《Of Chaos and Change - A Vampire Birth》


 oCaC - aVB - Prologue and Chapter 1

    Prologue:


    The first memory I can recall is thus: The sun is falling behind the horizon, bloodying the sky with the last heat of the day.


    I¡¯m looking through the ajar frame of a door. Strange lamps are hanging from the walls, inside the large wooden room, bizarre candles of glass with translucent liquid in them.


    There are many a table, cupboard, cabinet all around, neatly arranged, perfectly packed to be safe.


    A man is leaning on a working station, grinding charcoal down.


    I¡¯m looking with all my attention. He made strange lights a few nights ago. Some were surprised, some cowered in fear at the sight. I did neither.


    I looked at him as he lit strange tubes. I looked at him while bangs startled me, focus unbroken. I looked at him as he smiled at his creations.


    I don¡¯t know what he is. Whispers of witch or warlock, wizardry, sorcery. Those words are spoken in turn with fear or respect.


    I don¡¯t care. I want to see him do it again.


    And so I spy on him and this strange place.


    I¡¯m so small, everything is so big.


    I¡¯m so young, everything is so strange.


    ¡°Well,¡± The old gentleman suddenly says, ¡°Won¡¯t you come in, girl?¡± He asks. His words are different from the others.


    The smith sneered at me before driving me away.


    The carpenter looked at me in disdain, didn¡¯t even care to speak, spanked me so I wouldn¡¯t return.


    The brewer turned red and screamed.


    All the men looked down on me.


    Not this old scholar. His words weren¡¯t kind or angry, they were cold, precise. His head turned, his gaze fell on me. I froze, his eyes like the butcher¡¯s finest blade.


    ¡°Do you want to learn, or not?¡± He asked in a savage and precise way. I felt like in the middle of winter, carrying the biggest pack of wood. Crushed and cold, but¡­ not dismissed.


    I tried to calm my breathing. I failed. I still took a step forward.


    ¡°Some spine. You¡¯ll need it, girl.¡± There it was, the hate I had felt outside all those masters¡¯ doors, but it felt strangely fake. He was making a point.


    Oh. A warning, not about him, but about the world.


    I don¡¯t know how I knew it.


    Chapter 1


    The place was Rankia. The year was 987. The 1th of March, very exactly. It would be important, yet I didn¡¯t know any of those things at the time.


    The village wasn¡¯t small, but it was far away. Nobody cared. You don¡¯t need to know the year to harvest wheat, to slaughter the sheep, to make booze. You don¡¯t need to know the country¡¯s name to build houses, to tile the soil, to dig wells.


    I was the only daughter of a lone father. He had taught me to cut wood, to fix the roof, to tile the ground. He was a good man.


    For all that, we were looked at with glares that ranged from envious to hateful. I was not a dainty wallflower, and I had no mother to teach me how to be a good little girl. I knew how to cook because my father had been forced to learn to provide for us. I knew how to sew because he had begged an old weaver to teach him, and showed me.


    But I didn¡¯t know those things to make a good wife. I had muscles that women shouldn¡¯t have, scares that proper submissive bedwarmers should avoid.


    If that was all, I wouldn¡¯t have been shunned, no. Some of the girls liked that I wasn¡¯t weak, wasn¡¯t meek.


    All of them, however, agreed that I shouldn¡¯t be Henry¡¯s apprentice. Most would agree that nobody should.


    Yet life was good, I believed, and in a way I was right. Day after day, I helped my old dad in the house and the garden, and I watched Henry work in his laboratory, with his tools and ingredients, creating healing concoctions and tools of delight. People shunned us but most couldn¡¯t muster hate.


    It¡¯s hard to hate someone who saves your little boy from his fever, who delights the village with shows of light to banish the dark, who makes the booze better.


    As I would learn, hard doesn¡¯t mean impossible.


    ***


    Charred flesh. Burned wood. Those smells overpower my mind, taking all the space in my nose, my lungs.


    I cough and grab my throat. I can¡¯t breathe. I flay around, my hands touching soot and charcoal.


    I wrestle for some time before the sensations mellow down. I still can¡¯t breathe, but the pain goes away, and the smells mellow down from all-encompassing to simply unbearable.


    Opening my eyes takes all my strength. I¡¯m greeted by a clear sky, full of stars. Ambers are still burning, not far from here, but even so, I am seeing everything too clearly, as if the sun was no longer needed.


    Ever so slowly, strength flows back into my limbs, and I raise my body from the ground, sitting down, taking in the scene.


    Henry¡¯s house is a scorched husk, down to the large garden that had once surrounded this place with many an alchemical plant. I¡¯m currently there, a few feet away from the last ambers.


    Not far from me, there¡¯s a body, and a person kneeling by its side.


    Henry is dead.


    My mentor is dead.


    Dread starts to fill me as I slowly understand the situation. I force myself on my legs, wobble the handful of yards separating us, and fall on my knee close to him. Ash makes small clouds.


    I don¡¯t know what to feel. No.


    I don¡¯t know how to feel.


    I¡¯m empty. There¡¯s pain and sorrow and dread and anger but everything rages behind a wall of glass, and I find myself simply devoid of a will to live, robbed of initiative.


    The person kneeling close by raises her eyes. ¡°I was too late,¡± She says with a deep, whispering voice. I can¡¯t sense any emotions from her.


    She moves her gaze to him. ¡°At least I saved her, old friend. You wouldn¡¯t have agreed with the method, but you have to cut me some slacks. In this forsaken place, can work miracles only up to a certain point.¡± She whispers to the empty husk in a casual, vulnerable way. She wouldn¡¯t show me this again in a long, long time.


    I can¡¯t speak, I¡¯m too weak. I don¡¯t understand anything that''s happening, so silence stretches as we both stay quiet, until the woman gets back on her feet.


    ¡°I hope you¡¯ll survive long enough. He looked forward to your achievements quite a bit,¡± This is the first time she speaks to me, and the last in forever. I raise my eyes from the corpse, and she¡¯s already gone.


    ***


    What¡¯s happening. I don¡¯t understand.


    What¡¯s happening.


    I look right and left, not knowing what to do, yet the world around me grounds my mind little by little.


    The cold air of the early Spring night. The dying breath of the burning house. The grass.


    I sit down at Henry¡¯s side, close my eyes, take his hand. He¡¯s already getting cold. I stay like this for a while, but something gnaws at the back of my mind, an instinct growing by the second.


    Something is not right.


    Henry¡¯s place is slightly isolated from the village, but even so, there¡¯s too little noise.


    Anxiety grips my throat as I finally start to recover from my shock.


    I¡¯m sitting beside a corpse and a burned house, so...


    Where are all the people? The bystanders? The curious?


    The answer makes my mind reel in horror as I rush back to the village, walk down the main street.


    Corpse. Corpse everywhere.


    On the village green, I find a sea of bodies, tens upon tens of the villages¡¯ men, surrounded by their smothered torches. They are completely desiccated, as if their very life had been drained away.


    I walk faster.


    I see lifeless women at many windows, just as withered.


    I walk faster.


    Through an unclosed door, the dry remnants of a child.


    Now I run with all my might and the building around me blurs. I don¡¯t know how I got here so fast, yet I¡¯m home.


    No sounds.


    Please please please please plea-


    My mental litany is stopped by the brutal reality.


    There¡¯s a form, sitting down on our prized armchair.


    I remember when father finished building it. He was so proud.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    And now here he is.


    Dead.


    I rush to his side. He¡¯s not like the others, not dessicated. His throat was slashed open. His face still show surprise, pain. His hands are full of blood.


    My mind cracks. I hear a monstrous scream, a lamentation of sorrow carried by an inhuman voice.


    It¡¯s me. I¡¯m the one screaming.


    Rankia, 07 of March 987


    I¡¯m hiding in a deep thicket of birch trees, curled up into a ball. It is day, I¡¯m trying to sleep. I can¡¯t.


    I can hear it, its mighty roar, its crushing scream, everywhere, all the time.


    The sun, howling in deep womp-womp sounds, like I have never heard, crashing onto me.


    I shouldn¡¯t be here, under trees, I should be hiding deep in caves and buildings, far away from its judgemental rays.


    Yet here I am, hiding like an animal.


    Night comes and I can finally sleep a little, but soon enough I wake up. Just like yesterday.


    Today the sky is mildly clouded and, once again, just for a second, I lose myself to its magnificent beauty. There weren¡¯t that many stars in the sky before.


    Then comes the dread. I¡¯m lost. I had never left the village before, and now I¡¯m away from it, so far away.


    There was nothing left for me there. Nobody. No life.


    Focus, Camille.


    I have a few bags with me. One contains food. I haven¡¯t been hungry since I departed, so it¡¯s left untouched. I know that something is wrong with this, with me, but I don''t linger on it.


    There''s another bag for dirty clothes, and a third for clean ones. Finally, a bag with all the tools I could recover from the workshop and the houses. A hammer, a sickle, some cooking utensils. Ingredients for black power and healing balms, anything I could scavenge from that dead husk of a village.


    A spear. I know how to use it, dad showed me. It makes a fine walking stick. I hope I won¡¯t use it for anything else than that.


    All of this should be heavy, yet it feels so light. I haven¡¯t stopped to think about it. I divert my mind from that though.


    I change clothes, I comb my hair, I brush my teeth. Mundane acts to anchor oneself, to focus on something, anything, other than my situation.


    I can¡¯t think about the sun. About the night. About the corpse, my dead mentor, my departed fathe-


    I stop myself forcefully.


    By the time I¡¯m finished, the sun¡¯s last rays have nearly disappeared. I can still hear it, beyond the horizon, soft and muted, light buzzing at the edge of my mind.


    I exit the thicket, start walking down a nearby road, spear in hand, bags in tow.


    Away from my village, towards the unknown.


    Rankia, 30 of March 987


    I¡¯m a monster.


    I had fought this thought for a while now, but¡­


    The nights are too long. I am too strong.


    Food doesn¡¯t nourish me, I¡¯m always hungry.


    That wasn¡¯t enough proof, however, not for my rebellious, fractured mind.


    No, I had to kill someone to understand it.


    And here I am, standing over three mangled bodies.


    Gruff men, unwashed, uncaring, carrying unkept tools of death, heavy, rusted cutlass.


    One of them is skewered by my spear, right through the heart. It¡¯s broken. The second and third ones, their bodies show proof of a savage beating, as if a bear had mauled them.


    My hands are covered in blood. My mouth too. One of the body is exsanguine. I didn''t even think of taking a hammer out. I did it with my own, bare hands, and the red liquid still flows from heavy claws, parody of my nails.


    The young couple at the side looks at me with horror. The man is beaten to a pulp, the woman was nearly raped.


    I shouldn¡¯t have intervened. I still did.


    We¡¯re in the middle of the night, and everything is so slow. The rustling leaves, the dancing grass. The owl sluggishly closing on its prey, the couple looking at me.


    Why is everything so fucking slow!


    I look at the couple, angry at the world, lost at what to do. I can¡¯t even speak to them, it is torture to simply wait for their lips to form words.


    They are afraid of me, so I leave.


    Rankia, 27 of May 987


    Every night, I walk. Some nights, I kill.


    Blood is the only thing abating my hunger.


    I hate it. It is so good, yet I hate it.


    I grab someone and I bite their throat, and life flows into me, alongside memories.


    There are bandits, a slew of them, in the land. A war ended not long ago I think, I learn from draining my victims. The people are poor, starving, and banditry¡¯s appeal overwhelms some.


    Others are simply profiteers, butchers and rapists that see this as a great opportunity. Fewer patrols, fewer soldiers, and desperate people.


    A horrible mix.


    And every early summer night, I walk, to flee and forget. I forget so much.


    I find myself in yet another thicket of birch trees, much like so many days ago.


    Another day of attempted sleep, another day crushed by the roar of the sun.


    But today is different, I realize when I finally wake up, after the two or three hours of peace I could get around dusk.


    I smell burning wood. I hear people.


    My heart beats hard and I quickly pack my thing as an instinct overwhelms me for a few seconds. I was sleeping, defenseless, and people approached me.


    I want to puke, I want to flee.


    But I stop myself.


    I calm down, smell the air. A mix of fragrances hit my nose. Booze, blood, unwashed bodies. Sex and fear, pain.


    Bandits.


    I move closer to their camps, its limit only a few yards away from my hiding hole. A miracle none of them found me while taking a piss.


