Chapter 1: The Burning

Anaya

Anaya had not been lucky enough to become a prisoner of war for the Northern side that supported Dermnith; instead, she watched her home burn from the back of a rebel caravan.

They had come so suddenly; like rain on a sunny day.

At first, only a few were running out of the forest screaming a war cry; then, there were fifty strong men wearing the same face paint. Anaya was behind her home, picking the weeds that grew among the flowering plants of the early summer. She dropped everything and ran as fast as she could; when she got to her sister, she didn't stop but grabbed her hand and dragged her along. Their mother was inside the house, waiting with a pitchfork in hand. There was not even time to warn the other villagers before they had broken down the house's back door.

They didn't stop; they just ran right through the house, lighting it on fire. It was quick work to gather the other villagers, some tried to put up a fight, but the peaceful village was outmatched.

As they were dragged through the city, she could not even raise her voice to help. She watched as the men tried and failed to protect their children. The warrior men ran their long blades through anyone who seemed like a threat.

Soon the smoke clouded her vision. She had to look away when the lumber mill boy was killed. She remembered being sweet with him and secretly hoped he would ask her to marry. She couldn't think of that now.

Her family was the first to be thrust unceremoniously into the prisoner carriage. She could only watch the other being hunted from the window. As more came in, she could only hold them close.

For a long time, the world around her lay still in smoke, and then suddenly, they were moving. No more war cries or crackling of the fire, just the creaking of wagon wheels and the huffing of horses.

She watched the world she knew fly by out the prisoner carriage window, iron bars obstructing much of her view. To her left, her sister curled into a ball and cried and whimpered about how tightly the ropes were around her small wrists. Anaya knew better than to cry. Her father had died many years ago, and she had cried all her tears of self-pity then.

To her right, her mother was attempting to test the strength of the door, but it was locked with an iron bar. Other members of her village filled the available space—all women and children.

"We must be strong," Her mother said after another vain attempt.

"Where are they taking us?" the tailor's daughter asked; she had not seen her father's throat slit in the town square, but Anaya had witnessed it all.

"I thought the rebels did not take prisoners, only supplies," Hilfer, the town guard's wife, muttered, no longer trying to peer outside but having resolved to sit and stare at the floor.

Hilfer had been one of the only people in the village who actually seemed to care about politics outside of Kosha; her husband was required to stay informed about the growing conflict between their neighbors in the east. Anaya herself had only heard good things about the kingdom of Dermnith. It bewildered her that there was even a rebel force. She had not been aware of the other villages similar to Getheral that had been ransacked and emptied of all supplies. Now it made more sense. Kosha was neutral. Throughout the war they had refused to choose a side.

Getheral had burned like a leaf of paper in a bonfire because of it.

"Let us pray to the gods for guidance." The priest's daughter spoke up and folded her blood-soaked hands in prayer.

To Anaya, the gods of the ancient past were more myth than reality; some still believed that they protected the mortal world. Despite Anaya's feelings, she pressed her hands together in prayer. She prayed that the bird gods in the sky were looking down on the survivors of the village and would protect her sister. In a moment of weakness, she wished that she had not survived the attack. If only she could have died like her father.If only she had been a hero and not a prisoner of a war she knew nothing about. In a fit of rage, her mother threw herself against the door. "Let us out, you pigs!" She pounded on the door with her tied fists.

Anaya joined her and threw her shoulder into the wall. The other girls began to shout as well, bold energy coursing through them all. The wagon ground to a halt. Over the screams, Anaya heard the bolt of the door slide open, and a rebel who wore face paint and brandished a sword opened the wooden cage door halfway. He thrust his weapon forward, forcing her mother to scramble backward.

"What's the fuss?" the rebel asked. He smirked in a way that made Anaya shutter. She instinctively covered her sister with her own body.

"We demand you let us go; we have no part in your war with the north." Her mother spoke without any waver in her voice; only a cool calmness that Anaya had come to trust and depend on.

"You do now. All of you are being taken to the Rebel base of Fernases, and we need more labor so our soldiers can prepare for battle."

He looked at them all; his sword lowered to his side. Anaya thought for a moment that they might be able to take him if she could catch him off guard. Even if they did manage to overtake him, there was still the army waiting for them outside. No. Better to bide her time. She had always been good at watching. She was a quick study. She would wait until the time was right.

"What of our men? Have you recruited them as soldiers?" Hilfer asked. The rebel shook his head no, his hair falling around his eyes, making him look like a creature of smoke.

"No, they are all dead; you are all that remains of Getheral." He stepped out of the carriage and bolted the door behind himself. His eyes pierced through the window. "I suggest you all behave yourselves…we don't want the people of Getheral to go extinct, do we?" He laughed, and the wagon jolted forward again, sending several of the women off their feet and crashing into the ground. It had to be a terrible mistake, some form of terrible dream.

‘It is a punishment from the gods,’ Anaya thought to herself. ‘I am being punished for not believing in them.’ She pressed her hands together again, pressing her forehead into her hands. "Spare my sister," she whispered. "Kill me if you want, but spare her. She is just a child."When Anaya opened her eyes again, she was still in the prisoner's wagon, and she was still far from home.

Anaya wore what was left of a long robe; her dark hair was braided and wrapped tightly around her head. Strands of hair had escaped and clung to her face, glued there by terrified sweat. Her dark hands still had dirt under the fingernails from the field moments beforehand. Now her hands laid tightly wrapped in rope and sat very still in her lap.

She tried to remain alert, but soon the day turned into night, and she could no longer smell the burning of wood. She was lulled into a fitful sleep, her arms tightly around her sister and mother. She dreamed of smoke and haze, but out of that darkness came an even darker creature. It had feathers like the old gods, and it, too, looked covered in ash and smoke. Although she should be afraid of this being, she felt no fear but rather a deep longing to be closer.