This Small Abandon

They had been walking in silence.

As they traveled further into the forest, the temperature had dropped considerably. The branches and leaves that separated them from the sky had hidden their view of the stars and the moons. All that was for certain now was that night had fallen and they were surrounded by creatures they could not see. Their chirps, their howls and whistles echoed. A faint rustle, a sign of foreign movement, could be heard every time they hiked over a fallen log. On the rare occasion, they would gaze back into glowing, peering eyes above them before they disappeared with one blink.

Miraye shivered, rubbing her arms.

“The first thing I'd like to do when we get there,” she thought to herself while kicking away a pine cone, “is take a hot bath”.

They had to leave immediately. In their rush, she only managed to wipe the blood off with a damp cloth from the tavern. But she still felt uncomfortably tainted as she longed to wash the grit from her hair and dig out the traces of flesh and deceased life under her nails.

On top of that, every part of her illicit a cry of silent pain when she stretched out her limbs. She was covered in dried wounds that opted to reopen if she pushed her skin to the limit. Tic had used up of what he could do with the young girl. Not to mention, he had already resurrected her from death – any other healing methods were inconceivable.

She didn't want to appear weak.

After what seemed another eternity of wandering through the woods and following the S.I.N.K. member, Miraye reached out and gently grasped Tic by the shoulder. He had flinched at contact and as though reminding himself of who he was with, eased his posture before turning to face her. There was a perplexed expression in his eyes lit by the ghostly atmosphere of the moons above and the flare in his hand.

“We've gotten as far as we can at this point. We should set up camp,” she suggested.

“Yeah,” he replied, quiet and a little distant.

They had found cover in the hollow of a large tree nearby. It felt even colder within. Despite that, Miraye still shed off her cloak. Her bones rattled at the feel of chilled wind against her skin.

“Do you think we should make a fire? It might attract some unwanted attention...”

“Shhh. Watch,” she instructed him.

Miraye closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of the soil and dried leaves beneath her. She lifted her head and exhaled gracefully into the sky and raised her palms off the forest floor. A small indigo flame bloomed at the spot. It made no signs of an ordinary flame as no smoke fluttered from its licks and no burning aroma from its waves. It spread warmth to every corner of the wooden cave and lit the smallest crook.

She slipped off her glove and waved her hand over and through the flame.

“It won't hurt you,” she noted, not looking up at him as she did the same with her other hand.

Reluctantly, Tic followed suit.

“It feels like feathers,” he awed as he cupped over the fire. “How'd you...?”

“Someone taught this to me long ago. We won't have to worry about anyone spotting it since this light will only be visible to us.”

She didn't want to say that this was the first time she actually tried the spell since her childhood. He might ask her of who it was that gave her this skill. Curious to know if he was sharing her reckoning, she stole a glimpse of him behind her hair. Tic was smiling to himself in a small astonished way as he continued to run his fingers over the indigo bloom. Considering he had been engulfed in flames earlier, it must've been a relief to play with fire that was comfortable to human touch.

They unpacked some necessities for the night. Water. Food. It felt rather pleasant to fill her void again after a full day of physical feats. The two consumed their rations under the noises of the unseen creatures, both seeming to reflect on the day and where the future may lay.

Miraye was now nested underneath her cloak, staring into the indigo. Tic had volunteered to take watch for the first round that night which she was grateful for. Even though she had supplied her body with nutrients, there was no denying that the last of her magic had drained her. She needed to replenish with rest.

But she couldn't sleep. She was beyond exhaustion to do so.

She looked up at him. It took him a while before he finally noticed she had been staring at him. His face twitched briefly.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters, Tic?” she asked.

You're only second rate.

All the ponderings and musings of the day dissipated from Larkin’s mind as his eyes ran over the tiny girl standing in front of him. As he faced her, he shut the door behind him. The night engrossed them both, and Larkin slipped the glove from his left hand to reach out and touch the delicate, rosy cheek on Stelon’s face.

“Stelon,” he whispered. A small smile crossed his face. This girl was so worthless to him. He paid no mind to those who tried to tell him this. He paid no mind to anything anyone tried to tell him. He would come to his own conclusions, yet this one felt so unimportant to him. The long, bare fingers of his hand slid down her cheek to her frail neck and down. The fabric of her dress fell easily away from her pale shoulder.

