Astraea

  “You will drink.”

  Freide’s voice is familiar. Gentle, but delivered with an intolerable expectation that I comply.

  So I turn away.

  Immediately, a fresh bloom of pain spreads.

  This has been my normal for a while now. It is starting to alarm me how much pain a body can get used to. But what concerns me most when I am regularly stirred into consciousness is that there are parts of me where I feel nothing at all.

  I’m not… Missing anything, as far as I can tell. Attempting to look down for the first time caused me to immediately black out again.

  The second voice is more unwelcome than the first.

  You really should drink, darling.

  I will Lady Midnight’s words from my mind.

  No.

  I can’t accept comfort.

  Not now.

  Not from you.

  Why not?

  I clear my head.

  No thoughts.

  Not for you.

  Just listening then?

  Fine.

  If you cannot accept my help out of an admittedly conditional love, do so out of obligation.

  You were there for me at my lowest.

  Plucked me from the jaws of the most engulfing abyss.

  A place of violent and forceful change.

  A crucible of hunger and need at the expense of others.

  All of it by design.

  Not unlike your current charge’s depths, in that regard.

  I will concede that elevating me to divinity demanded our relationship become transactional.

  But I’ll not allow either of us to forget why we tried to make it work in the first place.

  Accept the next hand to reach out for you.

  There will not come another.

  Oh.

  And if you still care about what I think.

  I genuinely think the world will be worse off for your passing.

  Her immediate absence takes with it a number of things. I feel it in the sudden weight of my clothing against burned flesh and in how breathing becomes a little less fulfilling.

  If only I were in an a position to appreciate the reprieve. I’m left with only bitterness over the prospect of my mind being truly mine and mine alone for the first time in years.

  How am I supposed to just go back to being alone with my thoughts like I did not spend the last few decades sharing any and every thought or experience that passed through my mind with another?

  I feel lessened and lonely in ways I cannot begin to describe for anyone who has not themselves experienced it.

  Ayre and Lenore are the only ones I have ever met who come to mind. And I’ve lived such a long life. One I continue to stubbornly risk in the hopes my stubbornness will buy Amari and her sisters more time to make good on their escape.

  It is probably long overdue that I consider how I intend to survive my predicament.

  My eyes flit open at the next sound that comes from… Someone outside my cage.

  Right.

  They caged me.

  So small minded of them.

  It takes a moment to recognize Cerya wearing an expression that looks suspiciously like concern. But I know it to be a veiled determination to see something through.

  My voice is brittle, but I have my pride. “I’ll not apologize for being stubborn.”

  Cerya conjures a ghost of a smile. “My sister would claim it does you credit. Now, I’m told you haven’t been accepting care.” She doesn’t make it a question.

  I reign in the impulse to shake my head. Just speaking hurts enough.

  Threnodias surrendered mere breaths before I could, which means I won the duel.

  And yet in spite of their lofty words about guaranteeing the outcome, I can’t help but wonder why I’ve been lying in a cage ever since.

  Whether or not I can trust Cerya is secondary to knowing that I’ve made things difficult for my captors. I won’t learn the fates of Amari or her sisters by lying here. Besides, I wager I’ve drawn enough attention by now.

  I suppose it is time I accept the hand being extended to me.

  “I’m fine.”

  That gets a raised eyebrow.

  “I’ll accept whatever treatment you deem necessary to give.” I force another brittle smile.

  For Cerya’s part, the tension in her pose only seems to double. The cheerful relief that rings in her voice is a forced thing. “Oh! Good. To think my Fell Wyrm and I prepared a list of excuses to get you to drink this.” She lifts the same wood carved bowl of water that my godmother has been offering me at regular intervals.

  I watch her deftly spill a few drops of red liquid from a discreetly sized vial.

  And to think I tried to imply to Theriya that she should expect veiled attempts on her life in the form of poisons or gifts of dubious value.

  Slowly and weakly I take the offered bowl. If I’m going to get anything out of her without causing a scene, my next words will be my last chance. “Fell Wyrm?”

  “Ah! Noticed that, did you? And to think they fretted over how I might convince you if you took leave of your senses.” Cerya’s smile turns a touch more genuine as she fingers a black dragon scale pinned to the collar of her dress. “If there was ever any worry that you’ve fallen from your charge’s good graces, the least I can do is be the one to assure you that neither they, nor I, wish for any bad blood to linger between us.”

  Those were certainly a lot of words.

  She’s just talking about Ayre.

  Wait.

  She’s talking about Ayre’s bad blood.

  Turning her words over again in my head to read her intent causes the words bad blood to ring like beckoning bells.

  I will my hands not to shake as I lift the bowl to my lips.