    I stop breathing. I don¡¯t start again.


    They are the largest group I''ve met so far, at least eight people! They look gruffer than most, their weapons are slightly less rusty, and they even have some pieces of armor, some old, some brand new. They look like down-their-luck soldiers who deserted.


    The sun is barely setting, and the curse of the night hasn¡¯t taken me yet, so they move at a decent pace, slightly faster than half the speed people should normally go at.


    They have prisoners. Three girls, two of them with shredded clothes, sobbing weakly in the embrace of the third one, a woman in her very early twenties, older than me by a few years. She¡¯s wearing what I think are noble clothes, blue and white, now stained. Her gaze is defiant.


    Soldiers sit on the ground, in underwear, their hands in their back and bound together with heavy ropes. One man is kept separate, his mouth, hands, feet, all of him heavily bound, attached to a tree. His nice clothes are torn open, singed, but his wounds are shallow.


    Four horses are attached to nearby trees.


    I grind my teeth with strength, I look at the two weeping girl, one of them my age, the other younger than me, barely a woman. Three of the bandits are still eyeing them. I can smell sex on them.


    My survival instinct is strangled by my anger. I slowly walk in the open, looking at each and every bandit.


    Guilty. Guilty guilty guilty, all guilty. I don¡¯t care if I¡¯m seen, I¡¯m not anyone anymore. I don¡¯t care about their weapons, I am dead inside. But those people they attacked, the girls they raped¡­


    How can anyone do that? What cruelty is this?


    I watch the scene and as the bandits look at me in surprise, then with hungry, evil smiles, I remember my village, all the dead, the senseless sorrow.


    I walk to the first rapist, a little man with sunken eyes and black teeth. I¡¯m not slow anymore, and he¡¯s surprised by my speed. Still, it¡¯s only dusk, and he¡¯s able to react to me, taking his sword and striking clumsily, but I take my time sidestep and dodge it before hitting his wrist strong enough for something to break. He open his mouth in slow motion, a scream building up from his throat, but I¡¯m already behind him, and I savagely bite down.


    He falls limp in my grasp as I drink and drink and drink, what filthy blood, and suddenly someone tries to skewer my side with a sword. It cuts my shirt, the last good one I have, and slide on my white skin without leaving a mark.


    Iron can¡¯t hurt me. Wood, tough, can pierce my skin. Not that it makes a difference.


    I finish draining his friend as I receive another two strikes and, as I let go of the lifeless body, I turn my eyes to meet the gaze of someone slowly realizing how deep in shit he just stepped.


    The other are reacting too, but their actions are staggered by the fear they feel. They still think they¡¯ve got a chance, unlike the monster in front of me who, after a few strike, understood that he¡¯s out of his depth.


    I run around him and bite down. And again. Three, four. They start to flee. They are fast, in good physical shape. Unlike other bandits, those were organized, they had food.


    It doesn¡¯t help them.


    They get slower for each passing second as the roar of the sun diminishes, and I am full of energy after feeding so much.


    I smash one of them against a tree but don¡¯t take the time to drain him. All of those scums will die, so there won¡¯t be a next victim. Not anymore, not ever.


    The second one to run, he trips on a root, and I break is neck like a twig. The last two are smart, they took horses.


    I get one of them with a rock to the back of the head. He slips, dead, from the horse, his body entangling in dense shrubbery.


    The last one is far, but not so much. It¡¯s hard to go fast with a horse between trees. He¡¯s at the edge of the thicket, and so I run. Like so many days ago in my village, I run, fast enough to reach the man.


    I grab his legs, tear him away from the fearful animal who neighs and run away. This was the leader, I can see it. Fatter than the others, better dressed. He had access to more food and, yes, I smell the air, more women too.


    I look at him in the eyes, I see fear, I hear him beg in the usual slowness surrounding me. I realize I don¡¯t care. I don¡¯t feel anything towards him, no empathy, just anger and retribution. I kill him by ripping his throat away with my claws, leaving him bubbling in his own blood. I don¡¯t even want to taste it, and flick his blood away from my hands.


    I get back to the clearing in the thicket, draining the bodies I left in my wake for good measure. I reach the camp, where the oldest woman has already untied the fancier man. I¡¯m not discreet while I walk. My father would be sad to see all this hunting training wasted.


    They turn their heads toward me, take in my bloody figure, the massive claws dripping with blood. They are afraid.


    They are always afraid.


    Now that my bloodlust has abated, I feel empty again, and sorrowful. I¡¯m a monster.


    I turn around and take a step towards where I left my bags. I don¡¯t have good clothes anymore, only bloodied one.


    I guess I¡¯ll have to to make do.


    ¡°Wait!¡± I suddenly hear, as suddenly as a human going twice slower than me can be, anyway.


    The man has a hand extended toward me. I feel danger, for some reason. I snarl, and he retracts it, slightly surprised; but he clearly wants to talk to me, and this speed is still bearable.


    I realize I haven¡¯t talked to anyone in months. I want to die.


    I stop and wait for him to continue. Any words is better than no words right now.


    ¡°Are you the Night Warden?¡± He asks, to the woman¡¯s surprise, shock appearing on her refined face.


    ¡°The what?¡± I answer, blinking, surprised.


    He seems as surprised as I am. Yes, I can talk, asshat.


    Calm down Camille, you¡¯re too angry. Disgusting blood makes you cranky.


    He frowns, ¡°Are you the vigilante killing bandits at night?¡± He asks another question, waving at the corpse all around.


    I¡¯m not very sure how to answer that question, but I indulge him, if only to keep the pain at bay. Talking with someone is truly a treasure, even if it¡¯s a half-naked man you just butchered eight people in front of.


    ¡°Maybe? I¡¯ve been killing bandits lately, yes, but not that many?¡± I answer, and realize as I do that, yes, I in fact killed a lot of them. More than a bandit a night, in average.


    With tonight, I think I¡¯ve killed at least fifty people so far.


    Gods. I want to puke. I¡¯ve killed so much. What am I? I¡¯m Camille, the alchemist¡¯s apprentice. The curious girl. And I killed tens of people while wandering aimlessly for gods know how long.


    The woman keeps looking at me and the fancy man while freeing the tied soldiers, who grumbles thanks and nods at her with deference.


    I think he understood my inner monologue, I must be an open book right now.


    ¡°Why are you doing it?¡± This question feels like a trial, and his awkish eyes pierces through me.


    ¡°They¡¯re rapists and murderers, and I¡¯m hungry. There¡¯s no reason not to kill them.¡± I say, and his eyes turn to the first man I drained.


    ¡°How often are you hungry?¡± He still glances at the corpses.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I answer honestly, and he seems to take a decision.


    ¡°I¡¯m down six men from ten, this is the second attack we withstand, there¡¯s still two days of travel and the Lady needs to get back home. Come with us as a bodyguard, and I promise you clothes, money, and death sentenced to feed on.¡± He suddenly offer with a fast and forceful voice.


    What?


    ¡°What?¡± The woman exclaims. We meet gazes.

 oCaC - aVB - Chapter 2

    Chapter 2


    I am now sitting atop a carriage.


    This is surreal.


    Above me, the night sky. Summer is on the verge of blooming and the wind tastes good, the stars are blinking.


    The carriage moves slower than it should, Francis explained to me. We lost a horse.


    Around us, Francis¡¯ remaining guards walk slowly. They¡¯re tired, Francis is tired, and Lady Manon is tired too. Manon¡¯s two young helpers are asleep on each side of the driver.


    We¡¯re trying to reach the next village, to sleep in an inn. We are nearly there, but as the night grows, the world slows and, for me, we¡¯ve been gone for four hours from the wooden thicket, even though only one hour passed by.


    I think.


    Francis is not a noble, but Lady Manon is. They argued about me, whispering angrily at each other, believing I couldn¡¯t hear.


    I could.


    She argued that I was a monster, incontrolable, a maneater.


    He answered that I was still capable of thinking and control, that I had saved her and everyone, that I was as strong as ten men and swords didn¡¯t work on me, that I could be a great bodyguard, a good investment, just like he was himself.


    He won, but she¡¯s not totally convinced yet.


    I still don¡¯t care. Everyone I love is dead. I left everything I knew behind. This is not better or worse than wandering aimlessly.


    We end up reaching the village without further problems.


    ***


    ¡°What¡¯s happening?¡± Lady Manon asks from behind my door.


    ¡°It¡­¡± A pause, ¡°She has locked herself in the room, my lady.¡± A guard answers shortly.


    I can hear them from my side. They¡¯re talking at a normal speed. The sun is up, I can feel it behind the closed window, above the ceiling, beyond the walls. This is better than the woods, but now I don¡¯t want to leave.


    For a good part of the night I patrolled around the inn, through the village, but then people started waking up, and I fled to my room. I stayed there, hidden, for gods know how long.


    Francis arrives as Manon speaks, ¡°Girl, what¡¯s this nonsense?¡± She asks. I can feel a mix of emotions from her. She¡¯s annoyed, on guard, and curious.


    I grit my teeth and drag myself to the door.


    ¡°The sun. It hurts.¡± I answer shortly, sitting down.


    I hear her shuffling behind the door. She speaks with Francis, the lady and the strange man talk about me. I think they¡¯re discussing about magic and rules. Francis is being diplomate with Manon.


    ¡°Would riding with us in the carriage be enough protection?¡± He finally asks.


    ***


    I stay huddled under blankets all day, inside the carriage. There is enough space to comfortably accommodate four people, so I take one side for myself and sleep on the banquette. It¡¯s not very big but I don¡¯t care, I¡¯m hidden from the sun by clothes and wood, and this is much better than when I was a vagrant.


    The sun sets at some point, and we arrive in yet another village. I learn that this road is well-used for trade, mostly during the day, hence why I crossed paths with so many people even at night.


    We rest there and, once again, I pace through the village and its surroundings while people are asleep. I¡¯m getting slightly peckish, but there are no evildoers around, and I get back to the inn.


    This time, however, I step into the carriage well before I can see any new light in the sky. Being carried in Francis¡¯ arms inside a pile of blankets was not the nicest feeling, and so I huddle on the banquette and try to catch some sleep before the sun starts to scream at me.


    ***


    Something is off, I can feel it. It¡¯s the end of the afternoon, the sun is still mightily roaring in the sky. I used to love summer, and I still do, at least the cursed nights are shorter, but now it proves to be a disadvantage.


    I can smell old blood and violence, so I force myself to open my eyes, pushing my head out of the blankets.


    Francis is reading a book. Of course he can read. Manon looks bored. I think she''s barely a day over twenty-one. I¡¯m surprised she¡¯s not married yet. Francis clearly isn¡¯t her husband.


    ¡°Blood.¡± I say weakly, startling Manon, who looks at me warily, ¡°It smells of blood,¡± I precise in a hush, fleeing her gaze.


    ¡°That¡¯s not good. Hide.¡± Francis tells me before reaching above my head, opening a flapper.


    I hurry to shield myself from the sun, even if it¡¯s just indirect light, ¡°Slow down and stop to make it look like you need to check the carriage for problems, there¡¯s trouble ahead.¡± Francis tells the guard leading the carriage.


    ¡°You can¡¯t help us?¡± He then asks, closing the flap, and I nod a no from my hiding spot.


    He clicks his tongue but isn¡¯t surprised, and fetches a satchel from a compartment above, opening it to check its content.


    It stinks! It stinks it stinks it stinks! I hate sulfur!


    ¡°Fireball diplomacy it is. I¡¯ll try to keep some alive for interrogation¡­¡± He tells Manon, then turns at me, ¡°And feeding, I guess?¡± I nod at him, and he nods back seriously.


    I smell the air. The man needs to unwind. I think he still holds a grudge from being taken down so easily by the surprise attack of the last group of ruffians. That¡¯s what contempt and carelessness get you, when you believe yourself untouchable.


    Manon frowns at the exchange but doesn¡¯t comment. She looks cute and weak, but inside she¡¯s smart and hard. You need to be both, I guess, if you want to be a thriving young noble lady.


    She doesn¡¯t like me but I think I like her.


    Since I¡¯m awake and waiting for Francis to deal with the problem, I take the time to inspect her.


    She¡¯s tall, for starters, taller than me by a few inches, taller than Francis too. She has blonde hair, blue eyes, and the soft skin of someone staying inside. She¡¯s clothed in a conservative dress, a rich clothing of finely-woven linen I think, died an intense spring green. I can¡¯t even think of how much it would cost.


