The room around me was coated in dust, to the point where I could see it suspended in the air, floating in large particles. I pressed a cloth against my nose and mouth; the smell of mildew was strong, nauseatingly potent, and I yearned to leave as soon as possible. My eyes scanned the floor, searching for any sign of her hiding place, but to no avail. I cursed under my breath before turning around and swinging open the shack door, stepping out into a clearing.
Before me, a small glistening stream babbled soothingly. If I could, I would sleep out here next to it. My bare feet touched the cold ground, with prickly grass poking the undersides of my soles, which were blackened from walking in the dirt. The air smelled natural, clean even, and in front of me stood a short man facing away toward the trees. He wore a black vest with a crisp, white undershirt, large boots that seemed out of place, and long brown pants,
"She's not here," I told him. He turned around and shook his head.
"Dammit—" he cursed, "I told her... I told her not to run off."
I walked past him and hopped over the small stream. "Yeah, yeah, I know."
"No ordinary young lady acts like this," he blurted out, but I was barely listening at that point. Instead, my eyes caught something in the distance.
"Gunnar, look at this," I cut him off and nodded towards a patch of blood. He swung around; I had to point, "Is it hers?" Gunnar asked as we walked towards it, kneeling down to examine. I dragged a finger along a blade of grass.
"Hard to tell; it's old, and she ran off not long ago, right? I'm not an expert."
He flailed his arms forward. "You know what? You and Avelina can take care of this."
"No," I said simply and stood up. Gunnar followed suit and looked at me with a strange look. His short, curved nose rested above a scratchy beard. "She trusts me; I can get her."
The man in front of me clicked his tongue, shaking his head slowly before responding, "You're not serious, are you?" His face had contorted into a weird expression. Eyebrows up, eyes slightly squeezed.
"Yeah, Odessa is—" I barely started my sentence when he interrupted me, a typical Gunnar move that never failed to irritate.
"And have you run off too?"
A suppressed laugh escaped me. "You know I wouldn't."
He shook his head. "You have before."
"Seven years ago. I was thirteen, living in a goddamn household where most of you barely knew my name," I retorted through clenched fists.
Gunnar rose from his seat, gripping the collar of my shirt with his hand. Closing the distance between us, our faces mere inches apart, his breath carrying an unpleasant odor. "We've done everything for your sorry ass," he sneered. I swallowed, a reaction he keenly observed, and he tilted his head, "Are you ready to fucking behave?"
He awaited a response. Reluctantly, I nodded—not out of fear, as I could have easily handled him physically. I complied because crossing him would only lead to trouble, and I had my fill of that. Gunnar watched my eyes before finally letting go, and walking past me, making sure to bump into my shoulder, another way to say 'fuck you'.
"Back to the property, and you're coming with."
"That's a two-hour trip. There's still a lot of ground to cover out here and..." I paused, reconsidered my words, then gave in. "Are you sure?"
"I'm cold, grimy, my jewels will fall off. If she wants to run and starve out there, that's fine with me," Gunnar muttered, beginning to walk back into the woods. Shortly after, I followed suit, closing the distance he had covered. This place was never a great area for me, for reasons that stretched beyond normal.
They were dark, and secluded, like all forests. With trees that towered upwards like claws, their branches extending like fingers, roots growing endlessly as if a sickness burrowed into the dirt. Foliage obscured the ground that jutted upwards with small rocks and stones. In every forest, there is life, diversity, and the drive for survival. Not very kind to visitors—poison ivy, thorns, wild animals. One wrong step, and you could trip and bash your head into something hard or sharp.
We trekked on and on. Daylight was running out, and even through the thick cover of leaves above, we could see the sun, casting golden rays of warm light, now low in the sky. This place was noisy, another reason I always hated it. The crunching of leaves. Wind blowing past and rustling plants. It always made me feel, even if it was overly absurd, that someone or something was watching me.
Eventually, a path emerged from the ground. It was subtle and not very well maintained, snaking across the grass, and guiding us to the woodland exit. By this time, the great star had dipped below the horizon, leaving only the last strands of gleaming light peeking over. Just above it, a deep blackness swallowed the once-vibrant skyline.
Thousands, if not millions, of lights dotted the sky in a pattern so beautiful and awe-inspiring that I never failed to gaze at them every night.
Gunnar and I left the environment behind, and what we came to see was just as, if not more, amazing than the stars above. A town, large in size, with at least fifteen thousand buildings: the heart of the Heladonic Empire, simply named Heladon City. No walls protected the place, at least not around the housing, but even though not visible from where I stood, walls protected the inner city, where both the elites and the royal family lived. A river passed through the center, ripping the city in half as if it were a rift.
Both sides were different, with the lower class living on the right and the middle on the left. At various times, not much separated the two; they blended in from onlookers. However, on the inside, they were fundamentally different—a gap so large in wealth that it could very well mean life or death. Comfort or the streets.