  They couldn’t have known, I try to tell myself.

  But Lady Midnight sees all of what I or Indra do. And I can’t account for where Indra is beyond presenting a gift to Ayre. If this blood is from Ayre, then...

  Rending gales. Lady Midnight bid me to accept this. She knows, doesn’t she?

  The thought, once spelled out makes for a bitter truth to swallow. Even without a direct connection to a Goddess in my head to guide my understanding, I frame the words in my mind in the same way she would attempt to signal their significance.

  Against my better judgment, I drink of the promised water tainted by the blood of an Unholy Castellan running through Ayre’s veins. And in so doing, accept the gift of something else into my heart and body.

  If I trust anything, it is that what Cerya offers will help me in the most immediate of terms. Beyond that, I can only speculate.

  But my Goddess has already attempted to grant them a gift that did not take.

  In such fertile soil, something like a belief begins to sprout.

  And how could it not when I already know the shape of the gifts Ayre already has when I myself used to wield something like them.

  As I drink, I begin to sample a deep and rich understanding that what has been inflicted on Ayre is not unlike what I have just lost from my Goddess. Regrets and grief burn my tongue like an unexpected spice.

  There is an unmistakable weight of divinity contained within these drops of the Castellan’s blood.

  My pain intensifies as it takes on an added texture. I begin to recognize instincts that remind me of a gift I thought lost with the Goddess of Life’s passing. Instead of pushing the gift through my fingers onto another, I become aware of a swelling certainty within me that the gift of healing is now contained within the blood itself. Where it goes, I imagine damage that can be mended that I lean into with an easy familiarity.

  I move, rising to my feet long before anyone might think it advisable in my state.

  There is a lack of belief in the horrified expressions of those who have been keeping an eye on me. While they assess whether my countless burns have been superficial, I bask in the clarity that this taste of Ayre’s existence offers me.

  Flesh begins to re-knit in places I deem most important.

  Nerves are regrown, igniting my sense of pain in place I’d lost connection to.

  And at the heart of all of this, a hunger reawakens within me. Not a Vylian hunger. Oh if only I were so lucky to maintain my palette for desire or embrace the Castellan’s hunger for blood.

  No, this divine gift reaches deep into the fundamentals of who I was when I was young and at my most vulnerable. The Castellan has reawakened a taste for the flesh of the dead and dying that I had Lady Midnight dull within me.

  It is my hunger more than anything else that demands I escape my cage.

  Cerya gives me a sympathetic look. “Why do I get the sense that this is the second time I’ve harmed you in some deep and profound way I can never undo?”

  I shake my head in spite of myself. “Farah’s passing was not your fault. Come now, Cerya. How could I be upset with you for acting to protect someone you’ve come to care for?” A sharp intake of air fills me with an uncomfortable interest in the scent of my own singed flesh. “We are, all of us, unaware of the depths of the harm we are capable of inflicting upon one another. Placing your emphasis on being unable to undo what you’ve caused is a waste of time and effort you might otherwise spend on making amends.”

  But I’m hardly one to talk. If I felt like I could afford to tell Ayre everything about who I am and where I come from, maybe this could have been avoided. What matters in this moment is that I understand the weight of what has just been done to me enough to accept it as intended. I will not waste what opportunity have been extended to me.

  Cerya's gaze lingers on my eyes long enough to suggest they have changed in some way.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Are my sclera already bathed in black to mark me as something unholy?

  “I... Still feel like I should apologize. My sister had suspicions of the blood’s potency, but none of us expected that this would immediately start to change you.”

  The reply I want to give does not come as easily as I would like. I suppose some wounds will need time to scar and fade.

  Again I shake my head. “How are you to foresee the scope of what shall come to pass with every decision you must make?” I offer her as genuine a smile as I am able. “Put such notions from your mind young Seer. Not even the divine can see with such clarity.” Hopefully extending Cerya a grace she does not think she deserves will take the place of a forgiveness I will not give.

  Besides, the Lunarian Watchers keeping an eye on me have all run off to inform someone who will actually make decisions about me rapidly healing away most of my life threatening wounds.

  It’s time to actually capitalize on the window of opportunity that she has given me.

  I widen my stance, grip the bars of my cage, and pull. Either the metal bars break. Or I do.

  Pain radiates up my arms, shoulders, and spills into the changing core of my being. And with it, something like inevitability surges through me.

  My scream of agony turns into a triumphant howl as the bars bend with a horrid shriek of their own.

  They break first.

  And I know without with every fiber of my being now that this is by design.

  It is a cold comfort. But there is a peace to be found in knowing the Castellan expects the world to break before her children do.

  Which causes my mind to race. What is she a Goddess of exactly?

