The trip back was much more subdued. The missing in their ranks were obvious. Though their number had increased as several witch prisoners had been secured. Imita, Leiden, and Viline. The fallen. She wasn’t surprised Viline had fallen, though as soon as the thought formed she felt ashamed. But the slight marvelous spatuletail had been fragile in a way that had often made hunting a risk. She should never have risked an outright confrontation. The harpies had been too caught up in their own prowess, and their hubris had cost them dearly.


    Objo’s thoughts frequently dwelled on Zsa Zsa’s last words to her. Why had she been spared where Imita and Vaara had borne the god’s wrath? What gift was it that she had given? Was it the deaths of the other harpies? Had she been cursed to bear Zsa Zsa’s power by the sacrifice of her sisters? She shuddered, horrified that she might have somehow benefited from the death of her loved ones, that she might even now be carrying some intangible blessing. Or was she referring to the visions bestowed, the images that lingered of the holocaust Zsa Zsa claimed Nemia had wrought. They were true, she resolved, they lined up with what little she already knew of the holy cleansing purge that had swept through Nemia’s lands, before Objo’s conversion. But that didn’t mean the witchgod hadn’t twisted events somehow. She clung to that thought, that she was just misunderstanding. That Nemia had good reason, that the witches they brought her were for judgement, and not some nefarious, other reason.


    She glanced over at their witch captives. They were a woeful looking bunch, clumped tightly together, their finery from the ritual now bedraggled. There were three of them, and Objo mourned that the flock''s numbers were thirteen still, three killed, three retrieved. She only wished it had been her sisters returning with them instead, she would have rather they returned home empty handed than have these three cursed witches with them in place of her sisters.


    One of them looked up, a girl, really, dressed more simply than the others, who wore heavy gold adornments. Her dress was simpler too, still reds and purples, as witches tended to wear, but the pattern was a more demure cut, with a subtle flower pattern in the weave. Despite having spied on many witches, she had never paid that much attention to them as individuals, her focus mainly on finding the one witch central to the ritual in order to capture them in the act of kin killing. And then was the traveling, ignoring their sobs or pleas or sometimes even manic laughter as she carted them to judgement. But now, traveling on foot with the flock, as necessitated by the wounded among them, she had time to really observe them.


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    They looked different, without the cloak of night and firelight, her usual hunting conditions. The older two wore their hair in complex braids, but the younger one wore hers loose, like Objo’s usual victims, the witches she snatched just after Zsa Zsa had left their bodies, the blood of their victims drenching them. Was she a kin killer then? But there was no blood on her, not even a drop. And she had no jewelry except for a single circlet on her head, a gold band with a pale purple gem in its center.


    Ooi approached the trio, skewers of cooked meat in her hands. Daich scoffed at her kindness, turning her head angrily from where she stood guard, her red crested head ruffled from lost sleep monitoring their captives. She and Ooi had offered to watch the witches, though they had separated out the tasks with Daich responsible for keeping watch to prevent their escape and Ooi taking over their basic needs. The older two accepted the meat, but the younger one gently demurred. ‘Eat it, the witchmother will understand,’ the taller one said, but the girl shook her head. ‘The goddess abandoned us, why cling to her,’ the other one said, her tone bitter as she tore into her own skewer. The tall one, eyes still on the girl, responded curtly, ‘if this is the path the witchmother has chosen for us I will tread it even to death. Perhaps I will haunt my corpse,’ the last sentence was said more lightly, a teasing tone meant to lighten the harsh words. The other woman snorted, ‘if the birds even leave you a corpse. Or a soul. The dead never return, either as zombies nor as lurking ghosts.’ The tall one looked at her sharply, but made no more replies.


    ‘You will be judged,’ Daich interjected, the first time she had spoken to the witches directly, ‘and when you are found guilty you will be immolated by righteous flame. You are lucky, our goddess will purge you of your impurities,’ she gave the witches a nasty smile, her eyes trailing from witch to witch.