Day ???
As Thepa opened her eyes, she found herself standing in the middle of the Beachwick. At least, she thought it was Beachwick. It certainly had the feel of the Beachwick from the way she could see the green jungle trees swaying in the wind, the dark blue sea roaring in soft lullabies. The dirt-trodden path beneath her hooves stretched out ahead, winding its way into a horizon.
Yet, something's different.
An eerie sense overcame Thepa's soul as she stood in its frightful wake. The normal yellow sun burned a crimson red, leaving a hallowed orange as far as the eye could see. The vibrant homes that once proudly lined the path had vanished, replaced by wild, overgrown grasses that reached toward her like fingers from the earth. Eyes, hidden and predatory, watched her from every corner, every shadow. Her breath quickened. Her hands moved instinctively to her waist and back, only to find her weapons gone, leaving an echoing emptiness in their place.
Thepa's heart pounded in her chest.
She glanced down at herself and recoiled. She too was different. The familiar dirt and sweat that had clung to her from battle with the wyrm were absent. In their place sat her diamond studded crown, Rory's pendant, and the white ceremonial dress she had worn on the day of Sulack, swaying delicately despite the absence of wind. No longer the warrior trekking across the jungle she found herself once again tethered to her destiny. She was the Matriarch. Someone or something had forced her back into her birthright, and as she fixed her eyes back down the menacing path, she was determined to find out who or why she was here.
And yet, no matter how hard she tried to move, she remained frozen, locked in place.
The landscape shifted around her—the tall grasses swayed, and the distant trees bent, but Thepa herself was rooted. A cold sweat broke across her skin as she tried to push herself forward. Faster. Faster. Her hooves slammed into the earth, but still, she didn't move. The jungle's whispers became louder, the unseen eyes more pressing.
Something was following her.
Her heart raced, every beat thudding louder than the last. Thepa ran faster, desperation fueling her movement, yet her feet never moved an inch from where she stood. The world spun around her, but she remained stuck, trapped in a nightmarish stasis. Whatever was chasing her, was gaining, and soon she was about to be overrun, but she still did not move.
Then, in the distance, a house appeared—a weather-beaten, familiar structure that beckoned to her with the promise of safety. Her breath hitched. It was her home. The home of her ancestors. The place she had always known. But how? How could it be here? And could she get there in time?
As soon as the house came into focus, the invisible force that had held her in place released its grip, and she surged forward. She flew across the ground, the sensation strange and dreamlike, her hooves barely touching the earth. With a burst of speed, she barreled through the creaking, wooden door and slammed it behind her, leaning against it, panting, her chest heaving.
Safe.
But as Thepa's eyes adjusted to the dim interior, her blood ran cold.
Not safe.
This wasn't the home she remembered. Gone were the cozy, familiar furnishings. The small kitchen where her mother had cooked many a delicious meal, the worn long couch, and the scattered chairs—none of it was there. Instead, the room had transformed into something far than what she had known her whole life.
To be fair, there wasn't anything particularly scary about the house. Two levels stretched above her, with a balcony running across the upper floor. Fourteen doors lined the walls—seven above and seven below. In the center of the room stood a large, U-shaped table surrounded by fifteen chairs, each carved uniquely, as though made for someone specific. At the head of the table sat a throne-like chair that mirrored the crown on her head.
A low fire crackled in a pyre at the room's heart, casting long shadows that danced across the walls. Despite her fear, warmth washed over her, and for a fleeting moment, she felt a strange sense of belonging. It might not have been her home, but it was home nonetheless.
The door creaked open behind her, and Thepa spun around, heart hammering in her chest. Her body tensed, but the moment her eyes fell on the figure stepping through the doorway, all thoughts of defense fled her mind. It was the last Saintian she had expected to see. However, there was no mistaking who it was. From the wavy brown hair, to the well-rounded blue eyes, to the dagger-shaped scar on her bronze shoulder, she knew this creature better than anyone.
It was her.
A million thoughts screamed through her mind. Who are you? Why are you here? What is this place? But no words formed. The imposter's gaze bore into her, peeling back layers of her soul, forcing her to confront memories she had long buried. Her failures, her insecurities, her fears—all of it was laid bare under the weight of that stare. Thepa felt naked, exposed, vulnerable in a way she hadn't been since she was a youngling.