    Her face is sharp, like a hawk, giving her a sort of haughty beauty, while youth makes her cheeks fresh and healthy. She¡¯s beautiful, and moves like the noble lady she is.


    ¡°Have you finished your inspection, girl?¡± She suddenly asks, turning her head at me and losing her bored look, raising an eyebrow.


    I¡¯m embarrassed, I don¡¯t know what to say, and my eyes flee her gaze once more.


    She looks at me silently, inspecting me in return. I had short black hair before leaving my village, but now it falls on my shoulder. I have blue eyes, like her, but my visage is a bit rounder, and I¡¯m younger than her. I¡¯m seventeen since last winter.


    She turns her eyes away after a while, a pensive frown on her predatory face, and takes out a parchment from a storage behind her, as well as ink and a quill, starting to note things down.


    I¡¯m feeling inspected, an instinct that is soon confirmed, ¡°Tell me, young woman, your name is Camille, right?¡± I nod, ¡°And from where do you come?¡±


    ¡°Tellon-Sur-C?te,¡± I answer, which I think she notes down with a frown. I can¡¯t be sure.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know that village, where is it?¡± She seems troubled. I don¡¯t know where I am right now, but I sure walked a lot over many days.


    ¡°In the Fyreenes.¡± I tell her. We couldn¡¯t even see the mountain range from here. Pretty far indeed.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    She keeps asking questions. I¡¯ve been like this since the end of winter. I left my village because everyone was dead. No, I didn¡¯t kill them. I don¡¯t know if she believes me. I was the student of an alchemist. She¡¯s suspicious about that too.


    All I can do is tell my tale with my genuine emotions, which right now are a hollow despair and a distant apathy.


    I think she gets it, and stops asking questions.


    ¡°The rest will be for tomorrow.¡± She comments, stowing back her writing apparatii with great care and letting the parchment dry.


    She takes a look outside through a curtain and I hide from the sun. She still looks curiously at me every time it happens. She¡¯s keen, and I feel dissected, the same way my mentor methodically opened a toad to show me its inside.


    For her, I¡¯m merely a dangerous curiosity, Francis¡¯ pet project. Maybe it¡¯ll change, though right now I don¡¯t care.


    ***


    ¡°This smells like foulplay,¡± Francis says once he¡¯s back, two prisoners in tow. He smells like burned wood and shared flesh, with a pregnant undertone of sulfur. His satchel is noticeably lighter, and I can hear nearby trees burning down.


    I start to suspect witchcraft from him. That would explain why he¡¯s less openly wary of me. From the two of them, he is more welcoming, but deeper I can smell it, he¡¯s also more cautious.


    The more you know, the more cautious you are, since you know better what can go south. It makes sense, that¡¯s also how I feel about alchemy.


    ¡°Three ambushes from bandits, three days in a row? I concur,¡± Manon nods at him, ¡°Yes, and those men were informed beforehand that some nobles would be passing by around this time,¡± Francis adds.


    This does smell fishy. ¡°Someone wants to kill you?¡± I ask candidly, and Manon nods a negative. "We¡¯re meant to be hostage,¡± She says, pointing at Francis and her, ¡°They¡¯re after something my Father has. Which doesn¡¯t get us anywhere.¡± She finishes, her tone telling me that I¡¯m an ignorant child.


    They start talking between themselves as Francis takes out a large drawing. Oh, a map. I can¡¯t wrap my head around it, it looks very abstract. They discuss routes and itineraries, and I understand that our destination is the city of Lyenass, Manon¡¯s home if I¡¯m not mistaken. They don¡¯t tell me that, but she introduced herself as Manon of Lyenass, and I may not know much about noble houses but I¡¯m not dumb either.


    They start bickering about the best way of action, Francis arguing that they should wait for reinforcement in the next village while Manon proposes to take an alternate route, slightly longer, but also less likely to have bandits lying in ambush.


    ¡°Why not go straight to Lyenass tonight?¡± I finally ask in a lull of their disagreement.


    They look at me as if I¡¯m mad, so I bite my cheek and explain myself.


    ¡°You saw what I can do at night. Let¡¯s leave the carriage, the soldiers and the servants behind at the next village, you can collect them later with a heavier escort. Meanwhile, you take the horses and we rush the last distance to your city, mylady. If bandits they are, they won¡¯t expect you to travel at night, without your carriage, so we may dodge them that way, and if push comes to shove¡­¡± My nails melt and turn into dark claws. I don¡¯t know how this works, only that it is as natural as breathing.


    Manon looks at me with a disbelieved scowl, but Francis is pensive, and starts nodding in slow, measured agreement. ¡°That could work,¡± He finally says.


    Manon turns a glare at him, and the witch shrugs, ¡°If she wanted you dead or captured, you would already be,¡± He tells her, ¡°And besides, you¡¯re the one who wants to rush this.¡±


    If gazes could kill, he would be dead.


    ***


    Ah, this is better. I ate my share before leaving. The full moon shines gloriously, surrounded by her court of stars. I¡¯m looking at Orion while walking. It¡¯s the only constellation I know of besides Ursa Major, and I often find myself gazing at it. I like how the four stars encase the central belt.


    At my side, Manon and Francis ride their mount at a slow-motion fast trot. This late at night, I need to control my speed less I run down their horses. Those two are tired, I can see it, which is not surprising.


    This, right now, is the Deep Night, the moment when all but the most determined of sleepless howls are already in bed, and none of the early birds are awake yet.


    My mentor loved this time of the night, the near-absolute peace of a sleeping world, the perfect moment for the strongest emotions, good or bad, to bloom, for the mightiest creation to be made.


    Surprisingly, and for the first time since I have been transformed, I¡¯m glad that time slows down in this most profound darkness. I can¡¯t ride a horse, and I¡¯m pretty sure the lack of saddle would have been a problem.


    We reached Mont-Le-Fort just an hour before the sun went to sleep behind the horizon, which gave Manon and Francis some respite as I refused to get out before the complete setting of the sun, and since then we¡¯ve been making good progress. It may be less comfortable than their carriage, but riding horses is still faster. Only two or three more hours to go, at least for them. We would arrive in Lyenass just before the sun would greet us.


    I frown, disliking that idea. I didn¡¯t really think this through, did I? I pick up the pace, going just a tad faster, and the two riders adapt to keep up.


    I realize that I enjoy this stroll quite a bit. I¡¯ve been walking alone for who knows how long, months I think, and in a way, Manon and Francis¡¯ presence soothes me just a little bit.


    I¡¯m less hollow than yesterday, of that I¡¯m sure.


    I¡¯m lost in my thoughts when it happens. A whistle cuts through the quiet air. It¡¯s not a bolt, nor an arrow, and I didn¡¯t feel its origin point, but I can see clear as day that it¡¯s headed for Francis.


    I have time to react, but not much. Even in this world of sluggishness, the thing fly fast and true. It¡¯s liquid, I realize, and red. It smells bad¡­ like tainted blood. This makes me angry for some reason, but the emotion is still very distant, much like the other ones floating in my mind.


    I don¡¯t know what to do, so I sprint to intercept the bolt and block it with an open pal-


    SHIT SHIT SHIT IT HURTS SO FUCKING MUCH!


    Ow ow ow, ouch! My hand!


    I squeeze my right hand and when I look at it, I see a mangled mess of flesh and blood, Gods!


    However, the pain quickly recesses as I watch my flesh snap back to my bones in a mix of wonder and horror. I¡¯m hungry.


    I shouldn¡¯t get hit again.


    My turn now. I saw most of the strange projectile¡¯s flight, I know the general area from which it came.


    We¡¯re on a very large, flat hill, on the slope downward, and many trees grow around, with a lot of shrubbery in between. I walk away from the large dirt road, all dusty because of the heat and the lack of rain, my pace turning into a run when I catch a hint of a strange shadow.


    Behind me, Francis and Manon have realized that something is wrong, and the witch is already taking a sulfur ball out of his satchel.


    The shadow reacts to my arrival, faster than any human I¡¯ve seen, but not fast enough, barely a third of my own speed. It¡¯s still thrice faster than the other two behind me.


    I see the flash of steel, the shadow is taking out a sword and a dagger.


    I¡¯m not a fighter. All the bandits, I have overwhelmed with sheer speed and brute strength. Here, however, my dominant arm is already out of play, and my advantage isn¡¯t as big as usual. I¡¯m just thankful we¡¯re in the Deep Night, otherwise the shadow wouldn¡¯t have been as slow.


    I try to turn around it, but even though I¡¯m faster, it has a lot more fighting experience, and its hands move quicker even than its head, as if it doesn¡¯t need to see me to know where I am, keeping me at bay with its sword.


    I¡¯m afraid. For the first time since I left my home, I¡¯m afraid. I don¡¯t know why. My life has no meaning anymore, no value, so why am I afraid?


    I push the thought away and focus on the ongoing fight.


    I realize its hands are shaking, I don¡¯t understand why. I can¡¯t hear it breathing, it is disorienting, and its face is hidden in the deep shadow of its hood, too profound to be natural.


    Of course. I¡¯m fighting a witch.


    Thankfully, I¡¯m not alone, and soon enough a bright light appears in Francis¡¯ hand. A fireball, aimed at the enemy. He trusts me to dodge it in time, what with the speed I showed him.


    The enemy, however, reacts by throwing its dagger right into the fiery projectile as it leaves Francis¡¯ hands, all the while still keeping me at bay with its sword.


    The shadow¡¯s weapon punch through Francis¡¯ magic and the fireball explode, but the searing dagger doesn¡¯t stop and nestles itself in the flank of Francis¡¯ horse, which reacts violently and unhorses him.


    Now. The shadow just flinched, the flash must have affected it.


    I violently strike the flat of its sword with my closed fist, not the smartest idea, but it works, so I follow with another strike on its wrist.


    Gods I hate lacking a hand.


    It lets go of its sword, and I reach for the shadow of its hood.


    I¡¯m strong now. I was already strong before, even compared to a man, but I couldn¡¯t have done what I¡¯m doing now when I was still human.


    I grab its throat, and raise it from the ground with one arm, choking it in my grasp.


    It fights back, its hood falling back.


    It¡¯s a woman with short red hair in a pixie cut, and green eyes. Tattoos cover her face, faintly glowing red. I¡¯m a bit surprised, but I don¡¯t let her go.


    well, not on purpose. She reaches for my left hand and I lose my grip on her as pain explodes in my limb. Now my two hands are disabled, and time moves faster than before.


    I snarl, I hiss, my vision turns red as hunger grips me.


    I jump at her, mouth open, and the sketch of a scream appears on her mouth.


    I bite down.


    ***


    I wake up to the focused attention of Manon. My wrists rest on one of her thighs as she¡¯s kneeling close to me, one knee on the ground, the other at the level of my head. I¡¯m sitting against a tree, and the noble lady is carefully removing some pieces of foliage that got caught in my flesh as my hands knitted themselves back together.


    Not far from us, Francis is strapping the witch woman to his horse. She¡¯s unconscious, but not dead. I can hear her breathing, a bit ragged. There¡¯s a bit mark on her throat, nearly entirely healed.


    I taste my lips. Blood. I fed and didn¡¯t kill, a welcome development.


    ¡°How long have I been out?¡± I ask Manon in a daze. Her gaze moves to meet my eyes. ¡°Not long, don¡¯t worry,¡± She answers me. She¡¯s less cold and distant than before.


    I blink. Her answer was fast, nearly as fast as a normal human would be. I realize that the world around me isn¡¯t very sluggish.


    ¡°I¡¯m tired. I don¡¯t think I can keep up with the horses.¡± I tell her, and she nods, ¡°Don¡¯t worry, you¡¯ll ride with me.¡±


    She takes me by the wrists, helping me get on my feet. ¡°Now let us be swift, so you can avoid the sun and I can be safe at home.¡±


    She¡¯s indeed way warmer than before.


    She helps me get on the horse, and sit behind me. She¡¯s tall enough that she can see above my head. She puts her hands around me, taking the reins. It¡¯s cozy, I don¡¯t mind.


    ¡°And thank you for saving Francis,¡± She adds a little while later as we set off again.


    Ah. I felt something there, in those words. The love of a niece would devote to an eccentric uncle.


