5. Lina
Lina
I am ashamed to admit some days, before the sun rises, I surrender to the soul-deep tiredness that tells me death would be a blessing. The shadows whisper thoughts of despair, telling me that I should allow the darkness to take me, the way it has claimed everyone I’ve dared care for.
Mother, Father, Gran, Uncle Garrow. Mr. and Mrs. Burtaine, who took me in after all my family was gone.
Lucca. I try so hard to remember the boy he was, sweet and shy. But most of the time, I can only imagine the horrific way he died.
And most recently, Troy, Lorraine, and Thomas. I don’t know what happened to them in the chaos after the cult attacked. There was blood and horrifying screams. At least one body heaped on the forest floor.
But I was so focused on ensuring Astella got away first I don’t know which bodies they were. All I remember is the horror.
I remember the warrior’s eyes—the only human part I could see behind the mask and hood. I remember the pressure of his arms suffocating me. The crawling sensation of his breath against my neck.
My muscles clench at the memory.
I was not acquainted with that family long enough to grow too fond, but they were kind souls willing to aid two strangers in their search for free lands, and that alone is enough for me to mourn them in the small way I am able.
I stretch my neck, rustling in the debris. Dirt and leaves cover my stiff body.
Even though our clothes are simple, thin fabric wound tightly to each limb, made to keep the sands of the Morteres at bay, grit lines my chest. Dirt and sand are the most stubborn substances in existence, and somehow much of it has made its way to my skin.
My dry eyes flutter open, and I find a dim sky between the bare branches that reach out like claws.
A bird chatters nearby. The sky is still a dark blue but with a tinge of purple and pink in the clouds.
Breath fills my burning lungs, and with it comes hope.
When the sun rises, and I am alive to feel its warmth, I believe in the goodness of the world—however limited it may be.
“Astella?” I whisper, voice hoarse.
“Shhhh,” she responds. “I don’t know if they’re gone.”
My mouth is so dry it’s painful to swallow.
Wind rustles in the branches. The dried leaves crunch under the pressure of my slight movement.
Is Astella’s worry the cult warriors or the shadowscelp? I don’t dare ask.
There are many things to fear in this world, but the Drak’yn are what haunt me the most.
Most people rightfully fear them. The gigantic scaled beasts they ride into battle, twice the size of any horse. The powerful warriors wielding axes with arms as large as my torso and covered head to toe in black cloth, sometimes even skeleton masks. Only their black eyes are exposed.
It’s enough to unnerve any man or woman.
Fear or not, some do still hope to be taken into their underground city where they believe they would be safe.
They are the last solid society for a hundred miles now, so I suppose I cannot blame some for yearning to be accepted by the cult.
The cult may cut down anyone who stands in their way, they may sacrifice innocents to their death god in gruesome rituals, but the few who are accepted into their community inside the mountain are fed, at the very least.
I’ve seen enough of their atrocities to know they are not good .
My life has been filled with more torment than joy, but there is one horrifying memory that will never leave me. One single moment that echoes through my mind daily.
I shiver, remembering the cackles of their golden priestess as he screamed.
Lucca was my friend, but he had very little happiness in his life, even before the famine and curse. His father left bruises along his arms and whipped him monthly. His mother was a “witch” outcasted by our village.
He deserved so much better than he ever received.
Especially his end.
When the cult came, my town surrendered him without a second thought. They exchanged him for safety.
The warriors whipped him in front of the whole town. They used him as an example. I was down the street when it started, and I ran as fast as I could when I heard his voice crying out, but my father intercepted me.
I tried to aid him, my friend. I tried to escape my father’s vice grip, but I was too young. Too small.
I was more than a hundred feet from them, able to hear his screams and the howl of the whip and their echoing chants that claimed he was a heretic but not close enough to see their eyes. Not close enough to tell him he was not alone.
He was not abandoned by all who loved him.
I loved him. And I would have fought for him.
At fifteen years old, I’d never felt more helpless—and it was in my father’s arms.
It hurt more than he could have ever fathomed, but I knew where to place the true blame.
So, even while others claim the cult is virtuous, that they only hurt violent offenders and only take those who volunteer, I know better.
