The room cleared of men as the Guardian continued speaking in a soft, almost soothing voice. Almost. “I am gratified by the honor of your presence.” She smiled, and Callida took a deeper breath than the paralytic had allowed since being pricked, the vaguest suggestion of protest in its depths. “Guardians, let us move quickly. She is as strong as we’d predicted.”
Callida was stripped bare and put in a thin, white ceremonial robe that tied closed in three places at the front for semi-decency so the male Guardians could return to the room. By the time they’d finished dressing her, Callida was able to express her distress by pinching her face and controlling her breath in weak grunts and groans, and for that, her limbs were strapped down before she could gain control of them.
“It’s alright, General,” the pretty Guardian soothed, stroking and smoothing Callida’s unique hair away from her neck and face and into a cascading golden waterfall over the top of the stone table. “This is for the greater good. Shh,” Callida was hushed before her desperate efforts to utter anything at all were successful.
“Stop,” she gasped, her neck arching backwards in a pathetic strain.
“Shh. Please, General, the more you fight us, the more it will hurt. We are not cruel. We do not wish to hurt you any more than absolutely necessary.”
The tears were the involuntary product of helplessness despite the paralytic rapidly wearing off. “Wha’d’you'ant?”
“We must confirm your destiny. If you are not what we predicted, you will be free to go.”
“Wha’… d’you f’ink… I am?”
“All in good time.”
“No. Ans’er now. Why’re you doing this?” But the Guardian merely smiled gently at her, withdrawing a thin knife that seemed to be made of glass from a fur-lined, silver tray behind her, and for the first time, Callida caught a hint of green in the Guardian’s dark eyes. “Who are you?!” Callida demanded, her arms now testing their restraints. The knife moved to her throat, and Callida froze as the impossibly sharp blade barely glanced off her flesh but drew blood in a slow, steady trickle before the Guardian returned the knife to its tray.
“The more you fight, the more it will hurt,” the Guardian repeated herself quietly while Callida resumed fighting her restraints, causing the Guardian to sigh. “Very well. I shouldn’t be surprised that you would choose the hardest path.” Callida fought with everything she had to no avail, and the Guardian lifted herself onto the table to straddle Callida’s hips and set her palm against the bare skin of Callida’s sternum.
“NO!” Callida shouted as she realized the Guardian’s intentions. “Don’t touch me! Don’t–!” It was instant torture, and Callida’s wolf was snarling viciously in her chest cavity as the Guardian forced the spiritual connection on her. The agony only intensified when the Guardian leaned down to lick and suck the blood trickling down the side of Callida’s neck — the physical intimacy aiding the strength of the spiritual connection.
Callida was certain that she was dying. Everything inside of her was fighting a brutal, intangible battle, thrashing and screaming, or maybe the screaming wasn’t on the inside. The violating connection invading her chest seemed to rip and tear at her from the inside out, searching, hunting, exposing. Callida felt her consciousness drifting, the pain lessening slightly for it and giving her the opportunity to analyze the darkness lashing at her soul. Something in her chest moved to counter it, and that something was familiar. Goldie caught an offending tendril in her fangs, and the screaming became undeniably audible, echoing off the sterile stone walls of the temple.
First, the pain lessened in an instant as the Guardian collapsed and sprawled across her, her palm no longer against Callida’s chest. Second, blood dripping from an unknown source fell across Callida's neck, joining the trickle of her own blood and somehow adding to Callida’s control. And she was in control. The violating connection was hers, and Callida followed it from its place in her chest to a space where a fowl of white light lay battered, its wing crippled. There was no thought given about what happened next. Goldie, of her own volition, took the broken owl in her jaws and mercilessly killed it, shredded it, the white essence dissipating into nothing before Goldie was satisfied and the connection was broken.
“Pouli!” A very confused and disoriented Callida nauseously watched as the Guardian above her was lifted and cradled in another Guardian’s arms — the male one with broad shoulders and a cut on his chest. “Pouli! Oh, Primordials! What’s wrong?!”
“It’s true,” the Guardian choked, tears streaking down cheeks already stained with the blood from her gushing nose. “It’s her: the Mother of Prophecy.” Whether the Guardian died or simply passed out, Callida wasn’t sure, but two dramatic deaths in one day was two too many, and Callida found herself becoming angry for that reason alone.