    I¡¯m glad I saved him.

 oCaC - aVB - Chapter 3

    Chapter 3


    Lyenass, Rankia, 30th of May 987, early morning


    The sight catches my breath, or at least it would have if I was still breathing and, for a while, even the distant thrum of the coming sun is not enough to distract me from the view.


    In front of me, under the light of the moon, Lyenass languidly deploys itself.


    Imagine this: A hill so big it could as well be a small mountain. A river as large as two fields, lazily flowing around said hill.


    Buildings on the slopes, numerous enough that I can¡¯t count them. Piers over the water, with tens of ships anchored to them.


    And at the very top of the mountain, like a crown on its head, a massive wall of wood protecting a space as big as my village, the core of which is a monster of stone that I recognize as a castle if I remember my mentor¡¯s teaching.


    ¡°It¡¯s so big¡­¡± I whisper, and Manon chuckles a bit.


    ¡°Is it the first time you see a real city?¡± She asks me, and I nod a little. I can feel her body against my back.


    ¡°Well, Lyenass is the biggest city one hundred and fifty miles around, but it doesn¡¯t hold a candle to Irass, the Royal Capital. That city is at least fifty times bigger,¡± She tells me.


    Impossible. Bigger than this? How big would that make the capital?!


    ¡°And a hundred times smellier, too, though Lyenass is already unsanitary as it is. I swear that, each time I¡¯m forced to pass by the slum, the rabble smells even worse than the last,¡± She adds, ¡°Alass, the orphanage is my prerogative, and so I shall endure it.¡±


    I don¡¯t like what she says, and how she says it. A few months ago she would have counted me in this ¡®rabble¡¯ too. Maybe she still does.


    Now I¡¯m irked, but not for long. Soon enough, the emotion leaves me.


    ***


    Even though the sun is already announcing itself to me, it¡¯s very much still night, so I¡¯m not surprised to find the gates closed when we arrive.


    ¡°Who goes there at such an hour!¡± A guard bellows more than he asks, standing atop a sturdy wooden guard tower, barely a few yards from us. He doesn¡¯t even wait for an answer, ¡°Know that you will have to wait for dawn, as the city gates are closed by order of the Lord of Lyenass himself!¡±


    Manon is surprised, Francis too. Wait, are the doors not supposed to be closed at night?


    ¡°Marc, you dingass, you¡¯re talking to Lady Manon, and I swear on all the Gods that if you don¡¯t open the doors right now, I¡¯ll have Alexandre assign you to latrines duties until winter comes!¡± Ah. Francis seems quite tired, and is thus unwinding. I¡¯m starting to see a pattern here.


    ¡°No, you won¡¯t.¡± Manon rebukes her witch servant, loud enough for the soldier, Marc, to hear, and adds, ¡°On my authority as Lady and Heir of Lyenass, I order you to call an escort and open the door.¡± I shiver. It¡¯s the first time I hear her talk like that, cold and assured, bloated with pride. Now that¡¯s nobility for you.


    ¡°O-Of course my Lady! I¡¯m sorry, you¡¯ll have to wait a moment!¡± He then leaves as his three other colleagues watch over us. I can hear them snicker at the fourth man, laughing at the comic of this situation.


    I frown, feeling restless since I¡¯m not yet hidden from the coming sun, but then I feel Manon nodding in my back. ¡°He won¡¯t open the door until he has enough men to keep it safe, just in case we¡¯re being used as a tool to invade the city. Good man.¡± She whispers, having felt my unrest. I¡¯m a bit surprised by the attention.


    ¡°Of course,¡± Francis answers, moving his horse closer. There is a patch on the side of his beast where it was hurt, but thankfully the dagger only inflicted a flesh wound, though the poor thing still suffered from it. ¡°Lord Charles has an eye for talented people, even if he doesn¡¯t like them,¡± The witch is eyeing me as he speaks, but somehow I know that he¡¯s also talking about himself.


    People aren¡¯t always kind toward witches, after all. A pang of pain twists my chest when that thought brings my mind back to my dead mentor, burned in his own house by the very people he healed throughout the years.


    ***


    ¡°Lord Father,¡± Manon says, curtseing deeply. I am tense, I don¡¯t know how to behave.


    We¡¯re in a big stone room, three yards high, ten deep and six large, and we¡¯re facing a man sitting on a wooden throne, the head of a strange creature carved at its top, its eyes made out of two fancy red stones while its snoot reminds me of a big cat, but with a massive fluff of hair all around it.


    The man is more impressive than the throne.


    He¡¯s massive, I can see where Manon¡¯s frame comes from, the tallest man in the room, the tallest man I¡¯ve ever seen, and that¡¯s with him sitting.


    His face is made of hard edges, his eyes are a shade of dark brown while his hair is short and dark. He wears grey clothes with red touches around his wrists, a green collar, golden rings at his fingers with more fancy stones embedded in them, blue and yellow, while a necklace with a big stone, pure transparent pink, rests on his chest. His beard is cut short, and streaks of steel-like grey can be seen in it, the only concession this man seems to have made to the passage of time.


    I thought nobles had to wear as many colors as possible to flaunt their wealth, but this man doesn¡¯t need it. The room is doing it for him, with many a banner draped over the walls, a non-negligible number of them being torn, as if they had once been carried on poles, ripped away from their support.


    Small windows made of clear glass, such luxury, unfortunately let in the very first rays of the sun.


    This would have been crushing, if not for the look of relief that softens his traits. The only reason he¡¯s not hugging her, I reckon, is that they aren¡¯t alone.


    I follow their exchange as Manon explains why she¡¯s here already, with a prisoner and another woman he doesn¡¯t know about, and so early in the morning, too!


    They speak of troubles, of ambushes and of plots against them. I¡¯m not sure I should be hearing about all that.


    ¡°She is a witch, you say, that assassin?¡± He finally asks, looking at her limp body with a focused gaze, a mix of interest and mistrust. There is also a touch of disgust, which I explain by his devotion to the divine, specifically the God-Sun, if I understand the inscription around his wrists. They are small, discreet, but with this precise new gaze of mine, I still catch them, eventually.


    Manon nods, ¡°Yes Father. She fired bolts of blood at us, powerful and dangerous. Francis nearly died.¡±


    Silence settles in the room as the middle-aged man thinks with ponderous, concerned eyes.


    ¡°A witch to kill a noble. The dark practitioners have never been so bold.¡± I get from his words that this isn¡¯t a common occurrence, or even an occurrence at all.


    ¡°I fear we will see more of those in the future¡­¡± He adds in a soft voice, outraged yet resigned at the idea.


    ¡°And what about this girl?¡± He finally asks, nodding at me. Manon turns around, looks at me, then at Francis, who nods back at her and takes it from here.


    ***


    It was early in the morning, early enough that he could see the sun rising behind the horizon. He had slept badly, tormented by an old wound that even now ate at his back and his focus, making his mood sour and angry. At least it wasn¡¯t winter anymore, and his joints were less painful.


    Still, this was worth it. His dear daughter, Manon, had come back from a trip to see her fiancee, the second son of the Lord of Tellossa.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    What a shame really. Manon was so competent, but she was sadly born a woman, weak and less bright than the stronger sex. He often dreamt that she was born a boy instead, so she could have taken her rightful place at his side, instead of having to marry her to some other noble brat who would come here to rule once the place became vacant.


    And now he was hearing about the most outlandish of tales.


    ¡°Well, sir, this lass actually saved all our lives,¡± Francis told him.


    He was wary of Francis, because no witch could be trusted, each of them an affront to the natural order, yet the man had stood by him many times, and he could conjure a flame that looked pure and shone true like the sun. At this thought, he touched the prayers inscribed around his wrists. The God-Sun would forgive him for sheltering a witch, he was sure of it, yet Francis'' continuous presence throughout the year didn¡¯t soften his view on the dark arts, and the people of this city asked this from him, anyway. Witchcraft often ended in piles of burning wood, as it should be.


    ¡°Do not abuse my patience, witch.¡±  Exhausted and in pain, Charles snapped coldly at his servant, reminding him of his place, hinting at the witch¡¯s impure existence.


    ¡°Father, this is the truth,¡± Manon intervened, and their gaze met, his cold and judging, hers resolute and diplomate. She wasn¡¯t lying, she couldn¡¯t, she was his daughter and she knew her allegiance, and what was good for her.


    His gaze moved like a whip to look at the unknown girl, judging her.


    This brat, saving them?


    ¡°Step up, woman,¡± He growled, on edge. He smelled something foul, was there a third witch in this room beside Francis and the assassin? The simple thought revulsed him. Two of them were two too many, a third one would be beyond horrible.


    The girl walked forward, and already it felt strange. She was moving too swiftly, her motions flowing into each other, and it was like she was forcing herself to be slow, even though she was so fast. His instinct as an old warrior was warning him: this wasn¡¯t just a meek lass, no, there was something under this facade, dangerous.


    She quickly stopped in front of him, and he took his time to gauge her.


    She was tall for a woman, nearly six feet tall, eight inches smaller than Manon, which made her as tall as most men in the room besides himself, but he was a giant amongst men, so it wasn¡¯t a fair comparison.


    She was wearing a simple, rustic robe of poor making, brown and slightly stained¡­ he frowned.


    Stained with blood, he now realized. His intuition was getting louder by the second, yet he smothered it, along with any preposterous or impure thoughts.


    She had black, unkept hair falling around her face and on her shoulders in greasy locks, while her eyes were a very light blue, lighter than Manon¡¯s.


    The dress she was wearing didn¡¯t really do justice to her body, that he could see too. He guessed muscles under the poor fabric, and her build spoke of an outdoorswoman, yet her face and her hands were completely devoid of any scar and, beyond the filth, he could see that her skin was white and silky, and that she didn¡¯t lack womanly charms even if she wasn¡¯t much old, what with her fertile hips and her plentiful bosom, a good wench that would spawn a slew of strong peasants under the thrusts of a man dominant enough to break her, he thought.


    ¡°So you saved my daughter, girl?¡± He asked aggressively and with disdain, trying to intimidate her, because he was the lord of this city, and his will was the law. It wasn¡¯t because a grain of fear had sprouted in his heart, no, not at all. Him, lashing at this girl because of his unease? He would never.


    No, this was simply his right as the patriarch that he was, and not an effect of his pain, exhaustion, and disdain at the woman standing there.


    To his surprise, the girl didn¡¯t react. No emotions could be seen on her face, her eyes were two empty pits¡­ He frowned, first at the lack of effect, then when he recognized her gaze.


    This was the look of someone who lost everything, up to herself. She was dead inside, like some of the soldiers who fought at his side in too many wars, and killed too many men to remember.


    ¡°Yes. Your daughter was held captive by bandits. I killed them all then freed her, Francis, as well as Manon¡¯s two helpers and the remaining guards.¡±


    He raised his brows. She didn¡¯t call her sir or my lord, she didn¡¯t even bow, she gave him no sign of respect, how outrageous!


    Then the meaning of her preposterous words hit him.


    ¡°And then I saved Francis and captured the blood witch assassin. It hurt. Both my hands were busted.¡± She added, massaging her whole, very beautiful, and perfectly fine hands.


    What was this story? This whole thing was just a farce! Her hands were fine, she wasn¡¯t a warrior, and whatever his instinct was saying, it was wrong! Was this old age getting to him, to even entertain the idea that this girl could have saved his Manon?!


    Now quite angry, he turned a wrathful glare at his daughter, who needed to be chastised like the spoiled brat she was for wasting his time like this! ¡°Well, Daughter? When will this farce end?!¡± He asked with anger and haughtiness, ¡°Guards, throw that madwoman back from where she came,¡± He added with an aggressive way of the hand.


    ¡°Father! I swea-¡± Manon tried to say, but he interrupted her.


    ¡°Silence, child! You will be punished fo-¡± CRASH!


    A soldier just smashed into a wall, interrupting his words. Said soldier then fell on the ground with a loud THUD! and stopped moving, out cold.


    What just happened? His gaze trailed back to the dirty madwoman, and cold sweat erupted over his skin, his anger swept away by fear and apprehension.


    Claws extended from her finger, big, dark, dangerous, and her eyes were as deep as a moonless night.


    Ah.


    Well, he should have trusted his instinct.


    ***


    The sun is up, its glare trying to reach me through the windows, yet the world is slow, I¡¯m focused.


