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Arc 8-90
🕑 Added 2025-08-26 22:58:14 +0000 UTC“You wanted to show me a hill?”
It’s unusual in the wide open space of the Green Step, but hardly worth the walk. Cloud waits at its base, staring off into the distance. At my words, she jumps, glances back, and forces a smile. Wan, brittle, with only the faintest trace of amusement to give it life. It doesn’t suit her. The sight plants a sharp worry in my gut, one that grows as she motions for us to follow her up the steep rise.
The top of the hill is suspiciously flat. That’s my first clue that she didn’t bring us here for the scenery. The second are the stones. Large, each standing at least waist height. Tools have shaped them, but into strange forms—unnatural curves, jagged edges. There is writing carved across their faces and offerings scattered at their bases. Strange as they may be, there’s only one thing they can be. Graves.
The worry in my gut evolves into dread as we move among the stones, our steps slow and reverent. I try to decipher the markings, but the script isn’t Common. The symbols resemble monsters—worshiped kin, I assume. I recognize vague outlines of the bruin on some of the stones. The others must be creatures revered by different tribes.
Near the edge of the field, Cloud pauses. She looks past me toward Kierra and Alana. “Would you mind if I speak to Lou alone?”
My elf hesitates, her eyes—more gold than green under the strong sun—fixing on me with open concern. Alana doesn’t answer with words. Instead, her hand grips Kierra’s arm, firm and insistent. When her first tug meets too much resistance, she links their fingers and pulls again, gentler this time. Still, it takes my quick nod before Kierra relents, allowing Alana to guide her away. They stop just far enough to grant the illusion of privacy.
“This way, honored sister.”
We stop before two graves placed side by side. The first is a triangle of gray stone with a trail of bruin paw prints etched across its surface, a small square of writing beneath it. The second is a more traditional arch, though a lump of stone crowns it, carved vaguely like a horse’s tail. A labor of love, not of mastery.
Cloud lets the silence linger. It needles me, pricking through my composure until I blurt, “Who are they?”
Her finger drifts lazily toward the first stone. “Flower That Blooms in Shade. A shy and gentle girl. She did not excel in communion, but she admired the kin more than most. She volunteered for the quiet duties—brushing, feeding, tending.”
Her hand moves to the second. “Running After Clouds. I did not know him well. They say he was a fool—too positive, too blind to consequences. Some of his friends called him Cloud. Strange, no?”
“An interesting coincidence.” I don’t want to ask, but the dread in me prods sharply. “How…did they die?”
“They were in the city.”
The worm in my gut bursts, leaving a hollow pit that anxiety rushes to fill. It feels like I’ve been struck in the stomach, hard enough to bruise even this durable body. “I’m sorry.”
She doesn’t turn, only cocks her head slightly toward me, as if to hear better. “For?”
“…for killing your friends.”
“Did you kill them?”
“…you said they were in the city.”
“You were not the only one dealing death that day. Magic ran wild. Panic drove people to madness. We recovered their corpses, but we cannot know whose hand ended them.”
“Then…”
“You want to know why I’ve brought you here, if not to accuse you?” She chuckles, but it’s a sound stripped of humor. “Perhaps you did not kill them yourself, but it was your war, in your city—more than ever now. I do not blame you, but conflict centered on you. Your goals. Your family. Your anger. You were its beginning and its end, for good or ill.”
She finally turns, her gaze steady. “You are dangerous, honored sister. Dangerous to be around. And yet you ask us to bind ourselves to you.”
“You don’t—”
She stills me with a hand. “We are not here to condemn you.”
“Then what do you want?” My voice sharpens, though I bite it back. She doesn’t deserve my anger. Saints, I should be groveling. But this is the second time she’s stopped me from apologizing. Something aches inside me at that, and I don’t know how to make it stop.
“The Temple is no stranger to death. To suffering.” She steps closer, never breaking eye contact. Slowly, giving me every chance to pull away, she lifts her hand to my chin. “Tell me it will not be in vain. That you will not spend our lives or the lives of the kin carelessly.”
“I would never.”
“Good.”
“That’s it?” I ask, stupidly, as she drops her hand.
“Mm.”