“I apologize for coming so late; it appears you were almost asleep?”

Stelon smiled shyly at him and shook her head. “Oh no, I don’t mind.”

Larkin watched her gaze drop and he lifted his hand from her bare arm to lightly touch her chin with his finger. Her eyes returned to his and remained locked there.

“I am sorry that we must do this tonight, but I have postponed it long enough,” Larkin’s face hardened momentarily, then as if remembering himself, it softened again. “I allowed you rest after the trauma you have suffered, but now I need you to cooperate with me.”

“Lord,” she said breathlessly, “I will do anything you ask of me.”

This he knew, staring into her eyes, having trapped her will in his.

Before Larkin began his soft questioning of her, several thoughts sped across his consciousness. There was a lust in him for her, he would not deny it. Lust that was gentle, soft, even purposeful; a feeling foreign to him. Following that, what to do with her once he had extorted all knowledge she had of the sorceress and the boy. He could not ignore that pulsating feeling that there was something he was not thinking of, something he was missing – that Stelon was a piece of the puzzle he could not yet fit into place. Something telling him, keep her

(touch her)

“Does the sorceress care enough for you to rescue you from me?” Larkin knew the answer to this question, but he could not resist alienating Stelon further from Miraye.

She hesitated to answer, as if she was unsure of what to say.

“I… she tried to kill you, she is a murderer…”

“Is there a chance she would come for you, if she knew you were here?”

“No, I do not want her to come for me.”

“But would she?”

“She was so intent on killing you. I am nothing to her. If she comes back, it will be to kill you.” At this, Stelon’s eyes became glassy.

“You mean nothing to her,” and Larkin willed this into Stelon’s mind. A glimpse of her pain and he stoked the fire.

But he misjudged the pain. This did not bother her, Miraye no longer her hero, no longer someone she could trust. What bothered Stelon so clearly now, with the windows to her soul thrown open, was the loss of her new savior: Larkin. He brought his bare hand and his gloved hand to the sides of her face. It jarred her and the connection was broken. She tore her eyes from his face and squeezed them shut.

She began to whisper an apology and Larkin placed his thumb over her lips, gently hushing her.

“You are exhausted and I should be ashamed reminding you of that dreadful, cold witch.” He turned her gently toward the entryway into her bedchamber. He guided her through with his hands on her shoulders and gently sat her on the side of the bed. It seemed the brief hypnotism had left her somewhat dazed but she was quickly recovering.

Larkin blew out the candles and the room fell into darkness, barely lit by the moon.

He returned to stand in front of Stelon. The look on her face he saw surprised him. It was of suspicion.

“Why was he so afraid of you?”

Larkin turned his head slightly and lifted his chin. His fiery eyes lit and he narrowed them.

“Who?”

“Tic,” she answered.

He had not suspected such an inquiry from Stelon, nor such a look on her face. He wanted to slap it off. Instead, he removed his remaining glove and placed it in his jacket pocket with the other. He took off his jacket and put it on the bed next to the girl. He could feel her eyes searching his face for the answer.

Larkin knew too many seconds had elapsed for her to believe anything now. Still, he knew she could be persuaded to believe anything. What he had to say was only half the truth. She knew the silence between them held another answer.

“He is a member of the SINK, a budding rebel. He was a prisoner and he was on the verge of betraying every secret they have to me. A traitor has much to fear; now he is also a fugitive.”

Stelon lowered her eyes, a defeated look on her face. So trusting, so easily manipulated.

There was a sound and Larkin looked over his shoulder at the entry way. Someone was knocking on the door. Larkin went to it.

“This better make my night, or you will regret finding me here,” he hissed at the two men standing in the hallway. They shrank somewhat at his words. The man on the left was dirty and looked like he’d just been running for his life. He was trying to keep his soldier’s composure. The other man was there to help explain the situation.

“They found the boy, and the sorceress,” he said, watching warily for Larkin’s reaction. He was not ignorant of the way Larkin sometimes reacted to bad news. One who had to work in close contact with Larkin had to become accustomed to the risk of death.

“Take me to them,” Larkin ordered.

“They did not return with either, your highness.”

At this, Larkin turned to the beaten guardian and grabbed the man by the garments at his shoulder. He yanked him closer and demanded, “Then why did you even bother to show yourself? You interrupt me, here, in the middle of the night, to tell me you failed?”

