<h3 style="text-align: center">1.1 | She Who is Feared


    MY MEMORY OF her was ever fresh.


    She was evil personified. Our village—now a wasteland—was littered with soldiers barely alive after her forces overwhelmed the nation of Kattara. We watched in fear as her army marched toward the holy temple, dressed in black robes. On each of their right chests gleamed a pin: a massive, perfect ruby surrounded by diamonds, with a lion at its center. It was a mark of allegiance—to her.


    They gathered before the statue of our deity, the symbol of our faith. And there she appeared.


    Her eyes, oh dear gods, her eyes radiated profound wickedness that the very air seemed to tremble. She raised a hand and touched the sacred stone. Each stroke of her fingers brought devastation. By the time her wrath ceased, the statue was nothing but rubble.


    It was then I knew. The truth by which we had all feared: the goddess of death had come to play.


    Her gaze swept over the sea of trembling onlookers until it landed on me. I froze. The world dimmed, and an eerie lullaby—a tune my late grandmother used to sing—filled the air. The ground quaked beneath my feet, yet I could not move.


    She spoke, but her words were swallowed by the deafening roar of my own heart, pounding in frantic desperation. Then she smiled—a sweet, horrifying smile. Black smoke erupted from the ruins, swallowing the temple and everyone with it.


    Unseen hands gripped my throat, crushing the air from my lungs. My muscle seized as I thrashed against the air, desperate for relief. But the crowd stood still, frozen like statues.


    More smoke poured into me, seeping into every pore, poisoning my very breath. I screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the inferno inside, an agony so intense, it was as if my soul itself was being torn apart, a torment far beyond any wound or shattered bone.


    And then—nothing.


    To this day, I don’t know how I survived. When I awoke, my sight was gone, stolen along with any semblance of peace. She left me broken, a witness to her cruelty.


    A cold-blooded murderer for the sake of vengeance. She serves no devil for the devil bows to her.


    But am I any different?


    A hopeless adherent of change.


    ~*~


    She was barely seven years of age when the temple took her in after losing both of her parents. It was a stormy night. Rain battered the windows, and lightning lit up the small room where she sat. A young priest, newly ordained, knelt beside her and asked her name.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    She didn’t answer immediately. Her dark eyes held an unsettling, almost predatory confidence, studying him as if he were beneath her. Finally, she spoke, her voice like velvet wrapped around a blade. “I don’t need a name.”


    She was different from others her age, and she knew it. The air itself seemed to bow to her. “I am chosen,” she said, her words cutting through the silence. “Closer to a god than any of you.”


    Cursed was her birth name.


    Dread was her bow and arrow.


    The ordained Harbinger of Fear.


    That was the only name she would ever need. In the temple, she thrived. Her small frame masked her growing strength and precision. One day, she tiptoed along a high wall, reaching for a wooden sword hanging loosely on a peg. It was her training weapon—a blade too heavy for most children, its length almost absurd for someone her size. Yet, she wielded it with ease.


    While she excelled at swordsmanship, it was her mastery of the bow that drew awe. Her aim was flawless. During the annual hunting festival, she became the youngest competitor ever to hunt one hundred boars in just two days. The crowds adored her, though few dared to approach her.


    One evening, she brought her wooden sword to the priest, frustration burning in her gaze. “Why must I train with this?” She demanded. “Why not steel—sharp enough to cut flesh?”


    The priest gave her a kind smile, but it did not reach her eyes. Leaning close, he whispered something in her ear.


    Aside from the beasts at the festival, what else had she killed? Or perhaps more chilling—what else would she kill?


    But everything changed.


    She wasn’t given the usual pill before bed. It brings her and the other children to sleep. Instead, her priest approached her with a solemn expression, delivering a message from the Cardinal. She was to report to the prayer room.


    As she arrived, the room was cold, dimly lit by flickering candles. The Cardinal sat at the far end, his shadow stretching across the walls. She stepped closer, footsteps echoing against the stone floor. Before she could speak, another priest appeared behind him.


    “Hold her down.” The priest commanded.


    She froze. Her instincts screamed that something was wrong. The priests moved toward her, their grips strong and unyielding.


    “No!” She screamed, thrashing against them. “What are you doing? Let me go!”


    Her cries were ignored. They recited soft verses in a language she did not understand. One of them let out a blade, its edge gleaming in candlelight.


    Pain exploded in her hand as the blade sliced into her flesh. She watched, horrified, as silver blood poured from the wound, collected into a large, ornate jar.


    Her breath hitched, panic clawing at her chest.


    She was different from others her age. She had always known that. But now, she understood why.


    She was not chosen for glory. She was an offering to the gods above.


    The only people she treated as family had betrayed her. The priests, the ones who raised her, the ones she trusted—they were her enemies all along.


    The realization was suffocating. Her vision blurred with tears she refused to shed. She wanted to run, to escape, but how? She knew nothing of the world beyond the temple’s walls. She had been locked up in this place her entire life.