    And angry. Manon¡¯s father didn¡¯t even give me time to explain myself further. I could have shown my strength, demonstrated my speed or showcased my claws and fangs but no, he had to get angry, dismissing me like a dirty rag and treating his own daughter not much better.


    For a few days, I had been cradled by Francis and Manon, but now here it was again. Yet another man, a master, looking down at me, treating me, and his daughter, us women, like we were just weak and incompetent babymakers.


    A rage like I haven¡¯t felt in a long time now consumes me.


    An example. That¡¯s what I need, to make it a show and imprint my anger deep into everyone¡¯s soul.


    Manon had helped me. Reluctantly, carefully, with distance maybe, and mostly thanks to Francis, but she still helped me. And even for Francis¡­


    I felt the disgust of this lord Charles when he had looked at his own loyal servant, touching the prayers sewn on his clothes as if it washed away some kind of filth that Francis had brought inside the room!


    Time slows even more as the brasier of my anger rages in my head. I grab the halberd of the next guard and, on a whim, rip its steel apart. I can feel the weakness in the metal, where it wasn¡¯t hammered properly. I don¡¯t know how, but soon enough I have two pieces of steel in hand instead of one, with fragments flying everywhere. I toss them aside to grab the guard himself by one wrist, before savagely launching him at his colleague standing at the right of the suzerain.


    Outch, I think I dislodged his arm from his shoulder.


    I walk to the other guard, left of Charles. Everyone is trying to react, but they¡¯re even more sluggish than usual, more than in the Deep Night, even though the sun forces me to thread carefully through the room to avoid its rays.


    I take the guard¡¯s weapon and break its shaft in two, then kick him in the balls before finishing him with an uppercut, sending him flying in the air with a face blue from suffering.


    There are two guards left in the room, which I promptly dispatch by taking the helmet of the first and bashing the second in the face with it, before grabbing the last one by the throat until he stops moving, then discarding it on the ground like, yes, a dirty rag.


    I turn around to face Manon¡¯s father, Lord Charles of Lyenass himself.


    Strangling someone takes some time, so everyone else had time to react to my little outburst.


    He¡¯s up, on his feet, sword drawn, while his daughter and Francis are standing against a wall, the first one shocked, the second one a sulfur ball ready in his hands. He¡¯s one breath away from casting a firebolt, somehow I can taste it.


    ¡°The bandits who captured your daughter numbered eight, and I killed every last one of them in under a minute. They had raped your daughter¡¯s two maids, and were a crass group of disgusting individuals. I didn¡¯t know who your daughter was at the time. She took the decision to ask me for my help, under the council of her mage, Francis, which turned for the better since I intercepted a bold of blood aimed at his head, my right hand getting half-destroyed in the process. I didn¡¯t lie about that, I simply heal extremely fast.¡± I tell him coldly, his throne room full of the unconscious bodies of his bodyguards.


    I am holding my ground, proud beyond reason, determined beyond measure. I won¡¯t break here, I won¡¯t bend to him. I am strong and I do not fear bullies like him. I simply stayed away from them for as long as I could, and that ended two months ago, when I saved that couple from bandits.


    No more staying away.


    I snap back into mostly normal speed now that the combat is over.


    ¡°Monster, heretic! What kind of godless abomination are you?!¡± He exclaims, shocked, and my face twists.


    ¡°Godless?! Who do you call godless?!¡± I¡¯m angry.


    Father had taught me all he knew about praying, in particular to Kerron, the Mother-Goddess! And every day, diligently, the two of us prayed, we prayed Kerron and prayed for my Mom''s soul!


    ...Well, okay, maybe I didn¡¯t pray much those last few months, but I¡¯m still a firm believer!


    ¡°I believe and pray to Kerron, the Mother-Goddess, and all the gods and goddesses of the Pantheon, and I will not let you insult me so!¡± I nearly scream back, exceeded by my wrath.


    He¡¯s slightly taken aback by my answer, blinks once, twice, then recovers his countenance, ¡°Then prove it, monster! Pray Kerron, ask for her mercy, and we¡¯ll see if you don¡¯t burst in flame!¡±


    The Gods hate witches and monsters, I know that, so even though my anger is supporting me, pushing me forward, I can¡¯t help but have panic grasp my heart.


    What if I can¡¯t pray? What if I¡¯m really a godless monster, a heathen, a heretic?


    No! No no no no no! I am not godless! Lady Kerron wouldn¡¯t abandon me so!


    I fall on my knees, clasp my hands together, and open my mouth, yet the words don¡¯t want to come. I want to puke, I feel dizzy, and Lord Charles¡¯ frown deepens, while anger overtakes his traits once again.


    No. I am not godless.


    I close my eyes as Manon¡¯s father takes a step forward, unsheathing his sword.


    I am not godless.


    Charles takes another step, a third one. He¡¯s getting close. I''m fighting, on the inside, a horror, a terror, blocking my throat, choking my words.


    But I¡¯m not godless.


    The words finally flow through my clenched throat as if, one father the other, I am forcing each of them to come out, but I persist, if push myself through will and belief, even if my body hates it, even if my lips don¡¯t want to move, even as the sun starts eating my flesh.


    I taste ash in my mouth, pain in my soul, but, but...


    But I pray.

 oCaC - aVB - Chapter 4

    Chapter 4


    Lyenass, Rankia, 30th of May 987, early night


    This morning, I prayed. I prayed and kept praying as if I was making up for all my days of wandering, when I was lost and didn¡¯t pray once.


    Even as the sun rose in the sky, even as its roar flooded my mind, even as my skin bubbled in the heat, I kept praying. I wanted Goddess Kerron to hear me, I told her how contrite I was, how lost I felt, I cried to her about the loss of my father, of my mentor.


    Now I¡¯m waking up in an unknown bed, inside a room with no windows. It smells damp and cold. I feel¡­ not bad. Lighter, somehow.


    I think I passed out while praying.


    And I¡¯m not dead yet. I don¡¯t know why I am relieved about my survival.


    Maybe I don¡¯t want to die as much as I believed I did.


    I take a deep breath. I don¡¯t actually need to breathe anymore, but it helps me focus and push back dark thoughts. Good.


    Clothes are waiting for me on a small table, I note, along with a bucket of water.


    I step out of bed. I¡¯m naked, I realize. I look at my skin, caress my arms.


    I remember the smell of shared flesh, the pain of burning, yet my skin is pristine.


    I close my fists. I remember this morning. The anger, the challenge, the affront. Charles is yet another man in a long list of people who wants to crush me, drag me down, dim my light.


    ¡°You¡¯ll have to fight, girl. The world is against you, men will smother your ambitions simply because you¡¯re not one of them, and many women won¡¯t understand what you¡¯re trying to do. Be the most decisive of generals, the most ruthless of warriors and the most merciless of rulers. Crush men at their own games, but remember who you really are, that all of those are survival tools, only meant to even the playing field. They will carry you to a point where you¡¯ll be able to be yourself. Only then will you be able to thrive, not by aping men, but by imposing yourself before revealing who you truly are.¡±


    I remember those words Henry told me, years ago. I had to ask what ¡®aping¡¯ meant. I smile at the memory, even though it also twists my heart, tainted by tragedy.


    Decisive, ruthless and merciless. They didn¡¯t kill me, which means I have allies in this place, they want something from me. I turn my head.


    The door is simple wood without a lock, not a piece of steel. I am no prisoner. That¡¯s a good start.


    My heart twists again. I hope my backer is Manon.


    I quickly wash myself with the bucket of water, then put on my new clothes, underwear and a simple well-cut brown shirt and long skirt, a bit tight around the chest and the hips, but it will do for now.


    I grab the door¡¯s handle. Time to know what the future holds.


    ***


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what you are, as I¡¯ve seen your flesh burn under the gaze of our lord and savior Yrion, He Who Banish The Darkness, yet I also saw your pray Lady Ekkon with fervor only shown by the purest of priestess, with a sword on your neck and your flesh set aflame. I cannot deny your devotion anymore that I can deny your strength¡­¡± He frowns,¡± ¡­and I should have listened to my daughter and my instinct.¡±


    I am standing in Charles¡¯ throne room, Manon at his side. There are no guards, I realize, only the three of us. I don¡¯t believe he would have apologized to me if others had been present. Acknowledging that you¡¯re wrong is seen as weakness by his kind, after all.


    The Lord is better-rested than this morning. I can smell his mood, he¡¯s calmer, there¡¯s less pain and anger, and even though I can still feel his disgust for me, it is mixed with other emotions. Respect, caution, cunning.


    Surprising. Maybe I should flaunt my power more often. Or pray more in public.


    ¡°As such, Camille from Tellon-Sur-C?te, I want you to serve House Lyenass, and my daughter. What do you say, Night Warden?¡± He asks. Again with this nickname. Francis told me that I had been called that because of all the people I saved at night, all the bandits I hunted and killed.


    I¡­ don¡¯t dislike it.


    Still, I am annoyed by his proposition, pride burning in my mind, so I answer, ¡°I am willing to ally myself to your House,¡± I know that I¡¯m pushing my luck, but I will not be anyone¡¯s servant. Still, I add slowly, ¡°Lord Charles.¡± No need to provoke him beyond reason. I made my point this morning.


    He¡¯s surprised but he hides it well. Manon is not as experienced as him, and I can see the shock on her face, yet my eyes are stabbed in Charles¡¯.


    The Lord looks at me with a calculating and cautious gaze. I feel good. He¡¯s not treating me as a rag anymore, oh no, he knows what I can do, and gives me the attention I deserve.


    ¡°This is¡­ agreeable. I accept.¡± He stops talking for a few seconds, his gaze lingering on me, then adds, ¡°I have other matters to attend to, you will work this agreement out with my daughter,¡± He then waves his hand, and I know that he¡¯s dismissing me. It annoys me, yet Manon walks down from his side and take my hand to lead me out, which calms me slightly for some reason.


    He doesn¡¯t believe that we¡¯re equal, not yet anyway. That''s... fair.


    I¡¯ll have to convince him.


    ***


    ¡°That was reckless,¡± Manon tells me.


    I don¡¯t hear her, I¡¯m in awe and overwhelmed by the many tens of books and hundreds of parchments covering shelves and racks all around the room, some of them in languages I can¡¯t even read!


    I should have known that her office would look like that. Only a scholar would have studied me as she did in the carriage.


    ¡°Camille?¡± She asks, and I snap out of it.


    ¡°Sorry, I was looking at your¡­ collection?¡± I answer, waving around me, ¡°It looks marvelous!¡± I feel slightly excited now, and have a newfound interest and respect for the noble woman.


    ¡°Oh?¡± She blinks, following my hand, then sighs, ¡°Thank you. I may be a woman, but I¡¯ll need all the knowledge I can to stand side by side with my future husband.¡± She feels desponded, if not angry. A sore point, noted.


    ¡°Now, back to you. You were reckless,¡± She says again, and I shrug, ¡°Thrice, he challenged me. First my truthfulness, then my devotion to the gods, finally my independence. I won¡¯t be forever under to boot of a man, Manon, and this has to start somewhere. He caved in, and now we¡¯re free to set up this accord as we two see fit.¡± I answer aggressively.


    She¡¯s stunned, at first she doesn¡¯t know how to answer, but then she gives me a sad nod.


    ¡°It won¡¯t work. Even if you¡¯re able to steal dominance over the rightful domains of the men, you won¡¯t be able to keep it for long. People will riot and lords will fight you, as you would go against all that¡¯s natural. It¡¯ll be even worse for you, I reckon, as you¡¯re¡­ not exactly human.¡±


    I look at her, and I realize that she believes what she¡¯s saying. There¡¯s an order to the world, men fight and rule, women make children and submit.


    ¡°I refuse to believe that. Lady Kerron is ruler of her house and her domain, and none of the gods would contest that. They are always invited, her door forever open, but should they one day go too far, they shall see how she welcomes them. No, it is not against the natural order for women to fight and rule,¡± I answer with great conviction, and¡­ something else. An echo of a memory, faded, but strong. A dream. A place where women and men are equals.


    ¡°You don¡¯t need to believe me, Lady Manon, you just need to¡­ not fight me.¡± I finish, my gaze locking with hers in undying faith.


    She withstands my gaze for a while, then starts to slowly nod, ¡°I¡­ shall watch you, then.¡± She¡¯s not convinced yet, of course, but I did my job. I planted a seed of hope. And... something else, that I can''t pinpoint, a spark in her eyes.


