Born of flame, fated to ignite. As is such for all of the children of the constellation Rayneth – the common thread of destiny woven into the omnipresent tapestry of being. They are born to light up the earth in blazing red, fire as a sanctum, a cleansing source. Or so all the prophets say. Even the ones that have succumbed to the constellation’s tormenting throes.
Flame was a token of home, guiding these children back in the imminent night. The lingering scent of smoke that permeated the air, the boisterous laughter of midnight revelries, the ever present warmth at each hearth in the tightly knitted villages. But all the constellations had to have their fun.
Flame was a mechanism of sacrifice to the gods – their capricious whims, even more fickle desires. Yet for flame, all could be sacrificed.
Then, it changed. Those midnight revelries ceased, silence a heavy blanket over the village, hushed whispers across town. The smoke permeating the air started to smell of steel instead – steel and the burning wax of candles. Soldiers started to pile into the village, plated in gleaming armour with the engravings of suns; the suns of Emaelia, the constellation of light. So different from the sacred protectors of the village. The ones who had trained for their entire lives, lit the torches of the three burning sisters in that dark, endless cave. They wore their armour with pride – however shabby it must’ve looked in comparison to the knights of the light. Their chainmail armour and spears adorned with gold plating, emblazoned with flames, couldn’t match the sheer quality of the armour the knights wore. The resources they had.
And so they changed. The villagers whispered unimaginable things of the supreme priestess –
“She’s being possessed by Scythil – the constellation of minds isn’t forgiving.” The man said, speaking in hushed tones.
“Don’t be ridiculous, the constellations have no time for such things.”
“How else do you explain this sudden change?”
Soon, they realised why the knights were there. Why they stood their vigils so valiantly, why they sent off reports every day to the supreme priestess.
That day, the sun hung bright in a cloudless sky, the village of Raeia bustling with the activity of a town during harvest season. The flames that night were supposed to have touched the skies, so it is told. But the flames never reached that height.
Distantly, the thundering of horse hooves resonates through the air.
A blacksmith looks up from his labours, hammer paused mid air. The housewife stops her cooking, squinting at the scene outside the window before wiping her hands on her apron and calling her children to the kitchen. The children playing in the town square huddle around, tumbling over one another to get a closer look at the horses of pure white pulling the carriage adorned with intricate gold.
A little girl – barely four years old – runs down the loose gravel path, the red ribbons in her hair flying through the air as she hurries home.
“Mama, papa, there’s a carriage coming into our town!” She calls as she rushes through the front garden.
“A carriage? Why would there be a carriage here?” Her brother asks, rubbing the dirt smeared on his face, only making it worse. He frowns at her. Although only a handful of years older than her, he liked to pretend that he was decades wiser than he was. “Why would a carriage come here? That’s only for priests.”
“Eris? What was that?” The girl’s father comes around the house, shovel in hand, setting his eyes on the town square, from their cottage on the hill, the same moment they all do. At the specks of white, his broad shoulders tense as he sets the shovel down, speaking in hushed tones.
“Doron, go get your mother.” The girl’s brother nods, disappearing into the small house without a word.
“What’s happening, papa?” Eris asks. The white and gold carriage slows to a stop in front of the fountain where the statue of Rayneth stands proudly, hands raised in act of blessing.
“Don’t worry ‘rissie, Doran and your mother will go check it out.” He picks her up with ease and plants a kiss in her strawberry blonde hair.
“I want to go and see the carriage!” She wails as her father leads her indoors, seating her on the wooden rocking chair beside the fireplace.
“Let’s wait for your mother and Doran to come back, first.”
They didn’t have to wait for long. Soon came the hurried rapping at their front door – Eris’ father was at the door within seconds, opening it to Eris’ mother, face pale and chest heaving. Her amber eyes were blown wide, her long braid coming loose as she leant down to pick up Eris.
“You have to come.”
The square was in uproar, threats were being voiced, and the warriors were standing side by side with her in the centre of the square. The woman of the light. Her posture was impeccable, every hair in her silver bun arranged to frame her face with elegance, expression arranged in one of indifference, she surveyed the crowd as the rest of the town was brought out of their houses.
