Chapter Eight: Abhorrent Answers.

All that had been, had been poor. All that was, was perfect. There were traces of starlight in the marble pillars. Ambrosia carried on the uncorrupted air. Ashtik Sai-Weleg, she who was named Sparrow-Knight, the Champion of Black and the harbinger of what comes next, stepped forth alone. Her single footfall echoed through the vast hall. She could almost see the sound of it in the otherwise undisturbed air. She saw her shaky breath bound between the great banners that hung from the walls. The centre most, a sheet of pure gold, dangled without motion beneath the cathedral's dome. Sunlight poured in from the south, though Ash looked north, and saw the crescent moon through the stained glass. She took another step towards her inevitable fate and saw before her, some better creature. Flamed hair, and speckled skin. Golden eyes and glowing smile. It was what a woman was supposed to be, to the minds of the gods. She stood as though she weighed no more than a feather, yet she beamed as though carrying the mass of the sun.

“They are unready, Sparrow.” She sang in whispered words. The noise didn’t echo, nor did it disturb the air as Ash had done. She seemed to belong in this divine place, perhaps she was the altar at its focus?

“Then what am I to do?” Ash asked as lowly, and meekly, as she could manage. The woman raised a holy hand and sprung a horde of servants and lessers, seemingly from the very ether. They circled Ash like vultures to a ruptured carcass before, all as one, they fell upon their hands and knees before her. They offered Ashtik their prayers and servitude at the whim of this Golden greater.

“Rest, for now. Explore the conclave. It is truly beautiful at this time of year. Show your sister the sights while the mothers have Satra brief them.” The she breathed through golden lips.

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The servants would have carried Ash, that she might not sully herself with the cobble and dirt, had she not begged them to leave her. The silver doors shut her out of the conclave and she made back for her gifted horse.

Evara lay in a small mound of hay, clearly still writhing from the feast she had enjoyed three days past. So drunken had she been that the hangover still persisted in force, even all these long miles later. Ash bundled the child up in a great cloak and aided her atop of the horse, despite Ev’s grunted protest.

“You can’t still be this bad.” Ash laughed as her sister struggled to balance atop of the mare.

“I hate wine,” was all Evara could manage. She slumped her head against Ash’s back as the two rode into the city of divinity.

To be completely honest, the city was something of a disappointment to Ashtik. The central chapel was everything she could ever dream of; but the city itself was naught more than Duke’s crossing with strange architecture. They carried on down what seemed to be the main road of the northern quarter. Houses piled higher than she had ever seen. Instead of the burrows in the grown, like those of Maester Veil, or the stone carved and wooden framed houses of Meomi across the border; these houses were made of hardened blocks of reddish clay. Oak struts marked the corners of every building. Some buildings even bridged over the road, supported by finely cast steel bars. The novelty of suspended houses and shops stripped the slightly claustrophobic feeling of being completely surrounded on all sides.

A particularly tall building held a sign on the front, though Ash couldn’t read the text. She nudged her sleeping sister and pointed to the post.

“It just says ‘inn’.” Ev whimpered before falling back to her restless sleep.

“Good, let’s get you some food.” Ash said.

A post at the inn’s door held a station for her horse. She wrapped the mare’s rein around the slick wooden post and helped Ev to her feet.

“Twelve plates for a room.” A grizzled old man shouted from behind his bar as the pair entered. Ash lumped her sister at an empty table and tore a small velvet pouch from her blade belt. She poked within and drew forth a silver disk and handed it over.

“Luxury suite?” He chuckled.

“Just... look after her.” Ash said and the old man set his sight on Evara. “If anyone looks at her funny-”

“Cut their cocks off.” He darkly interrupted her, brandishing a cleaver and a wicked look.

“Exactly. Another disk if she’s happy when I get back.” Ash offered, showing the man another silver disk.

“Right, I'll put some food on for the two of you.” He sniffed the air as two young men entered and sat far from Ev.

“Not for me, though I’m sure she’d be glad for a double portion. But I’ll take two cups of the house best, thank you.” Ash smiled. He poured the only ale the house held into two surprisingly fresh-looking cups. Ash took them with a nod and sat to Ev’s side.

“Drink that.” She warmly ordered.

“Is it poisoned?” Ev asked. She lay with her head against the table and her hair sprawled out across it.

“Yup, nightingale potion.” Ash laughed, taking a swig. “It’ll put an end to your suffering, and everything else - come to think of it.”

“Yay.” Ev groaned. She finally rose her head, though her body stayed slumped against the table and her fringe had taken the shape of a violent tsunami. She dragged her hand over to the mug with a powerful effort and lifted it to her lips with all the will of a great warrior.

She spat it as soon as she tasted it. She sputtered as though liquid flame drowned her tongue. It was the most energy Ash had seen of her since the feast.

