She stood before an old door, damaged by the elements. The bottom resembled strips of torn dirty fabric. She breathed in and stretched her arm to open it. Her fingers encircled the cold rusted knob. She squeezed it tight and even tighter. Finally, she turned it. She flung the door like a child who expected a harsh cane at the other side. Fists clenched by her side, she stood and waited for it to come. Then it did. The harsh dry wind grasped her flimsy nightdress in a brief moment and let go. The stillness surrounded her. She gasped for air. A chuckle escaped from the darkness that stared at her. She stiffened. It was sonorous like a father's lullaby; it cloaked darkness still. Her right arm instinctively went to cradle her swollen belly. Her other fist clenched tighter, her nails sinking deeper into the soft flesh.
"How are my children?" came the sweet song.
"Alive," the trembling woman answered her head bowed in fear.
"Make merry, my queen. Are you not pleased? Two daughters for you to groom and a son for me to train,"
"He would make a lovely heir, my lord."
"He shall rule like a proper king but be an emperor."
She raised her head, "An emperor? But you have no empire."
"Blind woman. I rule my people and we rule man," its voice sharper now.
"Take my hand," it said.
Her arm left her belly and reached for the hand that was dust then smoke then solid flesh. She gasped as it pulled her in and howled in pain as invisible hands came upon her. Almost as quickly, the darkness spat her out. She landed with a rough thud. Hot tears beneath her eyelid boiled with her hatred and anger. No. They will not fall. The door shut noisily. She unclenched her fist. A new round of cuts glared at her. Red, raw and glistening with blood.
YOU ARE READING
Generation
FantasyFreya and Harper Peirce are the only heirs to the empire governed by their mother. An empire of creatures that have haunted the dreams of mankind for eternity. An empire of Nightmare. The girls have been turned since birth but they are just the firs...
