The air was thick with the scent of burning timber and blood
The lumbering clash of swords echoed against the vast expanse of the Carpathian Mountains. She moved through the chaos like a phantom—silent, swift, deadly. Her black leather jerkin hugged her torso, its polished surface catching the dim flicker of torches scattered across the battlefield. Beneath, a soft gray tunic, coarse but warm, clung to her skin, its neckline peeking above the high collar of the jerkin. Her slate-blue trousers, their fabric rough and functional, were tucked into knee-high boots caked in mud and dark streaks of gore. She carried a satchel on her side, its leather worn and stained, but it held something far more valuable than gold or silver. In her hand, a gleaming blade flickered—light as air yet tempered with steel forged in ancient fires.
Elara Kyros, the last of her line, surged forward. The man before her didn’t even see her coming. Her blade whistled through the air in a perfect arc, finding its place beneath his ribs. His gurgling death cry winded toward the stars as she pulled her weapon free and pivoted, her sharp green eyes scanning for the next enemy. The gods would not save her tonight; they would only bear witness to the blood she spilled.
The backdrop was both majestic and haunting. The gray-black peaks of the Carpathians loomed, jagged like the teeth of ancient beasts, their edges swiftly disappearing into a swirling mist that encased the forest. Torches burned fitfully against the wind, their light bouncing off blood-soaked banners bearing the sigil of the Eastern Legion. The clangor of battle rose and fell like the tide, yet Elara moved within it as though it were mere noise, her focus unshakable, her movements methodical.
“Elara!” a voice screamed through the din. She whipped her head around, hair a dark cascade tied loosely with leather cording. Through the haze, she spotted him—Cassian Varro, his bronze armor dented and stained, limping as he made his way toward her.
“Do not falter!” she called back, voice sharp as the blade in her hand. But her resolve had nothing to do with fate. The balefire lantern she carried in her satchel was all that mattered now; it was what they’d come to claim, and it was what she had sworn to protect.
And then, in a flash of memory that struck her mid-charge, the battle dissolved into images washed in sepia tones. She was back in the quiet monastery where she’d sworn that oath just two years prior. Her jerkin replaced with a soft gray cassock, and her satchel once filled with mere herbs and prayer scrolls. Brother Gregor’s words echoed in her ears even now, though the sound of steel on steel attempted to drown them out. “Hold the light, Elara,” he had said, his eyes heavy with knowing sadness. “It may be all there is when the darkness comes.”
The Eastern Legion had burned the monastery to the ground, tearing through the holy walls as if they were made of parchment. But Gregor ensured Elara escaped with the lantern, a relic with whispers of untold power, and though she’d never dared ignite its flame, she knew the legends—the fire within could summon salvation or scourge. It was now her destiny to determine which.
A sudden blow brought her careening back into the present. Her ribs screamed in protest as she stumbled but remained upright, blade drawn to parry the next strike. Cassian was by her side now, panting. His weapon was nearly shattered at its hilt, yet his eyes burned with the same fiery resolve as hers.
“We can’t hold them much longer,” he growled between breaths, teeth gritted tightly. “Do it, Elara. Light the damned thing!”
Her hesitation was not born of cowardice but of fear for what would follow. She slipped her blade back into its sheath and gently clasped the satchel. The leather was warm against her skin, almost alive. “If I fail, Cass… if I lose control—”
“Then we were already dead the moment we marched into this hell.” He clutched her arm, pulling her closer. His golden eyes seemed to pierce the fog at the edges of her mind. “But if there’s even a glimmer of a chance… take it.”
She nodded, her breath shallow, heart pounding against an invisible cage in her chest. Without another word, Elara pulled the lantern from its protective wrap. The metal was ornate, forged with veins of silver and black obsidian, and as she raised the small glass panel to ignite the wick, an unseen force trembled in the depths of the air, as though the mountains themselves had shifted to witness her next move.
Flame burst to life, but its light was not ordinary. A brilliant, otherworldly azure light erupted, consuming the immediate darkness in a spherical wave. Time itself felt suspended. The soldiers of the Eastern Legion froze mid-stride, their limbs twisted by the stark blue glare. The once-opaque mist now swirled with flecks of golden stardust, and Elara felt its power coursing through her veins like liquid fire.
But it was not mercy that possessed her. This light was her weapon. Her reckoning. With outstretched arms, the force within her pulsed outward with a scream—an aching roar that seemed to tear open the sky itself. The Eastern Legion was obliterated in concentric ripples of blinding energy, leaving naught but ash and silence in its wake.
When it was over, Elara collapsed, the lantern falling heavy from her grip. Cassian caught her before she met the scorched earth, his trembling hands cradling her shoulders.
“You held the light,” he murmured, his voice almost a whisper.
But Elara’s lips moved faintly, her green eyes wide with the knowledge of what she had just unleashed. “The darkness…” she started, before her voice broke. “What have I done?”
Above them, the mist began to coalesce into a shape—something vast, ancient, and wrong. And as the first tendrils of shadow slithered toward them, Elara understood her awakening had brought more than salvation to their world.
Genre: Dark Fantasy
The Source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Sleek Black Leather Jacket with Gray Turtleneck, Blue Jeans, and Handbag for Urban Chic Fall-Winter Street Style
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