As I walk into the confines of the forest, I glimpse a girl’s spirit, lingering close, and my eyes flick towards her.
I press my palms against the jagged bark of a graywar tree trunk, the rough texture grounding me as I pause to catch my breath. Using her energy as a guide, I turn my head to face the approaching girl. Unlike spirits outside of my domain, these remain in a space between life and death, her figure transitions between being almost transparent, to appearing like a walking corpse.
Red robes cling to her body, the fabric ripped and soaked with old, brown blood. As she stands at the edge of the tree line, the glow of the moon dances on the sea behind her, shining through the gaping hole in her chest.
I avert my gaze, attempting to distance myself from the overwhelming waves of sadness rolling off her.
There are countless individuals who resist accepting the finality of things, and it is only humans, not animals or any other creatures, who become trapped in a state of denial.
But this spirit is different. She wants to leave. As her black hair hangs around her shoulders, strands slathered to her face from the blood, I can feel her ache. Whoever butchered her was violent. This was no merciful, quick death.
Her heart was ripped out.
She must have been one of the initial contenders in The Harvest. They were skilled warriors filled with fierce determination and raw strength, unlike the ones now.
I blink twice as inky tears spill from her empty eye sockets, an illusion of pain manifested by her memories of crying. Her sorrow pierces through my emotional barriers, leaving a lasting imprint.
“Leave me,” I command, my voice hoarse as my vocal cords slowly heal from the earlier attack.
But she remains nearby, still as a statue, and a heaviness settles in my chest, churning my stomach.
“Get out of here!” I yell as she floods my aura with her emotions. I turn away, heading toward the center of the forest, every muscle screaming in protest. My heart skips erratically, then stops for a few seconds, as if it has forgotten how to beat. While I cannot die, my mortal body can be destroyed. Fortunately, despite its limitations, my flesh vessel can withstand more than the other mortals.
“Cyna,” I growl as I sense his hand in this. They must be already regaining some form of consciousness. My family knows I am here, and they are sending the restless spirits here to torture me. Why else do I feel such guilt?
I turn to move again, but I am forced onto my knees by my weakened body and the shrouding magic of my siblings.
With a groan, I lean against a tree trunk, then close my eyes as I fall into a forced slumber.
My mind spins as I am pulled deeper into a dream, landing at the entrance to the Darklands.
“I know you’re here,” I call, sensing my family’s presence. “Come out.”
My eyes flit to the narrowing passage of walls, lit by the faint blue flames from flickering torches. Echoes of distant cries and anguished moans reverberate around me as I walk around a curve, then stop at a cross between seven tunnels connecting to the different levels of the Darklands.
Fleeting glimpses of spirits wander the tunnels, then evaporate as they try to free themselves of this place. My gaze focuses on the seventh and darkest tunnel. A slow, icy fog crawls from within its depths, and a shudder shakes my body. Why does this place bother me so much when it is mine to rule over?
“The seventh tunnel haunts you.” Cyna’s voice booms throughout the cave’s entrance. “It should. You are foolish to return to Tenenocti.”
A smirk curls over my lips as I slowly turn, sensing my brother’ magic. Cyna holds his bow, with a green arrow poised at my heart. My tongue balls in my cheek as I laugh, stepping forward. “Are you going to shoot me, Brother?” I ask. “Has your long sleep affected your brain? Arrows will not work on me here.”
His emerald stare is colder than the frigidity of his heart. “No, but it will hurt you.”
Cyna releases his finger from the bow’s string, sending the arrow whistling through the air, but I snatch it without effort before it can pierce my chest.
Our eyes meet and I snap the wood in my hand. “Is that all you’ve got?” I taunt, discarding the pieces on the ground.
“It’s been a long time since I practiced.”
“Centuries,” I remark as if we aren’t mortal enemies.
He lowers the bow, then tosses it aside before brushing the wrinkles from his ocean-green tunic and black pants.
My brother, always immaculately dressed, without a single blemish or imperfection. As a mortal, he is insufferable, always seeking perfection. I recall even in his ethereal form, he prided himself on keeping his energy free of darkness.
“I have never been afraid of you.”
He drags a thumb to his lip, then clicks his tongue, smirking. “You cannot stop the prophecy, little brother. The girl is already here.”
“Calista will fail,” I snap back.
His groomed, dark brows pinch together, an unnerving smile claiming his mouth. “Come now,” he taunts. “We both know why you did all of this. You betrayed us for your heart.”
My lips close, my breath held as I stare at him through blurry eyes. “Then why you don’t you fucking tell me what happened? I know Nyxara tampered with my memories.”
He laughs, and I lunge at him, but before I can hit the smirk off his face, I’m slammed back into consciousness.
My eyes fling open to the dark forest. “Bastard,” I groan. “Fucking prick!”
Cyna stands so high on his pedestal of judgment, telling me I fear the seventh level of the Darklands when I rule it. A place reserved for the most damaged people, where souls are obliterated, fractured, and then scattered across the Ether.
My heart skips a beat, then races erratically. I slam my fist against my chest, and the pain rattles my rib cage. Ignoring the dead, lingering in the trees, I continue, moving until I reach a clearing.
The forest’s edge beckons me as I get closer to the graveyard containing their crypts. As I walk, memories unveil, like a long-forgotten dream resurfacing.
With each stride, the ground beneath me pulses with my sibling’s magic, as if anticipating my return.
I find the path, concealed by a labyrinth of brambles, and push through them, the thorns scraping against my skin.
