The clash of steel reverberated across the mist-shrouded battlefield. A solitary figure darted between towering cliffs, her scarlet cloak billowing behind her like a living flame. Rain pelted the ground, turning dirt to mud and blood to rivulets as they coursed down the jagged rock face. The sun struggled to pierce the storm clouds above, casting the world in a dim, otherworldly glow.
Lady Seraphael, once an heir to the Duchy of Eilara, now roamed the fractured kingdom as a ghost—no home, no family, only vengeance clutching tight to her heart. Her once-regal attire had been refashioned into something strikingly unorthodox for the warring kingdoms of the 12th century. A corseted bodice of vibrant crimson hugged her figure, the silk fabric shimmering faintly even under the grimy layers of mud and rain. It was a color deemed too bold, too improper for a fallen noblewoman. It marked her as a defiant specter in the eyes of her enemies, and a beacon to whispers of rebellion among her allies.
The rest of her raiment bore the grit of practicality. Over the bodice, she had strapped leather pauldrons, their cracked surface revealing the toll of countless battles. A charcoal-gray tunic extended beneath the bodice, its hem slit for ease of movement, while tightly fitted riding pants, faded black from wear, bore threadbare patches at the knees. Sturdy boots, caked with mud, carried her nimbly over uneven rocks. The crimson cloak, though perhaps impractical for stealth, was fastened with a gleaming onyx clasp at her throat—a remnant of the once-glorious house sigils of Eilara.
She was armed—a deadly blade of folded steel rested at her hip, its hilt wrapped in blackened leather worn smooth by her hand. But it was the curved dagger strapped to her thigh, exposed as she vaulted a boulder, that lent her the moniker whispered both in fear and admiration: “The Crimson Fang.”
From the cliff above, a war horn blared. The sound was unfamiliar—foreign forces, no doubt another mercenary band employed by the usurper King Aventis. Seraphael’s heart clenched. For weeks she had hunted this regiment, rumored to travel with the King’s assassin: Alistor the Shade. A man whose name she spat like venom. The man who had slit her father’s throat and left her brother’s body to rot in their family hall. The man who had stolen her home, her life, her very identity in a single night of fire and steel.
“Seraphael,” a voice echoed behind her. It was young Caedan, the boy who had shadowed her movements since she pulled him, half-starved, from the ruins of a burned village. His flaxen hair stuck to his forehead, slick with rain. His tunic, pieced together from scavenged fabric, seemed two sizes too large for him.
“What is it?” she hissed, scanning her surroundings for movement. The fog clung to the rocks like a second skin, masking everything more than five feet ahead.
“They’ve split into two groups,” he said, his voice trembling. “One’s moving toward the river, the other climbing the western ridge.” He looked at her with pleading eyes. “We can’t take them both.”
She clenched her jaw. It was true. Even with her skill, she could not risk leading their ragtag band of farmers and smiths into this pincer movement. The discipline and numbers of Aventis’ forces far exceeded her own. She turned her sharp gaze eastward, where the mist still swirled unbroken. Escape was possible, but it meant abandoning her quarry.
The ache of indecision throbbed in her chest. Then she exhaled deeply, her resolve hardening. “Take the others to the cavern near the falls,” she said. “Hold the supplies there, and wait for my signal.”
Caedan’s eyes widened. “Wait, but where will you—?”
“Doing what must be done,” she interrupted. Her voice was calm but unyielding. “Go, Caedan. Now.”
Before the boy could protest, she turned on her heel and vanished into the fog, her cape a fleeting streak of scarlet swallowed by the gray void. She moved with purpose, channeling her pain into every cautious footstep. Each twist of the craggy path brought her closer to the ridge the mercenaries climbed, closer to the howl of their foreign tongue and the clink of their iron boots. And closer to Alistor. The Shade.
Her mind raced back to the night it all began—the roaring flames, her father choking out commands through a blood-filled throat, the acrid stench of burning tapestries. Alistor had stood at the center of it all, his presence as inescapable as a shadow at noon. He had worn no armor, only a sleek robe of black that shimmered faintly as it caught the light of her dying homeland.
Seraphael gritted her teeth. The memory was a dagger between her ribs, and she twisted it now, using that pain to sharpen her focus. She crested the ridge silently, crouching behind an outcrop of stone. Her eyes darted to the enemy below—six mercenaries, armed but relaxed, their movements slowed by the ascent. Her heart hammered in her chest as she spotted him: Alistor, clad in armor as black as a starless sky, his dark hood obscuring his face save for an eerie smirk that stretched too thin across his pallid features.
“Breathe,” she whispered to herself. Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her dagger. The rain had slackened, and through the thinning mist, her crimson silhouette would cut through like fire against ash. She would give them no time to react.
With a primal cry, she leapt from her hiding place. The first mercenary’s throat parted cleanly beneath her blade before his shout of alarm could form. Chaos erupted. Shouts, the clang of steel, and the furious hiss of her blade filled the ridge. But Seraphael’s focus stayed locked on Alistor, who had already drawn his curved sword and began advancing toward her, slower than she expected, almost languid.
“So, the little sparrow becomes the hawk,” he mocked. His voice, smooth and cold, carried over the din. “I wondered when you’d come for me.”
“And now you’ll wonder no more,” she snarled, charging at him.
Their blades met in a burst of sparks. Alistor pressed forward with effortless strength, his smirk deepening. “You wear your father’s vengeance like a badge,” he said as their blades locked. “But it’s nothing more than a shroud.”
For the first time in years, she smiled—a grim, fierce thing. “Perhaps. But even a shroud can smother.” With that, she feinted, driving her dagger into his side.
The look of shock that flashed across Alistor’s face was a fleeting but satisfying reward as he staggered back. The ridge beneath them shifted as his weight faltered, sending loose rocks plummeting into the abyss. Seraphael raised her sword high, ready for the final blow, when an explosion of light and sound tore through her senses—a deafening blast she did not see coming, searing the world white with its fury.
When the smoke cleared, the ridge was empty save for one figure. Lady Seraphael stood alone, her crimson cape tattered but still glowing fiercely against the gray, her blade still dripping. But Alistor was gone.
And so, the hunt continued.
The Source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Bold Red One-Piece Swimsuit for Confidence and Empowerment in Minimalist Chic Style
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