    I shrug.


    ¡°Thanks. And now, about this alliance. How¡­ does it work?¡± I ask, a bit lost, and the moment ends, its intensity fading already. Manon smiles mockingly but without harm, ¡°You sure talk big for someone lacking education,¡± She comments, walking behind her desk, and I answer with a barb, ¡°If knowledge was needed to have gall, why, the world would be such a peaceful place,¡±


    ***


    The alliance I and House Lyenass signed is as follows:


    For as long as neither party breaks this alliance:


    House Lyenass shall always harbor Camille of Tellon-Sur-C?te and do their utmost to protect her from forces, outside and inside alike.


    Baring the House Head of House Lyenass, Camille of Tellon-Sur-C?te has the highest legal authority on Lyenass¡¯ lands, which oversteps the appointed judge and equals the Heir Apparent¡¯s authority.


    Camille of Tellon-Sur-C?te can, at all times, freely commander a fifth of the warriors of House Lyenass, including knights and vassals.


    Camille of Tellon-Sur-C?te will support and work in the best interest of House Lyenass at all times, baring needed respites.


    Camille of Tellon-Sur-C?te will answer to the authority of the House Head of House Lyenass, but can challenge or refuse any order given with proper reasons.This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Camille of Tellon-Sur-C?te will always put House Lyenass before any other forces.


    There are also exit closes for both parties, to avoid violent separations as much as possible.


    It¡¯s not airtight, it¡¯s a bit messy, but it¡¯s¡­ acceptable. I think Manon wrote it like this purposely so I could wriggle without breaking it and, to me, the close about being able to challenge the House Head¡¯s orders feels a lot like revenge for how Charles behaved this morning, dyed with a bit of hope. I guess that my little speech made its way into Manon''s mind. I''m happy, somehow.


    The Lord and I end up reading this contract under Manon''s anxious gaze, and a tense moment happens when they look at each other, Charles all grim and judgmental, Manon tall, proud and determined.


    For one second, I believe Charles will spit on the parchment and call for the guards, but then he looks at me, frowns, and sights before signing the strange alliance. Something just went on inside his mind, but what, I can''t tell, so I bloody my thumb and add my own signature.


    ¡°You will thank my daughter, as this contract is a powerful tool in your hand. We will see how worthy you are of wielding it. Do not make me regret this, Night Warden,¡± He says afterward, before leaving.


    Manon relaxes visibly, and I smile.


    Her first big act of defiance, and it went smoothly, for now. With a bit of luck, and my continued presence, she¡¯ll be able to do more.


    After taking a breath or three, the noble lady finally turns and towers over me, smiling. Gods is she tall.


    ¡°Welcome to House Lyenass, Camille of Tellon-Sur-C?te.¡± She tells me with genuine happiness. Let¡¯s hope I¡¯ll bring them luck.


    ***


    Tomorrow will be a big day. I¡¯ll be presented to the staff, I¡¯ll meet with Manon and Charles to talk about the attack on Manon, and I¡¯ll most likely go have a chat with our little blood mage, down in the dungeon. At least that''s the plan I''m aware of.


    For now, however, night finally draped itself over the world, and I feel more alive than before.


    I¡¯m in a new place, ripe for exploration, the castle and its surroundings, the city proper, maybe even its outside. I have all the time in the world and then some, as things are now sluggish beyond measure. I still suffer from this slowness, yet I find myself hesitantly hopeful. After all, I was able to bring the slowness back even though the sun had risen, so maybe this is no fatality, but a power I can learn to control, much like how I conjure my claws at will.


    I¡¯m trying not to think about my village. I¡¯m in a new place, with new people, and a new me. Or at least, a me that¡¯s different enough. I just want to leave everything behind, to forget, to stop hurting.


    And so I start exploring¡­


    I walk the many doors and corridors of the Lyenass Castle, and soon start to get an inkling of the building.


    The core of the place is one big stone tower, where Charles¡¯ throne room and Manon¡¯s study are located. This place is reserved for the noble family, and their bedrooms and living rooms are located on the second floor to the fourth floor, while the first floor is dedicated to guard rooms and other military uses, as well as the kitchen of the Lyenass family.


    Then there¡¯s the dungeon, where I was sleeping earlier, which is not, in fact, a dungeon, but one big floor with many rooms dedicated to storing grains, wine, honey and many others.


    Through this exploration, I cross paths with a few people, many of which are surprised to see me. Only the guards know who I am, and only from off-hand accounts of their peers I completely flattened in the throne room. They lower their head in respect or fear, often both, and avoid my gaze, not that they can follow me. I¡¯m too fast. I just slow down a little to make my presence known, lest I¡¯m not recognized and people mistake me as a thief or assassin.


    It takes me some time to finish going through the tens of rooms of this stone tower, even though some of them are locked, but soon enough I''m finished and I step outside.


    I¡¯m standing in a very large stone-paved courtyard, surrounded by a large stone wall. Smaller wood buildings stand here, leaning against the thick defensive wall. Quarters for the servants, barracks for the guards, maybe an armory? I don¡¯t know yet, but as I take one step forward, the sound of iron against iron echoes between the walls.


    Smithing, at this hour? With the sun down? Surprising.


    I follow the sound, turning around the big central tower, dodging crates and carts that have been left in place for the night, walking through straw and the odd patch of dirt not yet cleaned.


    ***


    The smithy is one of the few stone buildings in the courtyard. It is large and open, with the forge itself standing under a large roof of black tiles through which a chimney has been built. A heavy bellow rests at its side, and anvils of different sizes stand close at hand.


    A man is working there, with no light but the forge¡¯s fire. Of course, this night is as clear as a day for me. It has been like that since I lost everything.


    I walk closer, and look at him. He¡¯s old, for starters, and bald, with a short white beard. He doesn¡¯t wear much, and I can see that he¡¯s thin yet strong, his muscles like the gnarled roots of an ancient tree, coiled around his long, light limbs. All blacksmiths aren¡¯t thick and extremely muscular, to my utter and total surprise. Curse my father and his unrealistic stories.


    His eyes are in a bad shape, too, not completely damaged, but badly wounded enough that he must not see much.


    Yet, he strikes the white-hot iron without hesitation and with great precision and technique.


    I¡¯m not sure how good he is, but Henry showed me once or twice how to use a forge, and this man is clearly better than my mentor at being a blacksmith. His strikes are fast and measured, and I feel like each of them contains exactly the amount of strength he wants to put into them.


    He¡¯s making nails. One, two, five, ten, even at my pace I find it fast. There¡¯s always multiple iron stick heating in the forge, all the while he¡¯s striking at a would-be nail.


    He finishes squaring one, half-cut it, then put it back for the head to heat, before taking out another, already bend and ready to be cut, after which he hammers it into a proper head.


    He put it into a bucket of water, toss it in another bucket, full of nails, and step back, taking yet another iron rod out of the fire.


    Once, he goes back to the bellow. He hesitates ever so slightly, then uses it to bring the forge back to a higher heat. More nails follow, and he goes back to the bellow, but stops before touching it.


    ¡°Come here, make yourself useful.¡± He says, looking at me through his hazy grey eyes, veiled by wounds and old age.


    I realize that time has sped up ever so slightly, and he¡¯s not that slow in his elocution. I feel an emotion squeeze my heart, but I discard it.


    ¡°Yes,¡± I answer slowly, and walk to the bellow, pumping it.


    The stars shine above, some clouds drift there. I feel the heat on my body, and some fundamental part of me is deadly afraid of the fire, yet it is smothered by the peace that I feel. Maybe what I am now is weak to fire, at least that¡¯s what I believe my instinct is telling me, but I don¡¯t care, I love it so much, and another part of me is whispering to not be afraid, that fire is my ally.


    Soon enough the old man tells me to stop, and he goes back to making nails. I¡¯ve seen exactly how hot he wants his forge, so every time it cools down, I bring it back to what it should be.


    My hands are working by themselves, and I start breathing again. I don¡¯t need air, not anymore, yet this feels like a part of the process, and it sooth my mind.


    At one point, the heat bothers me much, so I get rid of my shirt. I only wear one large band of cloth underneath, to anchor my bust in place. I already needed it before I became like this, but now with my speed, my chest is all but inconvenient. I don¡¯t dislike its size, however, even if it has the bad habit of dangling heavily when doing much anything intensive, no.


    I just hate how most men, when they talk to me, look at my chest more than at my eyes. My face is up there, you know?


    Anyway, I wouldn¡¯t have felt comfortable revealing myself like this a few months ago. I feel more confident now, the heat is getting to me, and the old blacksmith don¡¯t care, I can feel it. Only heat and iron exist for him, and so I make myself comfortable to better follow him in his obsessive work.


    The fact that nobody wanders through the courtyard also helps. The place is deserted.


    I feel safe.


    We work like that, in silence, for a time, then he speaks again. Time goes at its normal speed. I don¡¯t understand how it works, but I¡¯m grateful to see that I can still connect with people.


    ¡°Come, lass,¡± He says. He knows I¡¯m a woman, his gaze darts on my figure, my exposed torso, the binder around my hefty chest, then settles on my eyes. He doesn¡¯t care. He sees me, not as an equal, but not as a piece of meat either.


    As an apprentice, maybe. Like Henry looked at me.


    I grind my teeth and, once again, push back the thoughts, the emotions, the memories.


    I walk to the blacksmith¡¯s side and he gives me his hammer.


    ¡°Make a nail,¡± He tells me as he puts the tool in my hands. Now there are only two iron rods in the fire, he did it on purpose.


    I take one, and tries to mimic his motion, his technique. On the anvil, iron is whispering a soft song of growth and trials.


    ¡°Wrong,¡± He says after a few strikes. He softly recovers the hammer, and shows me my error, then gives it back.


    I make mistake after mistake, but he¡¯s a man of few words and seemingly infinite patience. When the first rod is too cold to work with, he puts it back in the forge, showing exactly how it¡¯s done, then makes me pick the next one.


    He¡¯s not forceful, he never pushes me into doing anything. I just know the next step, and take it under his misty yet sharp gaze. Most of the time, he doesn¡¯t even look at the anvil when he points out one of my mistake. He works more with sound than sight, I believe.


    Once, a guard gets close to us, angry. It¡¯s night, we¡¯re making much noise.


    He sees me and freezes right there. I¡¯m more naked than most women he¡¯s ever seen. I¡¯m young, I¡¯m muscular, I¡¯m busty. I''m an impossibility in his world. A woman like me, doing right now what it is I¡¯m doing, isn''t that preposterous?


    His anger turns into confusion for a few seconds, then into outrage at my shameful display.


    I never stop hammering, and simply battle his gaze with mine. He looks more at my chest, which goes up and down with each of my strikes, than at my eyes, which stab at him. I recognize his gaze. He likes what he sees, and what he sees is not another human being, not a woman who deserves respect.


    Pig.


    He¡¯s not leaving, his anger and outrage forgotten as he leers and gets much more than an eyeful of my body.


    ¡°Leave.¡± The blacksmith finally says. His voice is like the metal he works, and the guard is startled.


    ¡°Don¡¯t order me around, old man,¡± The guard threatens. He¡¯s a bit older than Manon.


    ¡°You¡¯re new here,¡± The old man adds, ¡°Go back to your friends, and ask them about me,¡± He explains, then turns his eyes towards me, ¡°No. Better. Ask them about the monster who trashed all of Charles¡¯ guards,¡± He rectifies. Charles. No honorifics.


    ¡°They will tell you of a beautiful maiden of black air and sultry countenance, a young woman of claws and rage, faster than an arrow, stronger than ten men.¡± The blacksmith keeps looking at me until he finishes his description, then turns his eyes back at the young guard, ¡°Ask them about the Night Warden, how during Spring she killed more bandits than all of Charles¡¯ patrols combined, then saved his daughter.¡±


    There is¡­ something in the blacksmith¡¯s voice, intimidation, emotion, the gravitas of old age, I don¡¯t know, but the guard is now white as snow and, miracle, he looks no longer at my breasts, but at my face, in fear.


    I¡¯m still hammering the iron, slowly, with strength. My claws are wrapped around the shaft of the hammer. The iron is cold, yet it still bends. I know it¡¯s not good for the nail, but I¡¯m getting the old man¡¯s point across.


    The guard stumbles and retreats, tail between his legs.