“Sire,” the mean pleaded, “she killed everyone. The boy, he is a sorcerer as well.”

Larkin scoffed, “The boy has no power.”

“One of the villagers was burned to death. She was barely more than ash; I watched it all with my own eyes. He brought her back to life.”

“He is a healer,” Larkin whispered.

“We were in a community in the Hond area, and we were doing as instructed. The sorceress…”

“Shut up,” Larkin snapped at him, shoving him away. “You let them both escape. Since you are the only survivor of your regimen, that makes you highest ranking, and therefore responsible.”

Turning to the other man, Larkin instructed him, “Have men return to the village with trackers. They will follow the trail and send word to me of what they find. Should they find the boy, he is to be brought here. Kill the sorceress.”

Larkin stepped back inside and slammed the door shut. He stood staring at it, hands in fists at his sides. The boy, a healer? He briefly recalled the pain Tic had inflicted on him once, twice, before. Yes, perhaps the boy did possess certain power. Larkin’s fingers relaxed and he brought his hand to his chest, touching the stitched wound through his shirt. All the healers brought to him had proved disappointing. Having someone who could heal a person on the brink of death would be useful, wouldn’t it? If only that bitch hadn’t been there to protect Tic, the boy would be in his possession now.

Stelon had left the bedroom at some point and was standing behind him. How long she had been there, he didn’t know. He turned to face her.

Awkward Divinity.

"Don't... don't touch him," said a woman's voice.

Tic opened his eyes and blinked a few times. He was laying on the village floor, his clothes wet and torn from burns. The girl was no longer in his arms. There was a small group of villagers talking over him.

"Jonis' girl was sure as dead. There ain't nobody comes out of being set a-fire and still look like a pristine little flower! He's got somethin'. A power."

"It is trickery," replied a man. "A common magician's act. He's a criminal and a deceiver. He just wants us to think him a hero. The girl too. So they can get away and places keep gettin' burned up behind them. And there ain't no such thing as healin', Sal. Just a myth, the kind of story those Elanzir priests would have us believin'.

"Hey, he's awake. Get up, kid."

Tic sat himself up, looking around for a sign of the little girl named Zenia, wondering if he hadn't just imagined what had happened. His body was still quivering in shock. The village was still in flames, but now groups of men were heaving buckets of water and throwing their contents into the fires, which appeared to be dying down. There was an eery but comforting silence, the absence of panic and battle.

A man with a brown and gray beard leaned down into him, looking into Tic's eyes suspiciously. "It's him," he said to the other men. "Fits the description."

"So turn him in now before they come back for another go!" cried another man. "Boy, what have you to say?"

Tic could think of nothing else but the child. "I... where is the girl? Zenia?"

"Don't play games. We know it was a ruse."

Tic's nostrils flared in panic. "A ruse?"

"You think you saved her? You and your friend have caused enough damage to this village for a lifetime, and to countless other villages before it! Lives, homes, children were all lost! Burned to death! Zenia would've never ended up in that situation if it weren't for you!"

"Is she... okay?" Tic asked, ignoring the burning in his eyes and the shaking in his voice.

"Of course she is! You pulled her out and fell into the water before any harm got done. She's fainted from the shock, poor thing. But don't think you did something special, kid. Any guilty criminal would've done the same. Not even the lowest of criminals would want that on their conscience." He quoted the guardian, "'What man would let a child die to protect himself?' You're lucky you have a murderer for a girlfriend. She killed them all!" he threw his hands to the air incredulously.

Miraye. What happened? His memory was foggy. All he could remember was the little girl's face as it burned away from the bone. No, had it really happened? He touched his face. He could still remember fire burning his flesh, but there were no scars on his skin.

"Tic," whispered Miraye. "Tic, let's go."

Tic turned around to witness a sorrowful sight. Miraye stood, both her eyes a pale blue, blood slipping down from her face and neck. She held her right shoulder as though it were in pain. Her clothes were battle-worn, stained with blood, and torn away. She had a make-shift bandage across her left hand, arm and chest. Even though she had slaughtered all of Larkin's men, she looked defeated. It was a look she wore since she told him they were cursed, as if looking this way were the curse itself.

"If they send more," she said, "we may not make it through another fight. Let's go before the village turns us in themselves."