“Why would you give me ale?” She cried, falling back to the table.

“Stitching a stab wound, as dad would call it.” Ash laughed with her full belly. She took a half gulp of her own and pushed the mug closer to Ev.

“What?” Ev groaned. She managed a little rise and rested her heavy head against the mug, though she avoided drinking.

“Stitching a stab, the cure for the ailment is a littler version of the ailment.” Ash explained. She ran a hand over Ev’s fringe and patted it down over her steel little eyes. “Heh, Ale-ment.” Ash chuckled.

“Dads an idiot, and so are you.” Ev whined. She drew a breath with all the gravity of a death rattle before she pinched her nose shut and drank a heavy gulp.

“Love you too, Ev.” Ash giggled. She stood and gave her darling sister a kiss on her cheek before mounting her spear to her back.

“Die.” Ev coughed as the drink began its magic. She turned to Ash and watched her ready to leave. “We’re going?” She asked.

“No, I got you a room upstairs. The owner is making you some food, then I want you to sleep this off. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. If there are any issues, tell the owner and he’ll... cut them off at the stem.” Ash said.

“No, don’t go. I’ll come with you.” Ev whispered. She seemed to try and stand, but the effort lacked drive, and her legs lacked capacity. She remained uselessly sat at the table with no argument but her big pleading eyes.

“Sleep, Ev. I won’t be long. I promise.” Ash insisted, kissing Evara on her forehead and rounding a hand across her little cheeks.

Ashtik left her young sister in the care of the innkeeper and made off for the city. She did not wander aimlessly. She sought a smithy. The baron had granted her a rather large stipend for her journey to the Conclave, and she intended to make full use of it while she still could. She doubted the gold and silver would be of much use once she returned to the woods.

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Unlike the inn, Ash needed no skill in literacy to sniff out the smithy. Black smoke pillared high, a dozen master crafted armours lay at the display, the sound of clashing iron rang out for miles and it didn’t hurt that a great wooden anvil hung from the doorway. The building was of the same style as the others, though it was much more exposed to the elements. Two parts split the building, the forge; and the sellers. She made for the open-air shopfront and stood in the one-man que behind a strange man in strange dress.

“Please, master Toblik!” The strange man before her pled. He was a fairly short man, though still a head above her, and surprisingly well built. It wasn’t a warrior’s build, closer to the build of the smith’s sons that she had lost in the clearing. He wore thick leather pads, like those of a smith only these seemed more tailored for everyday use.

“Sujin, was it?” The forge master sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Yes, master Toblik!” The shorter man enthused, nearly bouncing in place.

“Well, Sujin,” the forger said as he leant closer to the other man, “piss off.”

“But mas-” The shorter man insisted, or so he tried.

“Look, kid. You’re talented but for the sake of Taeva’s bountiful tits, listen to me! I don’t need an apprentice!” He slowly, though clearly, said. It was blatant that the older man was placing all of his will into remaining calm, though his will was quickly draining. “Yes, you young mae.” The forger finally said, dismissing the other man with a sideways glance.

“Oh, th- thank you, sir.” Ash awkwardly stammered. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the scorned apprentice as she slid past him.

“I’m sorry about that, I hate swearing in front of customers.” The forger shared in her awkward demeanour for a moment but quickly dismissed the mood. “So, what can I do for you, Sai-Weleg?”

“Oh, I’m surprised you know that I’m a huntress.” Ash nearly whispered. Her eyes danced across the assortment of arms and armours. The shelves of curiosities and magical runes. She even noticed a dusty little tome in the corner of the room. She scanned every detail of every curio in the building, but never so much as glanced at the forger before her.

“Of course, I’m a northern lad myself. Toblik Jai-Hael, at your service. So, what can I get for you? Some new armour, or maybe a bow?” Toblik offered. He swung an arm above him, where a series of leather chest plates were pinned to the high wall. They came in all kinds of fashions. One was a single piece of boiled leather, studded with iron. Another seemed closer to a coat as it dangled much too low for someone of her build. The middle of the armour was missing, so Ash assumed it was for wearing over some kind of steel cuirass. Aside them both was a male version of the armour she wore, only in dark green rather than red. The male armour lacked the wrist pads meant for female archers and seemed to exaggerate its figure significantly more. The belly was still exposed, as it was with her own, and it clearly prioritised comfort over protection in most places.

“I was wondering how much a full set up would be.” She meekly asked.

“Armour, dirk and a bow?” Toblik guessed.

“Ah, no.” Ash stuttered. “I use a spear, and I have a dirk. I was thinking armour, spear and travel pack.”

“Well, a set of basic leathers will be two disks; a spear will be twelve plates, and the travel pack will be ten. Let's call it three silvers.” He decided. Ash tore the pouch again and rustled through it, she had promised her last silver to the inn keep.

