GREY

Thalia's Fate

Theodrel was a noble of the Third House, one of the four houses that carried royal blood. The young man was an adventurer who took a liking to plants and nature. On one of his adventures, he met a girl in the woods. This girl had lived away from society because her blood was cursed. Theodrel brought her home when he returned and made her his servant. His family were none too pleased about the idea of an infernal living among them, but they kept this a secret from the other houses of Egnir.

Theodrel fell in love with the infernal and married her against his parents’ will. He was later blessed with a female child, and as the birth of any being with infernal blood took life, Theodrel’s wife had died upon childbirth. The child was beautiful, just like her mother. She had chestnut hair and dark, beautiful eyes. Theodrel named her Thalia.

Thalia grew up with all the affection of her father. With age, she came to see that everyone else hated her, but she wanted to devote her life to showing them that there was no difference between infernals and humans if their hearts were the same. They’d even use infernal power to develop the world and make it a better place to live. At a tender age, Thalia discovered her infernal gift. She had impossibly swift reflexes. She could react to any situation the instant it happened. Intending to use if for good, her father had hired a private tutor to teach her swordsmanship.

At age ten Thalia surpassed her master in every aspect. She talked to her father about joining the Holy Knights. After a long time of persistence, she was granted the opportunity to prove herself. The Holy Academy took her in, and in her first year she bested the academy’s blade master. That did not go well with some officials. Bestowing the highest honor on an infernal was unorthodox. Secretly, a plan was devised to kill the young girl.

Assassins were hired to end Thalia’s life. Unfortunately, the plot did not go as planned. Thalia survived, but at the cost of her father’s life. The beliefs of her pure heart were marred by hate. She fled from her home and went into the wild. There, in the middle of the unknown, she met a young runaway named Dargo. Dargo was an outlaw who stole to keep his people from dying of famine. Though the two had a conflict of interests at first, they later came upon an agreement that Dargo would help Thalia get revenge, and in return Thalia would help Dargo’s people with wealth.

At age sixteen, Thalia stormed the Assassin’s Guild. She killed anyone who stood in her way and enjoyed it. Her blade was unstoppable. The senior assassins fell within seconds of encountering her, and had there not been a mage in their midst, she could have wiped the guild clean. Dargo barely managed to escape with her after she was immobilized by a paralysis spell. Feeling that Dargo had upheld his side of the bargain, Thalia returned home. She wanted to convince her grandparents to help Dargo’s folk, but the animosity they showed her was enough to make her leave permanently. Without Theodrel, the Third House had no reason to love Thalia.

Thalia went to live with Dargo’s people and vowed to repay the debt she owed him by robbing any noble carriages and carts that happened to cross her way. The two became steadfast companions and fell in love. However, their cause became lost to bloodlust and they started killing for sport. They slaughtered humans and took their belongings. This caught the citadel’s eye. Witches were sent to track down the young reavers, who ended up fleeing their village.

“Don’t you think it’s time we settled down and started our own family?” Dargo asked one day, when Thalia had turned eighteen.

“I will only marry you under one condition,” Thalia said, raising her chin defiantly.

“And what is that?” Dargo questioned, willing to do anything for the woman he loved.

“Defeat me in a duel. Only then will I pledge my life to you.”

Despite his best efforts, Dargo never outmatched Thalia. The two kept moving from place to place, searching for a city where infernals were welcome. A year later, having nearly arrived at the borderland between Egnir and Gildor, Dargo and Thalia encountered a smoke in the forest. It was early morning, and the smoke carried the scent of burning fat. They had gone for days with nothing but water to fill their stomachs. They’d have to kill any human who possessed food. The smoke led them to a small rocky clearing, where they saw an old man and a young girl cooking stew.

Dargo approached, hands on his hips. “What do we have here, grandpa?”

The old man looked at him but said nothing. He stirred his stew with a wooden stick and addressed something to the girl.

“Should I?” Dargo asked, turning to Thalia for approval.

“Be my guest,” Thalia answered, sparing no sympathy for a youngling who was yet to grasp the meaning of life and an oldling whose life was too spent to matter.

“I must warn you that if you dare harm me or this girl, you will die where you stand,” the old man said.

Dargo laughed. “Is that a threat, grandpa?”

“Leave. I will not ask you twice.”

“Oh, but I am famished!” Dargo whined, drawing his sword. “How rude of you to send me away on an empty stomach!”

Thalia did not see how it happened. Dargo fell to his knees, clutching his bleeding throat. Neither the old man nor the girl had moved. For the first time since her father’s death, Thalia felt pain. She ran towards Dargo and held him in her lap. The young man gurgled blood, but his eyes were still open. Dargo’s infernal gift was revival: a skill that allowed him to heal quickly, even if it was a mortal wound. Strangely, that was not happening.

“That…was foolish,” Dargo said, attempting to grin but choking on his blood instead. His body shivered and went limp. His eyes glazed over and his head rolled to the side. Dargo was dead.

“No…” Thalia cried. “You can’t die now. Dargo, please wake up.”

“You can still leave and live,” the old man said.

“You!” Thalia started, anger brewing hot in the pit of her stomach. “I will kill you, wizard! I will kill you both!”

This time, the old man did move. He shed off his cloak and unsheathed a narrow-bladed sword. His body was lithe, and he did not even wear any armor.