Tic nodded reluctantly and followed over to the girl, putting his arm beneath her for support. She shook her head and shoved him off.

"We'll gather what we have left in the tavern and leave immediately," she said. "What's left of the tavern, that is."

In the attic of the bar where they spent their last few days paying off debts to the bartender Gaston, they found the sack of coins they had rightfully earned. The tavern thankfully had suffered very little damage. Gaston was not inside the bar, though they suspected he was helping to put out remaining fires. Tic wished he could stay to offer help, but already knew that he would be turned away. There wasn't much redemption for the criminal who had caused the village burnings in the first place. The villagers silently acknowledged, and some even thanked Miraye for defending them against the guardians, though she seemed not to notice their respect. She shrugged them off weakly.

After tidying up what they could at the tavern, they loaded up their satchels with food scraps. It was already three-moons dim by the time they were ready to leave. As they headed out, they heard a familiar gruff voice call out to them.

"Wait," said Gaston. He stood at the entrance of the tavern, staring inquisitively at Tic for a moment and then quickly looking away. His expression was unreadable, but it made Tic nervous.

"Thank you, Gaston," said Miraye. She curtsied to him. "You gave us more than we deserved. We are sorry we brought this upon your town. We will be on our way now."

Gaston looked down, his expression remaining stagnant. "Miraye," he said, nodding. "This village suffered less than any other village that burned before it. Thanks to you, no child had to die." He looked at Tic again. He seemed to want to say something that he couldn't say it out loud. Like a guilty secret.

"There is someone that wishes to see you, Tic," said Gaston.

Tic's heart plummeted. He knew there was still something left to happen before they could leave this village for good. Gaston held the door open for them. As Tic followed Miraye out the door, Gaston did something strange. Looking Tic in the eye for a brief moment, he breathed in quickly and immediately bowed his head, mouthing words to himself in what looked like a silent prayer.

Puzzled, Tic and Miraye followed Gaston out into the village courtyard. To Tic's relief, the village buildings were still standing. Any damage that had been dealt was repairable. In the town center, there was a circle of villagers huddled together, some holding wicker candles and talking in hushed voices. Some were humming hymns and whispering prayers. Children were holding their parents' hands and whispering excitedly. It looked like a vigil. A small girl was swinging her father's arm happily, humming along with the hymns. Gaston leaned down and tapped her gently on the arm.

"Zenia," said Gaston with a soft smile. "I brought him for you."

The little girl giggled and turned to gasp at Tic. Her crystal eyes glowed and widened as she smiled at Tic. "The angel!" she exclaimed. She ran toward him and stopped just an inch away from his feet. "Can I touch you again?" she asked, as though someone told her not to.

Tic raised his eyebrows and smiled weakly. He put his hand down to hers, took her pale white little fingers, and said, "Sure."

She gasped again when he touched her, and ran away giggling playfully. "I touched him again! I touched the angel again!" she bragged as she joined the circle of villagers, who, by then, had seen Tic and bowed their heads as Gaston had done. The girl's father broke away from the circle and approached Tic, removing his hat, and staring at the ground. He was a small man with short hair that grayed prematurely.

"I would like to apologize," he declared, as if confessing a great sin, "on behalf of the village. They did not understand. When Zenia woke, she told us... " Suddenly he was on the ground before Tic, kneeling before him with his hands clasped together. "I do not know how," he spoke, raising his tear-filled eyes to meet with Tic's, "but my daughter is alive thanks to you."

"We... we are good people," spoke another man. It was the man who had accused him of trickery earlier. "We try to look out for each other, we... we do what is best..." He took a great breath, regaining his composure. "It's just so hard to believe these days."

He kneeled himself beside Zenia's father.

"Forgive me," he said.

A woman from the prayer circle stepped out and kneeled in her place. "Forgive me," she repeated.

All around, villagers were falling to their knees. One after the other, they kneeled and uttered the phrase, asking the boy from nowhere for his forgiveness. He watched them in awe, uncertain of what to do, or what to say, without looking ridiculous or making some sort of religious taboo. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a silent err.

Miraye nudged Tic in the back and whispered, "Well, forgive them."

He took a deep breath and awkwardly raised his right palm to face outwards, like in the paintings he'd seen of the Seven Gods, not knowing a thing of what he was doing and hoping, even praying, that he was getting it right.

"You are forgiven...?" he mostly asked himself, waving his hand in a circle.

