November 1st 1440

  The sounds of war filled the air, a cacophony of clashing swords, the screams of men and women fighting with the valor of seasoned warriors. Flesh was torn from bone, blood soaking the earth beneath them, turning the soil into a gruesome swamp. Corpses littered the battlefield, flies perching them, some barely distinguishable from the ground they now claimed. Above, even the thunder crashing through the sky was barely acknowledged—merely a sign of a darker force rising, as though nature itself was indifferent to the horrors below.

  Far, far away from the war in a remote yet buzzing diner Cleo's eyes spring open. she lifts her head from the table. The weight of exhaustion pressed on her bones. Her brothers, if present, would have scolded her for it. But they were gone—always at war. She tugged the cloak further over her head, its fabric coarse and worn, concealing her dark skin and the wild curls of her hair. Her brown eyes swept over the fifty men seated around scattered tables, each one stinking of sweat, ale, and something worse.

  She had attended the morning Mass, as was her duty, though it was not far from the capital. A journey on foot, yes—she had no horse. The satchel she left behind had, by some miracle, remained untouched. Bags were not allowed in the cathedral, and in this tavern, where she now sat, the men would often make her beg for her belongings. Today, however, she would not need to engage them.

  In the farthest corner of the dingy establishment, she found her usual seat, hidden by the only remaining pillar that had survived what must have been ages of neglect. But peace would not last. An arrogant man, gap-toothed and bleary-eyed with drink, stumbled towards her. He grinned as he used the tip of his bottle to lift the hem of cloak, revealing her face.

  Cleo's expression was blank, and instead of reacting to his boldness, she rose with quiet dignity, bowing slightly as she stepped past him. "Peace be with you," she said softly, her voice even as she strode out of the unfit establishment, soon she would have to reconsider attending mass solely for the rotten scandals who harass her.

  The sun was no longer visible from where she stood, tucked beneath the jagged edges of the rocky plains. The third hour of noon had passed, and her journey had brought her close to the battlefield. The stench of death reached her nostrils, and if she strained her eyes, she might catch sight of him—the one she was searching for. But as she walked, a slurred voice echoed behind her.

  "Oi!"

  Before she could react, something hard collided with her temple. The world spun as a bottle shattered against her skull, sending her stumbling. She barely regained her footing when a fist slammed into her jaw. The taste of blood filled her mouth as she fell to the ground, her fingers clawing at the damp earth for balance.

  Dazed, Cleo gasped for air as she sensed the man's weight bearing down on her, his filthy boots pressing her into the dirt. His hands were rough and brutal, tearing at her clothes, choking her as he pressed his knee into her chest. His lips curled into a lecherous smile as he descended upon her, his breath hot and rank against her skin.

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  He had his way with her, leaving her bruised, broken, and naked, discarded behind the tavern where no one would bother to look. A dumping ground for trash. He spat on the ground beside her, adjusting his clothes as he staggered to his feet, muttering under his breath about how the quiet ones were always the best.

  "Quam barbarum!"

  The words sliced through the air, freezing the man in his tracks. He turned to find a figure standing behind him, cloaked in her unsoiled dark blue attire, a satchel slung over one shoulder. cleo. her gaze was sharp, unyielding, and her voice held an unnerving calm.

  he turned his head to see the empty space where her body ought to be laying. dead. yet, Her skin glistened like polished ebony in the dim light, and her lips, blood-red, parted in a knowing smile.

  "Even as you waste your life as a heathen," she said stepping closer, "I will pray the Lord has mercy on your soul..."

  The ground trembled beneath the man's feet. The air grew thick, oppressive, as though an unseen force had descended upon him. His heart pounded in his chest, sweat beading on his forehead as her laughter filled his ears—a sound so dark, so filled with malice, it sent shivers down his spine. His knees buckled as the weight of her presence bore down on him, and his voice caught in his throat.

  The last words he heard were a whispered curse as her gaze fixed on him with an unholy light.

  "Because I will not."

  ——

  On the battlefield, the smoke had begun to settle. Men gathered the remains of what was left of their comrades—bodies stacked in heaps, eyes wide open, frozen in terror at the sight of death. Michael wiped the dried blood from his forehead, the butt of a sledgehammer having nearly blinded him during the battle. He needed to find the warlock before anyone else did.

  Pushing through his men, who were alive thanks to the catastrophic power of the warlock, Michael's steps were careful, his boots sinking into the mud soaked with blood. They had lost only twenty men—an unfathomable number compared to the nearly thirty thousand they had slain. God's mercy, some said. Others questioned how they could fight so valiantly if they truly desired to meet their Creator. but it was all due to the warlocks timely arrival any of them had managed to survive.

  Samuel, light-hearted as ever, waved his long arm and called out, "Zadarrah!"

  The warlock didn't turn, his towering figure standing apart from the carnage. Michael hearing his brothers call frowned, quickening his pace to catch up.

  Samuel's humor grated on him, especially now, surrounded by corpses and death.

  "God truly had a plan when He crafted you with these gifts," Samuel joked, eyeing the warlock's stark white hair, untouched by the grime of battle. "If others had your power, they'd be baking bread with magic instead of fighting wars!"

  Michael who had caught up to both men didn't laugh. He barely acknowledged Samuel's words, his attention fixed on the warlock, who, despite the carnage around him, looked as if he hadn't fought the same war.

  "Gather the men," Michael ordered. "We must return before dawn. There are graves to dig before we return."

  —-

  Back at the encampment, Cleo worked swiftly, her hands stained red as she treated the wounded. She knew the anatomy of a persons body better than most physicians twice her age. her fingers deft as she stitched flesh back together and sawed off shattered limbs. There was little poppy milk left, but she refused to let a man forfeit his life for lack of comfort.

  The water ran red as she bathed, the blood of the fallen swirling around her. Though her body did not bleed, she felt their pain deeply. a reminder It was a weight she carried alone, a burden her brothers could never understand.

  When Samuel and Michael returned, it had been nearly two years since Cleo last saw them. Samuel rushed forward, lifting her off her feet with a grin, his hair longer now, brushing past his ears. Michael, as always, lingered behind, his eyes hard as he assessed her. "You look... well," he muttered, his voice rough as he forced the words out. His hug was brief, awkward, his hands pushing her away before he turned and walked off, leaving her standing there, a warm smile on her lips.