Branded Heiress

The tattoo burned fiercer than the flames consuming the village.

Amaliah clutched her wrist, the scorching sting of the mysterious markings branding her flesh worse than any fire.

But no one rushed to douse the unseen blaze scorching her from the inside out.

Around her, shrieks pierced the smoke-choked air as peasants fled the invading militia. Amaliah's chest was constricted; her family's carriage was trapped amid the carnage.

She sprinted through the chaos, dodging clashes of swords and fallen bodies.

There, the once-polished carriage lay smashed, sundered by a stray catapult blast.

Amaliah's breath seized. Tattered skirts and slender limbs protruded from the wreckage, unmoving.

"Katarina!" She flung herself at the ruins. "Father!"

Her delicate fingers pried at the splintered wood, desperation mounting. What she finally exposed made her scramble back in horror.

Empty eyes stared lifelessly. Limbs contorted, severed. Her only remaining family.....destroyed. The acrid stench of smoke and death choked her.

Just then, an armored figure emerged through the haze, a great sword gripped tight.

Amaliah shrank from his imposing visage as he ripped off his helmet, revealing a face that could have been carved from granite.

"You..." she breathed, recognizing the man.

He surveyed the destruction, his pitiless obsidian gaze finally falling on the shattered remains of her family..... and her. A cruel smile carved his lips.

"What an ill-omened bride you'll make."

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Amaliah's crimson eyes glinted with cruel amusement as she approached the big, scary-looking building called the Basilica of Perdition, the headquarters of the kingdom's most ruthless cult.

How fitting their vile temple would bear such a foreboding name, she mused. To others, it looked like a normal temple.

But Amaliah knew better now. She was no longer that naive, ill-omened bride destined for misery, chuckling at her former delusions of being rescued. Tonight, she was the nightmare.

Cultists shuffled about the basilica's entrance, clearly gathering for some unholy celebration.

Amaliah's lips curled. Let them rejoice while they can.

As she staggered towards the yawning doors, her wrist tattoo burned brilliant crimson, matching the eerie red light in her eyes.

A rough hand grabbed her shoulder, spinning her around.

"You have no business here, wench," a grizzled custodian leered, hot breath issuing in putrid bursts. "Leave now, unless you wish to sa--"

But his vile words stuck in his throat with a choking gasp. Amaliah's burning stare locked on him. His bulgy veins stuck out as horror filled his wide eyes. With each rattling inhalation, his life-force drained, flowing into Amaliah's being.

Finally, he dropped down a shriveled, ashen corpse with empty, hollow eyes.

Amaliah breathed in delight, refreshed by his stolen vitality. No more stumbling.

Straightening up, she strode confidently to the basilica's doors, her power both a curse and thrilling gift.

"Tonight, will be most entertaining," she purred. 

Amaliah kicked open the basilica's doors with a manic grin. "Honey, I'm home!"

Cultists turned in surprise, their sickening chants dying on their lips.

A beefy thug in ceremonial robes stomped forward, cleaver gripped tight.

"You have no place here, witch! Begone before I split that pretty skull!"

"Ooh, big guy likes to make threats!" Amaliah batted her lashes. "But does he have what it takes to follow through?"

The brute charged with a guttural roar, raising his blade. Amaliah merely tsked, her eyes flaring brilliant crimson.

With a subtle hand gesture, invisible forces detonated the man's head in a pulpy crimson spray.

"Guess not." She snickered, flicking away a chunk of grey matter. "Who's next to entertain me?"

Panicked screams erupted as cultists scrambled for weapons and scattered in blind terror.

Amaliah laughed delightedly, striding between them as her victims dropped like flies.

One foolish woman brandished a dagger, slashing in desperation. Amaliah caught her wrist almost tenderly. "Now, now... let's play nice." She squeezed until bones crunched, flaying the skin from the flesh in one vicious tug.

The shrieking wretch collapsed, clutching her mangled forearm as Amaliah casually licked the bloodied skin from her fingertips. "Delicious!"

With a contemptuous flick of her wrist, a razor cyclone of energy sliced those nearest into ribboned chunks.

Gore splattered in messy profusion as severed limbs and viscera rained down in dripping heaps.

"Oopsie!" Amaliah tittered. "I got a bit carried away there!"

Wading through the fleshy detritus, she fixed her crimson stare on the remaining terrified cultists cowering before the dais.

Amaliah's gaze alone drained the life from their trembling forms like a whirlpool of vitality pouring into her.

Wrinkled husks crumpled, voices catching on their last rattling exhalations.

Finally, only the robed high priest remained, gaping in horror at the massacre as Amaliah stalked up the steps. She grabbed the front of his robes, hauling him close enough for their noses to brush.

"I hope you've been a good little cultist," she purred. "Because it would be just tragic if you missed the encore."

The old man's jaw unlocked in a silent scream as Amaliah's power exploded, transmuting his ancient form to ashes that scattered on the unholy winds.

With a contented sigh, Amaliah plopped onto the high altar's throne, surveying the sea of butchered remains that had once been a vile cult's inner sanctum.

"You know, that was exactly the kind of cathartic bloodbath I needed!" She grinned, kicking her feet up on the gore-slicked stone as she lounged back. "Any of you, ungrateful heaps, want to offer acknowledgment for the quality entertainment?"

Silence, save for the soft patter of fluids dripping from walls and ceilings in a grotesque percussive rhythm.

"Tough crowd." Amaliah smirked, resting her head against the throne's backrest as she awaited whatever damnation - or salvation - would come next.