It was a dark world she had entered. A heavy fog hung over the scene—a foreign land of flat earth. Shrieks and howls sounded, leaving her skin prickling with unease.
This was not the reality she knew. The reality was her in a white reclined chair, bound tight by ropes, her eyes smothered by darkness, and a struggle against her own magic.
"You know this time period," someone spoke. The voice was slow, each word spoken with deliberateness. A woman dressed in golden battle armor, seemingly appearing from invisibility, walked towards her.
"Who are you?" Astra demanded.
The woman smiled secretively. "You know who I am, but your mind has blocked out most of these memories."
Astra scowled at the avoidance of the question, but it would be a waste of time to think further questions on her identity would get her anywhere. She changed tactics. "Then why am I here? Where is here?"
"Here is the world of ages past. And perhaps one of the future." The woman swept an arm across the scene. "I may only be an illusion of your mind, but I serve as a reminder.
"It matters not how far you run. War is coming, Astreia. And it is coming for you."
•
Crown Prince Antoine Veroa of Auxerre toed the thick layers of ice that covered every surface in the room. Around the black-haired girl, a solid, transparent wall of ice spikes had grown up, acting as both defense and offense for anyone that dared to reach her. The room was quite chilly now, and Anton could see his breath floating in the air as he exhaled.
The powers of the Seam were truly incomprehensible. Yet the toll it took on its host was... horrific. He watched in silence as the girl thrashed, her arms struggling against the coarse rope bindings. Although she'd been unconscious for several minutes now, the moans of pain and fear still escaped her, leaving the room eerie and silent, save for the mutterings of the short man before him.
"Dosage one... " Nigel, the physician his father had promoted several months prior, was scrambling around, balancing quantities of strangely colored liquids while scribbling down notes every few seconds on a ratty notebook he kept taking out of his lab coat before putting it back in moments later, only for the process to repeat.
The three guards that had brought the girl in leaned against the wall. Anton snuck a look at the hulking guard next to him that had tackled the girl. His finger was awkwardly hovering near his nose, and Anton suspected that he was trying to pick at it. How awfully unfortunate. He might've allowed him to do so in peace, if the guard hadn't just tackled the poor girl and then slammed her face into the wall. There was a blood print there now that contrasted hideously with the cream-colored wall behind it. To appease that inner need to dole out justice, the prince began blatantly staring at the guard until he noticed and quickly dropped his hand.
Self-satisfied for the time being, Anton looked ahead at the wraith girl once more. Faint lines of dark blue, perhaps black, had appeared along the veins of her arms.
"What are those?" he asked, pointing toward the lines.
"Oh, simply a side effect, Your Highness. There's not enough research of course—" he gave the prince a pointed look at that "—but I suspect it's due to excess waste product from magic use. Her body simply isn't used to such a large output of magic, especially since we stimulated her with more of it." He smiled faintly.
The prince frowned as he traced the lines on the girl's arms with his eyes. They were reaching down towards her wrists and hands, and up as well, towards her neck, where Anton could see the discolor creeping its way past her collar.
He asked, "Is it permanent? The marks?"
"We'll see, we'll see," Nigel muttered as he took out his notebook and started scribbling again.
He pressed further. "Shouldn't you know? Considering that she's your second test subject?"
Nigel looked up at him again in impatience. Clearly, if he was anyone other than the Crown Prince, the physician would've had him dismissed. "Your Highness, the previous test subject survived three-quarters of the dosage I just gave her—" he gestured toward the girl on the chair "—before his heart stopped. So you'll have to forgive me if I'm lacking in data."
"Then why did you give her more?"
The physician smiled sardonically. He bent to pick up a shard of ice on the ground that lay next to the ropes that had bound the girl and handed it to the prince. Like the ice spikes the girl had summoned, the ice shard did not seem like it would melt anytime soon, and it was clear that this was what she had used to cut her ropes. The shard was perfectly formed—a flat teardrop shape with rounded edges. Anton lightly tapped the point; it was sharp enough to cut skin if the bearer wasn't careful.
"She isn't part of the rabble," Nigel rasped as he scribbled something else down in his notebook. "She's been trained and very well trained, at that."
The Captain of the Wraith Guard took a step forward to question the physician, and the prince took the time to give him a withering stare while his back was turned. "By who? She couldn't be from any of the ice wraith clans; she doesn't bear any of the marks. And outside of the clans, there is no one advanced enough or willing to teach the art of wraith magic."