The kneeling villagers murmured the same three words, bowed their heads and rose to their feet.

"There. Not so hard, is it?" whispered Miraye, patting him on the back.

After the vigil, Tic and Miraye were invited for a brief feast before their departure, to which they declined and instead chose to take care packages of rations, clothes and water instead. They had enough to last them for what looked like weeks. As they departed, the townspeople bowed to them in respect, waving and wishing them good health. Leaving the village behind them, they came to the border of town where the small Elanzir temple stood.

"Think we should go in?" asked Tic, wondering if it wasn't a bad idea to see if the priests could advise him somehow.

"No," said Miraye curtly. "They know as much about your power as you do. Besides, they'll probably want to keep you and make you an ordained priest or something. We have to get out of here."

They travelled west toward the southern plainlands, dusk falling quickly upon them. He had been silent for much of the walk, thinking over the villagers' behavior. "Miraye," he said finally.

"Yeah?"

He raised a hand and looked at his fingers, inspecting them. "Will I always be treated like this, if they know I can... heal?"

He felt strange using the word. It didn't seem to fit him. Such a strange power to bear. He would have never known it existed, never known he had this ability, had it not been for the recent events. Up to this point he had been in denial of it and chose to forget all the events in his life that proved it was real. Even Miraye's resurrection still seemed like a dream; his memories of it were so fantastical that it seemed to have never happened at all.

"I think you'll have to get used to the attention, Tic, when it comes. There's not a lot of people out there that can bring back the dead and heal first degree burn victims back to perfect health. They think you're a God now."

"Oh," said Tic, pretending that it made sense.

"Don't let it get to your head," she warned, "because soon they'll want you curing their ill, dying, and diseased. They'll expect more and more of you. But your powers aren't dependable. You can't always heal right, for one," she said, and coughed, as if to emphasize the statement. "Not only that, but you may be one of the last of your kind... we wouldn't want too many people to know about you."

"Why?"

"People get riled up over that kind of power. They might accuse you of being a false prophet, a demon-worshipper, anything they can come up with to deny that your abilities exist. They might even try to kill you."

She paused before she spoke again, and stopped in her footsteps.

"But worst of all," she uttered forebodingly, "They will try to use you."

Tic looked down at Miraye to see her expression. She was staring far into the forest beyond, her eyes squinting as if to focus her vision on something she sorely disgusted. Her face bore an ugly grimace of hatred.

"Larkin," Tic said without hesitation. He looked down for a moment. He didn't want to worry about Larkin now. Not now. Not... yet.

Miraye looked at Tic for a moment, cocking her head to the side. "Yeah," she said. "You better hope he doesn't find out, either." She looked back at the forest in front of them. "Is this it?"

They had come upon the border of a dusky pine-filled forest. The trees were tall and full with leaves; their canopies hid the forest ground from the light of the remaining moons. Tic touched one of the nearby trees, testing its bark and grooves. He slipped his fingers in and around the trunk, as if reading something with his hands. He looked up from the tree and followed along a vertical path of trees with his eyes, counting in his mind. "Yeah, it's here," he replied.

"Right here?" pondered Miraye sarcastically, looking around.

"Yes," he said. He tapped the ground with his foot, knowing what lied beneath. The trees were discretely marked with specific bark patterns to indicate the path of an underground tunnel system leading to and from S.I.N.K. cities and the corresponding trolleys. The botanists that worked within the S.I.N.K. had chemically altered trees and planted them as markers for wayward Kith. The particular bark patterns on the trees represented how far away the mole hole was from where the tree stood.

"The entrance isn't for several miles, though," said Tic, pressing his fingers along the bark to read its code. They would be traveling for a few more hours, it seemed.

"Let's go, then," said Miraye. They unpacked flares, a gift from the village, and lit them. The flares hissed and cooled, giving off a soft, lasting glow of yellow light and decent heat. The air had gotten chilly. They pulled their hoods on and made their way into the winding darkness.

Undo.

The screams of the child entered Tic's head like an explosion and brought him to his knees. How could it come to this, the life of a child for his? Agony swept up inside of him, rushing the blood to his head and throwing him off balance. He grasped the edge of the wall and looked to the ground as it swayed dizzily before him. He let himself fall and buried his face in the ground, closing his eyes but not going unconscious. He struggled to keep his mind alert as he allowed the fainting spell to pass over him. The waves of dizziness finally subsided, and he raised himself against the wall, opening his eyes to a blurry scene of fiery chaos.

