J. Chansellor - Son of Erebus

What the…?

She gasped as a hooded rider appeared beside her, as if born of thin air. There had been no one near her, she was certain of it.

He shook his head.

She dug in her heels and sped through the thicket at the edge of the woods, small limbs and twigs hitting her face. A Dragee was much faster than a horse and she realized as she heard him growing ever closer that she couldn't outrun him this way. As much as she didn't want to do it, there were areas in the Nethers that were simply too dense for the beast. Her decision had been made for her.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, folded her arms across her chest and slid her heels from the stirrups. Then, tucking her head, she braced herself and turned sharply to the right, where she executed an under-practiced rolling dismount.

She slid as she fought to get solid ground beneath her feet. Just as she'd found it, a sharp pain sliced through her ankle and she bit her lip hard enough to bring the metallic taste of blood to her mouth. She blocked out all feeling as she darted through the wild overgrowth, focusing only on the sound of her pursuer.

The root was thick — so thick that she might have seen it had she not looked back. It twisted upwards from the dirt and back down to form a perfect loop, which her injured ankle found with ease. Her back met the forest floor with rib-breaking force, stealing the breath from her lungs and clouding her vision with black swirls that threatened to pull her under.

Within seconds he was beside her, panting, his sword pointed at her neck. Once he'd caught his breath, he straddled her waist with a knee to her right and a foot planted on her left, careful to keep the blade at her throat.

He was dressed fully in black. Leather guards adorned his wrists and shins, connected by various plates of armor. Dragon's heads served as shoulder plates and extended to his elbows. His hood covered an elaborate helmet that shielded all of his face except his eyes, which flared bright violet.

"I should tell you," he said, "that I am impressed that you made it this far. I'm not easy to outrun, but you must already know that by now."

"The threat of having one's soul stolen tends to quicken one's feet," she hissed.

He removed his glove and placed his hand on her cheek, perhaps to keep her from turning from him in fear, though she wasn't about to grant him that. Her gaze did not waver from his masked face.

Unimpressed, he ignored her bravado and closed his eyes, speaking in a language that she didn't recognize. It wasn't a very harsh-sounding phrase, but she could tell it wasn't meant for her benefit. She contemplated an attempt to pry her ankle from its snare, but found even a slight shift impossible.

He abruptly stopped, seemingly mid-word, though there was no way she could tell for sure, and sat upright to slide the hood back and remove his helmet, revealing a black shirt below his breastplate that rose and clung to his neck. His jaw was strong, his profile defined. But the look in his eyes as they grew ordinary brown in color, the expression, was what struck her — he was not just handsome, but known somehow. It made her chest ache.

An acrid thought crossed her mind that the odd emotional reaction he was invoking in her was somehow related to the Erubians' rumored power to steal a human's soul.

"You are not human," he murmured, scowling in an unsuccessful attempt to conceal his shock.

"Of course I'm human," she said, "do you not see me bleeding?"

"Adorians also bleed. Why are you here?"

She assumed that it was a rhetorical question, but before either of them could speak again, a cry pierced close to where they'd entered the woods.

Garren glanced back toward the sound of the Morior's cry, visions of the Laionai's justice filling his mind. He'd seen death come slowly by their hands for much lesser sins than this.

"If I am what you say I am, then I'm your mortal enemy, am I not?" When the girl spoke, there was acid in her words and none of the timidity or outright dread he had come to expect from others in his presence.

He turned back to her with narrowed eyes, his lips twisted in an incredulous smirk, and laughed below his breath before he could speak. He couldn't begin to imagine her reason for antagonizing him, especially considering what she was. "You don't fear me?" She started to answer him but he cut her off. "Before you speak, perhaps you should know to whom you are speaking."

"I don't care who you are. Your arrival has told me enough of your allegiance, that's all I need to know."

He really wasn't certain what to say. Before he could reply, the Morior could be heard coming closer and he saw, finally, fear in her eyes. He expected to be pleased by it; instead, all sound left his head and his sight blurred. His gut felt uneasy.

She lifted her gaze to the sky above them, took a deep breath, and with no small portion of reluctance, acknowledged her defeat by gracing him with a faint smile. It wasn't sarcastic. All traces of amusement had fled her winsome features. What it was, however, was so much worse; she'd resigned herself to leave this world on her own terms regardless of the circumstances. Her expression was perhaps the sincerest he'd ever seen.

He lowered his eyes, weighing his decision. "Can you walk at all?" The words came out as a forced whisper from his lips.

She looked at him, dumbfounded. "You intend for me to walk to my execution? I think not. If they want me, they'll have to come for me here."

He exhaled sharply as he leaned down and lifted her with one arm while reaching to free her ankle with the other. As she struggled against him, he placed a finger over her mouth to silence her and motioned toward the thickest underbrush. He let his fingers slide beneath her chin as he whispered, "Go there, and do not move until nightfall. We'll be gone by then. Do you understand me? Do not move until then."

She nodded, remaining still and wordless as he picked up his sword. As he rose, his eyes met hers again and lingered warmly for a moment before cooling. He tightened his jaw, stunned by his own actions. Without thinking, he shrugged the cloak from his shoulders and shoved it into her hands.

"Go," he whispered, then turned back and disappeared into the thicket.

Just before he emerged on the other side, Garren took his sword and slid it quickly across the gap in the armor at his left leg, blood spilling onto the metal and down onto the cuff of his boot. He clenched his teeth, sucking in air as the stinging subsided, and walked into the clearing.

Tadraem approached with a wry smile on his face, Garren's Dragee cantering beside his own. "My Lord, tell me that you haven't met your match in such a tiny opponent."

Garren took the reins from him and mounted the Dragee, repositioning his helmet as soon as he was seated. "She paid for it with her life," he growled.

"No matter, my liege, one less soul will make little difference to our spoils."

"Let us pray that the Laionai and her most Holy will be pleased," Garren said it just loud enough for Tadraem to hear it. He hoped his old mentor, now his second in command, hadn't detected the hitch in his voice.

The woods were deep and still. Ariana had watched the color of the sky progress from bright blue to a bruised and bitter color and finally saw the sun sink below the tops of the trees. It felt like hours, but she couldn't be sure how much time had passed since darkness had fallen. She tucked her arms against her chest, her back against the base of a tree. It was ironic how frightened of this place she'd been as a child; now the recesses and alcoves felt somewhat comforting.

The moon was still a night away from being full, a thin sliver perceptibly missing from its side. It peered back at her from its place in the sky, sending pale rays like silk threads through the forest. Gingerly moving branches aside, her walk back to the village was almost reverent, as if leaving nothing wounded by her presence would somehow save those she had been unable to.