3. Chapter 3

Iskidded around another corner, barely keeping my balance on the viscous mud. I couldn't afford to slip again. The next time, he'd catch me. In fact, I was sure his whip missing my leg the first time I fell was just part of his fun.

He'd let me get away on purpose.

Sweat, earth, and rain coated my skin, and despite the exertion of running, I couldn't stop shaking. I panted while I squinted at the narrow space between two houses, debating if I could squeeze through to the other side.

This was a ghost town, as if the inhabitants had simply vanished. Or maybe no one had lived here to begin with?

I'd torn at the planks obstructing the doors of a larger building, a sign out front declaring it the Nightsong Tavern, but with bare hands, all I got were bloody fingers. My search for a weapon had been fruitless, too. Not even a hammer or a pitchfork was left out, almost as if anything usable for self defense had been removed from the streets with ill intent.

"Where are you, little prey?" my pursuer's voice rang out in a happy singsong, carrying above the tapping of rain on the roofs.

Shit, I'd lost him again just a minute ago.

I shimmied into the claustrophobic crevice, hoping the darkness between the buildings would obscure me. Even if he saw me, he couldn't pursue me. He wouldn't fit.

Thud.

"You're doing fucking great so far!" the man shouted.

Thud. Thud.

It sounded like someone was chopping wood, but there were no trees nearby.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The noise drew closer and the hairs on the back of my neck stood.

He was right: I was his prey. Every cell of my being instinctually agreed with him, and no amount of denying would change that.

But a clever mouse could outsmart the cat.

Unarmed, my speed and agility were my most valuable tools. I stood a chance to outmaneuver him. If I emerged on the other side, he would have to go around the row of houses, granting me a few valuable moments to throw him off my trail.

His massive frame darkened the entrance to the gap, and my knees sagged. Water dripped from his soaked hood, drenched clothes sticking to his body, mapping its ridiculously muscular shapes. He snickered, pulling back the hand that held the cleaver, and I cowered, afraid he would throw it at me.

Thud.

The blade dug into the side of the house, but his fingers held firm around the handle.

"Keep going!" he yelled. "I want you desperate and hopeless when I catch you."

Creators have mercy, I thought, but I pressed on, grimacing as my elbows grazed the walls.

"Meet you on the other side, little prey!" he shouted, snickering.

I didn't stop to respond to his threatening promise. If I could get out of the village, find the nearest swathe of forest, my likelihood of survival grew exponentially. I knew well how to blend in with nature and lose pursuers in the underbrush. Years of picking wild herbs and hunting her own food in the wilds surrounding Hedonfel did that to a woman.

I tripped out of the crevice, bracing my hands on my knees as I fought against dizzy panic. Trees loomed across the road, and I huffed a breath of relief. The fog was thicker there, providing an opportunity to find my way to safety.

Light on my feet, I snuck on, skipping along flat stones and patches of wet grass to not leave any tracks.

My arms outstretched, feeling my way forward, I pushed into the thicket. Not even the moon was bright enough to illuminate a path beneath the dense canopy.

A few dozen steps in, I hit stone. Bricks.

A building?

I moved along the straight wall. The minutes stretched until my hands found a corner. Not just a corner.

The inside of a corner.

My pulse hitched, dread's vice wrapping tight around my heart, but I walked on.

More minutes. Another inside corner.

I ran.

Another inside corner.

I froze and pressed my fingers to my lips, tasting mud and blood as I stifled a forlorn sob.

This was no real village. It was a warped mock-up of a rural small town, a sick stage setting inside some colossal dungeon. I didn't wield magic myself, and couldn't explain the sky and weather effects, though they were no doubt created by a mighty spell.

This was a murder ground. A killing room. But I couldn't die without seeing Cyn and Eli again.

I sniffled, rubbing my nose before I turned toward the village center once more.

Even this fucked up dungeon had to have an exit, and I would find it.

As I left the fake forest, I found myself in a part of the chamber I had not yet explored. The houses were much the same as the others, simple wood structures with clay tiled roofs. But one building stood out:

A church.

Hidden in the shadows, I watched.

