosening. A breath stole in too deep and stuck halfway down, tight behind her sternum. The normalcy walking around her wasn’t for her, but some part of her wanted it anyway, enough that it ached.
A burst of laughter cut through the morning noise, too close, too fast. Rynna’s head snapped toward it just as a boy broke from the crowd and sprinted straight for them.
Every muscle went taut, and she reached instinctively for the reins.
Empty Night had no patience for surprises.
The mare’s reputation was written in bruises and snapped bones, and not once had Rynna felt the need to defend against it.
But the reins stayed slack in her hands.
Empty Night held her ground. There was no snort or sidestep.
Just a long exhale, as she lowered her massive head.
The boy raised a hand to the mare’s nose. And Empty Night didn’t balk.
Rynna gaped.
Her throat went tight. Nothing about the moment made sense.
Snowballs in hell, Rynna thought. Was the horse just waiting for the perfect moment to stomp the kid into paste?
But the boy only smiled. He reached beneath his shirt and pulled out a vibrant, golden apple, holding it up with both hands.
Empty Night sniffed once, then let out a sound that could only be described as a joyful whinny. She took the fruit with careful bites like she’d just been offered the finest delicacy in the realm.
Rynna blinked.
“What the shit, girl?” she muttered, stepping forward and placing a hand on the mare’s velvety nose.
Empty Night responded with a full-body eyeroll. One massive, obsidian eye tilted toward Rynna, judging, before she plucked the rest of the apple from the boy’s hand and turned casually toward the stables.
Stunned, Rynna reached into her purse and pulled out a copper coin.
“Here.” She handed it to the boy with a grateful nod.
“My pleasure, miss! That’s the prettiest horse I’ve ever seen!” He beamed.
Rynna bent down, lowering her voice. “Shush. Don’t tell her that. It'll go straight to her head, and I’ll never hear the end of it.”
His eyes widened, then the joke landed. He laughed before sprinting off down the lane.
Rynna straightened with a sigh, rubbing her palms on her thighs.
“Here we go.” She turned toward the tavern, ready to collect the hungover remnants of last night’s plan.
A step, then—
The tavern door exploded open with a bang, and Malachi came tumbling out, arms flailing, feet sliding. An empty tin cup followed close behind, striking him squarely on the back of the head with a sharp clank before dropping to the street beside him.
Malachi lurched forward in one final, uncoordinated burst of motion, his limbs pinwheeling as though he might catch himself.
He didn’t.
He dropped face-first into the rocky dirt at her feet, sprawled out like a felled tree.
Rynna stared down at him, blinking once.
“Of course.” She debated whether or not he needed a good kick in the ribs.
“Ah, Rynna, that you? Back already?” Malachi slurred, looking up at her. He raised the empty tin cup with grand, drunken dignity. “Be a dear and fill me up.”
“Hmmm.” She stooped, picked up the tin cup, wiped it off, then hooked her arms under his and heaved him upright with a grunt. “I think you’ve had enough.”
He swayed once, twice, then steadied himself. His eyes, bloodshot but sharp, found hers.
“Is it done?” he asked.
She nodded once.
“Then I haven’t come close to enough,” he said, and the alcohol vanished from his voice. He brushed off his shirt and pants, then reached with steady hands for the cup in her grip.
Rynna crossed her arms, cocking her head as she considered him.
“You know what? You’re right. Next round’s on me.”
She pushed past him toward the tavern, raised her right hand, and crooked a finger in the air. “Let’s go.”
Through the tavern doors, early morning gloom clung to the walls. Most of the patrons were still recovering elsewhere, and the air held that particular stillness found only in the wake of hard drinking. She scanned the room and selected a corner table tucked into the shadows.
Dim lanterns flickered as she sat, dust motes floating lazily as the faint smell of last night’s tobacco still lingered in the beams.
Malachi arrived moments later, as graceful as always.
His toe caught on a chair leg, leading to a yelp that burst into a string of curses as he stumbled sideways, hip smacking a table. Two chairs toppled in his wake. He spun once, off-balance, arms flailing, then caught himself with a heavy, two-footed plant that rattled the floor.
Rynna bit the inside of her cheek, lips pulling up at the corners. She never knew if he did it on purpose to get a smile from her or if he was just that clumsy. But either way, it worked. Every time. The man was a walking disaster.
“It’s a miracle you’ve survived this long,” she said, watching him rebuff the incident and take a seat at her side.
Before she could reach over and swat him on the head, though, a door slammed open at the back of the tavern. The owner stormed out in a flurry of steps, cheeks flushed, towel already swinging.
“Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no,” she bellowed, voice carrying through the room.
“I just got this place cleaned from your shenanigans last night, Mr. Malachi!” She marched up to the table, winded and fuming.
“Took me and the cook an hour just to get Mr. Gold off the floor and upstairs. Three more to mop up the mess. I will not have you turning my fine establishment into a den of drunkenness again so soon!”
Then she saw Rynna.
Her words caught mid-rant, and color drained from her face. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, visibly swallowing her words. Rynna said nothing. She was too tired for masks today.
“Oh! Mistress Rynna. My apologies, I didn’t see you there. Back already? Is Mr. Joshua with you?” the tavern woman stammered, her voice a notch too high.
Once more, Rynna didn’t answer.
Instead, she let her gaze settle meaningfully on the empty cup in front of Malachi, then dropped a handful of coins onto the table with a soft clink.
“As you please,” she said, then snapped her lips shut before bustling off.
She returned moments later with several full jugs of wine and an extra cup, which she placed quickly on the table. Then, just as swiftly, she vanished again, leaving behind only the scent of bread and spiced wine in her wake.
“Aww, Ryns’, you didn’t have to chase her off like that,” Malachi said with a sigh. “I liked watching her bounce and jiggle about.”
“Letch.” She reached out without thinking, smacking the back of his head.
He chuckled, filling both cups with a heavy hand.
The wine sloshed over the rim of hers, dripping down the side.
Taking a sip, she let the warmth slide down her throat and settle deep in her chest as she sank into the chair’s worn curve.
And soon, their rhythm clicked into place, sarcasm traded like coin, irreverence worn smooth by time.
This was familiar. This she could handle.
She swirled the wine in her cup, watching the way the red caught the light, somehow too dark, too rich. Like blood left too long in the air. Her gaze drifted, unfocused, and for a moment, the tavern around her blurred as memory stirred in the corners of her mind.
A couple of years ago, Josh and Malachi had found her wandering the lush, tangled jungles of the eastern subcontinent. She’d been coming down from the high of a long, blood-soaked binge among the warring fae—dancing with death-lords and playing house where war was a game and violence a seduction.
It had been winding down, as those games always did. And she had known, deep in her bones, it was time to go. She never stayed too long. It never ended well when she did.
In the humid green heart of the realm’s jungles, she'd sought quiet. A buffer. Something to dampen the Hunger that pulsed endlessly through her veins. The war had wound her tight. The taste of blood had become too natural, too easy. She’d needed time to remember what it felt like to be near people without fantasizing about peeling them open.
It had been multiple millennia since her disastrous encounter with the vampire bitch who had rewritten the script of her existence. And still, the Hunger reigned. It was always there, waiting for her to let her guard down.