“I only have gold.” She awkwardly chuckled. He peaked into her pouch as she continued ruffling through it.

“Gods, put that away child!” The forger urgently whispered. He covered the pouch with his hands and pushed it closer into her.

“I’m sorry!” Ash shouted, she had no idea what she could have done to cause offence but she recoiled from his touch and nearly dropped the pouch.

“Gods mae, where did a huntress get so much gold? Did you slay a dragon?” Toblik questioned, but she barely heard him. Blood rushed to her ears and seemed to almost drown out all other noises.

“The... baron gave it to me.” She eked.

“For what?” He asked, his curiosity seemed to wain and guilt began to grip him. He could see how poorly she had taken him raising his voice, even if it was to help her.

“I killed the bandits.” She answered,

“Killed the bandits?” He repeated. Confusion dripped from his gaze as he appraised her like some tool fresh from the forge. “No...” He finally whispered in utter disbelief. “You? Are you the Sparrow-Knight?”

Ash simply nodded in response, she clung as tightly as she could to the little pouch, though gold and bronze live much too cold to be comforting fellows.

Toblik chuckled to himself, “incredible.”

“I’m sorry.” She repeated quietly.

“No, I’m sorry! You can clearly take care of yourself; I shouldn’t have urged you.” He said with absolute sincerity, despite the little chuckle he loosed before speaking.

“Okay,” Ash shakily started, “about the armour?”

“Yes, yes, of course! Listen, this shit is no good for you. I’m a master forger, people come from around the world for my equipment. Allow me to forge you a set of steel armour for the same price as the leather... and- and I'll even craft a one-of-a-kind spear, just for you. No extra cost!” He said with glee bounding from every syllable.

“I can’t wear steel,” Ash meekly protested, “It’s too loud and heavy; plus, it rusts.”

“Not this steel!” He proudly declared. “I’m not some mere blacksmith, I’m a master forger! I can make steel lighter than a feather, quieter than an orgasm at church. I can make it waterproof and even self-heating, for those wintertime hunts.” He said, though he wasn’t speaking to her anymore. His rambling declarations seemed more so plans and blueprints, formed in the mind but not yet material.

“Why would you do that?” Ash asked.

“Because you’re the Sparrow-Knight! They say you’re the Champion of Black! If you’re to be fighting back the darkness, you should be fighting with the best gear in the world.” He explained.

“Fighting back the darkness?” Ash confusedly repeated. He didn’t seem to notice, instead turning his plans to her spear.

“A detachable head, with a chain attached for ranged attacks! I could put a small explosive rune behind to send the tip flying...” The rest of his rambles spoke of specifications and possible material composites, though she couldn’t parse a word of it.

“Okay, I'll pay you for it now then.” She awkwardly said, though he didn’t care. Ash drew a single gold piece and placed it on his counter.

“That’s way too much.” He insisted. “I said three silver.”

“That was for the basics.” She reminded,

“No, that was for the armour weapons and gear. I never specified the quality in that contract.” He confidently declared.

“I only have golds.” She sighed. Her eyes fell back to the dusty tome at the corner of the room and he noticed.

“It’s an old magic book. For novice magicians.” He explained.

“Nobody’s bought it?” She asked.

“Nobody in the conclave is a novice, they either aren’t allowed to do magic; or they are far beyond the skills of that book.”

“I could take it too, for the gold.” She suggested.

“It’s not worth much, but sure. You didn’t strike me for the magician kind.” He chuckled.

“It’s not for me, it's for my little sister. She’d love to learn, I'm sure.”

“Oh, well I don’t know much about the magics but I’m pretty sure there’s a reason you never hear about self-taught magicians.” He nervously laughed.

“She’s clever, she’ll figure it out.” Ash insisted.

“Very well,” Toblik nodded, “why don’t you pick something else out for her, too. Does she use daggers or bows?”

“She’s a good archer.”

“Then here, take this.” He pulled from the wall, a dawn birch short bow, stringed with a strange crystal wire. It was wrapped in a silver coated leather band. Ash took it up and strung it, drawing it back to test the pull weight. It was a fairly heavy bow for Evara, but one she could grow into as she aged. She slowly let the bow straighten and placed it back on the table.

“Thank you, you are a kind man.” Ash smiled.

“Of course.” He humbly bowed his head. “It is the least I can do, but please; take care of yourself, mae. There is a storm coming and you are at its eye.”

“The eye of the storm is the calmest part.” She chuckled.

“So long as you can keep pace. Fall behind and it’ll consume you.” He warned.

“Callum!” He shouted to the forge without any further regard for Ashtik. “Take the shop, I’ve got work to do!”

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The door to the homely little inn creaked open and Ash saw within that half a battle was taking place. She readied her spear, only to see no blood had been spilt.

