The Cursed: Threads of Destiny

Kinara - I

The tunnels have been there as long as she can remember. They twisted and turned in ways that are hard for someone to understand, especially someone without a map. Thankfully, she has a map that she has memorized so well that she would remember it if she were to remember anything else. That isn’t the problem. The problem is visible on the wall, as deep as claw markings can get, which she has been staring at for the past few minutes. In the last few weeks, the visits have been more frequent than she would’ve liked them to be, but there was word of supernaturals going rogue, so they were ordered to double everything. Oh, and the attackers are getting closer every day, which just adds to the greatness that is her life. She is sure now that they are trying to map the tunnels.

Her hand covers her nose to try and block the stench of rotting bodies. Need to call for a clean-up, she thinks, moving further. She steps on something and makes sure not to look down at it as she takes another step. She can handle the smell, she isn’t sure if she can handle the picture, and she is not risking it while she is alone. She holds the flashlight up, examining the blood on the walls, noting that the explosives worked well—too well. They probably thought it was best to return after a sizable explosion, she thinks. A sigh escapes her mouth as she slumps her shoulders. It had been well over an hour, they should have called her back by now.

As much as they try to deny it, to make their actions seem more human, she knows that the visits are less about surveillance and more about them experimenting with her control over the monstrosity in her veins. And no matter how many times she tells them that it is unnecessary, they don’t believe her like she is a child. If she is a child, then why inflict such pain on her? She tries not to think much of it because that would mean they only view her as a child when it is convenient for them, and she is sure that there is something f****d up about that.

She retreats, expecting a call soon, before her palms lie flat on the ground beneath her, and she closes her eyes, trying to feel any potential vibrations. Wolves are proud beings, and they like making an entrance. After a while, when she feels nothing, her palms move to trace the claw marks. These tunnels that people made in hopes of initially helping others escape have ended up being a liability.

Many survived their escape, including her father, who was responsible for building them in the first place. Not many supernaturals could fit in these tunnels, and with their area of attack being small, they often struggled while fighting. Whoever was alive moved to the town nearby. The tunnels were closed after that—well, most of them. And then the new king came and assigned the town to a werewolf, which awakened something in her father and his efforts to contribute to the rebellion somehow tripled. Her father hated all supernaturals, but he, for reasons unknown to her, hated werewolves more than the rest. He never explained and she never questioned him. Questioning him felt like questioning God, and she did not have the heart to stage a rebellion.

She stares at the fresh marks with elevated heartbeats and heavy breathing. Her palms fall to search for the contents of her bag, looking for her pills that aren’t there. She knows her uncle, who also happened to her superior, has once again forgotten to put her pills in, but she hopes once again that he hasn’t. Every need to consume the supplements is a reminder that she is nothing but a failed experiment by her father. But can she really blame him? Is she allowed to shift the blame after what she has done?

“Oh, for the love of...,” she says before the radio static interrupts her. She brings it closer to her mouth in case she has to respond.

“Tyrian 3, Tyrian 3, this is Destiny, over.”

“This is Tyrian 3, over.”

“Any movement? Over.”

“No movement, over.”

“Daylight’s almost out, over and out.”

The static is gone once again. She looks to her left, where the monsters came from, and then to her right, where she is called back. She sighs, mumbling to herself, “I’m going to kill someone one of these days.”

They still believe she will be their greatest asset as they wait for the perfect opportunity, even after everything. Overthrowing several governments was met with resistance, of course. The resistance had turned into a rebellion in parts like this town and much louder in parts like SQ4. The war isn’t completely finished, not in its truest sense.

Countries were much more reluctant to submit to the previous king, but many welcomed the new one with grace. She hasn’t read much about him, but people around the town seem to like him and others find it hard to hate him, which she can’t decide is a good sign or not. He fascinated her like all the other supernaturals. How could they not fascinate her? She was born in a world that was more diverse in species than her grandparents' generation could even imagine. They lived for so long, held so much knowledge and wisdom. She’d heard rumors that the King was one of the oldest supernaturals in the world. She wonders how long he has been alive for. If it is longer than she thinks, she believes that he will welcome death rather than resist it. One can’t live that long and still love living. She certainly wouldn’t.