Suddenly, the imposter's gaze shifted. Her eyes fell on Rory's pendant, and with a swift, brutal motion, she snatched it from Thepa's chest.
NO! Thepa screamed internally, but her voice was silent. She tried to move, to stop her, but her body remained frozen. Tears welled in her eyes as she watched the imposter toy with her most prized possession. She wasn't even sure the experience was real or a dream, but she would have risked everything to stop even herself from doing something to the last memento she had from her long-lost friend.
Once more, the creature locked eyes with her misty ones, but gone was the gaze that explored her depths, no longer searching. Instead, it was filled with rage—an ancient, burning fury that sent shivers down Thepa's spine. The grip on the pendant tightened, the chain cutting painfully into Thepa's neck as blood trickled down her back, but before any real damage could be done, the imposter released it from her grasp, turned in the direction of the room, and bellowed a single word:
"WARBOL!"
From the shadows, a deep, booming voice echoed the call. "WARBOL!"
Thepa staggered, released from the unseen force that had bound her, gasping for air. She looked up, and her blood turned to ice. Around the room, twelve figures emerged—bronze-skinned, dressed in ceremonial white, crowned with diamonds. They stood by the fourteen doors, and among them, Thepa saw a face she had thought lost to time. Even though the woman was significantly younger than the last time Thepa had held her dying hand, there was no mistaking the grandmother who made her younglinghood a little less miserable.
"Mimi..." she whispered, her voice breaking as tears streamed down her cheeks. Her legs wavered, wanting to rush forward, but before she could move, the imposter's voice rang out again, sharp and commanding.
"WARBOL!"
"WARBOL!" Her ancestors echoed.
In an unsettling blur of movement, the Matriarchs descended the stairs in unison, taking their places around the table as if drawn by some unseen force. Unlit candles appeared in their hands, their worn stubs pressed close to the ceremonial white gowns each ancestor wore. Thepa noticed, despite the erosion of time on these candles, each one bore the mark of a long, significant life, frozen now in stillness.
Two chairs to Thepa's left remained vacant, one whose ornamental points had been cut short, stripped of its grandeur, and another nearly plain, almost unmarked by distinction. As the imposter passed by these chairs, her hand lingered, caressing the backs of each as if acknowledging their absence. Then, with slow deliberation, she seated herself in the most prominent chair—the one whose design mirrored the crown on Thepa's head. Upon her arrival, the satyr sat down, crossed her arms and legs, and once more stared into Thepa's soul.
"Thepa."
"THEPA!" the ancestors called, their voices unison.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
A candle appeared in Thepa's hands burning bright and strong. Its scent wafted up her nose, mostly filling her senses with her most cherished things: the smell of the jungle, petrichor, the wood from Rory's bow, the musk of a wolf, and...something new. A sweet, slightly cheesy odor she couldn't quite place.
"Daughter of Lockti."
"LOCKTI!" the ancestors echoed once more, the resonance shaking the very air around her.
A second candle flickered into existence on the table before one of the empty chairs. It was already low, its wax more than half spent, the flame struggling, guttering in the soft puddle of molten wax beneath it.
"The Beachwick calls. It's time for you to fulfill your duty," the imposter declared.
"DUTY!" the ancestors chorused.
Thepa's heart pounded in her chest. The sheer impossibility of it all—the gathering, the Matriarchs, her grandmother Mimi—overwhelmed her. Every part of her knew this moment was not by chance, that there was purpose behind her being summoned here. Her eyes drifted to the flickering candle, and for a fleeting moment, she wondered if her mother had found herself in same place, faced with the same call. Hesitantly, she spoke unsure of what lay ahead.
"What duty?"
The imposter sighed in exasperation, rolling her eyes, before sitting up straighter in her seat. The movement set off a ripple, and the ancestors' gazes all turned to Thepa, focused, unwavering.
"A Warbol's duty," the imposter replied coolly.
Instead of a call-and-response, the ancestors began to sing softly, their voices weaving together in a haunting melody:
"Esha includes,
Esha provides,
We serve the Beachwick,
We live and die."