“Girl! You’re back!” The innkeeper shouted. Between him and her stood three terrifying figures. They wore the slate robes of grim monks over disguised armour. She had seen the army of these men as she entered the city. Veytors, Satra had called them.

“They sought to enter your room, I sought to chop their cocks off.” He spat at the grim men.

“Why did you seek to enter my room?” Ash demanded, raising her spear to the deathly calm Veytors.

“Sparrow-Knight, a dangerous name. Do you know who it is you pretend to be, girl?” The eldest of the men spoke as you would to a rabid dog. He watched her from above his upturned nose and held his hand together as though in prayer.

“I pretend at nothing, monk. Answer me, why did you seek to enter my room?” Ash demanded with the confidence of battle blood.

“We offer you no harm, girl. Your presence is demanded at the Conclave. Come, allow the truth to free you.” The man said with poorly veiled hatred.

“Free me of what?”

“The truth offers many freedoms, and many chains. The truth of your name is to be unveiled and, should the truth make a liar of you; freedom from the physical shall be granted to she who makes mockery of the gods.” The Veytor monk smiled. “We are but the raven sent to guide your path, not the hawk sent to be executioners. Not yet, that is.” He said, growing a wicked smirk.

“Then let's go.” Ash said, stowing her spear. The three men all bowed deeply to her and to the inn keeper before departing.

“Thank you.” Ash whispered to the man.

“Be careful with them bastards, child.” The keeper said with a furrowed brow.

“I will be. Please look after my sister until I return. Here, take this for now.” Ash pled, quickly handing him two golden pieces. The man’s eyes grew larger than his skull ought to have allowed, and his jaw seemed to unhinge for a moment.

“She will be as my own blood.” He swore.

With it, Ash left along with the Veytor monks on their southward path to answers.

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All that had been, had been poor. All that was, was perfect. The day would end as it had started, in awe of the gods that so wished her enslavement. She took her steps alone, leaving the Veytors outside the hallowed hall. The sun shone now from the north, and near blinded her in rainbow-stained glory. The light shining through the stained glass cast down the image of the divine pantheon. She could name scarce few; Taeva sat atop a direwolf, bow in hand. Hevestiel bowed before the Golden Goddess who reigned above them all. She saw the goden of sailors, Sjalgreef, set sail across a ray of light. A dark mass of blind justice was cast to the far end of the hall, Veytor; the goden of truth. His grim gaze seemed to follow her as she marched the near endless pathway.

“Stop there.” A man called, the only man that stood in the hall. White hair to match her own, though his gaze was much more severe; much more commanding. He forded the gap between Ashtik and the mothers, blade in hand. He circled Ash, his rapier scraped the ground around her as he checked every inch of her over. “What is your name?” He finally asked in a voice as deep as a flaming bellow.

“Ashtik.” Was the best she could manage. Everything in that place unsteadied her. The way the air seemed so fresh, yet so unmoving; stagnant. The way the council of mothers leered at her in distain from behind their great table. The way this white-hair seemed to both obsess over her body, and yet hate her fully for being within his gaze.

“Be you a dove shielded in hawk’s feather’s; or be you the hawk, feigning wings of peace?” One of the distant mothers called across the infinite distance.

“I don’t know what that means... Mother.” Ash replied. The man stepped ahead of her and stole her sight. He tapped his blade at the ground some paces ahead of her. It was a silent order, one she followed before thought could give her hesitance.

“You fear, child?” Another mother asked.

“Of course she fears, Yenan!” Sneered a familiar voice. It was she who acted as muse to every flame of the world. She who could sing songs to the soon calming winds. She who would teach the sun to crown, and the moon to light the night. She stormed across the hall and came upon the white-hair. A whispered word brought his blade to its sheath and allowed her to bare her own weapon. A pure and perfect smile that span from star to star. The whole galaxy could have resided between her rosy, freckled cheeks.

“I greet you, Ashtik.” She said in tones of music and honey. Had a songbird chirped at that moment, it might have taken a vow of silence as penance for lessening the beauty of the sound.

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“I- Hello... Ashtik-” Ash stammered and stuttered and everything inelegant when placed before this divinity.

“Bid each noise be still. Bid peace to the torrent within, that the flood may settle, and the woman might be known...” The ray of light giggled as easily as though the words were thoughtless. Ash had no thought as to what she had said, nor could she as much as comprehend a word of it, but a calm encompassed her. It surrounded her and filled her. It was the greatest bed, with even greater company. It was feathers and tickles. It was love and passion. A word brought calm, but a gaze brought something much more. Amethyst locked to pure, elated, gold.

“While you stand here, Ashtik, you may leave the weight of the world behind; but I’m afraid you will always carry the weight of the wise. There is no alleviation to be granted in that battle.” She whispered. The Golden woman took Ash’s hand into her own and dragged her forward, towards the mothers. She made the journey a happy one, each step was a step taken with purpose and pride. Each noise rippled and shifted the air into the correct place. No longer was she the burden or the blunderer.