Villagers were fleeing in every direction. Buildings were burning; fire and smoke bustled from the windows of shops and homes. Smoke filled the air, shading the world in grey and black. The guardians hurled flaming discs toward the village houses, which erupted into fiery explosions as they collided into walls. Tic could see it all happening in front of him, like a surreal dream, unreal and untouchable. Somewhere beyond the smoke-filled air he heard the collision of metal upon metal, gunshots and electricity. He saw the forms of black-clad figures fight, fall and flee from a pink-haired figure dashing to and fro, swooping upon her victims and slaying in single swings. Men were shouting, women were screaming, and somewhere amongst it all, a little girl was burning to death.

Though he wished he could not see it, he was drawn to the writhing mass of cloth, flesh and fire. His eyes were wide in a trance-like stupor, trapped onto that nightmarish vision, as his feet carried him toward it. The stench of charred skin had already reached him, churning his stomach in sickness. A warmth writhed within his chest as if his heart had caught aflame from the very sight of the girl on fire.

This was not where he imagined his life to turn. He could bear it no longer. His life and what control he had over it seemed to perish in those flames. Nothing would ever be the same. Nothing but the aching inside his heart that rose within him from the moment his heart learned to feel. That would remain forever; a scar, a gift, a desire to undo the wrong. The power to undo wrong. The power to undo death itself.

The guardian was already dead by the time Tic reached him. Dead from Miraye's sword. His eyes were shut and he appeared to be sleeping in the fire, holding his ragdoll to ease him into a sweet dream. Both he and his doll were cloaked in flames, their bodies whistling and cracking like fresh wood in a campfire. The girl was was nothing more than dead; her body was a mass of blackened flesh, crumbling and peeling the skin from her bones, melting away into nothingness. That is, until she opened her eyes.

The crystal clear blue of her eyes appeared dramatically radiant against the backdrop of molting flesh. The eyes widened at the sight of the boy leaning in toward her. What little strength that was left inside her was used to raise a withered black hand, as if to touch the boy's face. Without thinking, Tic laid his hand into the flames, slipping his fingers around the girl's. He leaned into the fire, flames licking his unscarred skin, so hot he could not feel anything but the girl's body as he slipped his arms around her and tore her from the corpse that bound her.

And when he did feel the pain, he did not scream, only closed his eyes and held the burnt doll in his arms. And even as the flames caught onto his clothes, he did not struggle, he did not throw himself to the ground. He stood up with the flaming black creature and walked to the pool of village drinking water. Each step he took was an eternity of pain, peace and death. There was fire, but something else was raging, something so unbearably hot that it did not feel like fire at all. Something so unbearably painful that it had become painless. Something he had felt before.

His eyes rolled upward, as if pulled to the sky. His heart tightened and relaxed, each beat alive in his chest, pumping something purer than blood through his veins. It overflowed and saturated his flesh, until every inch of skin was imbued with the immaculate touch. Looking down he saw the crystal clear stare of the girl in his arms, her skin as white as a dove's, as he pulled them both into the pool.

Army of Me.

Beyond the wall, men of the village were pelting stones and rubbish at the Guardians, who unsheathed their weapons and let their staves fly. Villagers climbing up the platform fell quickly as electricity shocked them to the ground. A brave villager had managed to get his hand around the hostage girl's ankle before shrieking and falling unconscious to the hiss of a stave. Angered, the Guardian holding the hostage threw the girl to the floor of the gallows stage and drew a large vial of black liquid from inside his cloak. He popped the cover and yanked the child from the ground. Holding her by the hair, he poured the grease over the girl's face, who whimpered and coughed, spitting the black substance from her mouth. The Guardian poured the grease until the girl's clothing was slick with it as well, then grabbed her by the collar and whipped her out in front of the crowd. The girl's tiny body dangled from his grip, feet kicking at the air hopelessly above the heads of the villagers.

"Villagers!" he cried above the ruckus, rattling the girl above the crowd like an undesired doll. The villagers immediately fell silent, defeated by the sight of the child doused in candle oil and the electric staff that hung threateningly near the hem of her dress.