Thalia drew her sword. In an instant, she charged at the old man and slashed at his neck. Only he wasn’t there. She heard a blade whooshing behind her and her reflexes kicked in. She spun around, parrying the old man’s blade. Her eyes grew wide. No one was quicker than her. She backpedaled and feigned an attack, which the old man did not fall for. She thrust at his heart, but before she executed that motion, her blade was knocked out of her hand. The pommel of the old man’s sword dug deep into her stomach. She could not believe it. Her reflexes were not working.

Thalia rolled away from the assault, intending to use that brief moment to recuperate. When she stood, the old man’s blade was pressed against her throat. Her heartbeat raced. She looked into the man’s eyes and saw no emotion. There was no joy, no misery, no love nor hatred. There was only…death. She closed her eyes and accepted her fate.

“There are many things to die for in this world,” the man said. “A pot of stew is not one of them. If you face me, you die. I’ll make an exception just this once. Leave, and live.”

Thalia could not believe that she had lost. And to an old man. Her eyes welled with tears. The old man sheathed his sword and turned his back to her. She wanted to use that moment to attack, but something stayed her hand. Her lips quivered as she saw Dargo’s lifeless body.

“Then why did you kill him?” Thalia asked.

“I am under no obligation to disclose the reason to you,” the man answered and went back to stir his stew. “You can take the body with you if you so wish.”

Thalia left and did not turn back. The score was far from settled. She was not going to let this act go unpunished. So at a distance, she kept watch and followed the old man and the girl when they left. She waited among the trees until nightfall. The old man set up a fire and warmed the leftover stew. After eating, he watched the young girl sleep then rolled his cloak around him to slumber against a rock.

Thalia waited until she was certain the old man had slept. She crept closer, drawing her blade as she did so. The old man snored. He was easy prey. Thalia raised her blade as she approached, bringing it down swiftly in a powerful motion. The blade chipped against rock and sent sparks flying.

“Why do you insist on dying?’ the old man said from behind. Thalia knew when she was defeated. She let go of her blade and bowed her head. She was dead. To her surprise, no blade touched her. “Leave.”

“I…” Thalia faltered. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

For a while there was total silence. Thalia did not dare turn around. She feared that if she moved, the old man would kill her. Instead, the man went back to sit against the rock and bundled himself in his cloak.

“All you had to do was ask. A home you seek; a home I shall offer.”

“Up, vermin!”

Slash blinked. She was surprised she had slept at all. A knight was dousing the infernals with some cold fluid to wake them from their enchanted slumber. s***h’s body was cramped to the bone. The stump of her arm was so numb that she did not feel the red ants eating through her flesh. She couldn’t worry any more about it. She was going to die anyway. She forced her body to stand and joined Abitha on the coffle as the holy knights started moving. Most of the infernals were young women and girls. It was not unusual. Witch Empress Feonna was well known for her distaste for men.

Once all of the infernals were assembled in a single file, the march started. They amounted to a few over fifty. Guards on horseback flanked the coffle. Step by step, the infernals were led out of their land. Emroth had been their home for six decades. Their spirits broke with every mile that they moved further from it.

The holy knights took the long way to the citadel. However, the route had fair terrain and less hazards of the wild. By midmorning, they had caught up to a track that passed through Vespers, the river of silence. Legend had it that the river was bottomless, and even in times of famine its waters never dried. A railed masonry bridge spanned the fifty-yard breadth of the river. Its intricate architecture had been lost to time after the migration of dwarves from the continent. Before they crossed the bridge, the witch approached s***h again.

“I will ask you again as a formality. Empress Feonna personally wishes to put your talent to good use. Your decision will be the difference between life and death.”

Slash was not in a good mood. A bad fever had taken over and the sun did not help matters. She was hungry and her abdomen had an irritating feeling that made her nauseous. If anything, dying sooner was a privilege compared to this.

“Get on with it, hag. Or do you want me to kill myself?”

“Thalia,” Abitha started. “If you choose the Witch Empress you will live. I don’t have the power to sway your choice, but I don’t want you to die.”

Slash stopped. She closed her eyes, trying to understand what she could gain from living. With one arm, she was never going to realize her dream. The Witch Empress could probably regenerate it if she saw it fit to her cause, but s***h would never forgive herself for living under another person’s command. She’d get brainwashed and forget that she ever had a will of her own.

“Don’t make this hard for me, Sight,” s***h said calmly. “Go with the witch if you wish to. I can’t.”

“Then I’m afraid this is where we part ways,” the witch said. She lifted her hand, and a couple of guards came forward carrying four iron weights. “Unshackle her.”

Slash was removed from the coffle and the rest of the infernals were led across the bridge. Abitha was dragged along despite her efforts to resist. She kept turning back to see what was going to happen, even though she had already seen it more times than she cared to count.

No one could see the waters of the Vespers, but a cold mist rose from the depths and obscured the treacherous maw under the bridge, making the river appear less hideous than it really was. s***h knew what was coming. She was afraid, but facing her fear was the sole reason why she existed. She tried to smirk. She was going to die on her terms.

The soldiers dragged s***h onto the bridge after the rest of the coffle had crossed. The witch watched as the men fastened iron weights to her appendages.

“Cut off her remaining hand,” the witch ordered.

Slash did not resist. One knight pulled her arm forth and used a sword to lope her hand off. The pain stung and itched into her wrist. Two jets of blood spurted out violently from the stump, but s***h did not react. She was not going to indulge the witch by crying and begging for her life. When everything else was lost, what she had was pride. The witch nodded, to which the soldiers lifted s***h and tossed her over the bridge.

“What a waste,” the witch said, her tone impassive.