6. The coward penance
1169 Words
"Please. I didn’t ask for any of this," Arya cried, her glowing hands trembling
as she reached for the old man.
Orin looked down at her. In her terrified eyes, he saw the exact same
infant he had looked at in a cradle twenty-three years ago. The child he had
been too afraid to save. The child who had been made a prisoner before she could even speak.
If only he had been courageous enough to run away with her back then.
"Put your knife away, boy," Orin said quietly. His voice was deeply tired. "You
cannot use force to trigger mercy."
He moved toward his wooden shelves, pulling down heavy clay jars and bundles of dried leaves. "I will help her. Not for you, and not for the Goddess who chained you to her. I will do it because twenty-three years ago, I was a coward. I will not die as one today."
He turned back, holding a jar of dark, thick liquid in one hand and a bundle of
crushed leaves in the other.
"I will purge the poison, but you must stay within the circle." Orin gestured
with his foot to a thick ring of salt and white ash poured onto the floorboards
around the straw pallet. "If you move away from her, the shackle will flare. The
physical feedback of the magic will kill her in her weakened state. You must be
her anchor while I purge her."
Draven stared at the old man for a while then Slowly, he sheathed his steel
blade. His jaw was rigid as he knelt by the edge of the pallet, his calloused
hand hovering just above Arya’s burning skin.
"Do what you have to do, old man," Draven muttered flatly. "But if she dies, I
am taking your head."
Orin knelt on the opposite side of the straw bed. He began crushing the herbs
together, filling the small room with a sharp, bitter scent of charcoal and
vinegar.
"She will scream," Orin warned, looking directly from Arya’s terrified face to
Draven’s empty eyes. "True healing hurts far more than the poison ever did."
He poured the dark liquid into a clay cup, mixing in the crushed leaves. The
mixture immediately began to smoke, a thin, vile vapor curling slowly toward the
ceiling.
"Hold her down," Orin ordered. "And do not let go."
[Flashback – Twenty-Three Years Ago] [The Ouroboros Sanctum]
Young Orin stood in the center of the vaulted floor.
Above him, the Cult Elders sat in a towering semi-circle, their golden serpent
masks reflecting the flickering orange torchlight. As the Supreme Leader of the
Carnifex, Orin was the absolute highest-ranking military commander in the Cult.
He was a weapon. But tonight, the weapon was hesitating.
"Our tracking spells have located a massive surge in cosmic power," High Shaman Morvath’s voice boomed from the high dais. "The vessel has reincarnated. The child has just taken her first breath in a human settlement called Oakhaven."
Morvath leaned forward, his eyes burning behind his mask. "Your duty is simple,
Orin. You will march our forces into the village, s*******r anyone who resists,
and seize the newborn. After centuries of waiting, the time is finally upon us."
Orin looked up. His neck was stiff as he met the High Shaman’s gaze.
"That is a m******e, my lord," Orin said.
The sanctum went dead silent.
"I said anyone who resists," Morvath replied, his voice dropping to a dangerous
whisper.
"You do not expect to march an army into a village to claim a newborn without
the people fighting back to protect her," Orin argued. His voice was steady, but
his hands shook at his sides. "Why not wait? Send a few guards to lure the
mother out."
"Since when do we start sneaking in the dark like cowards, Orin?" Morvath
countered. The other Elders murmured in angry agreement.
"The people in Oakhaven are weavers and farmers, High Shaman. They do not even
know what sleeps within that child. Killing them is not a duty. It is a
bloodbath."
"And when did you start grieving for filthy humans?" Shamaness Morana asked,
stepping down from her high seat.
Orin swallowed hard. "Oakhaven is my mate's village."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
"Oh, I see," Morvath roared, striking his heavy iron scepter against the
floor. "This is exactly why we forbid marrying outside the bloodline! You dare
defy the altar for a human woman?"
"I will accomplish this duty, my lord. I will bring you the baby," Orin pleaded.
"But I will do it my way. I will not burn down an innocent village."
A tall figure stepped out from the shadow of the pillars. It was shaman Lucas, Orin's
own father. His gold robes rustled with shame, and his face was contorted in a
mix of terror and absolute fury.
"You would choose the lives of filthy peasants over the absolute authority of
our bloodline?" his father spat. "Do you think we have time on our hands? What
if the Gloom Pack gets to her first while you are playing your peaceful games?"
"I choose my soul over the blade, Father," Orin met the old man's eyes without
blinking. "The prophecy has slept for centuries. I will deliver the baby without
burning Oakhaven to the ground."
High Shaman Morvath stood up slowly. He did not scream. He did not have to.
"Then you have chosen your path," Morvath’s voice was cold and terribly final.
"Henceforth, you have no name. You have no blood. You have no people."
Before Orin could even reach for the dagger at his thigh, four heavily armored
Cult Wardens lunged from the dark.
They kicked his legs out from under him, forcing his knees to c***k against the
hard floorboards. Heavy iron gauntlets grabbed his hair, ripping his head back
and forcing his eyes upward.
The massive iron doors of the sanctum swung open with a deafening groan.
Orin’s heart stopped.
His human mate was dragged into the torchlight, her wrists bound in iron
chains. Beside her, their six-year-old pup whimpered, his tiny wolf ears pressed
flat against his skull in sheer terror.
Orin opened his mouth to beg, to bargain, to scream—but he didn't have the time.
With a casual, bored wave of Morvath’s hand, the Cult’s dark magic flared.
The crimson energy struck them like lightning. The light instantly left his
pup's eyes. His mate collapsed heavily to the floor, dead before she even
registered the pain. The Ouroboros proved in a single second that bloodlines
only mattered if you obeyed.
"You are banished," Morvath’s voice echoed across the sanctum, completely
indifferent to the weeping man on the floor. "Rot in the wilderness, traitor.
Let the trees be your only pack until the day you die."
Because of Orin's sudden mutiny, the Cult’s military deployment fell into
absolute chaos. It took the Ouroboros a full week to restructure their ranks,
strip Orin of his title, and march on Oakhaven themselves to claim the silver
child.
- Writer
