Page 8 of The Spark that Ignites
Fleeing now would only be a temporary solution, but she spun and sprinted down the alley like a coward anyway. After all, that was what she was best at.
“Find me!” she hollered over her shoulder, but the smoke now clouding the passage devoured her words.
Chapter Three
Back at the inn, as Emmery hastily stuffed her belongings into her bag, the delicate patches strained but held, thank the gods. Luckily, the mere handful of items to her name made for light packing. With the ripped collar and no feasible way to wear her dress without exposing her scars, she tossed it into the trash. One less thing to carry.
In a few panic filled minutes, she yanked on a black tunic, fitted trousers, her favourite green cloak, and slung her pack over her shoulder before fleeing into the night.
Keeping to the shadows, she hoped to make it a town over before daylight broke, but it was ambitious on foot. Though her face and throat ached and she refused to let it stop her, some instinct told her everything would be fine. But if she didn’t get across the gate, this might be her last sunrise.
The past weeks Emmery had been sloppy between carelessly stealing the coin, revealing her magic, and getting caught in the tavern tonight. Her mind chanted those three familiar words:fool, coward, monster.They battered her brain. Condemned.
And she deserved it.
After fleeing the streets, she stopped at the House of Gods, too exhausted to continue. She hesitated, gripping the doorway before she finally dragged herself inside. It would likely be the last spot the guards would search and to be honest, she was always amazed she didn’t burst into flames when she crossed the threshold.
Curling up in a shadowy corner, Emmery hoped to get some sleep and pressed her mother’s watch to her ear for comfort, sinking into the slow, steady tick. Allowing it to lull her into a false sense of security.
But the wind and cold bite of the wooden bench seeped into her bones even with her cloak shielding her face. Whoever designed an outdoor temple clearly hadn’t considered the miserable weather. Between her chattering teeth, throbbing head, neck, scars, and the gnawing in her gut, it didn’t appear she’d get any rest.
She needed another godsdamn drink to take the edge off.
King Silas’s guards would be on her trail soon enough. Undoubtedly, they found the body in the alley and the incriminating handprint burned into his face for which she only had herself to blame. Maybe the gods had finally decided she was out of time, and she’d meet her well-deserved end. After all, she was a descendant of demons or whatever ruled the lands beyond the gate—damned with dangerous powers whether she chose them or not.
Pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes, she groaned. She was unbelievably fucked.
Emmery sat up on the bench and wiped her sweaty face while attempting to untangle her matted hair. After a few minutes of fighting, she gave up and stretched her cramped legs. The scarlet runner, nestled between a series of benches, led her to the front of the cathedral and she winced as she caught her reflection in the pristine floors. Her eye was nearly swollen shut, and a red handprint bruised her neck. She was an eyesore amongst the few women in parchment-coloured robes lighting the wall sconces. Emmery yanked her hood over her face as one of them passed her a judgemental glance, the wordsyou don’t belong herewritten in the crease of her brows. The woman scurried away from her responding glare.
Emmery wasn’t surprised. She’d never belonged anywhere.
Her knees ached as she knelt before the statue of Pellius, the God of All, and two faceless divine women flanking each side. Shadowed flames flickered across her face from the colossal pyre, kissing her chilled skin as she lowered her head in prayer.
Emmery had never been a devout believer in the following of Hallinth, mostly because the main principle was to slaughter anyone who bore the mark of the Damned. Her mother however was a selective believer, ignoring whichever bits didn’t suit her, like sentencing her daughter to death. From childhood, Emmery’s mother preached about placing faith in something greater than herself, like those who held her fate in their merciful hands.
For much of her life, Emmery viewed it as an excuse—a way to forfeit responsibility for her actions but, as she grew older, especially after her sister’s death, she found herself time and time again on her knees begging to gods she wasn’t sure existed. Because if it meant there was even the tiniest chance to make a difference, she’d pray to gods who may never hear her.
As far as she knew, they never had.
She would pray for an end to her mother’s chronic pain and for mercy she wasn’t shown in the waking world. For her sister, she prayed for a bountiful afterlife, for care Emmery was never able to provide but she endlessly deserved. And that Death took her gently into the lands beyond.
There was no forgiveness for what happened to Maela and Emmery would eventually burn for her mistakes. Deep in her ashen soul, she knew she was beyond saving.
So, she never prayed for her own salvation. Not once.
Tears burning in her throat, she finished her prayers. Everything—all this running and sacrifice—had been fornothing. After all this time, she’d let her sister down again.
To her left, a man cleared their throat. “I’m afraid your prayers won’t be answered,” he said softly, his voice melding with the crackling fire.
Her eyes slid to the side, but she didn’t lift her head for fear someone might be watching. A dark figure leaned against a stone pillar, arms crossed. She recognized the man from his tall, lean stature, the handle of his sword peeking over his shoulder, and eyes that practically glowed.
Her stomach dipped as the man from the alley met her stare.
“You’re praying to the wrong gods,” he whispered with amusement.
Emmery blinked back her traitorous tears and banished all emotion from her voice, relieved her cloak hood hid her face. After rising from her knees, she smoothed her trousers. “You’re an expert?”
He smirked. “I wouldn’t say that, but there’s nothing they can do for you.” The man leaned in close enough his breath brushed the shell of her ear. “Those who bear the scars don’t pray to mortal gods.”
