3.

The three others lay in a mess of inelegant tangles, and not all their limbs were attached. If the snow lining the earth was loudly white, then the blood pooled around their bodies was screamingly red.

Alena almost dropped her blade. What the—?

But then she—

Wait a minute.

She was not alone.

With her healthy hand, Alena tapped her breastbone twice. This was a signal to those who knew to look for it.

“I know you’re all here,” she said, apparently to nobody.

And around her, the snow came alive.

First, they weren't there—then they were, a half-dozen faceless figures cloaked in snowdrifts. They were her brothers and sisters, her blade-blood, her tribe. One by one they deactivated their camo-cloaks. Once those peculiar effects dissipated, the six no longer appeared to Alena as white flurries, but rather as they really were: three men and three women, wrapped in the ubiquitous gray bodysuits all the blade-blood wore. They had their hoods up and everything covered save the eyes. Here and there, Alena spotted the haft of a blade or the curve of a bow. Her people tended to look down on firearms.

“The Mother smiles on you,” she said. The relief Alena felt at her near-rescue was intense. Part of her wanted to run over and hug them. The other wanted to sink into the snow and just sleep for a day.

“The Mother protects,” responded the one nearest her. He genuflected with eyes downcast, showing her he also knew the catechism. His voice sounded familiar. He had to be the one they called Ezekiel.

“You are not in your cloak,” he said, “and your head is uncovered. Are you not cold, blade-sister?” By his tone, Alena couldn’t tell if he was more concerned over her well-being... or her breach of custom.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“I am fine,” she said, leaving it at that. If her appearance was the real issue, he chose not to press it. “It does me good to see all of you here,” she went on. “I am grateful that you showed up to our little fight a few days back, and more so that you came out of it whole.”

For a moment, she regarded them—the men: Ezekiel, Argo, and Lew; and the women: Toya, Li, and Seraph. Alena knew them, even with their faces masked. But she wouldn’t name them aloud. It was better for all of them to hew to anonymity. They were the same warriors whose aid Alena had enjoined in the fight against the self-styled Emperor Suun and his horse-lords.

And they had reddened the snow then, as well.

“It was our pleasure, indeed,” Ezekiel said, and Alena got the impression he was smiling behind his mask. “Together,” he continued, “we knocked a small man out of a big chair, and we bloodied those who would otherwise have harmed us. We’ll call it time well spent. All in all, a damned enjoyable time.”

The others chuckled at that. Alena allowed herself a razor-thin smile.

“You do me great honor, blade-brother,” Alena said.

“It is we who are honored to serve you, santisa,” he said. “We are one people, one blade.” At that, the others nodded and sounded their assent.

“One blade, indeed,” Alena said, “but I ain’t your santisa. Haven’t been for an age now.” She’d left the priesthood months ago, but even hearing the honorific stirred up emotions she’d rather not reckon with. Alena gestured to the three dead. “Who were these?” she asked, intentionally not looking their way. The sight of blood wasn’t disturbing; it was the sheer abundance of it that got to her.

Her blade-brother shrugged while others pulled the fur scarves off the dead. The first was male, an adult, with a russet beard and eyes the color of the sky. The second: a woman, and close to him in age. The third was a lass—young, with two or three summers more than Alena. Other than the spray of freckles on her cheeks, the younger woman clearly favored the older.

“We’re pretty sure they were a family,” said Ezekiel, while the others busied themselves with gathering the bodies. He pointed to a grayish cabin-shape floating deep in the snow and the trees. “Yon shelter was their home.”

“Family.” Alena’s mouth dried up. Her voice came out a croak. She spun on her heel and bolted back to the one she’d killed. Splayed out in the bright red snow, the body looked even smaller still. Her hand shook as she pried off the fur hat, tugged away the bloodied scarf.

Just a boy.

Short-cropped hair, auburn-hued save for a smattering of curls just above the placid forehead. Same cerulean eyes as the man who had to have been his da. His cheeks, babyish, plump—the kind of smooth that’d never known a razor. His lips, with which he’d doubtfully kissed anyone but family, now hung open in an endless soundless scream. Everything below his chin was red.

I just killed a boy.