    I smile.


    The old man sneers.


    ¡°Strutting around like they own the world, as if young women and half-blind old men weren¡¯t worthy of their respect,¡± He spits and turns away, back at the forge.


    I get the cue, and we go back to making nails. I have to discard this rod, but the blacksmith says nothing about it. He understands.


    I finally get it mostly right after many tries, and from there on the old man watches me get better at it, sometimes with a small appreciative nod, sometimes with a motion to barely adjust my posture. The world starts to slow down again, but this time I¡¯m doing it on purpose. I think. Hopefully. Please I don¡¯t want to be stuck like this.


    I make nail after nail, getting faster and faster simply because I¡¯m better at it after each strike. The iron¡¯s whispers turn into a song. I know where to strike, and how strong, each nail I make is a step towards perfection.


    And yet¡­


    It¡¯s still not enough. My instinct is telling me. Those are simple nails, yes, but I can make them better, stronger, as sharp as my claws, as tough as my flesh.


    The calling is overwhelming and, soon enough, I have a claw against my wrist.


    I extend my hands above the bucket of water, and cut.


    Plik, plik, plik, drops of heavy black blood flow and mix with the clear liquid. The vital fluid flowing in the water is thicker than any human¡¯s, and I recognize it as it is: an alchemical reagent. Henry taught me to recognize power, and I¡¯m seeing it, here and now. The unseen vibration, the unheard song, it is all there.


    The old man¡¯s eyes are now full of caution, yet no disgust burns in them, no repulsion.


    I don¡¯t care, I¡¯m too focused. I forge the next nail, fast strikes, precise motions, exact strength, then cool it in my own blood. It enters the red liquid without a hiss, not even a ripple, and when I take it out, it is entirely red and as mesmerizing as a blooming tulip.


    I put it down on the anvil, and the blacksmith walks to my side.


    ¡°What is it?¡± He asks in a guarded tone.


    ¡°A damn good nail,¡± I answer simply, ¡°that¡¯s what it is,¡±


    Silence, and then...


    A voice, booming on my side.


    The blacksmith is laughing and patting my shoulder, and I feel only good emotions in his motions.


    I like him.

 oCaC - aVB - Chapter 5

    Chapter 5


    It is early morning, and I¡¯m standing at Charles¡¯ right, beside his throne.


    The throne room is full of people, guards, servants, religious figures and notables of the city, maybe fifty people in total, maybe more, I¡¯m not sure.


    On the walls and banners, you can still guess the damage I did yesterday.


    ¡°People of Lyenass, members of my House, I asked you to gather here today so I can publicly introduce my new official ally, who will work hand in hand with all my subjects.¡±


    He waves at me and I take a step forward, ¡°My name is Camille, but you can call me the Night Warden, or Warden for short,¡± I announce, and a ripple of whispers grow throughout the crowd.


    ¡°Yes, that Night Warden. I am the one who killed all those bandits, protected all those innocents. I also protected Lady Manon and Francis as they traveled here,¡± I add with a serious face, hands clasped behind my back.


    Today I wear a very different outfit than usual, one that makes quite the impression.


    I don¡¯t wear a robe, no, but grey trousers and a grey shirt that accentuates my figure while giving me a very masculine style. I can already see many men at a loss for where to look.


    Or, inversely, who knows exactly what to look at.


    I frown, yet I take a step back as Charles keeps going.


    He¡¯s not exactly happy, but now that his anger has abated and his calculating, sharp noble mind has taken the reins back from his zealot and bigot side, he¡¯s a much easier man to bear.


    ¡°What she says is true. The Warden is a powerful witch of the night, as my bodyguards can attest, but she pledged to work for the good of this city, and prayed Kerron right here, in this room, in front of me. I attest of her virtue. She shall command a fifth of my guards, and holds the power of judgment here and in all my lands. Going against her is no different from going against my daughter, and House Lyenass will answer in kind. Do not insult her, do not challenge her,¡± He glances at me, I glance back, there¡¯s a kind of respect in there, between us, but our respective gaze quickly snaps back to the crowd.


    ¡°She can and will kill anyone found guilty of crimes under her judgment as under mine. You cannot keep her out of your houses, boats and shops, for she¡¯s my left hand to my daughter¡¯s right, and she¡¯s a believer of Kerron,¡± Many people gasp when Charles, once again, clarifies that I can indeed pray the Gods, or one goddess at the least.


    Back in Tellon-s?r-C?te, I vaguely knew that no witch could pray the gods, speak their name or walk unto their churches and temples, but it didn¡¯t really register in my mind. It was a distant, inconsequential belief, as I was the apprentice of an alchemist that some called a witch, and yet that didn¡¯t stop me for praying.


    Now? Well, I don¡¯t know what I am, and I don¡¯t believe I¡¯m a witch, not exactly, but it makes no difference for those people.


    I¡¯m a monster, a heretic, yet I can kneel and pray. I¡¯m an exception that they can¡¯t accept.


    Anyway, everyone can feel that this is a warning, though not one that all take by heart.


    They will have to learn. This is my new home, I won¡¯t stand children molesters and wife beaters, nor zealots burning outsiders.


    All around, I can already see dissenters. Another woman at the Lord¡¯s side, doing his work? Isn¡¯t his daughter enough blasphemy, for she should already be married far away? What is this, a freakshow?


    Or at least that¡¯s what I believe I can read from some of those faces.


    ¡°Corenthin,¡± Charles says, and an older man steps forward. He¡¯s slightly younger than Lord Lyenass, is demeanor is that of a soldier and he''s clad in ceremonial armor.


    However, before he can speak, someone else interrupts.


    ¡°You want us to believe, on your word, that this heretic wench can pray?¡± The new man says angrily, and all gazes fall on him.


    He¡¯s an older man, older than Charles but younger than the blacksmith from yesterday, blacksmiths who I realize stand apart from the crowd, along a wall between the crowd and us, in silence.


    Anyway, said old man, clad in a white robe woven with gold, a golden sun spreading on his chest, didn¡¯t think this through I believe, as both the guard captain and Lyenass¡¯ lord are now frowning at him.


    This, however, only deters him for a handful of seconds at best, before he resumes speaking, uninterrupted by the Lord, the Lady, or me for that matters. I had been warned that this could happen.


    ¡°Yet another witch in your service, my lord? Another woman to corrupt your reign? I humbly ask for an explanation!¡± He demands, not humble at all.


    I frown, then understand. He made a mistake, speaking up like this, and now that he walked into it, he¡¯s doubling down, there¡¯s nothing else to do. He slides forward on pride and audacity.


    ¡°Are you questioning me, Suniestar Laurent?¡± Charles slowly asks back, taking care to use the right title, showing that he, unlike his interlocutor, his measured and in control.


    Suniestar, the name given to the highest-ranking priest of the Pantheon in a given city or territory, in this case being this man, Laurent, who also turns up to be the highest Sun priest.


    The Sun worshippers are the fastest to burn people and scream about heresy.


    I¡¯m happy Manon gave me a crash course before the meeting started.


    And now the Suniestar is caught. Either he doubles down again, or he back down. In both cases, he loses, I think, but this Laurent old man doesn¡¯t seem to believe the same thing.


    ¡°I demand proof of piety from this night witch!¡± He snarls back at Charles, venom in his voice.


    Charles frowns, I smell bad mood from him, so I step up and expose myself. I may not like him, but if I can avoid him looking too tyrannical, it may even be useful to me.


    ¡°I can pray right here and now, Suniestar, or walk in a temple to do so, if you wish for it,¡± I answer, looking at him in the eyes. He¡¯s not happy I¡¯m the one answering, he¡¯s disgusted. He¡¯s even worse than Charles, at least the lord of the city tried, and still try, to be civil about it.


    When his pain doesn¡¯t eat away his rationality, that is.


    The grim face of the priest quickly turns into a caustic smile, however, ¡°Witch, your kind is foulplay made flesh. You will come to our Sun Church in the heart of Lyenass, and there we will make sure you can''t use your powers to deceive us as you did with our Liege! We will we watch you try, and fail, to pray!¡± He answers triumphantly, and silence falls over the room.


    An embarrassed silence.


    Not far from the Suniestar, a motherly woman, not that old and not that young, is more than pissed off, it seems.


    ¡°Lord Lyenass explicitly told us that she prays Lady Kerron,¡± She starts, watching a befuddled Laurent, before turning at me, ¡°Is that right¡­ young woman?¡± She asks, with just a smidge of respect. She, too, is a zealot, but she¡¯s less wound up than the Suniestar.


    ¡°That is true, lady priestess. My dad taught me how to pray Lady Kerron since before I can remember, to honor her, our house and my departed mother,¡± I answer calmly, giving her a small respectful nod.


    She frowns. She¡¯s not sure if I¡¯m making it up, or being genuine. This doesn¡¯t stop her, though.


    ¡°Then, Suniestar Laurent, we ask for her to come to the Order of the Hearth, as this is our Goddess to honor and our faith to test.¡±


    There¡¯s some kind of power play going on here, I think. The Suniestar is the big boss, but I don¡¯t pray the sun god directly, so decorum would ask for him to give the priestess what she¡¯s asking.


    He¡¯s going to say no, though. He wants to see me burn, to set me up, and that measured woman can¡¯t go against him.


    ¡°I support the notion,¡± Someone suddenly says. All eyes turn toward him. The old blacksmith.


    He¡¯s properly clothed today, I mean, properly for a social gathering. There¡¯s no reason to bring clothes that nice in a smithy. He seems clothed in commoner garb, but the cut of it is too good, the fabric is too nice and, for some reason, he wears his hammers on his belt. Ah, not the one he used yesterday, it¡¯s a way fancier one.


    ¡°She helped me forge hundreds of nails for the orphanage. I didn¡¯t solicit her, she asked for nothing in return, she was silent, dedicated and precise, learned fast and stood her ground. I vouch for Camille the Night Warden on my Eternity. What does the Church of Eleyugh says?¡± He asks, each word like cast iron, before turning his gaze at yet another priest, a middle-aged man clothed in red, brown and gold.


    Their gazes meet and the priest gives the blacksmith a deep, reverential nod, ¡°The Church of Eleyugh supports the notion of the Order of the Hearth,¡± He says with the right amount of decorum, looking at the Suniestar in what I recognize to be a sign of defiance.


    I don¡¯t think this Suniestar is very popular.


    Manon and Charles have been speaking quickly and in whispers as this happened and, after the priest of Eleyugh spoke, the Heir steps in and announces, ¡°House Lyenass supports the notion of the Order of the Hearth.¡±


    It¡¯s at this moment, I think, that it became inevitable for the Suniestar and me that one of us would kill the other.


    I represented all that he hated.


    He¡¯s now boiling with rage, but against the endorsement of two other religious orders and the lord of the city himself, I think he can¡¯t do much.


    ¡°I accept the notion. The Order of the Hearth will have the responsibility to access if this¡­ this monster can really pray, or if she simply deceived Lord Lyenass!¡± He announces before turning heels and walking out of the room.


    Great, what a nice start. And the sun is up, screaming in my ears.


    Can I just go to sleep, please?


    ***


    Nope, I couldn¡¯t. I had to go through another round of presentations, the priests, the influential merchants, inquiries about my rights, my powers.


    The short answer is, I¡¯m a special guard who can track and deal with any dangers that my special constitution lets me handle better or find sooner than anyone, at all times but when Manon directly asks for my presence as her bodyguard.


    She already told me that she wanted me to come with her to the orphanage, this evening. Normally she goes there in the middle of the day, but Charles is a bit paranoid right now, for some reason, and so I¡¯ll accompany her a bit before the sun sets off, when it¡¯ll already be close enough to the horizon that I¡¯ll not suffer much.


    And after that, all the social interaction, the meetings, assuaging fears, then what?


    Then I can finally hide in my room.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    It¡¯s little more than a repurposed storage room right now, but it¡¯s underground. There¡¯s a whole building between me and the sun.


    For the first day in¡­ what feels like forever, I am as secure as I can be.


    ¡­


    Tonight was¡­


    The contract, the blacksmith, the exploration, the public confrontation¡­


    Tonight was too many people. Tonight was too much.


    Too much peace, too much time, too much emotions.


    For the first time since I left home, I cry.


    ***


    I¡¯m so dizzy. There¡¯s a pit in my stomach.


    Hungry. So hungry.