“What do we do now?” a rattled Guardian asked the one cradling the limp spiritualist.
“Pouli said it’s her. Now… we end it.” He stood up and collected the ritual glass knife. Callida could see murder in his eyes, and she braced herself for the inevitable as his hands raised the knife above his head and over her heart.
Thunk!
Callida almost couldn’t believe what she was seeing. The Guardian above her faltered, glancing at his chest to find an arrow lodged under his ribs, and just as comprehension entered his eyes, they went dark, his body toppling backwards and the knife shattering on the floor. Callida’s head whipped around in time to watch Commanders Arum, Moro, and Baca charge into the room, swords drawn and quickly stained crimson, while another of her commanders, Commander Adjutus, took a handful of shots, picking off the Guardians closest to her before exchanging the bow for his own sword.
Callida found herself grumbling (Primordials! The drama today is excessive!) rather than feeling grateful. She waited patiently for the slaughter to end before ribbing her concerned commanders about their dramatic entrance. “‘Cutting it a bit close, aren’t you?”
“Give us a break, General,” Arum chuckled darkly. “A barely bloody knife and strip of cloth isn’t much to go off of. You’re lucky I was there when that one Guardian talked to you earlier today.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
“Your investigative skills are to be commended,” Callida rolled her eyes. “And thank you for the rescue. Truly. Would you mind untying me now?”
“Uh, yeah,” Arum became sheepish, and each of her commanders took a limb. “So what happened, Animo? Are you alright?”
“I’m fine, Arum.”
“Are you… sure? How’d they get the drop on you, and get you out of the camp without anyone hardly noticing while I was standing right outside your tent?”
“Drugged needle. Paralytic. And, I don’t know. They were quick, likely created a back entrance in my tent, and they had horses,” Callida explained, rolling unsteadily off the table and onto her knees.
“You’re bleeding!” Adjutus exclaimed, his hands fumbling for a handkerchief to press against Callida’s throat. “That’s a lot of blood! Let me see.”
“It’s a small cut; not all of the blood is mine. I’m fine,” she replied half-heartedly, accepting the handkerchief and redirecting her commanders’ attention by reaching out to probe Pouli’s neck for a pulse. “Well, that’s that,” she sighed.
“Sorry?” Arum frowned quizzically as she stood up, the scantiness of her robe feeling suddenly awkward. “That’s the Guardian from earlier today?”
“Yeah. And she’s dead, but look closely. Notice anything… odd?”
Arum moved closer and crouched down. “She’s not injured — I mean, apart from a nasty nosebleed. But we never hit her!”
“Yup,” Callida confirmed, her eyes narrowing pensively, the struggle to make sense of the night’s events ponderous.
“General, what’s significant about… this?” Moro asked shrewdly. “Why’d a bunch of Guardians kidnap you and try to kill you? Was this some sort of sick human sacrifice?”
“‘No idea, but if they thought they were sacrificing an unblemished virgin or something, they were going to be disappointed,” Callida snorted as her commanders blushed. “I’d kind of like to get my own clothes back on. ‘Excuse me a minute?”
“General,” Arum snatched at her arm before she could run away, meeting her eyes with deep, probing concern in his, “you are alright, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Arum. I’m ok.” He released her, but shared a furtive glance with her other Commanders. Callida ignored their worries and located her uniform folded neatly on a ceremonial table. “I’ll be right back.” Leaving the main chamber, she found a small, nearby room in which to change while her mind unproductively struggled to process the trauma of the evening, and the detached part of herself mused that many tears would eventually be shed over tonight. She was about to leave when something caught her eye. It was a genealogical chart going back over eight hundred years and emblazoned with the symbol of a serpentine dragon in one corner, the most recent generation listed bore the names Chikitsak Yudha and Shouzi Lang with a long line beneath them blotted out in black ink and then labeled off to the side: “surviving child — unknown rogue Alpha wolf”. Callida glanced between the dragon symbol in the corner and the black family crest ring on her finger. It matched perfectly. Rogue? What in the Primordials' names does all of this have to do with my husband?!
