They cannot be the only ones left.
There must be more.
There must.
Frantically, I scan the area, looking for any other signs of life, but all I see are raging flames, devouring everything in their path. The smoke thickens, making it even more difficult to breathe. I tear a strip of cloth from my sleeve and tie it behind my head, covering my nose and mouth.
A faint cry drifts on the wind, reaching my ears. I pivot, desperately searching for its source. My eyes burn as I dart my gaze to the right, revealing only burning buildings. Swaying, I raise a hand to my abdomen and look again and spot a small child trapped under a pile of debris.
Without a thought, I rush forward and dig through the rubble, my fingers tearing at the wood, broken pottery, and stone. Tears stream down the boy’s dirty cheeks as he looks up at me, his lips trembling.
“Mama.” His entire body trembles as he sobs. “I want Mama.”
“It’s all right,” I whisper, my voice low, soothing. “I’m going to get you out of here.”
My muscles strain as I lift the heavy stones and beams. Finally, I am able to pull him free, my arms wrapping around his frail body as I pick him up and carry him. He clings to me, his tiny fingers gripping my surcoat. I rub his back, my heart breaking at the thought of how close he came to perishing.
Who could have done this?
Why would they attack innocent people?
It is every bit as senseless as the attack on Tarra. But this is not the work of the Malachites.
In my nightmares, I still see their flags impaling the villagers. And Praxis’ desperate cry, as he holds his dead wife in his arms, still pierces my ears.
I will those memories away. It will do me no good to dwell on them. They only feed the darkness, those shadows that scream for vengeance for these people.
Olah, help us all!
Please help us.
Please, I beg you to take away this hatred, this senseless killing.
When I reach the outskirts of the village, still carrying the boy, I find Everly comforting a sobbing older woman. A small group of survivors huddle near them, their faces tear-streaked, and their eyes wide with fear. One of the women steps closer and holds out her arms for the boy, who readily goes to her.
“We must move,” I say firmly. “We need to find a safer place upwind from the fire and smoke.”
I don’t wait for them to comply. Everly and I walk, and they follow, as if that is all they are capable of right now.
My long surcoat trails the parched ground as I scan the horizon, taking in the red sand and the lack of trees. I recognize this desolate land from when the Hematite tribe held me captive a few summers ago. But these villagers are different. It’s clear from the coat of arms on their surcoats. Instead of a red phoenix, they have a silver one.
For as long as I can recall, I have heard of the hostility between House of Silver and House of Crimson, how they slaughter each other. No other tribe has the same kind of civil conflict.
As I tend to one of the wounded, a young girl, who is no older than seven or eight, I think about her future. How her life has just begun, yet she has been seriously injured, and without proper treatment, she may not make it through the night.
I grit my teeth in frustration. We may have saved a few people today, only to watch them die of their wounds tomorrow.
We are helpless.
Iam helpless.
I have no magic to heal her. No resources to help these people. I might as well be a slug.
Everly tears strips of cloth from her surcoat to use as makeshift bandages. No matter what life throws at her, she soldiers on.
Like Kahlia and Kassandra, Everly is a bright light in a dreary world.
I join her, doing all I can to alleviate the suffering of the wounded, even though our efforts are thwarted by lack of supplies. We have no herbs, no clean water, not even enough fabric for bandages.
