Chapter Three
I LURCH FORWARD, breathing labored like a blacksmith’s bellows, body drenched in sweat. The room comes into focus, moonlight from the tiny wooden window illuminating the small space I call mine.
Hand trembling with uncertainty, I explore my throat, testing if the dream was more than that.
Fingertips cautiously, fearfully brush my skin.
My breath catches in my throat. I explore more, tracing the delicate pattern etched into me.
My skin is slick from sweat, but no sign of trauma or a fresh wound.
Whatever Lunos did to me, it seems at least that I don’t have to recover from it.
Chosen. That word echoes in my mind again as I calm my breathing. Chosen by Lunos. My hand remains on my throat, cheeks warming in memory. What could a being such as her want with me?
The odor of smoke itches at my nose and all thoughts of my encounter flee to the back of my mind.
Rushing, I lace my sandals and throw on my tunic.
For once I’m not caught up on emotions as I do.
Running out of my room, the smell is still weak, likely meaning the fire is outside.
The door to Porto's room slams open as he stumbles out, struggling to throw on his own clothes.
I run to the front door and throw it wide open.
Shock thunders through my body as I look out over the fields.
Flames, ravenous and full of finality, tear through the bundles of wheat, smoke billowing upward into the night.
Porto shoves past me and immediately collapses, his future burning away before his eyes.
There’s not enough time to get help; the fire is too far into the field.
Stepping past a crushed Porto, I take in the whole scene. Fire is spreading across the field toward the home which meant it had likely started on the opposite side. Odd.
The opposite side of the field from Porto's home is the rocky hillside; nothing should have caught aflame over there, especially in the cool of the night. Fear screams in my head, urging action.
I run along the pathway leading away from the fields and to the housing terrace, ignoring all exhaustion. Sliding to a halt, primal terror bites deep into my bones. Athos is engulfed in fire and ash. Every terrace spews flames outward and upward, a macabre dance of light and smoke.
Hurrying down the path, the clamor of screaming voices and roar of the fires increase with every rushed step. I may not care about Athos that much, but for better or worse, it’s my home and no one, not even Porto, deserves to die in a fire.
Entering the housing terrace, the true nature of the fires unfolds.
Time slows to a crawl as I see Menna outside of her home, tears glacially streaking down her soot covered face, her home torched with dancing tongues of orange and red.
A man stands behind her clad in leather armor black as the night.
One hand grips Menna's hair fiercely and in the other, a short sword gleams.
My feet are rooted to the ground as the sword slices through the night air, razor edge biting into Menna's neck. Blood erupts into the night, acrid iron smell intertwining with the heady smoke.
A wordless, guttural scream erupts from the depths of my chest, time returning to normal.
The man snaps his attention in my direction a moment too late as I thunder into him.
The force of the rush thrusts us both backward into the side of Menna's home.
The man grunts in pain and loses his grip on the sword.
My neck and shoulders stiffen from the impact, but adrenaline is surging like swift poison through my body, instinct driving every motion.
The hilt of the sword feels foreign in my hand as I snatch it from the ground. My mind doesn’t process the arc of the blade careening toward the man's throat. My mind doesn’t process his blood spraying across me. My mind doesn’t process the warmth of his life on my clammy skin.
Stumbling away from the dying raider, my eyes meet the empty stare of Menna's head laying off to the side.
I immediately vomit, no longer able to hold back.
When my stomach finally stops convulsing, I start moving.
The sound of fire is overwhelming, but I can't hear any screams or signs of life; there are a few bodies strewn about but not enough.
Adrenaline pumps through me again, running toward the next terrace, sword in hand.
The light from the fires is enough to see by in the night as I close in on the next terrace. The cries of the villagers swell above the flames. I follow the voices and skid to a stop next to the blacksmith to peek around the corner, eyes going wide at the sight before me.
Several armed and armored men surround a cluster of villagers outside of the Speaker's house. The Speaker themself is out in front, kneeling before one of the attackers, face bruised and bloodied.
The leather wrapping on the sword hilt creaks in my hand. No one deserves to die like this. At best, I might be able to cause a distraction for the villagers to fight back, but that would have to be enough.
Rushing around the corner of the smithy, the mix of cool night air and fiery heat pummel my face, sword clutched in both hands.
The ground blurs beneath me before shouts of alarm go up.
The man in front of the Speaker turns, my blade piercing his armor, diving deep into his side, launching us both to the dirt.
Alarm turns to rage as the remaining attackers converge on me.
I push off from the man dying beneath me, only to be held back by the sword stuck catching on his ribs.
I look behind me to the villagers, any hope of inspiring them to action dying just as swiftly as the man at my feet.
Despair and horror stares back at me. No hope, no urge for self-preservation; just raw acceptance of a promised death.
I face the closest attacker and raise my fists.
I'll be damned if I die cowering and afraid.
The whistle of a spear gives little warning before slamming into the side of the closest man with pinpoint accuracy, stopping the rest of them in their tracks.
A high-pitch and undulating cry rises from the shadows and several more spears streak into the firelight, assaulting the men farthest from the villagers, with only a few missing and striking the ground.
The scraping of steel on leather accompanies warriors emerging from the shadows, rushing to engage the raiders.
One swiftly makes their way over to me, naked sword gleaming in the night.
They wrap a hand around the spear embedded in the man who would have killed me.
With a planted foot and quick twist, the spear rips free as they survey the battlefield.
The mysterious warriors quickly drive the attackers toward the edge of the terrace.
Seemingly satisfied, the figure walks over, towering above me, striking an imposing and dashing figure.
Their bronze chest piece gleams in the firelight, a pleated skirt laced with strips of leather protecting their upper legs, and a bronze, plumed helmet adorns their head.
They plant their spear in the ground and raise their free hand to undo clasps from their helmet, small scars criss crossing along their fingers.
Carefully removing it, they shake hair free, yearning to be released from the tight helmet.
Shoulder length raven black hair cascades out of the helmet and the deepest pools of emerald stare down into my core, from the woman who saved my life.