***
They were late. The Lion Tribe troops were growing anxious. Upon arrival, Callida and her commanders were immediately ushered to a table at the center of the crowd where a goblet made its way into her hands before she could even find her seat.
“Would you like to say a few words, General?”
Callida’s distracted search for a seat halted as abruptly as the surge of embarrassment colored her cheeks. Everyone was looking at her, their own cups at the ready. Bewildered, Callida turned to her nearest commander.
“They’re expecting a toast, General,” Baca whispered.
Crap. She took a moment to settle her nerves and gather her thoughts while scanning the expectant faces all around her. Some of them sported injuries: bandages, slings, and splints holding them together. Some of them looked as exhausted as she felt. Some of them appeared battered from the inside out. The weight of it all hit hard despite the fact that this was supposed to be a victory feast.
“Gentlemen–”
“Ahem,” Arum cleared his throat behind her. “Louder, General,” he whispered and then winked.
She exhaled and then sucked in a deep breath to help her project. “GENTLEMEN… HERE WE ARE ON THE EVE OF PEACE!” Her men shouted a brief cheer. “YOU’VE SACRIFICED MUCH TO GET US HERE. It’s been a hard year,” she added soberly to herself. “AS WE RAISE OUR CUPS, LET US REMEMBER THOSE WHOSE BLOOD PAID FOR THIS VICTORY.” She had to stop to swallow a hardening lump in her throat. “THIS IS THEIR DAY!” The tears fell anyway. She made the mistake of trying to quell them before continuing, and suddenly she was fighting heaving sobs. One hand moved to clasp the burdened chain recently returned to her neck; the other raised her glass as words failed. “To our fallen,” she choked and turned to beg for help from Arum with her eyes.
“TO OUR FALLEN COMRADES!” he shouted, and everyone drank heavily from their cups.
Except Callida. Clasping her cup to her heart, the young general instead watched the faces of her men as they each personalized her dedication with their individual grief. A metal band on the goblet clinked gently against her necklace bearing the family crest rings of her own fallen family members and close friends. Victory was expensive.
The gloom established by her toast was gradually replaced with the laughter of a celebratory feast despite the alcohol being rationed and otherwise in short supply, but Callida didn’t feel like celebrating. While her commanders conversed jovially over dinner, she bowed out, allowing herself to be swallowed by the raucous chaos on her way to her tent.
Beyond the throngs of triumphant soldiers, the wall of tents enveloped her and muffled the din of the feast as she slipped away unnoticed. Or so she thought. “Animo? Where are you going?”
She spun on her heel to find Arum scowling at her. “I’m tired,” was her lame reply.
His frown deepened as he crossed the distance between them. “It’s a party. We’re celebrating the end of this campaign. You should be there, General… with them… with us.”
She shook her head, the grief, the pain, the trauma all too raw and unprocessed. “I’m tired,” she repeated quietly.
The weight of his hand fell against her shoulder as he sighed loudly. “Animo, what really happened in the temple today? What did they do to you?”
“Nothing,” she deflected, her eyes seeking an escape from his probing.
“Why are you lying to me?”
Looking up, Callida nearly cowered beneath his earnestness. “I’m not lying. Nothing happened.”
He sighed again, his forehead pinching as though he were debating something. “We could hear you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We heard screaming,” he clarified.
“It wasn’t me,” she said, arms crossing defiantly in front of her.
“Really?” Arum’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as he studied her every microexpression.
“Really. You were hearing the Guardian — the one we met this morning who died from an apparent bloody nose?”
He took a small step forward, entering whispering range. “There were two screams, Animo. Two distinctly different cries one right after the other. The first one sounded like you.” Holding his gaze became suddenly harder.
“It wasn’t me,” Callida insisted, and Arum sighed again, breaking eye contact to glare at a point in the distance.
“It freaked us out, General. It sounded like you were being tortured. It sounded like they were killing you.”
“Arum, I don’t know what you heard, but it wasn’t–”
“I’ll let you off the hook tonight so you can go sulk in your tent, but I know you’re lying to me. I guess… let me know when you’re ready to come clean.”
“There’s nothing to come clean about,” she huffed.
Arum merely continued to stare anxiously — knowingly — at her. “Goodnight, General. Don’t get kidnapped again.”