Thepa's brow furrowed as she listened. Something was wrong, different—the words weren't right. Desperation edged her voice as she tried to make sense of it all. "I don't understand. Does this have something to do with the Call of the Beachwick?"
"The Call!" The ancestors echoed, their voices ringing out again.
Before she could blink, the imposter shot from her chair, suddenly right in front of Thepa, jabbing her hard in the chest with an accusatory finger.
"His sacred jungles,
His grainy beaches,
Where the Matriarch goes
To learn what He teaches."
Thepa opened her mouth to protest, to challenge the words. "That's not the line—" she started, but the imposter jabbed her harder, silencing her.
"A Warbol BELONGS in the matriarchy. It is her duty! It is her sacrifice. It is her birthright!"
"Duty! Sacrifice! Birthright!" The ancestors punctuated each word with force, and the imposter's finger jabbed harder each time, as if driving the point deep into Thepa's core.
With the final jab, Thepa felt herself falling—plunging through the air, the ground disappearing beneath her hooves as the jungles of Esha rose up to meet her. The world jarred around her as she landed abruptly at the foot of Mt. Esha. A smoldering volcano, its furious smoke billowing into the sky like the breath of an angry god.
The ceremonial white dress and diamond crown were gone, replaced by a simple green top and skirt, the style of which had long been abandoned by her people. She stared down at the unfamiliar garb, its texture rough against her skin. As she studied its material to determine its origin, she had recalled that her grandmother had once worn something similar as a reminder of the things of the past. Like all things here, its presence confounded her.
Thepa looked up towards the heart of the volcano. Fear and desperation welled up deep inside her. She knew she had to climb it, though every fiber of her being recoiled at the thought. With each step, the air grew heavier, the heat more oppressive. Hours passed, her skin slick with soot and sweat, her lungs burning from the acrid fumes.
Yet something drove her forward. Fear gave way to a grim determination, and her face, despite her confusion, hardened with resolve. Even more confusing, something else was off. Things were lower to the ground than they should have been. Her hooves were slightly too smile and her belly too rounded. A disorienting realization struck her—she wasn't just seeing this through her own eyes. It was as if she were reliving someone else's memory, someone long gone, but whose footsteps she now followed.
Finally, at the summit, she stood on the brink, staring down into the bubbling cauldron of molten lava below. The sight of it roared in her ears, but it was not the fear that had consumed her before. Now, standing at the mouth of the volcano, Thepa was filled with something new—anger. Anger and sadness that tangled into a knot in her chest as she cried out to the god of the land in a voice that echoed against the sky.
"ESHA!" Thepa screamed, her voice sharp against the wind. "Esha, hear my plea. Your people are defeated. Our males are gone. Their souls cry out to me and the unborn in my belly. With leadership thrusted upon me, how can I lead a broken tribe? What hope do your younglings have against the hordes of the sea that now plague us?"
The lava continued to bubble, but Thepa could feel a change in the air as the wind grew still. Below her, she could hear the call of the birds that darted from the trees, and a low rumble made its way in her direction. It was enough to send a shiver down her spine that she wasn't sure was hers or the mind of the satyr she occupied, but nevertheless she continued her plea.
"Esha... you're our last hope." Her voice cracked as sobs broke through. "Please, save us."
The ground shook, the rumbling louder, sending tremors through the mountain. It brought Thepa to her knees, arms outstretched in a plea of desperation. The quake intensified, until a deep, guttural sound pierced the air, making her ears ring. Then, for the second time in her life, Thepa heard the voice of a god.
"My youngling. All life must end. It is the way of creation from which you were shaped. The universe demands it. El demands it. From dust to dust."
"Please, Esha!" Tears streamed down her face as she struggled, caught between her own emotions and the satyr's spirit. "We are younglings, barely starting on your beloved shores. What is life, if not given a chance to thrive? Even the flowers bloom brightly before they wither. Give us our chance to bloom."
The rumbling continued, but there was no answer. Silence hung in the air, heavy and uncertain. Desperation clawed at Thepa's heart, and she dared to push further.
"Please, Esha. I'll do anything."
