‘Thirteen was a large flock, the largest we’ve been for centuries.’ Atzi had joined Objo for watch that night. Hrae had gotten in sometime shortly after nightfall, having a hushed conversation with their leader before heading to her bedroll, the smell of blood strong even from a distance. Objo didn’t want to think of the sort of death the woman would deem fitting for a witch escaping Nemia’s judgement.


    The moon was high in the sky now, and the harpies and witch captives were all deep asleep, the remains of their small campfires smoldering embers. Night in the desert was different than in the forest. The sky was wider, more impassive than from the forest, where the shadows of trees softened its edges. The sounds were unfamiliar as well, different wildlife making itself heard. It was a vibrant soundscape that was in stark contrast with the day, trills and chirps from a multitude of small creatures against the backdrop of a soft wind over the endless sands.


    ‘And now we have lost five. Only eight of us left now,’ Atzi mussed, her voice low and soothing, almost lost within the winds. Objo remained alert, she could tell there was something on the woman’s mind, something she wished to impart. She had seen Hrae glance at her when she had reported back. When had that started, when she had bowed before Zsa Zsa? Or before?


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    ‘I’ve seen harpies come and go. With this group, well, I had hoped we would have many more years together, you were all so dedicated to the cause. But,’ she paused, eyes on the horizon, towards their forests, ‘when that dedication flags, sometimes it is time for new blood. I would hate for your blood to be among that spilled to bring in the new,’ she finished ominously. She glanced over at Objo, ‘you are such a talented hunter, Objo, and our goddess recognizes talent, but it won’t be enough to keep you if your resolve falters.’ She laid a heavy hand on Objo’s shoulder, ‘I’m telling you for your sake, not to threaten you, but to warn you. We dedicated our lives to the goddess, to vengeance. And vengeance is the right of our goddess, don’t get caught up in the particulars. We are tools, and when a tool no longer fits the task, it is discarded.’ She turned then, to wake Altul and Asil for their turn on watch, leaving Objo to mull over her words.


    A tool? Was that how Nemia thought of them? Was she so callous? She crafted each harpy with her own hands, brought them into this world once more, a rebirth. She was their mother and they were her children. Could a mother be so callous towards her children? But if what Atzi said was true, then she had destroyed an unnumbered harpies before them. Had unmade them. Did those unmade harpies have half rite burials like Bia? Or none at all?


    She had to tell Ooi. The younger woman was brash, and had already voiced her dissatisfaction. She was in danger, perhaps Altul as well, though from the whispered conversation she had overheard the other woman knew to keep her misgivings to herself. But Ooi was too brazen, and time had already shown that Nemia wouldn’t stand for it.