Even without walls, soldiers stood guard as we approached. They donned sleek bronze-colored metal helmets, fashioned with openings allowing them to peer out in the shape of a horseshoe. The same metallic material extended over their shoulders, encircling their chests. The remainder of their bodies were cloaked in mail, complemented by sizable boots at the base. Swords adorned their waist, though I couldn't discern the specific type from where I stood.
Gunnar nodded at them, and they allowed him to pass. They eyed me suspiciously but permitted me to follow along. The entire city sloped upward, and we found ourselves walking uphill. The place felt cramped, with buildings pressed tightly together and streets overwhelmed by the stench of sweat and body odor. I was accustomed to it, forbidden to show any reaction as it went against proper etiquette.
To our left, as we entered, there stood a sizable wooden stage. Beneath it lay a patch of dirt, devoid of grass due to the absence of sunlight. Years of dirt had accumulated, creating a crust along the edges. Eight beams supported the stage, elevating it four, maybe even five feet into the air. The stairs on both the right and left sides led upward, and one by one, I could see people ascending them. Stripped of their clothes, aside for coverings of their lower and upper half, exposing their bodies for all to see—two men and two women, marching slowly, baring their skin.
Knights were pushing them along, dressed in the same armor the soldiers wore on our way in, with the exception of the helmet, allowing their faces to be vividly clear. Their metal gloves left imprints on the skin of the men and women, creating red and raw marks.
Without pausing, they continued pushing them all the way up until they reached the top of the platform. There, the four were lined up with their arms stretched outward and palms open, facing the gathered audience. It was a familiar sight, a customary event to witness—they were about to be executed.
I couldn't fathom standing up there, facing a crowd that scrutinized every imperfection, every mark on your skin that had ever defined your appearance. To be escorted by men with the clear intent of leading you to your death— it was not just humiliating, but utterly evil. Unless deserved, and more often than not, it wasn't, this was a terrible way to go. I'd always feared meeting the same fate.
Another knight, scrawnier than the others and with a peculiar limp, made his way over, dragging a small barrel of oil onto the stage. The knights hoisted it into the air together, the top already open, with the golden liquid sloshing inside, waiting patiently to be poured. One by one, they began pouring it onto the soon-to-be-executed. Shackles around their ankles, now visible, secured them.
The first man, with badly shaved dirty blond hair, exposed patches here and there, sections cut down to the scalp. He tilted his head upwards, eyes closed, allowing the oil to roll over him. They let it pour for a good two seconds, letting it lather the man's body before pulling away. He spat forward, gasping for breath as if drowning in the oil that now greasily clung to his skin,
"Down with Chlodovech," I could hear him say, as if unafraid of what was to come. One of the knights sneered before moving on to the next man. He repeated the same actions and the very same words, "Down with Chlodovech." The woman, with unusually short red hair, moved her hands all over her body, letting the oil soak in as if to insult them.
Finally, it came to the last woman, younger than the rest, in her mid to late twenties. She had perfect golden hair and green eyes, her face contorted with an expression of pure fear. As they poured the oil over her, she stifled a cry, attempting to hold it back, but it was almost impossible. Her glossy eyes were now covered by the substance. She did not repeat the phrase.
"Children of the Agatha family. Sinners of our goddess llythyrra. Traitors of our King Chlodovech. You are hereby sentenced to death from flame. A slow, painful one." A knight marched forward, faced the crowd, and announced aloud, "Unless you repent. Show your loyalty to Chlodovech and announce your life to him." The crowd watched. Eyesight locked onto the speaker, "If you wish to take this path, back to redemption, let it be known or forever regret it."
Moments ticked by in absolute silence. None of them uttered a word, not until the same guard who spoke took a flint and striker from another, holding it close to the first man. Finally, someone spoke out, the woman on the far right. She desperately cried out, "Please—I'll... I'll do it." Everyone stared at her until the guard nodded, and they dragged her off the stage. I never knew what happened to those who accepted the offer.
"And you three?" he asked one final time. None of them spoke, not even an expression, just looked forward blankly. "Very well," the knight spoke before striking the flint, "I'll see you in hell."
I turned away, not wanting to witness the aftermath, and pressed forward. Looking behind me would have been sickening. The thought of coming in contact with the smell of burning flesh and the screams permeating the air was unbearable. No, absolutely not. My legs carried me forward, wanting to get as far away as possible, blocking out everything. Gunnar was already way ahead. Lost in what transpired, I didn't realize he had walked on without me.
When we had gotten a few good leagues away, I allowed myself to return to the present, out of other thoughts. We were passing another checkpoint, an easy bypass from crossing the bridge. The streets here were less cramped. Everyone wore robes, clearly woven from expensive fabric. We had to pass yet again another wall of soldiers, who on sight of Gunnar, let us pass. A wall separated this part, the inner area, from the rest of the population. He suddenly slowed down till I moved ahead of him. Then, he placed a hand around the back of my neck, whispering,
"When she asks you don't talk." His voice was so low now that it cracked. I murmured, complying with a nod. Gunnar gave me a hard pat on the back, "Good man." The two of us continued our trek forward. I glanced behind me, a plume of smoke billowing into the air from afar. My stomach churned at the thought of it all. There wasn't anything I could have done.