Nigel gave him a toothy grin. "Isn't that the thousand silver question."
•
"And they call me the death goddess," someone chortled.
The scene had changed. Astra sat in a small grove, luminescent lights floating around within the circular tree line that confined her. Across from her sat a woman with thick black hair in braids reaching down to her waist. Her eyes were black and gold, and a thin silver circlet sat on her head.
"Helleva," Astra breathed.
The goddess inclined her head mockingly. "It's simply hilarious how everyone's trying to pull you in separate directions. I'd think several millennia would have taught them that you mortals are rather fragile."
The ice wraith pursed her lips. "What are you doing here?"
"Still no manners, but it's not like I ever expected you to have any."
Astra bristled, but she said nothing.
"As for what I am doing here, let's just say that I am not at all surprised that she forgot to mention how close you were to my domain." Helleva snorted.
"How close I was... to your domain?" Astra repeated, slightly dumbfounded.
The death goddess waved her hand impatiently. "You're many things, girl, but you're not stupid. You know exactly what I said, and you know exactly what I meant, so quit repeating them while you're ahead."
She knew exactly what Helleva had meant by her domain. Death. The thought hit her, almost painfully, like she'd been slammed into the wall again. She'd nearly died. She'd agreed to help the ragtag revolutionaries, she'd forgotten the consequences after a bat of eyelashes from a brown eyed, eight year old boy, she'd let her pride take over after Riviera's accusations, and... this had been the price. Death. No, not this time, and maybe not even next time—Pascal certainly seemed attached in the worst way possible. But luck didn't last forever, and she knew she certainly had less of it than others.
"You seem conflicted," the face of Death said gleefully. "Do you wish to pass through to my domain after all?" She extended an arm behind her, toward a small entrance that was slowly growing larger as the trunks of the two trees that framed it shifted and twisted outwards.
"That is the gateway to Death?" Astra asked as she gave the area around her another look. It was peaceful, completely at odds with the wrecked wasteland the female warrior had shown her earlier. The entrance to Death itself, however, was pitch black.
"Yes." A smile stretched across her face, making her gloriously beautiful and horrendous at the same time. "You could save yourself a lot of pain if you simply walk through that gateway early. You know that you're cursed with war. And you know that once you're in my domain, I have the power to protect you from the others."
"And what would be the price of that protection be?" Astra questioned, curious.
"Other than your life?" Helleva bared her teeth. "Your happiness—and Aeris."
"I have no claim to that city," she said slowly, perplexed by the request. "But happiness is not something I am willing to give up. If I give that up, what would I care for your protection?"
"Peace," the death goddess groused. "I would promise you an eternity of peace to end an eternity of war."
"Peace without happiness is no life at all."
"I would imagine that is why it is called Death." The gold in the goddess' eyes glittered at her. "What shall it be? An eternity of peace in exchange for your happiness, a life of war, and a city you don't even care for."
"No." Astra shook her head as she eyed that black entryway. It was difficult to pinpoint why she was averse to the idea of crossing over that border. It was not the status itself—death with a capital D. Still, she would have no peace in Death, not unless she ceded her happiness, which she was not yet so desperate to bargain with. She repeated again, "No."
"Foolish girl," Helleva scoffed. "The choice is yours." She waved a hand, and the branches of the trees behind her wove together again until the entryway to Death was no longer visible.
"She was your first warning," she sneered. It took Astra a moment to realize that Helleva was referring to the warrior from before, and the disdain and obviousness made it clear she wasn't going to be revealing the warrior's name anytime soon. "I am your second. Both are warnings to a still yet undetermined end. Your fate flickers in and out every day." She paused. "There will come a day when your fate..." She snapped her fingers. "And you'll regret rejecting my offer." The goddess of death gave her a dark look, the gold flecks in her eyes seemingly flickering out like stars, before she disappeared into thin air.
Astra stared out to the trees on the opposite side of the grove. Goddamn immortals were always so dramatic and dense at the same time. Did they even think through how two warnings given to her in the same span of time were completely redundant?
Two warnings. One a warning of war and that it was hopeless for her to run. Another a warning to her death. Were they so foolish as to think she would quietly and obediently abide by their biddings? Fate wasn't set in stone—if it was, no one would ever try anything. She was master of her own fate, and she'd sooner die than follow the wills of the gods.
Astra got to her feet, dusting the dirt off her hands as she went. She glared at the spot where Helleva had disappeared.
The gods had no say in her fate. Not anymore.