She was encircled by her betters. The closest connections to divinity surrounded and judged her. They saw, from their high table, her every scab and insecurity. They could see it written bare across her face. The time she had tore her shirt before the smith’s son. All the time she had tried to show off in front of her father and earned a fresh scar as a result. Every depraved and cruel thought. Every perversion and hidden desire. They saw it all, or; they must have. That must have been the reason they made her feel so small, and themselves seem so large. It was no sooner than the Golden Champion had left her hands embrace, that she was stood bare as a babe before these judging councillors.

“Hath thou a claim to the divine?” A mother to her right asked.

“What?” Ash begged. The woman aside her, wearing a robe of a brighter hue, spoke next.

“Art thou marred and marked by sparrows and blackened dreams.” The mother asked.

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“You shall have it spoken plain; a Champion of Black is your stolen claim. A warrior of legend, made in a day; prove your might, keep your better at bay.”

“They mean me...” The white-hair lightly said. Ash span to look at him, but instead met his fist. It tumbled her in an instant. A seething pain, a fresh bruise on her cheek. She could feel the droplet of blood make its way across her vined tattoo. “I’m your better, try and keep me at bay.”

He jumped at her, throwing a kick to meet her, but she managed to roll away from his reach before he could connect. He wasted not an instant before rounding on her again. He flung out his back hand and she managed to dodge it by a hair. She had too little time, from her backfoot, to dodge his follow up attack. A fist landed beneath her ribs and lifted her from her toes. It tore the stagnant air from her lungs, but it wasn’t enough. He rounded again, meeting his fist to her jaw, then again with a knee to her hip. She sprung out her arm in a wild attempt to push him away, but he seemed to react even before she had moved. He put himself in the perfect position to grab her wrist, twist it, and throw her into the mother’s table.

“Admit the falsehood or deny the lie; change your destiny or be ready to die.” Another mother called.

“I- I didn’t... lie.” Ash gasped through bloody teeth.

“You tricked the bishop of steel; you lied and forced her to kneel. Your act of legend, no more than a vicious crime; your blackened heart has no place amongst the truly sublime.”

Ash dragged down a burning breath and hopped from the table. “Oh, shut the fuck up already.” She grunted before storming at the white-hair. She swung with pure malice. She tore her dirk from her boot and aimed to land it at his thigh, then his throat, then his eye. She slashed and tore, and thrusted and murdered with absolute hatred. Then it was done and she looked at her victim.

“You done?” The white-haired man smiled down to her as he stood towering, and utterly uninjured. She had yet to land a single blow. It did not deter her. She rounded and slashed a dozen more times, though each time he seemed to be in the exact right place to counterattack. She realised he wasn’t fighting her, but toying with her. She slashed again, and again, and again, but each time he dodged and weaved and pushed her away.

For each slash missed, she grew in wrath. She could feel it fuelling her. Making her faster, stronger. She would miss one strike, but throw six more in the instant after, and she would miss all of them.

“Ooh, that one was close.” The cunt gibed through his painfully unbroken teeth. “Alas, I have other things to do today.” He continued as he stepped past her lunge and wrapped his fingers around her throat. He lifted her overhead and threw her as far as he could. She crashed against a standing candle stick. The landing didn’t seem to hurt at all. The adrenaline must have saved her the agony.

He made slow and mocking steps towards her as he drew his rapier from its pure white scabbard. “It’s been a pleasure.” He calmly mocked. She took his slow walk to make a plan. The candlestick was tall, as tall as her spear. She snapped the legs and left only the shaft, standing with it raised as a staff behind her back.

“It won’t do you any good, trust me.” He sighed as he coiled back to attack. She managed to dash the blade aside with the pole before thrusting it into the ground and using it as leverage to vault backwards. She kept her distance from the man, and occasionally made swipes at him; though all attempts were meaningless.

“Enough of this, child!” He shouted, ripping the spear from her hands and diving towards her. The blade tore at her armour upon its first strike, but then he struck the tiny nick in the armour again, and again, and again. He managed to dig a hole directly through to her bare chest and he made his final strike as Ashtik screamed out at him.

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The air was so still. So thoroughly undisturbed, unlike the old hags who sat around their table; admiring the Ashtik sized dent that had been placed within. They weren’t looking at her. They must have lost interest in her execution. The Golden woman watched on, though. She clung to Ash’s gaze as the blade came forth. It was a beauty of a weapon. White steel, stained red with her. Soon enough there would be no white left beneath all the red. She shifted her gaze up to her killer’s. He looked so dispassionate, almost bored. He couldn’t have seen her as anything more than a bug. He drew no pleasure from the fight as he stood there frozen in his thrust.

Frozen.