Lucca was innocent, and they tortured him for entertainment. His screams will forever haunt me.
I blink the memories away, and after another few moments of stillness, I must move. My muscles ache, and my heart is restless.
Leaves rustle and crunch beneath me, but Astella doesn’t chide me, so I take that as permission. I carefully climb from the hollow and spy out from the dried tree roots. There is no movement. No sound.
I wait, watching for whatever sign Astella has noticed that suggests we are still not safe.
Then, a black wing catches my attention high in the trees.
The crow caws. They are one of the few animals that frequent the forest this close to the desert. Occasionally, we’ll see vultures, but for the most part, during the day, it’s vacant.
“The crows are following them,” Astella answers the question I didn’t ask.
Seeking the flesh left behind , I think but don’t bother to voice my dark thought. I shiver at the image of crows picking at the corpse of Troy and Lorraine.
I have my own reasons to distrust the death cult, but Astella has even stronger feelings about them. Much of what I know about them comes from her.
Astella grew up on the north coast, near the cult’s capital island. She’s seen their movements from the shadowed caves and learned even more from her family. While my village was ignoring the threat, praying it would simply go away, her family was gathering information.
It’s one of the reasons we intend to head into the mountains to find her people. They have more information than any of the villagers could imagine. They’ll know how to stay safe from the Drak’yn’s reign.
I grind my teeth, looking out at the forest. Bare branches and black soil. Minor remnants of what grew here just a few years prior.
The question I can’t quite shake slips from my lips. “How did that happen?”
My worst nightmare came true. The dread came for me, the way they’d come for my friend. But I’d somehow escaped. It shouldn’t have been possible.
“How did I survive that?”
Astella slips her hand in mine. “I don’t know. All I can figure is… you’re blessed.”
She is not particularly friendly to the strangers we’ve met on our journeys. She doesn’t seem to like anyone. But ever since the day I found her, she’s clung to me as if I were her family all along.
Blessed. I resist the urge to deny it.
“Thank you.” I pull her into my arms instead and squeeze tight. “What do we do now?”
She sits up, looking up at the limbs that sheltered us last night with a strange expression on her face. I wait a moment for her to collect her thoughts, but when she doesn’t give any clues, I ask, “What is it?”
From what I understand, Astella isn’t fully psychic, and her sorcery is untrained, so it’s very limited. But her intuition is impeccable. Sometimes, it does feel like she’s able to see the future.
She closes her eyes and sucks in a long breath. “We need to get out of the forest.”
I nod and move quickly, relieved to be able to do something.
So, we rush, hand in hand, east toward the desert, where the trees thin and all signs of animals halt. I follow Astella’s lead as she abandons the pathway and starts pushing through the thick brush, not caring for stealth or quiet.
Within an hour, at our quick pace, the desert comes into view. Glistening darkness, like the night sky spreads out across the ground.
Fifty miles. That’s the narrowest distance across.
I grew up ten miles from the edge of the desert.
It was beautiful from afar. Very occasionally, a storm would send in waves of glistening sand and we’d have to wear scarves over our nose and mouths as protection. But we were able to breathe freely most of the year, and we had thriving farmlands on the west side of our town.
I don’t know when the desert started growing. Probably when I was child, before I paid attention to such things. But eventually, the sands that used to be a several-mile walk to reach were on our doorstep.
Even before the sand reached the crops, though, they started dying. The poison was in the soil. They grew sick and rotted, covered in black sludge that made several ill. Within a few years, they stopped growing altogether.
The convoys that used to regularly travel through the desert to trade wares stopped coming.
West of us, the largest cities got deliveries of supplies from the sea, but they didn’t have enough to spare for the small villages. We had little to trade, and they did not accept us as refugees.
So, we starved. Nearly half of the children in town died the first year of true famine.
We sent messengers across the desert every few months. Even the most experienced journeymen never returned.
Then, when desperation truly hit, over half of the remaining villagers set out to cross the desert one fall day.
Across the mountainous expanse of acidic black sand is fertile land protected by the thriving nation of Ayrinth.
But those villagers did not make it across the desert.
Three of them came back to us, coughing up black sludge, eyes burned black. They told us of the monsters who hunted them. The pain of every step.