“People of Rayneth,” Her voice called out. As the voices died down, she smiled slightly, as if in thanks. “I am your supreme priestess.”
Someone jeers at this, and the priestess simply stares at them with her icy blue eyes until they cease.
“I am not your enemy. The constellation Emaelia is forgiving. Cleansing, just as your constellation of fire is. I am here to help you.”
Whispers of speculation, and the priestess simply stands there, observing the crowd. Eris, from the edge of the crowd, huddled between her mother and father, meets her eyes. And something about them made her blood run cold. They were like the swirling depths of a whirlpool, drawing her in like an enchantress. As Eris turned away, burying her face into her mother’s skirts, the priestess began to laugh.
Her laughter quieted the crowd, echoing off the stone buildings.
“There’s no use pondering what is going to come. I believe it will be better to simply show you.” As soon as those last words were mouthed, the guards she’d brought along – the ones which had stood their vigils for our village since they’d arrived – started to advance. People started shouting, fire flickered out of palms, yet none could hold them off as villagers started to be detained.
“What are you doing?” Someone shouted.
The priestess smiled. “What the stars have told me to do.”
“Help!” Eris turns, her mother’s flowered skirts slipping out of her childish hands. The knight, face hidden in the shadows of his helmet, drags her away as she thrashes, fire encircling her hands as she attempts to burn her captor.
The armour gleams, unharmed, even by the wildfire of Rayneth. And that’s when Eris finally knows – as her brother and father rush after them, flame spewing haphazardly to no avail – the stars are selfish creatures. It was just as her mother said all those years ago, reading her a bedtime story by the dying lamplight.
“The stars may look pretty, Eris, but they can do such terrible things.” She would set the storybook down on the bedside table, picking up the lamp. “And no one can stop them, but you –” She leant down, giving Eris’ cheek a quick peck. “ – No one will ever hurt you, not even the stars themselves. I’ll make sure of it.”
That night, known decades later as the night of cleansing light, the flames burnt low. Embers, barely glowing in their hearths as the fires on the hills in the distance set the spirits of the dead to rest – or what was left of them.
The trial of the twin flame, the white haired demon called it. She’d sent them all into the depths of the forest of lost souls, watched as darkness overtook the clearing, and their screams echoed through the trees – bloodcurdling – then silent. Her face, all the while, arranged into one of vague disgust.
“I’ve seen all I've needed to.” Her words pierced through the sobbing and wailing of mothers, children, sons and daughters with their indifference. The remains of their loved ones were scattered across the earth, the leftovers of the creatures who dined on their souls, devoured their hearts. “We will return in the next cycle of the sun, prepare your children.”
And they left, whisked away, just as night fell and the clarity of what had happened finally dawned. Though for some, everything was a haze. Surreal, as if it was all a dream. As if they’d wake to the sounds of children playing in the square, the smell of bread wafting through the air, and the golden sunlight filtering through gauzy blinds, illuminating the dark.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Eris sat by the fire with her father. Grief looked like a burden on his back. His strong shoulders were hunched, face gaunt, gaze distant as he watched the clock ticking on the wall opposite the armchair he sat at.
Grief looked like rage on Doran, who had disappeared into his room without another word, yet his sobs could be heard from where Eris sat on the divan. The divan patterned with ferns and carnations, her mother’s favourite flower. The divan they were only able to afford thanks to her mother’s partnerships with those of nobility on the other side of town.
The house was full of her mother. It was alive with her touch, and if Eris tried hard enough, she could imagine her coming around the corner of the hallway, hair loose about her shoulders, beckoning to her to give her a hug. She could hear her mother’s laughter hanging in the air, suspended in time just as this moment was. Time stood still for grief, just as the dead stood still for their passage into the afterlife.
The night was silent, the souls of each citizen plagued with aching loss. The statue of Rayneth stood, dormant, in the town square, the lustre of the golden shine in her eyes dull.
“Go to sleep, Eris.” Her father grumbled, voice hoarse.