The specs of dust didn’t fall to the ground as they sailed their wave of sunlight. The bead of sweat didn’t drop from her nose. The tear didn’t fall from Golden eyes, but they would fall from steel eyes. If she died here, what would become of the sister? Would they curse her as blood of the heretic? Would the Veytors come for her?

Why weren’t they moving?

Ash’s gaze fell to the swirling bands of energy at her left hand. Tentacles of purple and black lightning sprawled out and shattered the floor tiles. Her gauntlet was no longer in its little gem but sprawling out and writhing like some spreading tumour. She realised it was the only thing around her that moved, so she decided to shift a finger, then her wrist, then her hand, then her arm.

She moved it to the blade and shifted it aside. Then she wound back as far as she could and loosed the hardest punch she had ever given.

It was a crack of thunder, with the black lightning to back it. The cunt was sent back a half dozen paces, only, he forgot to take his teeth with him.

The sounds of him wailing and crying out in agony were as close to orgasmic as he had likely ever gotten a woman. She was ready to give him a hundred more punches like the last, until her legs gave out from under her, and the world turned dark.

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“Ashtik?” A gentle summer wind begged. It made her name sound like a masterpiece. Like some universal love song, sang through the ages. She peeled her eyes open to find the tear-filled Golden woman fussing over her wound. She mumbled some incantation, and a divine warmth filled Ashtik. She felt her wounds fuse and her bones set. It was like Evara’s power, only infinitely more potent.

“Do I get any of that?” A man groaned from the far end of the room.

“I’ve been waiting twenty years for you to get a smack in the teeth, enjoy it while it lasts.” The woman spat back. Even angered, her voice was so calming. It could have sent Ash back to sleep, had she not remembered the fight for her life.

She jolted up as quickly as she could and scrambled for a weapon. When she found none, she instead turned to the Golden woman in hopes she could steal her weapon. She looked the woman over with no regard for proprietary and even span her around to see if she had hidden her blade at her back. The woman didn’t resist but did let out a strangely shocked yelp.

“Bid each noise be still. Bid peace to the torrent within, that the flood may settle, and the woman might be known...” The woman whispered, and again, Ash was calm and happy. “Come, Ashtik. You are safe, the trials are over. Nobody will hurt you anymore, I swear it on my life.” The woman said. Ash was yet in a daze from her battle, though something of the words registered within her. A mindless shuffle urged her on, and wordless voices carried in the space she parted. The textureless air, perfectly temperate to her skin, felt all too thick and all too thin. Then she was back in her seat of judgment, and the mothers returned to their arguments as though no deathly struggle had just been fought.

“It's not possible.” The mother of crimson declared.

“It’s self-evident!” The Golden Champion retorted as she helped Ash to sit in a wooden throne.

“It is a mistake.” The orange lady said with absolute surety.

“The only mistake is your treatment of the girl. Cast off your arrogance, mothers. This is a new day, for new minds. She is the usher of the dusk, and we are but mere candle lights acting as stars.” The Golden Champion said with the incomparable strength driven from purity, from righteousness. She turned her wrathful leer to a warm gaze as she looked to Ashtik.

“Ashtik, right? Can I call you Ash?” She whispered, no longer regarding the bickering mothers.

“Yes.” Ash managed to whisper though her pains.

“My name’s Siobhan Fell,” the Golden beauty said, nearly matching Ash’s whisper. “Are you still hurt?”

“No.” Ash lied. The woman knelt before Ash and rested her arms on Ash’s thigh. She smiled as her eyes lit with holy flame yet again, and Ash’s wounds were made lesser.

“I’m sorry, Ash.” Siobhan smiled. She forced Ash’s gaze with a wordless glance. Her gentle hand moved her flowing wine-red hair aside and displayed something spectacular. At the corner of her neck, above a cluster of freckles and beneath her jaw, she presented the mark of golden flame. It seemed to flicker back and forth beneath her skin like a joyous candle in the wind.

“My mark.” She said with a dreamy sigh. She set her hair back over her neck and sat back on the floor before Ash. She didn’t speak beyond it, but her searching eyes told Ash what she wanted. Ashtik held her left hand in her right and rubbed at the mark like some fresh ache. It was near complete now. What had been a smoky idea of a sparrow, now took flight across her hand. It seemed alive, if not aware. It fluttered in its silhouetted existence, uncaring of the woman in which it had made its world.

“She’s beautiful.” Siobhan smiled, taking the marked hand into her own. “But more than that, she's real.”

“So, I really am a Champion?” Ash asked.

“You really are.” She smiled. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Ash repeated, it seemed an ominous thing for a ‘fellow Champion’ to say.

“The charters have been scoured and ensured; the Champion’s council truly is complete. The Goden of your patronage is no Goden of the Pantheon.” Siobhan whispered.

“He’s the forgotten Goden.” Ash said.