“That can’t be it.”
“What else is there?”
“Aren’t you angry?” My voice cracks. Why isn’t she yelling? Why doesn’t she strike me? “I killed them.”
“You might have.”
“I’m responsible for their deaths!” The words tear out of me.
I regret them instantly. Why am I pressing her to hate me? Why am I demanding punishment? Yet part of me believes I deserve it.
“The tribe dies in communion,” she murmurs, tapping my nose as though I were a sulking child. “Power is dangerous. Predators are dangerous. To be near them is to live beside death. To chase power is to walk a cliff’s edge, where one wrong step means oblivion.”
She sighs. “We knew of your announcement. We warned our people—stay out of the city, be swift in your business, wait until the storm passed. No one knows why Shade was there. Cloud had vanished into the arms of a mate for days. They flew too close to the fire and were burned. There is grief. A grudge. Their families would curse your name. But to me, you are not faceless death. You are the silly initiate I guided through trials. The lazy predator who toys before the kill. My friend. Sometimes my mate. My honored sister. My Lou.”
Her smile is small but genuine. “My heart is not so small that it holds no room for forgiveness. Though perhaps next time you will come to me sooner, hm? I would rather solve the problem than bury its cost.”
Hot tears sting my eyes. This is different. Not the savage bride who praises my victories, nor the stern knight hardened by bloodshed. Cloud knows I was wrong. She suffers for it. Yet she forgives me anyway. Because she cares.
She hushes me, wiping the tears before they fall. “They will think I am bullying you.”
A weak laugh escapes me. I glance toward my lovers, both pointedly looking elsewhere. “They’re harmless.”
She withdraws with a soft snort. “I would rather not test them.”
“What am I supposed to say?”
“I’ve heard enough. But I want to hear of you—of your power, of the death we dance beside.”
Her warm brown eyes hold me still. And there, before the graves of her friends, I speak the truth.
I tell her of the north, of the bloody traditions I stumbled into blinded by love. Of Alana’s brother, their rivalry, and the lives lost to a feud. Of the March, and how I thought I could shoulder the burden alone. I tell her how unprepared I was for negotiation, how I didn’t expect fools who lacked the instinct to bow before overwhelming strength. I tell her of the night my family was taken, the numbness that seized me as I crushed the city, and the horror that returned once clarity struck.
I even tell her of Father. How I longed to flee and vanish, but owed him—and myself—a funeral. Finally, I tell her one of my greatest secrets. That I am the purple monster, so that she knows she never has to fear me losing control of a vicious elemental.
By the time I finish, my mouth is dry. I feel wrung out, like I’ve gone several nights with Kierra.
Cloud says nothing. She only takes my hand and gives it a single, firm squeeze. Somehow, that makes everything a little better.
—
She doesn’t release my hand until we return to camp. The silence between us is thick, but not unpleasant. I feel lighter, as if I’ve set down an invisible weight I had carried too long. Perhaps I needed someone to forgive me.
Now I must live up to it. I can’t let Cloud regret siding with me. For my clan, these are political games, and games can be abandoned. For the Sanctuary, the risks are carved in stone. That graveyard made the cost plain. I cannot promise safety, but I can give them my best.
We find Butterfly where we left her, but the cook is gone. She straightens with a curse, a hand pressed to her lower back, joints popping as she exhales. “Time to go, then.”
“Yeah.” I squeeze Cloud’s fingers one last time before letting go.
She smiles, gentle and full of warmth. “I will see you after I gather the others. Do not worry—they will be eager to accept your deal.”
“I’ll do right by them.”
“I expect nothing less.”
With a wave, she retreats into her tent. Truly, that woman could greet the end of the world with the same calm.
“Little big bear indeed,” Butterfly mutters. “Want me to tell you what happens?”
“I already know,” I snap, leading the way back to the carriage.
I will accept nothing less than success.
Comments
Michael Simmons, Author
Fingers crossed that this plan works out. Lou deserves a win after so much suffering, and the plan with the sanctuary really is a legitimately good plan. Since the cook is playing the role of spy I'm cautiously optimistic he won't do anything stupid enough to interfere, at least not for a little while.