A pause, "And what does an ant offer to a mountain?"
"The only thing an ant can offer a mountain," Thepa said in desperation. "My devotion. A promise from myself and my unborn. Save the Beachwick and we will forever serve you."
"Then heed my call, youngling. Plunge into my depths. Seal your pact with me, and you will become the ruler and Matriarch of the Beachwick. You will rule with the strength of a dozen warriors. Your people belong to me, and I will be there God. You and your kin will live and die for a Sisterhood yet to be born. As long as you and your young serve me, the Beachwick will prevail."
Panic surged in Thepa's chest, but her body—guided by the spirit within—moved before her mind could stop it. Without hesitation, she stood and threw herself headfirst into the lava below. Agony erupted as the fire consumed her. Her skin seared, every part of her body screamed as the lava rose up her legs and covered her. The pain was unbearable, and she begged for death, but her cries were swallowed by the flames.
Then, just as quickly as it began, it was over.
She stood again at the volcano's mouth, bathed in a soft glow. Her bronze skin was unburnt, but her whole body was ablaze. Power surged through her muscles, a strength that thrummed with the energy of a dozen warriors. In her hand was an impossibly long bow, unfamiliar, but deadly with her new found skill.
With outstretched hands, Thepa bowed low to the mountain and thanked it for its gift. With it she knew the Beachwick had nothing to fear and the future of the unformed Sisterhood would be protected. As she turned to descend the mountain, she found herself back in the house, surrounded by the twelve former matriarchs and the imposter. Yet the satyr standing before her was not herself. The blue eyes, the brown hair—they were familiar, but the scar on her shoulder was gone. Her white dress had transformed into the green linen she wore on the mountain, her skin glowing in the light of the pyre.
Thepa knew at once—this was the First Matriarch, the Mother of All. The one who had made the promise and sacrifice to Esha long ago.
With gentle eyes and a voice filled with emotion, the First Matriarch spoke.
"Our way of life,
We must conserve."
The first of the twelve Matriarchs, the one Thepa now realized was the unborn child in the First's belly, continued:
"Our lack of patriarchy,
Taught us to preserve."
The other eleven joined in, their song filling the air with a bittersweet sadness. Thepa's heart swelled as the familiar words flowed.
"Our loving mother,
The First Matriarch of All,
We, the Future, serve your call.
If we fail, to the mountain it be.
It's the way of the Matriarch, for you and for me."
How many times have I heard our song and realize the words I had heard over and over were not the correct ones?
It was then Thepa realized at some point its words had become distorted and sung by the host of the Sisterhood, but it was not meant for them. They may have found purpose in the words, but the words were for her, her mother, and the Warbols who came before and after her.
This was her duty as a Warbol. Not Zelphina nor anyone else could have ever been the Matriarch. The Sisterhood might have had rules in place in case something happened to her or her mother, but they would have never been enough. Nothing short of a Warbol would have ever been enough because they were not part of the covenant made with the God of the island. If Thepa fell, it would fall on her mother to once again answer the call. Not the call to be a leader for that was only half of it, but the call to uphold the promise of progenerating; the call her mother had already answered with Thepa's own birth.
Sister Vivian was right. A Warbol belongs in the Matriarchy. It is my duty to create. It is my sacrifice to serve. It is my birthright to reign.
With humility, Thepa bowed low once more as the ancestors sang the true Call of the Beachwick
"Esha includes,
Esha provides,
He deserves our duty,
He deserves our lives.
His sacred jungles,
His grainy beaches,
Where a Matriarch goes,
To learn what He teaches.
Esha includes,
Esha provides,
We serve the Beachwick,
We live and die.
Our way of life,
We must conserve.
Our lack of patriarchy,
Taught us to preserve.
Our loving mother,
The First Matriarch of All,
We the Future serve your call.
If we fail, to the mountain it be.
It's the way of the Matriarch, for you and for me."
As she rose, Thepa met the Mother of All's eyes, understanding fully what was now asked of her. The covenant will continue through her. Already knowing the words, Thepa spoke the final stanza of the song that burned with all the sincerity in her heart.
"Esha includes,
Esha provides,
I will serve my duty,
I will bring forth new life."