    There¡¯s a haze around me. Outside, the sun is up.


    I don¡¯t care.


    I need blood.


    I step out of my room. I smell.


    Blood. Prey.


    I roam through the storage. There. Prey.


    A man, smells tender. Soft eyes. My age.


    He sees me and lets go of something.


    Crash! It smells of sugar and strawberries.


    I don¡¯t care. He smells better.


    I walk to him, gently cusp his shin.


    ¡°Give me blood.¡± I tell him. My voice is strange. Shadows distort in the room.


    He¡¯s afraid, shakes his head, ¡°P-please!¡±


    ¡°Blood¡­¡± I whisper, but he shakes again.


    He¡¯s afraid.


    Why is he afraid?


    I will not kill him.


    I¡¯m behind him, I grab his head and drag it backward, revealing his throat.


    So yummy tasty I want to eat.


    I put a kiss there, another one, I smell his skin.


    I want to devour him, drink his blood and lay with him¡­


    Why is he still afraid?


    I¡¯m doing it wrong. He shouldn¡¯t be afraid.


    Something is wrong.


    Why why why?


    ¡°No blood?¡± I whisper in his ear, and he shakes again.


    He doesn¡¯t want me to take his blood.


    I let him go. There¡¯s something wrong.


    I¡¯m still between him and the door. I look at him, tilt my head, smile.


    ¡°Take me to blood.¡± I ask. I take his hand and open the door, but he doesn¡¯t move.


    ¡°Blood?¡± I ask again as I look at him.


    He¡¯s still afraid, but there¡¯s another smell. Courage. Good boy.


    He nods and we walk forward. As we progress, everyone is afraid.


    I don¡¯t know where he takes me, but I hope there¡¯s BLOOD!


    ***


    The day had been hard for Manon, what with keeping the peace between all the religious orders of the city even though the current Suniestar was a fanatical prick that nobody liked, and it wasn¡¯t over. She massaged her temples. So many reports to parce and read, so many accounts to balance. She could have wished for someone else to do it, but she wanted to learn and know as much as possible to be ready. She would have to support her future husband once he took Lyenass over, when her father would be dead, or step down because of old age, and she would never be caught as a useless wife, she would not depend on her man.


    She needed to check if everyone was up to date with their taxes, who collected what, who stole what from their coffer, whose paws had been greased, whose support had been bought out.


    That was her usual job, but since she came back, she had been even more diligent than before. Someone was moving against House Lyenass, someone with resources, and she avoided a gruesome imprisonment only thanks to a twist of fate.


    Her mind, like many times the last few days, wandered to the sweet girl, the young woman who saved her and who she strangely liked, Camille.


    That girl was¡­ strange, dangerous, enticing, monstrous, strong, bizarre, cute, an outsider¡­


    Wait. Cute, enticing?


    Manon frowned and buried those impure, vile thoughts. Same-sex relationships were against the Sun Church''s beliefs.


    Well, not exactly. Manon knew the saint scripture quite well and, technically, what the Sun Church was against was the lack of children, as this was a heresy against Manera¡¯s domain of Fertility, but there was nothing forbidding it so long that you had childre-


    Wait! What is she thinking about?


    Manon shook her head, trying to drive away those thoughts.


    She was a noble lady, she couldn¡¯t court women. The Sun Church and her Father de facto forbade it.


    She hated it, but that was the world, painful and unfair.


    A knock at the door, she raised her eyes and called, ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°Lady Manon?¡± A servant answered. She didn¡¯t know his name but she knew his voice. He had worked here for¡­ two or three years, she believed, based on the salaries sheet she remembered about.


    ¡°You can enter,¡± She answered with a frown. She was pretty sure he was assigned to kitchen duty, what was this about?


    He opened the door and, instantly, the noble lady knew what this was about.


    Camille.


    The young woman, the witch, the monster who rescued her, avenged her raped maids, saved her dear Francis, who was like a second father to her.


    She was tall, taller than before, or at least it felt like it. Her hair was a mass of ink floating around her head, her eyes hungry void of darkness, and her smile was large and mad, like a half-moon full of teeth.


    The servant was white like a sheet, her hand in his, ¡°My L-Lady, your W-Warden is asking for¡­¡± He didn¡¯t finish his sentence and looked at her in fear.


    ¡°Blood.¡± The thing, woman, whispered, and shadows flinched all around the room.


    It came in, letting go of the man¡¯s hand, who fled, closing the door behind him.


    The thing walked like a wader, with long, stretched steps that didn¡¯t make any sense in this room.


    One moment it was at the door, the next it was standing in front of the young lady.


    And Manon was standing too, for some reason, her seat behind her. Manon knew she was the tallest between them two, yet it felt like it was bending its knee to look at Manon in the eyes.


    Not it.


    Camille.


    The face, the eyes, the hair, behind all the strangeness, somehow, Manon knew that this was Camille. She was so strange.


    So beautiful.


    ¡°I¡¯m so hungry. I need blood,¡± She asked, distressed.


    Of course. By the gods.


    The girl hadn¡¯t fed in some time and even she herself didn¡¯t know her feeding cycles.


    ¡°Can I¡­?¡± Camille turned around Manon and brought the noble girl in her embrace, to the surprise of said noblewoman. The monster¡¯s inky hair was floating, flowing over Manon¡¯s shoulder. It felt cold, velvety, welcoming.


    ¡°Would this be¡­ acceptable?¡±


    Body against body, in this room, silently. Camille, who was not herself, not entirely. She was gentler than usual, for once, somehow more careful.


    A bit as if she was drunk, and knew it, which led her to be jumpy, careful about each and every one of her moves. At least that¡¯s how Manon understood it.


    Camille wasn¡¯t in control, not entirely, so she was on edge.


    After all, she hadn¡¯t just eaten that young man, that servant, she followed him until he brought her to someone who could fix her current predicament.


    Even now she was not acting like a beast, but like someone who, with one wrong move, could break another life by accident.


    Manon¡¯s heart¡­ she felt weird, new emotions shily blooming.


    Camille was afraid of herself, she didn¡¯t want to hurt anyone, yet her body was calling for blood.


    Manon turned her head, looked at Camille. Their eyes met.


    There was something happening here, a connection, a pact, a deal, she could feel it, tethered to her very being.


    Camille would not hurt her, never. So why not¡­ why not just let go into her embrace?


    Manon could feel Camille¡¯s breasts against her back, her cold breath on her neck, and the noble lady¡¯s heart was beating like a drum, fast and strong, pushing a hot feeling throughout her whole body.


    She could say no. There was no compulsion, no dominion, no manipulation of any kind. She was free to say no, and Camille would let her go, would respect her choice, her voice, her consent.


    Manon wanted to say no.


    That¡¯s a lie.


    Manon wanted to say yes, but she was afraid to do it¡­


    Then a voice whispered softly, ¡°Are you afraid?¡± Camille, the damned girl could feel people¡¯s emotions. Of course.


    ¡°Y-yes¡­¡± Manon answered with a slow nod. That was the truth, she was afraid, yet she didn¡¯t say to Camille that this emotion was battling another one for supremacy.


    She was afraid but she wanted to say yes, and the clash froze her.


    Then Camille let her go, ¡°Afraid is not good. But I¡¯m so thirsty!¡± The young girl wined as she took her hand away.


    She never let go of Manon. The noble woman had stopped Camille¡¯s hand, was keeping it on her shoulder.


    ¡°No. Don¡¯t let go.¡± She whispered softly. She was afraid, but she wanted to do this.


    She would do it.


    She did it.


    ¡°Yes. You can have my blood. And the rest,¡± Manon answered the questions, all of them, about the blood, about the body, about what she felt would come after Camille fed.


    She was afraid, but fear cannot stop you from living.


    ***


    Soft blood, given freely. Blood, not from a filthy rapist that I executed, but from a nice woman who accepted me.


    I drink and the terrible, horrible hunger abates. I am filled beyond measure, I feel the hunger going away like never before in the last few months.


    My arms are supporting Manon, wrapping around her waist, her hands on mine as little moans get out of her mouth. I feel pleasure radiating over my mouth. I think she feels the same going from her neck, throughout her whole body.


    I feed on her for a while, but let her go before taking too much.


    I¡¯m completely sated.


    I lick and kiss the place I bit her, the wound disappearing nearly instantly. I don¡¯t stop kissing her neck, though, and she massages my hands.


    ¡°The bedroom?¡± She says, slightly weakened by my feeding. I kiss her once more before taking her in a bridal carry.


    She looks at me with a mix of fear and bliss. She¡¯s smiling, caresses my face as I get her to the bed.


    ¡°The locks,¡± She adds, waving languidly at the two doors. I smile at her, nod, and close them.


    When I turn around, she¡¯s already peeling away her robe.


    I freeze and realize what is going on.


    I¡¯m in the room of a lady, doors locked, with a beautiful woman undressing.


    Am I¡­ is this a blasphemy?


    Manon sees me and freezes in turn. She¡¯s thinking about the same thing.


    ¡°Should we¡­ stop?¡± She asks, which snaps me out of my mind.


    I look at her, half-undressed.


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to stop. Do you want to stop? We can stop.¡± Now I¡¯m afraid, just like she is.


    I¡¯ve never been intimate with anyone. I¡¯ve never been intimate with a woman. I¡¯ve never done this before.


    I was just carried here by the singing of the blood, by my emotions and my instinct. She gave me her blood, now it¡¯s just normal that I take care of her, she¡¯s to be protected, cuddled, served.


    And, beyond my instincts as¡­ as whatever I am¡­ well, I kinda want this. She¡¯s really beautiful and I like her, for some reason.


    Why are emotions so complicated?


    ¡°I¡­ don¡¯t want to stop,¡± She finally answers slowly, frowning, ¡°I won¡¯t stop,¡± She adds, whispering to herself more than speaking to me, as if fighting her fear, going on with disrobing.


    There¡¯s a hint of determination there, I can feel it. She wants to see this through, this new experience, this strange situation¡­


    My heart beats, not faster, no, it never changes tempo. It beats stronger. She¡¯s quickly half-naked. There¡¯s just a binder over her chest, underwear covering her¡­ feminity¡­ and socks over her feet.


    Her skin is white and soft, not spotless but quite close, protected from the sun and outside work. She¡¯s not strong, but not weak either, you can see both muscles and fat on her limbs and her body, her belly is not flat, it¡¯s slightly fat, and her breasts are¡­ well, her frame is big, and they¡¯re big too, which mean they¡¯re even bigger than they look.


    We cross gaze and she brings her blanket over her beautiful body.


    ¡°W-well?¡± She asks, and I realize she¡¯s the only one who exposed herself.


    As I walk towards her, I take my shirt away, showing my own binder, which I quickly remove. My bosom flops down, to her surprise. I¡¯m not sure if it¡¯s because she didn¡¯t think I would show myself off like this so directly, or if it¡¯s because of my breasts themselves.


    Normally they¡¯re kept compressed against my chest by the binder, otherwise they get in the way, but now they heavily hang over my torso, thick enough that they sag a little bit to cover the upper part of my belly.


    ¡°Oh, my¡­¡± She puts a hand on her mouth, but her eyes say it all, and so I get rid of my pants and underwear next, even making a small show out of it and, soon enough, I¡¯m sitting in front of her, cross-legged, entirety naked.


    I¡¯m a lot hairier than her. I didn¡¯t have time to care for that, not that I ever cared much. I like myself how I am, and I like her how she wants to be.


    She looks at me. I look at her. All I can see is her face. Her eyes are beautiful, her hair is gorgeous, her lips are soft and open in a small, shy smile. I think I sport quite the same emotion, this mix of being lost but also happy, with an undertone of shyness and discovery.


    She slowly moves a hand behind my head, makes it rest on the bottom of my neck, shivers a little bit.


    I¡¯m cold.


    She¡¯s hot.


    She touches my skin, explores my back, my shoulders. I put my hands just above her naked waist and do the same. I feel her skin under my touch. She pushes with her hand, brings me in for a kiss.


    I¡¯ve never kissed anyone.


    But by the way our lips meet, I know that she did. I bring myself closer to her, lean into her embrace. Our bodies greet each other, our breasts brush and caress one another, I feel a jolt go through my body. I can feel her skin under my nipples. I lose myself to the kiss and her body. This is so exciting!


    I don¡¯t think we¡¯ll have time to visit the orphanage today.