“Mama’s supposed to read me my story.”
And his tears fell.
Eris never knew what she wanted to do when she grew up – there was so much she wanted to see, experience. Her mother liked to joke that she should’ve been born into the constellation of Helique – air – so that she could soar the skies, free and limitless.
But she wanted to be like her mother, a painter, a cook, a florist. She wanted to be like the baker down the street, waking up each day to the smell of fresh bread and pastry, giving fruit tarts to the children in the square. Yet she also wanted to be like the pretty noblewomen that lived across town, parading through the town square with baskets full of flowers, hair adorned with lace and ribbon like little dolls.
Yet in that moment, clear and simple, she’d do anything it took to never see her father cry again.
༺ ༻
As the next harvest seasons came and went, the festivities were always lively, yet there was a heaviness to the air that had never been there before.
The looming presence of the knights were noted. The citizens of Raeia despised them, hissing insults at them, dirtying their shining armour with mud, carving obscenities alongside the engravings. They did not retaliate, they simply stood there, day after day, keeping watch over the small city – hardly human.
Absences were noted. The baker’s son, the blacksmith’s brother, the florist, the lady who ran the restaurant at the foot of the hill. It was a solemn affair. They all knew what would come next, the culling of children that were chosen to be sent to the forest of lost souls. As much was disclosed by the priestess in a decree, framed and placed at the foot of the statue of Rayneth. Each household which didn’t meet the quota for income within that cycle would sacrifice one child to the cleansing light.
Loopholes, however, were always present within any law. Silver, however useless it may have been in a villager’s daily life, proved useful against the beasts in the forest, or so the old hag working for the blacksmith rasped. It repelled, even killed those creatures of the night if one had the courage to. But silver was scarce. The paranoid noblewomen started trading in their bracelets and trinkets for coins, purchasing hairpins sharp as knives made of pure silver. Silver was taken instead of currency – five loaves of bread for one silver bread knife – and silver either made or broke the deal of a child’s life. In times where silver finally ran scarce, they all had to pray to the constellations for their blessing – whether or not they fall on deaf ears, the prophets never told.
But they did whisper tales of a girl, head wreathed in gold, emerging from the trial wielding the twin flame of Rayneth’s nebula – their goddess’ cluster of stars, born from ash, made anew.
With foolish hope, each and every girl in the town had ribbons of cornflower yellow braided into their hair, desperate for salvation. And as sundown approached, night merely hours away, the white horses emerged from the valley beyond, the priestess greeting the town with a small smile.
Gaunt, thin, pale. Eris could see as much of the priestess, half hidden behind her brother. Although her brother was now nearly as tall as their father, she still didn’t measure up to his elbow height, her limbs still gangly and adolescent.
“Don’t be scared. They won’t pick us.” Doran whispers to her. Yet he conceals her, still, as the priestess’ gaze sweeps across the gathered township.
“Faithful children of the constellations,” Her voice echoes. Her robes are adorned with the intricate embroidery of tesselating suns – ostentatious, as Eris would’ve whispered to Doran if she weren’t scared out of her wits. “The gods give you blessing, yet a price must be asked. The children of the twin flame shall be selected today, as the prophets have foretold.”
The crowds begin to whisper in unease, as the priestess holds out a delicate hand to quiet. “The stars have mapped this course for humanity, and it is time they have their sacrifice.”
That was the last thing Eris knew before the world faded from view, darkness seeping into her vision. Vaguely, she could hear her brother and father calling out to her – and though she wanted to call back, her voice didn’t comply.
“She hasn’t been blessed!” She heard her brother scream. And it was true. She’d never shown any display of fire, although her brother and father have been insistent on coaxing it out of her since their mother’s untimely death.
“I’ll be okay, just take care of Papa for me.” She wanted to say, but she felt her grip on reality slip – tumbling into the world of the subconscious.
Sweet child, destined for such greatness. How foolish it would be for me to leave you flameless.
