Barracks (War of Hearts)

42- Recognize

"Ready for your burial?"

"My what?" Surprise colors my voice. Two men stand behind her, shovels in hand.

I don't like this.

She steps closer, keys jingling. "I'm sorry you won't be their queen." She binds my hands and feet, releasing me from the chains. Magic again.

With one hand, she hoists me over her shoulder.

How much weight have I lost? 

The rain pelts down, blinding me as we come to a halt. The cacophony outside is deafening, and I realize I'm outnumbered—at least a hundred of them, brandishing shovels. Their intent is clear: to kill me, bury me, or perhaps both. The mere thought repulses me.

At the top of several steps stands a post, adorned with winding wreaths of red roses that crumble to ashes as I approach. Beside it, a concrete fountain transforms into a pool of blood. She turns me around, securing me to the post. I'm powerless, my mind racing.

As they catch sight of me, the shovels soar into the air, their screams of excitement drowning out all else. I survey my surroundings, absorbing every detail. I find myself in the heart of a village, poised to become their sacrificial spectacle.

Xavier is my first thought. Is he alive? A question without an answer, one I won't know until I escape. And Aldaire—does he search for me, or does he secretly wish I were no longer under his charge? How far am I from them?

In the crowd, a familiar face catches my eye. He discreetly places a hand over his lips, and I shudder. What is he doing here? He should be on his honeymoon with Emma. His cape conceals his identity, but I recognize him—a knight in disguise.

They celebrate my impending demise, oblivious to his true purpose.

"We'll offer you to him," she declares, "and he'll accept us as part of his family. Then we'll invade the royals and claim what's rightfully ours."

"Give me to whom?"

"Sauron, of course. By presenting you as a bride, we'll gain acceptance in Loui, becoming part of his lineage. We can't simply hand you over; that would weaken our hold on you. But this way, you'll be ours first."

This rogue crowd, homeless even in the outlander's land, puzzles me. Why me? Why not choose another? 

I spit on him. He played a twisted game with me when we first met in that forest, and now he is planning this? "You are a coward, you need all of them to do your job?"

His eyes darken, striking me once more. Blood spills from my mouth, exposing my scent and vulnerability.

"This is our sacrifice!" He raises his hand. "A future royal in exchange for freedom. It will show them that we mean to take the throne. Fire!" His words echo over the cheering crowd.

Not even the rain quenches the flames that consume their torches. Night descends, thunder rumbling like an ominous drumbeat. It's the perfect backdrop for a sacrifice.

"Why are you doing this?"

"It was all her idea, and we reveled in it. You are closer to the throne, and Sauron will delight in possessing what belongs to Aldaire. The queen's broken promise fuels his sadistic pleasure. Chaos is his lover," says the woman, her voice carrying a twisted glee.

Her? If not Lavyrle, then who? Stefani? Yes, it must be her. She loathes me, and there's no reason for Himley's involvement. Stefani made it clear—I was her competition. Perhaps she discovered the truth about Aldaire and me. That means she is covering for her father and fooling these people with me. If I survive this, she'll pay. She'll suffer.

Behind her, Tristan reappears, conversing with another man, stealing glances my way. Safety emanates from him; he'll rescue me.

Their voices swell into a fervent chant, shovels raised high. Nearby, a muddy grave awaits. At least they plan to bury me.

Tristan shoves one of them to the ground, her arm scraped, yet she rises, undeterred. His message is clear: not everyone here is a vampire. They're exiles united against the royals.

"Power!" someone shouts, and they ascend the stairs one by one. My terror spirals; I'm clueless about what awaits me.

The scene unfolds like a dark ritual, a macabre dance of blood and desperation.

Transformation. The word echoes through my mind as I stand amidst this eerie assembly of vampires. Their eyes, glinting like polished obsidian, bore into me. Superior Maximillian's name reverberates—a catalyst for metamorphosis. He turned Tristan, binding them in a way I can't fathom. Now, I'm here, caught in the same position. If that is the case, will I be bind to them?

The first vampire approaches, his movements deliberate. His head tilts, revealing elongated fangs. He pierces his own palm, crimson droplets falling onto the ancient stone fountain. Then, with a cruel smile, he leans toward me. The taste of iron coats my lips as he forces his blood into my mouth. I choke, my body convulsing. The others follow suit, each with their unique rituals. Human exilers murmur cryptic words, their hands pressed over my heart. Other vampires, rebellious and curious, feed on my blood—hungry for the royal essence they claim I possess. The fountain becomes a macabre communion, a mingling of life forces.

Where is Tristan? Panic claws at my chest. I scan the crowd, desperate for his familiar face. But he's vanished, swallowed by the throng. Perhaps he's abandoned me, realizing the odds are insurmountable. I'm insignificant—a pawn in their ancient game.

Then she steps forward: the rogue witch. Her blade gleams as she chants, and her words buzz in my ears, incomprehensible.

He takes the blade from her hand and smiles at me. "You'll be our creation. You'll be ours."

I shake my head, tears blurring my vision. The knife descends, piercing my flesh just below my heart. Pain blooms, paralyzing me. Thunder rumbles overhead, and rain lashes down. My heartbeat falters, and I gasp for air. Transformation commences—an agony that will reshape my existence. As the world blurs, I cling to consciousness, fighting against the pull of oblivion. My eyes flutter, glimpsing the twisted faces of my new kin. 

The chanting ceases abruptly as an arrow streaks from the shadows, piercing the rogue's chest. He crumples to the ground, consumed by an otherworldly fire—a scream that echoes danger. I choke on my own blood, witnessing another fall, the once rhythmic chants now a cacophony of desperate screams.

I fight to remain conscious, my head swaying, balance slipping away. Are they coming for me? Or are they too late? When I awaken, will I be human or monster?

The witch, her power waning, collapses. A swift sword severs her neck. And there, behind her, stands Aldaire. A sob escapes me. Xavier and Himley join the macabre tableau. Tristan remains, a silent sentinel.

"No, no, no. Don't leave me," Aldaire pleads, freeing my hands and feet. I manage a feeble smile. Seeing him before my demise is a gift.

Words fail me; blood spills instead. Fear grips me—not of death, but of choices torn away.

"Himley, swiftly!" Aldaire's urgency fills the air.

She approaches, lips moving in synchronized incantations. Aldaire holds my hand, kisses it. The knife gleams in his grip, probing the wound. Himley's touch fluctuates between pain and healing, her voice fading in and out. Xavier materializes beside me, completing the fractured puzzle.

"Stay awake," he implores, but darkness encroaches. The black blotches expand behind my lids, and I surrender.

In my dream, sorrow dissipates. Happiness envelops me. I linger, reluctant to wake. Here, danger is absent, and self-sufficiency reigns.

"She'll be alright," His voice reaches me, laden with guilt. "I shouldn't have left."