Facing forward again, the buildings in this area appeared different, constructed with rich, dark brown wood for their exteriors. Large glass windows stretched from top to bottom, some spanning three floors—an unnecessary luxury in my eyes. These buildings were already wide, very wide, the size of three regular homes placed beside one another.
In the center stood a much larger building, grand in its architectural design. Its base was made of tightly packed stone, with stairs leading up to the entrance. The structure had an asymmetric shape, with a roof that curved upwards before turning flat. The windows weren't ordinary; they were colored, resembling those of a church, although this building wasn't a religious institution.
It rested on a small hill, elevated above the rest, guarded by four soldiers on each side, as if whatever lived inside was the most important thing in the world—something cherished by many, yet considered a target for destruction by others. The Royal Family. People always spoke of how privatized and protected this area was, a fact that had never truly occurred to me, given that the people I stayed with were high officials.
As we walked around the manor, I noticed on the right side of its hill a white, polished stage where offerings were placed—a tribute to the religion that the inhabitants fervently believed in. It sometimes bewildered me how they could believe someone was watching over them in a world where mercy was practically non-existent. Throughout my life, I had been tossed around, witnessing death and anguish, not particularly my own but watching it unfold onto others. Even in my earliest, happiest memories.
Walking past the building, which on its own took 30 to 40 seconds, the pair of us stopped in front of another residence. It looked almost the same as the other buildings in the area, resembling a miniature version of the royal family's manor, with a few structural differences. I distinctly remember the walls being white stone, but everything changes over time. That, or I was just utterly wrong.
Lanterns hung from the low-hanging edges of the roofs. Even though I stood at a good five feet ten inches tall, I could still barely reach up to light them. The door was made of lighter wood than the walls, featuring a knocker on the front with the emblem of Heladon as its decoration. Gunnar didn't bother knocking; instead, he swung it open and headed right in.
The long corridor led into a master room, a large chestnut table in the middle. Fine sets of glassware and dishes were set at each chair which roared its head back with a leather finish. Immediately the warmth washed over me. A large fireplace was crackling on the other side of the room. Above me a ceiling reached up and was supported by beams that ran across to either end.
A massive door resided on a wall between the fireplace and table. Around eleven feet tall with golden encrusted doorknobs. Footsteps resounded from the other side. Click-clack, click-clack, as if purposely sounding loud. They suddenly stopped, the golden doorknob beginning to turn, and with a high-pitched heavy screech the door swung open.
We straightened up, gazing directly ahead at her, purposefully avoiding eye contact as she disliked it. Avelina, taller than me, wore a purple velvet robe paired with shoes that added a good 3 or 4 inches to her height. Her hair, matching Gunnar's in color, was tied into a bun at the back and graying at the edges. Despite her crooked teeth, they were surprisingly white.
"Did you find her?" Avelina spoke with a voice slightly deeper than you'd imagine it being.
Gunnar shook his head. "We searched the pond and shed but found nothing, except for blood."
She raised an eyebrow. "Blood?"
"It wasn't hers," I interjected, cutting off Gunnar before he could continue, causing his face to flush red. The family connection between these two was unmistakable. Avelina was the sister of Gunnar's late mother, and she, along with her ex-husband, led the household that included his branch of the family—his father, brother, and sister. As for me, I never quite belonged, and likely never would. I was the peculiar entity in the household, there for reasons beyond both my control and theirs.
"Is that for certain, Alaric?" I winced at the use of my name.
"It's already dried and crusted. By the time she ran off it was already old," I explained. Avelina nodded before pacing the room, her heels echoing the sounds I heard from the hallway. Contemplating where else Odessa could be hiding, a bastard child b orn to Avelina.
"What do you think we should do?" Avelina asked, turning to me. Gunnar swiftly interjected; his face now contorted in anger.
"Avelina, it's in your best judgment that Alaric doesn't make decisions like these. He's not even one of us," he pointed at me while addressing her. I threw my arms forward silently before Avelina responded.
"You're right, he's not. That doesn't make him any more of an idiot than you are," she retorted, causing Gunnar to shrink into his own shadow, embarrassed by her words. "What do you think, Alaric?"
"I believe we should check by the old tower. If Odessa is anywhere, she might be hiding there," I suggested.
"Hear that, Gunnar?" Avelina redirected her attention to him. "Alaric seems to understand my daughter better than most." Her voice was purposely condescending, leading Gunnar to remain quiet, instead drawing a deep breath, "Alaric you'll be heading out to look and..." She side-eyed him, "Without that boy. Take Dunstan instead."
With a nod I agreed, a smile crossing her lips, "Understood."
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