"Are you audacious enough to risk the sanctity of your noble village? What men are you, I ask! What man would open his doors to terrorists and murderers? What man would let a child die to protect the life of a fugitive? You can still spare her!" He paused, waiting for a response. The crowd started murmuring, glancing to each other with suspicious and frightened gazes, as if they expected to so-called fugitive to reveal himself right there at that very moment.

The Guardian clicked the switch to the electric stave, which slowly powered up to a resonant hum. Small blue bolts of electric charges danced around a black globe, which crackled and sparked at the end of a metal staff, just beneath the girl's feet.

"What man would let a child die..." he screamed into the crowd, "to protect himself!" He threw his head around and watched the crowd, snarling. "What man, I ask! Show yourself, you coward! You are no man!"

The Guardian fell silent and waited. The villagers' started whispering to each other in panic. A haughty voice rose above the murmuring crowd, stating simply:

"You're right."

The villagers fell quiet and dispersed from source of the voice, leaving a gap in the crowd. A small girl stepped forward, throwing her hood back.

"I may not be a man... but I am no coward."

All onlookers went quiet, staring at the small girl in the crowd. The Guardians murmured amongst themselves. The lead Guardian knew it was her the moment he saw that atrocious rose-colored hair. The rumors were true after all. Looking down at her, he laughed.

"Sorceress. What a pleasant surprise. So pleased to finally meet you," he snarled. "Have you met Zenia?" He gestured the girl he held forward, who whimpered loudly, crying pleas at Miraye.

Miraye felt hatred boil like liquid fire at the base of her spine. She did not respond.

"And where is your friend? Have you come to hand him to us?" The guardian asked.

"What a useless cause," Miraye scoffed. "For such a useless boy."

The Guardians stared at her quizzically. She walked slowly toward the platform, her hands clasped together neatly, and continued speaking, looking up at the sky in thought.

"You don't want the girl who destroyed half a city? Who killed half your politicans? Who almost, but didn't quite... murder Larkin the Shrike?" she spoke with a grin.

The Guardian grunted. "We are aware of your accomplishments, witch, and surely would have pursued you had you not been presumed dead by his hand."

"Then why bother with the boy? I'm the one you want, and I'm right here."

"This is no time for heedless games, witch!" shouted a guardian.

"Take the girl, forget the boy! She's worth more, I'm sure!" whispered another.

"Are you a fool? She's killed thousands..."

"Silence!" yelled the lead Guardian. "We have orders, and we cannot disappoint the King." He looked toward Miraye, licking his lips. "And though your dead body is quite tempting...

"Hand yourself and the boy to us," he gestured to the child, "and she, and her village will not meet the same fate as the towns before us. The burning will end. The suffering will end. Maybe we will even... spare your lives, for a fair exchange." The Guardian's eyes fell downward upon Miraye's body, his lips curving into a terrible smile. "What man would abandon such a... fair exchange?"

"What man," she whispered. Blood sped through her veins to her fingers, the heat of madness rushing through her spine. Visions of that sandy-haired boy shattered before her eyes. Her pupils dilated and irises swirled, shifting colors into a ferocious red.

"What man... " she repeated to herself. She shut her eyes and pressed her fingertips together. The air around her hands appeared to darken and materialize into a red mist. She smiled peacefully, as if in prayer, then let out a bloodcurtling scream.

Eyes red as the sun, she lept onto the gallows platform wielding her scarlet sword high above her head. She lunged at the Guardian, swooping her weapon down upon him in an instant, but stopping just as fast.

The Guardian had pulled the girl in front of him just as she struck, holding the girl as a human shield. Miraye's blade hovered less than an inch away from the side of the girl's wet face. The hilt of the blade remained still in Miraye's firm grip, unwavering, but its tip was hidden deep inside something else. She leaned in toward the guardian and whispered into his ear, asking him his very own question. "What man... would let a child die to protect himself?"

Miraye withdrew the sword from its fleshy hilt. A red stream of blood gushed from the side of the child's face, where it missed her by inches, and landed directly into the Guardian's heart.

"Fool," he whispered.

The Guardian squeezed the child against his bloody chest and threw himself from the platform to the village floor. His voice cracked and gargled as his mouth filled with blood and he screamed his final orders. "Burn... everything... and spare no one."

He pressed the electric staff into the little girl's dress. Holding the girl tightly against him, both he and the girl caught aflame.