“Yes.”

“People keep telling me that’s a bad thing. That I’m some dark harbinger, the scion of darkness. I keep having dreams, every night, of death and empire. What does it mean?” Ash begged in whispered cries.

“There was a prophecy,” Siobhan began, “it's about you and what you’ll do. Ashtik, it is not a happy prophecy. It does not have a happy ending.”

“What is the prophecy?” Ash asked. She had nearly forgotten that she and Siobhan weren’t alone in the great hall, until the Golden Champion stood and walked to the council of mothers. Ash noticed the three empty seats directly before her, and Siobhan pointed to each. To the right, sat a seat of steel. Jagged blades and rounded armour. A crown of blooded daggers sat atop of it. To the middle, a sunburst throne. Golden and opulent in its material, though functional and meek in its design. To the left, sat a simple seat of black velvet. A coat of dust settled atop of it. It seemed as though none had taken to its arms in a very long time.

“Mothers, summon the trinity.” Siobhan ordered.

“Very well, Champion.” The crimson mother seethed. All came to prayer and summoned upon them, a silver shimmer. A strand, like a single ancient hair, joined between the mothers and connected them at their hearts.

She had expected some great spectacle. Instead, before her appeared in a blink, a woman with a gown of gold and eyes of steel. To her right, a woman with eyes of gold and a gown of steel. No mother came to be at their left.

“Siobhan.” Said the mother at the centre.

“My lady of Gold,” Siobhan bowed, “you know why you are summoned?”

“Probably.” The Golden divine chuckled. “Hello, my lovely,” she shone at Ash. “Am I to Assume you are Ashtik Sai-Weleg?”

“I- Yes.” Ash said as proudly as she could, though it sounded utterly pathetic in comparison. “You know of me?”

“Oh, yes.” The divine chuckled. “You are quite the topic in the halls of the gods.” She said as though it were the same as being gossiped about in the village.

“The hall of the gods?” Ash repeated in awe.

“Ash,” Siobhan whispered, “the trinity remain in the embrace of their patrons, unless they are needed here.”

“Then you know my supposed patron?” Ash realised.

“I... do not. Nobody, not man nor goden, can know your patron. My lady, the Golden Goddess, is his own progeny; and yet she knows near as little of him as I or you.” The divine admitted.

“Then... what? Why has he chosen me?” She begged.

“That is... the issue.” She hesitantly answered. “He did not.”

“But they said I’m his Champion?” Ash insisted.

“You are; but you are not his chosen.” She sighed. “There was an order from your patron, bestowed upon your previous guardian goddess.” She begun in her explanation.

“I didn’t have a previous guardian.” Ash corrected.

“All mortals have a guardian god. The gods often battle for mortals of worth, Taeva – she of the hunt – won the battle for your soul. I believe the goddess of beauty and the goden of silence both strove against her for your claim.” She explained.

“They fought over me like a toy?” Ash grunted.

“They fought to prove who was most capable of protecting you.” The divine calmly corrected. “But that is not of consequence.” She continued, “Taeva was ordered to bestow upon his chosen, the Black mark. It seems that she did not aim for you.”

“The goddess of accuracy and hunting, missed?” The White-haired man laughed.

“Be silent, Aarov.” The steel clad divine ordered from the Golden’s side. He bowed his head to her and stepped away.

“But, yes; she did.” The Golden divine laughed.

“Then who was chosen?” Ash demanded.

“There were many prophecies of who the first Champion of Black was to be. We now know which of them was supposed to be true; With fluttered wing and burning hellfire shall the first Champion of the forgotten, cast out the darkness. With a healing heart and a glance of steel shall the first Chosen of the Dreamer cast out the dark one. With pure sorrow begotten by pure love shall the stars be freed and the winds made unstill.”

There was power to the words, to the prophecy. The world shook underfoot as each syllable was uttered. The vile will wrought fear from all amongst them. None had expected it, even the divines feared the violence of it. The dome cracked above them and a thousand shards of glass fell like drops of rain. They cut, and sliced and tore at everyone there, but not Ashtik. It seemed the glass feared her as the mother’s feared her patron.

The chaos of dark fate subdued and settled. The panic of first blood simmered, but didn’t boil over. She watched this crowd of her betters as they picked shards of rainbowed glass from their flesh and garbs.

“What was that?” Ash finally asked.

“A sign.” The divine choked. “Ashtik, there are other prophesies. Tales of war and darkness. Of a consuming abyss, and the one person who can stop it.”

“Me? How can it be me? You said it yourself; I wasn’t chosen! I’m not the chosen one!” Ash cried.

“No, but you are the Champion. You are all we have.” The steel divine sighed.

A rush of wind stripped her breath and tore at her hair. The strand of silver broke from the mothers and the divines were naught but echoes in the halls.