Every time she talked to the town’s Alpha, with inherited hatred in her mind, her eyes always wandered, analyzing his movements and wondering how or why his eyes changed colors every few minutes, and it was more to learn things about them for herself than for the reports she had to make.

Her father had made it seem like they were the most vicious of creatures, but Alpha Dasna (she still doesn’t know how to pronounce his last name) proved her wrong when she first met him at her father’s funeral. She imagined him turning in his grave in the presence of werewolves at his funeral. He was sympathetic, even more so than her own people, who had anger flowing in their blood. He was similar to her mother, detached from disturbing feelings and past events, but different in the way that he probably dealt with them in private.

He had hinted that her father’s death was a mystery to him, even when the hospital report verified it was because of a rogue werewolf attack. Not that they needed it to make the claw marks across his chest visible. After a few months, he informed her that three werewolves had been found on the river bank of the town next to theirs and that they still hadn’t been able to uncover how they died. Werewolves made good investigators, she thought.

The case of her father's death was closed shortly after. When she wasn’t told why, she started listening to the rumors closely. Some said that it was because the Beta had advised them to use the resources for more important work than uncovering the truth about a human’s death and said that there was nothing they could do when both parties were dead. It brought her relief, knowing that only she would know the truth of what happened that day—a burden she carried alone now.

She wanted to ask how they knew that the werewolves found near the river were the same ones who attacked her father. How could they be so sure? Was it because of their-

“Back here, Nara,”Allan, her uncle, calls. She glances back at the spot of light a few feet behind her and turns around to walk towards it. She meets her uncle’s and his partner’s eyes as they look down at her.

“Alright, Ki?” Amaya asks with concern shining in her eyes as she extends her hand to pull her up. “Yes, fine,” she breathes out, waving her hand to discard her help before pulling herself up and above.

“Where are the pills?”

“In the car. They are-” her uncle says.

“Don’t bother.” She interrupts her as she starts sprinting towards the car, thinking he's making another excuse. She doesn’t blame them for wanting to escape what they considered captivity. People were still not allowed to move around freely for multiple purposes, but she never felt the need to go somewhere else.

Her father had simply told her that she felt that way because she hadn’t seen much of the world. He told her that when she got the taste of it, she would never want to stop moving from place to place. Strangely, her father made her dream sometimes. He strived for an escape all those years ago, and she dreams of it. She wonders what he’d think of that. She drops to the ground and leans against a tire with her eyes closed and fists clenched. The other two leave her alone to cool down a bit before coming and talking to her.

“Your mother said she was making Italian today,” Allan says, handing her a cigarette from his pack. “Yay, my favorite!" she says unenthusiastically, but gladly accepts it. “I don’t know about you, but I have had enough of it,” he continues after lighting his own cigarette and throwing the lighter at her.

When she looks at them, her eyes glow with that peculiar shade of purple before a chuckle escapes her lips. “Don’t let Lorenzo hear you say that,” she says, her eyes clearing out all foreign colors and adjusting to her usual honey brown, “He’ll give you an earful and then some. And then he’ll call his mother, who’ll be the same, but worse.” He laughs, nodding his head in agreement.

After discarding their cigarettes, they decide to leave, more so that they don’t receive her mother’s wrath than the need for safety. As she reaches for the door, her hands twitch, and purple flows through her veins as she stumbles backward. Her eyes hurt from their glow while she gave herself a moment to stare at the tunnel opening, debating if she should go back.

The sense of familiarity she feels is almost sickening to her. It feels criminal to enjoy one’s confinement—to be away from the world and lost in your thoughts. Her eyes stray, and for a second they look into the eyes of the ghost of her father, his eyes purple like hers and his skin burning with no visible pain.