  If not Life, than what?

  Pain?

  Defiance?

  Change?

  A part of me wants to ask her myself.

  But the rest of me knows better than to crave so deep a connection with another deity.

  I don’t even want to think on how long I’ll need before I am comfortable speaking with my own divine consort.

  But my godmother being the first to intercept me as I step free from my cage is someone I am well versed in handling.

  “I see you’re not letting anyone who died in the fire go to waste.”

  She merely presses a beverage into the skeletal hand of a fresh servant as she favors me with an all too friendly smile. “And I see you’re on the mend already. If only we could all be so blessed.” Those blue lips of hers merely purse, as if nothing else needs to be said.

  Which speaks volumes on its own.

  I can work with this.

  “I take it no one is willing to let me slip out with the winnings of my duel?”

  Friede side eyes Cerya, looking offended on her behalf. “And miss the binding ceremony? I hear it told that the new Fell Wyrm is causing quite the stir!”

  It is my turn to glance at Cerya, but I don’t stop walking. Especially if Freide doesn’t seem intent on giving me an answer. “Ayre?”

  Thankfully, both of them keep pace with me.

  Cerya makes a most curious expression as her cheeks redden. “It is Aelinore now, actually.”

  Something about that brings me to a swift stop.

  A pang of loss and need tugs at my heart and mind. I don’t have time for this, do I?

  Aelinore is causing a stir, but not before sending Cerya to me with a vial of their blood. “Am I going to have to settle for you giving them regards on my behalf?”

  “I’m not the one to ask.” Cerya’s bare shoulders rise and fall with uncertainty. “I am afraid that I have not heard anything good about Prince Threnodias’s condition. As loathe as I am to admit it, the most I can tell you is that the Twelfth Prince interceding on your behalf is probably the only reason you’re alive right now.”

  I look at Freide, skeptical.

  She opens her mouth in feigned shock while pressing a hand to her collar bone. “Do you really think that I would alter events to favor my goddaughter?”

  Cerya rolls her eyes as I more pointedly bare fangs that crave the taste of flesh.

  That seems to twist Freide’s arm enough. “Okay, so I may have given the Twelfth Prince a little nudge into how best to channel their fury over the duel’s outcome. But that’s all! I am merely a guest here to behold a ceremony that I’ve been told is to die for!” At that, her smile turns vicious. “But alas, such a framing is surely little more than a jest intended to coax me from my university. What you silly little mortals get up to is rarely of interest to me.”

  I think I might hate what she’s implying.

  As if on cue, a number of armed Lunarians begin to file into the room. The moment they spot me, they begin to approach with openly murderous intent.

  And to top it off, two skeletons immediately cross spears to halt my path.

  At that, Freide changes her tune. “In case it was ever in question, I must regret to inform you that my interests must of course align with whatever these Lunarians want from you.” With her back to the entering Lunarian guards, she gives me a pleasant tight lipped smile before stepping in front of Cerya in a performative effort to shield her from harm.

  From me.

  As if I would ever be so reckless.

  Although I do help myself to the spears her skeletons have so readily made available. I make sure to break the arms holding them first, just to keep up appearances.

  And then I kill my first Lunarian with a hurled spear through the eye. The force of it sends corpse and spear alike impaled into the back wall.

  A second quickly follows, this time through the throat.

  Blood rushes through my body as I am filled with a strength I should not have.

  My senses snap to the vulnerabilities of the approaching Lunarians. Gaps in their armor, identifying which ones are beginning to panic.

  I am… Made alarmingly aware of just how easily I can dispatch everyone around me.

  The blood and gore that paints the walls and floor of the chamber take on artfully arrangement in my mind as a buffet of delectable treats.

  I turn away from my urges. Focus on winning the fight in front of me first. Whatever else my blood demands can wait.

  Two more of Freide’s undead are shattered in an effort to arm myself with another pair of spears before my attackers can close the distance.

  And when they do, all six of them die in a whirlwind of violence. Only this time, I don’t need to call upon my Lady Midnight’s breath. It is the blood and pain within me that moves me through a dance I am so well versed in that each dance partner who approaches is led to a swiftly dramatic conclusion.

  These impulses... Are my own.

  Unlike what the moon demands of me, these are instantly magnified by a lethally calculated application of focus. Turning upon Freide, whom I know to be an undead horror who delights in wearing the bodies of the youthful, I feel the instincts dull.

  She’s not someone I’d know how to best in any lasting fashion. Not easily enough that it becomes an instinctive itch I need to scratch.

  “Do stay behind me, young Seer.” Freide urges Cerya. “Astraea is adapting to her new nature.”