When Eris awoke, she was shrouded in darkness. The ground beneath her was soft – wet – when she looked down, her shoes were bathed in blood. A few steps away lay the cobbler’s daughter, blank gaze unseeing, blood seeping out of a gaping cavity in her chest where her heart should’ve been. Bile rises up in Eris’ throat as she scrambles back, glancing around. A scream cleaves the air, then abruptly as it started, it gets cut off, as if someone stole away their voice.
Stumbling to her feet, Eris draws a silver knife that Doran stole from the blacksmith, waving it around haphazardly. It felt awkward in her hand as she pointed it toward the screams, slowly stepping backwards. She’d heard stories – they all had – of those creatures of the night that fed on souls and hearts. They liked their prey alive and fighting.
“Help me, please –” To Eris’ left, the boy she’d just seen that morning, the one that grimly smiled at her from the town square, crawls toward her, eyeing the silver dagger in her hand. “Please –” Then he slumps down, immobile.
She clutches her stomach, nauseous at the metallic stench of blood – the blood soaking her skirts, the grass beneath her, the blood matted into her braids – then she falls, a crack resonating in her ears as her ribs meet the ground. A heavy weight sits atop her, hot breath reeking of that same metallic smell onto her neck.
“You. It’s you, the one they all talk about.” That creature rasps, voice gravelly and hoarse, dripping with bloodlust.
“What?” She manages in a wheeze, reaching for the dagger that had been knocked out of her hands.
“The twin flame, the bearer of Rayneth’s lost legacy, yada yada,” Eris feels sharp teeth nick at her neck, drawing hot blood. “You all taste the same to me, but my brothers and sisters would love to hear about how I drank the essence of the girl who fated to bring down the night.”
“Yeah? How so?” She gasps, reaching for the dagger with her fingertips.
“Not so fast, little phoenix,” A sharp pain shoots through her wrist. The creature’s claw impales her arm, soaking her blouse in crimson red as Eris screams in
agony, tears rolling down her bloody face. “I have to have my fun, I can’t have you trying to get rid of me, can I?”
The distant screams grow louder.
“Let’s start with carving your pretty, ripe heart out, shall we?”
“Please,” She pleads through her sobs.
You don’t kneel. You never beg.
And the world exploded into flame.
༺ ༻
The nights in Middle Earth were always cold. A desert, some would say – sweltering heat during the day, near freezing temperatures at night. Circe, however, among all others who were smart enough to adapt, learned the harsh landscape, watching the street vendors tattle about their products idly as she leaned back on her hands. The smells of aromatic spices and herbs drifted through the maze of streets in an entrancing sort of attraction, beckoning to wanderers, just as the gaudy, blinking signs did.
She dangled her legs off the edge of the roof, watching signs lit up with magic flicker and glow, illuminating the alleyway. The loud, cosy shopping street may attract an inexperienced eye, yet locals knew better. They had to, to have survived this long.
Abandoned buildings and warehouses littered the corner of each street, desolate and derelict, though light still flickered in the shattered-glass windows on occasion, tobacco smoke drifting out of the window while someone smoked. Glass, food scraps and all other sorts of discarded goods were strewn across the street and obscene, abstract graffiti adorned the infinitely tall brick walls, yet there were no knights in sight.
All took for themselves, and the weak would be left for the creatures of the night – Drakts. Survival is truly only of the fittest, and in Middle Earth, where all were left to fend for themselves, the only organisations that remained had to be cruel. Fire has to be countered with fire, after all. From the shadows, they idly observe the city’s exchanges, a spider web of connections in the jungle of a city.
Standing, Circe stretched her arms, exhaling and watching her breath cloud in front of her. The black lily inked onto her skin was stark against the pale skin of her neck, illuminated by the dim moonlight.
“Circe.” A voice materialises behind her, seemingly out of nowhere. As if expecting it, she merely waves the voice away in dismissal.
“I know, I'm coming.” As the voice disappears, she whisks herself away in a plume of smoke – with a final fleeting glance at the night come alive.
In the sky, the stars gleamed. The constellation of Rayneth looked particularly bright, tonight, the star at its pinnacle – at her hands – glowing as if ignited.