The Fire

Lysandra’s stomach pulled with hunger. The jerky had run out, and the stale bread she nibbled on wasn’t enough. The last waypointer gave her a few sea-biscuits, but without water, the chewing on rocks seemed more appealing.

Dunmouth waited five miles away, but she trailed a bit off the road and kept an ear out for a wagon, in case the Durlesian prince rode down the road in his wagon.

The sun’s warmth hid behind leaves when a breeze whipped through the forest. She shivered, tempting her to turn back. Each time, a childhood memory would remind her of the warmth she hunted.

It was a few winters ago, the two huddled—shoulder to shoulder—near Sahva’s bonfire. She carried the foresight to wear layers, but his presence warmed her more than the fire or the clothes.

“It’s cold isn’t it?” Rex said, hiding his shivering.

Lysandra nodded and crossed her arms. Maybe acting cold would keep him near. “Being near a fire helps.”

His body vibrated in sporadic moments, and his jaw clenched to force it still. “I think the snow got in my clothes,” he said.

“Maybe start defending yourself and you won’t fall.”

“I tried.”

“Did you?”

He groaned, and his teeth chattered for a bit until he forced it away. Eventually, his knees folded to his chest and he wrapped his arms around them. “You think I’ll ever be a good fighter?”

Lysandra peeled off her top coat layer and wrapped Rex with it. “You are a good fighter.”

Rex’s mother walked up, carrying hot broth in mugs, warming the both of them as they inhaled the savory aroma.

The cold whirled around her bringing her focus back to the woods. She smacked her lips thinking of the Neoresian broth—a rich ensemble of deerling fat and conifer tips.

Thoughts of a childhood stream came to mind as she walked, almost hearing a small waterfall that dropped with every ounce of desire.

No, she could hear it.

The ground ahead dipped into a stream, almost invisible as the slope rebounded back to the same level, making a distinct V shape.

She hurried over, careful not to slip into the stream as she rushed. The water nipped at her hands as she cupped it. As she gulped it down, streaks of it dripped onto her clothes and reminded her once more of time spent with Rex.

She remembered kicking the stream five years back. Not caring if she’d get soaked. “Lyam’s gone off on his first contract,” she said.

“You worry?” Rex asked.

“Not at all,” she lied. “I’ve never seen him lose a fight, I’m sure he’ll cut through the bandits no issue.” Her eyes itched as she blinked away a tear.

Just like Rex, Lyam’s first contract was for a group of bandits. Five of them in Niobeth, after slaughtering a family in Sherster.

Lysandra sighed and sat onto the ground. “What am I doing?” She asked herself, it could’ve been aloud, but either way, no one would hear it.

Something burned in the distance. Puffs of black smoke rose to the tree branches until it broke away and lifted skyward. It carried the scent of meat cooking on a spitfire. Perhaps a festival, a perfect cover for her to hide in.

Lysandra crossed the stream and paced a light jog towards the smoke. Roughly a few dozen men and women covered in brown robes, pushing along bound and gagged townspeople.

They led them to a large bonfire in an open area of the forest. Beside it, other robed persons folded their hands together, tucking their heads down, mumbling a chant circled around a bound victim, while someone coated the victim with a liquid.

The victim squirmed until his body completely stopped. As if it were a doll and someone wrapped their hands around it to stop it from moving. Shortly after, the victim walked calmly into the fire, burning itself. No screaming, no yelling, nor any flailing. It says in the flames until it charred into a burnt corpse.

Lysandra ran out of the tree cover to save the rest, but caught herself, thinking twice about fighting all of them at once.

“Hey!” someone shouted at her. A pair of robed men who were pacing around the perimeter of the forest.

Lysandra ducked behind a tree and sprinted around their view, circling around, and using the surrounding trees to hide her movement.

“I saw someone right there,” one of them said.

Their feet padded across the forest leaves.

“Right here,” he said again.

“Don’t worry about it,” the other replied. “What’re they going to do? Stop us?” He chuckled.

“Right,” the other nodded, and the two continued their patrol.

Lysandra lunged from behind them, cutting at one of their heel, and while the other turned to respond, she impaled him in the chest. Quick and painless, just as Lyam taught her.

The surviving harvester writhed in the dirt; he brought his knees up and clenched his bloodied heel. He wanted to shout, but Lysandra brought her boot down to his mouth. “You’re going to die soon,” she whispered to him. “Before you meet Nostu, tell me who you are.”

The man snarled back.

Lysandra re-stomped on his face. “I couldn’t hear you.”

When she lifted her foot again, he carried a broken smile. “It’s too late. My soul will serve Mara along with everyone here in Dunmouth.” He murmured a chant and unsheathed a dagger from his robe. Lysandra jumped away from him, expecting strikes to her leg. But he impaled the dagger into his chest, staring back at her until the light left his eyes.

Lysandra spun around and spotted a waist-high bush a few feet away. She pulled both bodies into the bush. The last body stole the last bit of strength she saved.

Her body sagged, as she tried looking for a hiding spot, a place to shrink away and wake up from the nightmare.