  I’m left wondering if having an exhaustive amount of combat experience to draw upon is an important requirement to truly make use of the blood’s enhancement.

  But before I can interrogate these instincts further, I find myself wincing at Cerya’s meek cries of distress and disgust over the honorific brutality of the moment.

  This was to be her binding ceremony.

  A Vylian duel might be expected.

  But the swift deaths of eight she might know in some capacity might not be easy for her to witness.

  Gales, and I had been so gentle with her up until this point. “Apologies lady Cerya. But I fear this is where we must part. For what it is worth, I hope you, Theriya, and Aelinore find happiness together.”

  “I don’t understand.” Cerya’s reply is a delicate thing.

  As more armed Lunarians enter the room, I find myself loathing the wretchedness of any circumstances that might bar her from saying what she must be feeling. I want to addesss this properly and steel her for what grisly unpleasantness might still be to come.

  Cerya’s words are a desperate plea that tug at Freide’s robe. “I thought this would keep her from dying. Is she really such a threat that we must immediately attempt to cage or kill her?”

  Friede scoffs. “I’m afraid she’s become a liability in the eyes of our betters. Something about Sworn Protectors never raising a sword to their masters or her never being a Vylian citizen in the first place. While I realize the reason they settle on is of no comfort, you really must come to understand that your Primeval Seers have already made up their minds about Astraea.”

  That settles that then.

  My only option now is to run.

  So I do.

  And when I can no longer run, I feast upon the strength of those who bar my way.

  My tainted blood promises me with every bite that there are none here who would afford me another option. Why should I care about whose expense stands in the way of my survival?

  I detest these miserable circumstances, even as one of Threnodias’s brides gestures for me to take a particular exit.

  Not that I need it.

  I’ve caught Amari’s scent.

  Now that I’ve embodied everything my tainted blood demands of me, I am finding that my senses and instincts are being sharpened to a predatory level of superiority.

  Any who stand in my way are slow, dim witted, and weak wastes of flesh that think themselves capable of rising to the occasion in confronting a demigod.

  I carve a bloody swath through the charred remains of a dining chamber.

  From here, elaborate tunnels spiral upward until I reach the surface.

  Navigation becomes tricky from here. I can’t just follow the scent when I’ve an entire grove to navigate.

  My newly forged instincts keep me alive as I strip the life from enough Lunarians that it no longer makes sense to keep track of how many expire by my hand.

  All the while I spend every moment of calm attempting to reign in these rampant urges. I can’t be like this when I find Amari. I just can’t.

  Eventually, I calm down enough to allow myself to follow the scent to its source. Turning the corner, I find a nondescript carriage.

  Mustering everything I can to smother my instincts, I remind myself that the foxes I am striding past are lives I have promised to save.

  Even as Amari accepts me into her arms, I do not trust myself to speak out of a fear that I might give in to an urge to sink teeth into flesh.

  I know without asking that she would probably forgive me.

  Already my memories resurface of having her throat in my hands.

  She really had been so willing to trade her life for her sisters.

  Would it be wrong to – I strangle this line of thinking with as much finality as I can muster.

  Lacking any other option, I clutch at myself in a hope to limit the harm I am capable of.

  I curl up in Amari’s embrace, already hoping to content myself with starvation if it makes this any easier.

  As I start to senselessly shake within the prison of my own flesh, my composure finally breaks.

  All my thoughts come spilling out at once.

  How am I supposed to live like this?

  I cannot stand the idea of giving into these bloody means any more than I already have.

  My eyes shut tight as I reject inflicting the Castellan’s violent ends on someone I care about.

  Oh Aelinore.

  How long has this been your normal?

  When did you make peace with it?

  What must I do to accept that these gifts are a vile perversion of the power I once used to take away the pain and sickness of others?

  There is no comparison that does this nightmare justice.

  You’ve been through so much worse than I.

  Every step of the way for you has been paved in blood in ways I cannot imagine how to forgive.

  I can’t stop screaming at how I should condemn everything about what I have become.

  Never mind redemption.

  I will my mind to empty before my spiraling leads me to any hasty conclusions.

  Only then do I hear the distant whispered words of the one who holds me.

  She’s been uttering an endless stream of assurances this entire time.

  “It’s okay.”

  “You’re okay.”

  “I’ve got you.”

  “We’re safe.”

  And I’m not sure I can believe any of it.

  Not from her.

  Not from… Someone who knows Threnodias,

  A Vylian Prince who has taken six wives.

  All of them with black sclera.

  One of them even commanded the blood that runs through his veins.

  My breath hitches at the precise moment where I realize each assurance might be a promise.

  And suddenly I am left to fumble with a sprouting hope that I am precisely where I need to be.