VIOLENT DELIGHTS¹ ━━ John Murphy

𝖝𝖎𝖎𝖎: Darkness Rising

𝖉𝖆𝖗𝖐𝖓𝖊𝖘𝖘 𝖗𝖎𝖘𝖎𝖓𝖌

GOLD WAR PAINT claws across her dark skin like blazing hellfire, sharp as knives, shaped like fangs. Deadly and beautiful, alluring and lethal.

Ghost strides across the Moore, his chest inflated. Each step is slow and deliberate. Somehow even he seems to have grasped the gravity of what will take place here today in this insipid dawn. He has been with Glass since before she even was Glass. So perhaps he is so in-tune with her now that he can feel the raw, flame-like consciousness of her emotions, rolling off from her and snarling through the air like chaotic flames. It's a familiar blaze that Glass has kept within for all her years and this bright rage that burns inside her heart is the only thing that has survived all the people she has been.

True to her word, the skies bleed ruby. It is the only red blood that will be spilled today.

You are a god. The memorised mantra slashes through her mind like lightning and she tightens her grips on Ghost's reigns. An emblem of her immortal rage and power. This is what she was born for.

Beside her, on his own steed, Roan is hard-faced. "Do not be arrogant. Remember your teachings."

As if she could forget. This is all she has ever known. Bloodshed. Destruction. War. Power. Allowing the Flame to be her only direction, spinning the compass carved into her bones. Her only breath. All that her tainted black heart beats for. Each hellfire breath in her lungs is for the throne and the crown, to be the Commander, to do whatever it takes, she has no purpose, no worth, no reason to exist at all outside of the Flame and its glory.

In her victory, she will be reborn. Not Holly, not Glass — Heda.

"Don't be afraid, brother," drawls Glass loftily from Ghost's saddle. "After today, everything will change."

Roan looks unimpressed.

Awash in the blood red light of dawn stands Ontari, in the thicket of the trees. Thick black war paint lines her eyes and forms spikes like polished knives above her glittering eyes. Her face is screwed up in determination, her armour glittering malevolently. A single jagged sword is in her hand.

Forming a ring around are the spectators. An ambassador from each clan. Titus towering amidst them like a pillar of thunder, lifting his chin to greet Glass with the most respect she has ever received from him as she drops down from Ghost's saddle. Her boots squelch in the mud. Ghost whinnies once and she strokes the soft fur of his nose as her gaze travels over those who have gathered to watch the bloodshed. It is not nearly as many as who came for Lexa's soulou gonplei against Roan; there had not been nearly enough time to gather the people of the twelve clans for this. No matter — battling Ontari is hardly the blaze of glory Glass had ever wanted, anyways. She will show the twelve clans her worth when she has the Flame.

Clarke is there, her face ashen, worry sinking into her cheeks. She must be the ambassador for Skaikru. Beside her stands John, his pale eyes glittering with something unrecognisable.

Glass tries not to roll her eyes. He'd let himself into her chamber last night without invitation, while she'd been cleansing herself for the religious battle in the bath. She'd barely had time to sink beneath the bubbles before he oh-so-kindly reminded her that this was not his first time seeing her naked. He'd come to wish her good luck, and then promptly asked if he'd be allowed to watch.