Light flickered inside, and the likenesses of two figures framed the tall doors. One was carved into the stone on either side, a hand each joined above the entrance, enclosing a skull with a triangle of fire at its back.

The elegant features of the long-haired woman on the left were twisted in agonized ecstasy, full lips upturned and eyes half-lidded. Bones adorned her opulent, flowing robes, a corset of ribs cinching her waist, femurs dangling from her skirt. A thurible swinging on a chain around her free hand exuded clouds of smoke, wafting along skulls laid at her bare feet.

On the other side, a cruel smirk curled the man's mouth. Curly hair surrounded his face like wisps of gloom, the softness of its strands a stark contrast to the hard line of his jaw and aquiline nose. He wore bulky, spiked armor, a curved sword with a serrated blade hanging from his belt. His free hand clutched a severed head, blood dripping from the neck.

I rubbed my eyes, not believing my sight.

These were ancient, traditional depictions of the Creators and their symbols, those found in old scriptures now considered blasphemy.

The populace of Zeridia still worshipped the same deities, but centuries ago, long before my birth, our Gods had received a wholesome image shift. In the name of free trade and political alliances, the Council of Eight had introduced drastic changes to make our faith less threatening to outsiders.

Zerian, once a rage-filled God of pain who thrived on suffering and commanded the shadows, was turned into a benevolent man who punished evildoers.

Dianya was transformed, too. Formerly an undead Goddess who devoured the flesh of innocents, she became a harmless deity of harvest and healing who bid nature to flourish.

Their relationship was rewritten as well. When once they were lovers, they were made out to be reluctant allies, conspiring for the good of the elven people.

Only their eponymous names remained unchanged, the same names merged to lend our country its name.

In secret, a small part of the population resisted the change and continued their brutal worship. Were they found out, lifelong imprisonment would have been the mildest sentence. No one would have admitted their faith willingly. But here, right in front of me, were the Creators in all their unabashed, bloody splendor.

If Eli had not taught Cyn and me about the true forms of Zerian and Dianya, I might not have even recognized them.

Every night, he had read to us from the loose-spined tome he'd stolen from a merchant who stopped at Brightwood Orphanage. It was titled The Sanguine Sermon of Creation, a thick book with yellowed pages, bound in fine, carmine suede. Many times, he had told us the tale of the Creators shaping the mountains and valleys of Zeridia from the cadavers of their enemies. How their foes' blood soaked the ground, forever staining the leaves of the eastern forests crimson and orange.

My chest tightened as I remembered him and Cyn arguing which one of them would grow up to be like Zerian to protect Dianya.

To protect me.

I bit my lip, swallowing a lump of sorrow.

They had vied for the role every day. And in accordance with the old rules of worship, they used the suffering of others as offerings to the Creators.

And to me.

A wry smile lifted my mouth as I approached the church, clinging to the grief-tainted memories of their faces.

Even if none of us shared the same blood, Cynthian and Elias were my brothers.

My family.

I recalled the oath we'd taken during our first night in the orphanage, huddled in the attic. The vow giving me strength to continue searching for them.

By the light of a single candle stolen from the mess hall at dinner, cobwebs tangling in our hair and fingers entwined, we had sworn to never abandon each other. We promised to never forget each other, never stop caring about each other like the rest of the world had.

In the fiercest storms, in a life unmooring my fragile roots over and over, Cyn and Eli were the stars guiding my soul to safe harbor … Until the day they waved goodbye to me for the very last time.

If only I'd known. If only I'd stopped them.

Perhaps I was a fool to spend every day of the past eight years searching for them.

Maybe they'd simply had enough of me and found someone else to build their empire with. Build their happiness with.

But even if they hated me, I would never know peace until I knew what had happened to my brothers.

I laid my palms against one side of the church door, pushing as I blinked away tears and rain.

Even now, Cyn and Eli were an irremovable part of me. To give up on them would have been like tearing my heart from my chest, like denying myself another breath.

I couldn't exist without them.

The door creaked open, and I slipped inside, the leaden ghost of consternation clinging to my rounded shoulders.