Prologue

Through Crimson Eyes

My father, whose name I will not mention here, for I do not wish anyone to know him, did not die an honorable or dignified death, if there is such a thing.

A criminal, thief, and liar who, at the time, identified herself as Ashe and claimed the Northern Empire as her homeland, stabbed him with a silver dagger.

Ashe had come to our farm that day, asking for shelter and a meal, a reasonable request granted by my kind family, especially for a lost far-off traveler, as the liar treacherously claimed.

After she woke up in the morning, she talked to my father about a topic I had no knowledge of, and all I was able to hear was that the treacherous Ashe was hiding something that my father did not approve of.

There words ended as Ashe unshielded her weapon.

My dear father was unarmed. Even if he was, he was just a farmer.

That time Ashe left her dagger inside my good father's body bothered me because it was in fact a finely crafted dagger.

I think it's worth even a deep-sea white whale as a trade-off.

I can tell that it was not located so deep within the chest cavity that it could not be quickly removed even at the moment of murder.

If a child, as I was at the time, despite my protests to the contrary, can get the weapon with a simple pull...

What was stopping Ashe from pulling it?

This question was on my tongue all the time, and I mean to ask it when I find the treacherous, lying, despicable Ashe.

But for now, it will remain a mystery, and I do not intend for it to remain that way for long.

But I'm getting ahead of myself, as I'm always tempted to do when I shouldn't.

I allowed myself to take the natural course of everything, because if I don't focus on my beginning now and continue to imagine the end the way I want it, I won't get anywhere. In order to understand the end, I must focus on the path and shed light on the beginning.

So where do I start? ...it was clear, from the beginning.

I have been blessed with six brothers, all of whom are older than me.

And that evening, when the feast was over, they were all shouting angrily at each other, and each one of them had a plan to avenge our good and beloved father.

But after spending enough of my days watching my brothers fight over their mud castles, I know what is visible and what is not.

It was a noble kind of threat, but even so, they each understood the outcome before the final voice rose.

It's more likely that Ashe from the Northern Empire was a criminal on the run or an agent who stopped by our farm, because what was there to hide that would take the life of my good father in order to keep the thing she wanted to hide hidden?

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

I didn't know the answer.

As our dear father proved, trying to uncover what the treachery Ashe hides was the beginning of a quick journey to the grave.

It's better to bitch and buck on the farm than to leave and had your head spiked, so bitch and buck they did it.

When they finished, everyone agreed that everything should be left to the Devine.

They will stay here and take care of the farm.

I, however, decided otherwise.

And today was the day I was going to make my way. I didn't have everything I might need, so I made do with what I had: a bag full of various things I had collected, a cloak to hide my features, and a stick. I don't know what purpose it might serve, but I had a hunch that I might need it.

And one last thing, the dagger with which my good father died unjustly, it was a testament to a future I did not choose.

I put the dagger away and left my room cautiously, careful not to wake any of my six siblings, especially my strict mother, whom I love very much.

I didn't have much trouble sneaking out of our little house, but I did have to close the front door carefully, thanks to the creaking it made whenever it moved, given its age.

But I trained for this, and it is safe to say that for the first time, I succeeded in sneaking out of the house this late at night.

Or so I thought.

As I closed the door, a voice as quiet as the night came from my right.

"And may I ask where you are going in the midst of the beautiful moonlight, Silora, my dearest one?"

It was my mother's distinctive voice; I could recognize it anywhere. I was not surprised by this change in plans. On the contrary, I would have been surprised if I had not heard it.

It is difficult to describe my beloved mother as a person; all I can say about her is that she knows everything, and if she had not noticed what I was planning for a while now, I would doubt that she is really my one.

I let go of the door handle and turned to my mother, who was sitting in the chair that my good father used to occupy after a good day's work.

My mother was busy twisting one of the herbs that we grow on our humble farm. She did not even look at me. Unlike me, I could not take my eyes off her red ones, which I had grown to love, and it was something I inherited from her, unlike my brothers, who bore a resemblance to my father.

I took a deep breath and said, in a calm voice, something I grew up doing in imitation of my beloved mother.

"I didn't expect to see you, Mother..."

She did not answer my question because I myself have not answered hers yet, and this is something I will not do because I do not want to break her heart, even though I know that she knows what I plan to do.

So I continued my words, avoiding her question.

"I hope my father's death has not caused you poor dreams."

She turned her gaze towards me for a split second and returned to twisting the plant in her hands, saying,

"It has been ten years since your father died, and you are a little insect seeking through the world in the hope for blood...”

'Has it been that long?'

All this time has already passed, and time has done nothing to calm the fire inside me; it has only made it angrier.

Turning away from my thoughts, my mother continued with her usual calm,

"Maybe you should listen to your brothers and sit and wait for the regulations to come.”

I was not angry with my mother’s words. Even though I had grown up imitating everything she did, I came to the conclusion that I was different. Coming to this conclusion was a difficult thing for me because, in my small family, my mother was a testimony to my belonging. I did not resemble my father or my older brothers. But I took my entire appearance from my mother, whether her crimson eyes or her fiery red hair, even her height, beauty, and elegance that set her apart from others.

I was silent for a while, thinking about my words, but in the end, I just talked my mind.

"Mommy. If I were to sit and wait for the impossible, I would sit and wait for my Daddy to rise from our good soil and embrace me again..."

I paused for a moment, so as not to say anything that might hurt my beloved mother, and continued,

"But I'm not leaning in that direction."

I kept waiting for my mother’s response, wondering whether she would try to dissuade me or whether she would scold me like she had never done before, but neither.

She just said,

"well...,"

She said this and pointed to the barn with her finger.

"Take your late father's horse... he's a naughty one, and I don't feel like taking care of him. I have enough problems."

And just like that, I was on my way.

I confess that I had never left the confines of our farm before, and I expected to be full of fear and wariness when the day came.

But in reality, all I had inside me was anger.

Anger at the fates that allowed Ashe to kill my father.

And anger at myself for not having brought that degenerate woman to her knees yet.