----------------------------------------

“Ash.” Siobhan whispered, though she didn’t get any closer. She looked close to tears yet again. “I’m sorry, but there’s more.”

“More?” Ash repeated.

“We-” Gold stammered, though she choked on her words. She made another attempt to explain but failed yet again.

“We have to hunt you.” The white-haired man called out. Both Ash and Siobhan turned to him. He still mauled with the single bloody bruise at his cheek. It seemed pain was a new feeling for him. “I’m sorry, Black. I really am.” He continued.

“What is he talking about?” Ash called out, spinning to Siobhan.

“I’m sorry, Ash. We don’t have a choice.” She whimpered.

“It’ll be me and the Veytors.” The White-hair added.

“Who the fuck even are you?” Ash shouted.

“I’m Aarov Martins, the Champion of White.” He answered without pride. “I’m the Champion killer.”

“Try it.” Ash spat, though it was blatantly a bluff.

“No!” Siobhan shouted. “Not now! We will take every second of peace we can afford, and right now peace is cheap. White, behave. Ash, sit down.” She ordered. Ash sat without a thought and Aarov deigned to leave the room all together.

“Why must you hunt me?” Ash begged.

“Because you will be declared a heretic.” The crimson mother declared, just as vain and arrogant as she had been earlier.

“Why? I’ve been confirmed!” Ash protested.

“You are the harbinger of the last day. The prophecy is not known to all, but enough understand what it means that you live.” The mother of azure continued.

“Should you be confirmed as a Champion, it would be the same as telling the people that the world is at an end.” The mother of lime added.

“Panic would grip the lands.” The orange mother declared.

“The prophecy would fulfil its own oath before any darkness could come about us.” Said she in the teal gown finished.

“But the world is ending! Surely, they should prepare? Surely helping me would be wiser than fighting me?” Ash cried, though she could see the decision had been made; that her pleas were worthless. “You offer them a calm death rather than a chance to fight.” She realised.

“We offer them hope.” The lilac mother said in a frail voice.

“False hope.” She retorted.

“All hope is false, tis’ the nature of the thing. It is faith in the unlikely, the impossible... You. So long as you live, the hope stands true.” Lilac said.

“Ash,” Siobhan whispered, “I know it's hard... But this is the only way. You will save the world; we’ll make sure there’s still a world to save.”

“This is insanity. Where would I even start?” Ashtik had to lower her voice as she spoke. Each plea came as a thunderbolt and shout. The mothers rose together and, in one silent flight, made for chamber’s exit.

“We cannot know; ask of your fellows.” The crimson mother said with her back to Ashtik. “Know this, Champion,” she whispered, “we will support you as we can. Every chapel is yours to plunder. Every tithe is yours to relinquish. You shall not want for anything as you battle.”

“I’m supposed to raid temples? I can’t imagine the gods would be pleased with that, nor the worshipers.” Ash groaned.

“Tough.” Siobhan chuckled. “Your quest is vital; the pride of some gods is irrelevant.”

Ash didn’t see the mother's leave. She didn’t hear the great doors seal shut, nor did she notice as Aarov appeared at her back.

“Black.” He said as greetings. She spun to meet his gaze, half ready to loose an attack. He raised his hands in pre-emptive as a nearly apologetic smile caught his bloody cheeks.

“You.” Ash spat, backing a pace away.

“Play nice.” Siobhan ordered. She pressed Ash back into her splinter throne as the two Champions stood over her. “Now that they’re gone, we can talk frankly.” Siobhan sighed.

“About what?” Ash asked.

“About your plan.” Aarov answered. “You need friends, allies and armies. I know where you can get all three.”

“Why would I trust you? Aren’t you the one who’s going to hunt me down?” Ash doubted.

“I’m certainly supposed to.” He lazily laughed. “But I don’t think it would be wise to succeed. I’ll lead the Veytors off your trail as best I can, but if they catch you, I’ll have no choice but to fight you.”

“Just, listen to him, please Ash.” Siobhan said. She knelt at Ash’s side and took her marked hand into her own.

“Look,” Aarov began with a sigh, “you need to go somewhere that the Veytors can’t go. Somewhere independent from the Conclave. Luckily, that somewhere exists. The Forgelands to the west.”

“The Veytors can’t go there?” Ash questioned.

“Nah.” He simply replied.

“Thier fortress exists in the Bloodlands. Donaleaf – the King of the Forgelands – is at war with them.” Siobhan kindly elaborated.

“Right.” Aarov chuckled. “Go there and build an army.”

“You make it sound so easy.” Ash groaned. Her face fell beneath her unmarked hand and the world seemed to spin around her. “Why would this Donaleaf help me?” She finally asked.

“He’s the Champion of the Forge.” Siobhan answered. “And he’s a good man. Once you prove yourself, he’ll know that he needs to help you.”