Page 1 of A War of Embers

Everything takes a moment to swim into focus. The gray of my vision flickers into color, the world tilting and swirling as I slam back into my body, sucking in a breath and immediately regretting the motion. The air is stale and sticky, like I’m standing in a hot box.

I flex my fingers in my right hand, working out the cramp as I blindly connect my left hand to the wall to keep myself upright. Every time one of the souls housed in my body is activated, my mind blanks out and my body moves with a purpose not my own to dole out whatever punishment I’ve been told to do.

The memories of what happened here will come later, when I’m deep asleep and the nightmares that plague me take fold. Right now I feel like I’m underwater, my ears popping as the world spirals a vibrant shade of white as my vision tries to right itself.

Nothing here is familiar.

Not the beige carpet with bloody red streaks, or the pristine surroundings with silver picture frames along an entry table. If it weren’t for the body parts laying haphazardly around the foreign living room before me, I wouldn’t think anyone is home.

A few more moments pass before my vision completely settles to give me a full view of the scene.

An entire family is carved and bleeding out. Still fresh as blood trickles out of open wounds. Mouths open in horror of screams I can no longer hear.

I sigh. This should bother me. I should be repulsed by the scene. But instead I feel hollow, detached from the world while I try to piece together what I was called to do.

The sword at my feet is key to figuring out which soul was chosen to dispense punishment. Most mortals have one soul, their mortal soul which gives them life and expires at a certain date, allowing them to cross into the Cliffs of Embers where they will rest eternally.

Others, like myself, start out as mortals before being thrust into servitude. Our mortal souls stripped from our bodies, dangled before us to make us yield and to serve out our sentences for crimes long forgotten by obeying our master’s wishes until our body is no longer of value. Now we hold old souls made immortal, some of us crammed with several souls of others who follow blindly and mindlessly to the orders they are given. And we cannot die until our purpose has been met.

Whatever purpose the hierarchy decides.

I don’t even remember what I did to be turned into this killing monster. Only that this is the life I’ll forever know, never allowed to die or have my soul put to rest. I will never cross the Blood Sea at the edge of town, giving the Blood Witch who guards it her choice of currency in flesh as my body rots against a plank set aflame.

It’s the honorable way to cross to the Cliffs of Embers. Beyond the veil that hides death on the other side of the river. Where people selfishly plunge into the icy depths of the sea, begging for entrance to where the Lord of Shadows reigns and away from this side of the world.

Just thinking about watching the people flee to the ledge, climbing over the iron railing and diving into the water never to be seen again causes my chest to tighten. Does the Blood Witch accept them and help them move on? Or does she let them drown a horrific death in her raging, icy waters? Either way, bodies are never recovered.

And just beyond the vast river, lies nothing. At least nothing the living can see. It looks like a wasteland of mist and eerie thick, gray fog that rolls across the dirt towards us but stops at the water’s edge. There’s a piece of me that wonders about what the living can’t see that the dead can.

Something moves in my peripheral, soundless as the house and my breathing, drawing me out of my thoughts. A moment goes by before the figure in a flowing red dress steps out.

Lady Gwenyth presses her red lips together as she looks from me to the scene in the living room. Her silver hair coiled tightly to her head with a matching red scarf woven around her. “Were they about to eat together?” she hums, her eyes flicking towards the large kitchen table, turned sharply at an awkward angle and dripping in blood situated just beyond the ghastly scene where the bodies lie.

I don’t bother responding to her. She knows that I have no memory immediately after I regain access to my body. It’ll be pointless to bite out a response that may be untrue when she’ll use it against me, say I’m lying and add to my never ending sentencing.

“Come now, Keres, I appreciate you correcting a mistake made by this family and their lack of offerings.”

Moments like these make me wonder what our lives would be like if the gods of this world lived far out of reach instead of among us. Would we be forced to give offerings to the god who oversees the town we live in? Or would we be allowed to follow or not follow whoever we wish?

“Clean this up, will you? I’ll need to put this house on the market by the end of three weeks,” Lady Gwenyth continues. “It’s such a shame he refused to move his family.” She rolls her eyes with a curl of her red lips. “Can you believe him? He said his family has lived here for generations. I’ve been here for centuries. As if his little plight is a good enough reason to turn my wishes down.”

I hold back the real remark I want to say. Instead I grab the end of my braid in my hand, noticing for the first time how entirely drenched I am in blood, and frown at my fingers. “How dreadful for you.”

If she hears the sarcasm in my voice, she dismisses it. “I’ll send the crew to assist you. The home decorator will be by in a few days so have any furniture that can’t be salvaged removed as well.”

As if removing bodies and bloody furniture is as simple and as easy as it sounds. But what else can I do but follow orders? “Of course, Lady Gwenyth.”

“I think this will count as four, Keres.”

My back molars smash together. There’s a tally each of us housing assassinating, horrid souls must reach to earn our freedom of death. To earn our right to die. How ironic that I will burn on a plank and these remains will merely be gifted to the Blood Sea as food for the monsters lurking below.

Four deaths makes my total seventy-nine. Lady Gwenyth won’t tell me the number I need to reach to earn my freedom, just the numbers to add to the list. Fifty years have gone by, but I still look like every other twenty-six year old woman walking around. Except my veins burn neon blue, a striking contrast to most mortals whose veins hide beneath pale skin.

Whichever soul inside of me causes the defect, I’m not sure. So far I can only tally four souls living inside of me. Each one hibernating until Lady Gwenyth activates them, ready to strike fear into the District we live in and warn anyone from crossing her grace. The most used soul seems to have come out today; it likes to use a sword to carve into its perceived enemies. Another soul prefers to use a bow and arrow to avoid having to deal with cleanup when I can kill from afar. The third soul uses poison to be quick and effective, though it rarely comes out to play. And the final one that prefers to use their hands to wreak havoc in this dreadful land. But the neon blue veins pulsating under my skin could be a byproduct from any of them.

“So the unmarred furniture will remain?” I ask as calmly as I can.

She takes a moment, surveying the room once again. “Yes. He had finer things in his home that will be suitable for the new tenant.”

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