Page 57 of Night of Death and Flowers

Slowly, I peel back my eyelids as the frosty breath of night caresses my face. Above the high walls of dirt, the crimson moon hangs low in the sky.

I lie still for a moment, the sound of worms burrowing in the mud beneath me scratches deep in my ears, enhancing my agitation. When I get my sister’s body out of her tomb, I’m going to drag her to the deepest part of the Black Sea, where my dead can torture her in the darkness until the vibrance left in her soul is extinguished. Despite her comatose state, Essentria’s spirit remains strong. Her magic pulsates in every damaged leaf and twig around me, still fighting.

“Fuck.” I splutter and push my palm against the vines covering the ground.

My fingers carve into the hard mud as I force myself to sit upright. I cast my gaze up the inside of the large, rectangular hole. It has to be at least six feet deep. Cursing Essentria’s name under my breath, I climb up and grip the edge, hoisting myself out of the hole, then landing on my stomach.

I should have expected this, but I deceived myself into believing that the physical consequences would not be so severe once my siblings’ powers abandoned me.

Once I am back on solid ground, I spit out the remaining leaves and dirt from my mouth and examine my arms and hands.

My skin is marred with bruises, the blues, blacks and browns covering most of my exposed flesh. Fantastic. Not only do I feel weak, but I also bear the evidence that my mortal body can take a beating, or at least, only at the hands of the other gods, or their magic.

I cast my eyes to the sky. The horizon ombres from the inky depths of night, into a deep, ocean green. Down below, broken branches litter the shore, reclaimed by the forest creeping closer to the edge of the Black Sea. Vines that made it to where the tide meets the pebbles lay withered and browned at their tips. Although the storm is fading, dark gray clouds shield the edges of the crimson moon that will only last one night.

Calista.

I must know if she is still alive.

My power reaches out from me in tendrils of invisible smoke as I search for the energy of her soul and the decay magic in her veins.

Only two have joined my dead this evening. I can taste their sadness as they join the rest of the souls in my domain. Neither of them are Calista.

I breathe out a sigh of relief, then glance at the sky as the sound of flapping wings grabs my attention. I tilt my head back further to witness a crow gracefully flying overhead, its caw echoing through the air as it vanishes into the forest. I close my eyes, and the scent of damp moss and rain-soaked pine penetrates my nose.

I focus on the small, winged creature, observing its boldness as it fearlessly enters my domain. Merging my mind with the bird’s is seamless, and when I close my eyes, I am transported into its perspective. The wind rushes through its feathers as it soars above the treetops, lifting us to greater heights.

He caws, and I reach into his thoughts. The crow is trying to find Calista.

My eyes fling open, and I am back in my body.

Of course she has a crow. If I had known, I would have used him to spy on her.

With a deep exhale, I use my fingers to remove the last traces of dirt from my hands, the gritty sensation clinging to my nails. As I cast one last look at the grave, a heavy sigh escapes my lips. I cannot waste any more time. I must regain possession of my sibling’s mortal bodies before Calista can die.

I head toward the tree line. The weight of exhaustion deepens with each step, each breath accompanied by a rattling within my lungs.

As I walk into the confines of the forest, I glimpse a girl’s spirit, lingering close, and my eyes flick towards her.

I press my palms against the jagged bark of a graywar tree trunk, the rough texture grounding me as I pause to catch my breath. Using her energy as a guide, I turn my head to face the approaching girl. Unlike spirits outside of my domain, these remain in a space between life and death, her figure transitions between being almost transparent, to appearing like a walking corpse.

Red robes cling to her body, the fabric ripped and soaked with old, brown blood. As she stands at the edge of the tree line, the glow of the moon dances on the sea behind her, shining through the gaping hole in her chest.

I avert my gaze, attempting to distance myself from the overwhelming waves of sadness rolling off her.

There are countless individuals who resist accepting the finality of things, and it is only humans, not animals or any other creatures, who become trapped in a state of denial.

But this spirit is different. She wants to leave. As her black hair hangs around her shoulders, strands slathered to her face from the blood, I can feel her ache. Whoever butchered her was violent. This was no merciful, quick death.

Her heart was ripped out.

She must have been one of the initial contenders in The Harvest. They were skilled warriors filled with fierce determination and raw strength, unlike the ones now.

I blink twice as inky tears spill from her empty eye sockets, an illusion of pain manifested by her memories of crying. Her sorrow pierces through my emotional barriers, leaving a lasting imprint.

“Leave me,” I command, my voice hoarse as my vocal cords slowly heal from the earlier attack.

But she remains nearby, still as a statue, and a heaviness settles in my chest, churning my stomach.

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