War In Embers - A Lycans Story

Prologue

 There was no scream, or weepy plea for life. Mischa smiled even as her lifeforce drained from her body. The blood pooled in the hollow of her neck, gushing down to paint the white snow red. The last of her strength held her hand steady against the back of Kiril's head, keeping him there in her embrace.

—

"Cull the meek," was all he said, those rough Russian syllables biting the air and sending a chill down her spine. The blade was cast down- ancient stone stained red with the blood of dozens of others who came before them.

Vsevolod, her eldest brother, dove for it as it hit the powdery snow. For a boy of sixteen, he was well built, and strong. Mischa was smaller, light on her feet, and slippery. She slid across the snow, the needling cold preying on her bare feet.

Her hands reached the knife before his, but he grabbed her by her hair and pulled her back. She heard the tearing of the strands and her own skin as her scalp tried to free itself from her skull. Her teeth squealed as they gritted together and she wrenched free, feeling the blood of her torn skin wash down her back.

He growled low in his throat, and she felt the air being sucked out of her lungs. It was like all the life in the world was being drained. All of its energy. His form waivered like an illusion of water on the horizon.

Their father's bark rang out across the clearing, "Vsevolod!" For once, she was grateful for the intervention- she had not yet reached an age where she could shift, unlike her brother. She stood no chance of wresting the knife from his control if she were to face him down in that form, and his sharp teeth would cut faster than dull stone.

At their fathers warning, he shook himself, letting go of the fistful of hair he'd been clenching. His face went blank, and then he flashed a brilliant smile at her. "Go on then sister, try your best to kill me."

She wondered then if he was too far gone for her sacrifice to make a difference. If his heart was already made of stone and ice. But it was too late to go back on her plans, and she wouldn't give him or their father the satisfaction of fighting a losing battle with him.

The last rays of sunlight broke through the trees and slid across the frozen lake as she turned her back on him. Instead she faced her two other siblings- one, she shared the womb with. The other, she would die for.

Mitroshka would never forgive her for not giving him a last word, but she had no time. He would have to come to understand that though they entered the world together, they wouldn't be living in it or leaving it in the same manner. The heat of their fathers eyes were on her as she turned instead to Kiril. Little Kiril, who, though being born a year before her, remained small and sickly. He was a sweet, mild mannered boy.

He was the one father wanted to die.

Mischa approached him, and she saw how he wavered. Tears built in his eyes, but he sought to be strong, and did not let them fall. His head dropped as she took her final step.

The blade was oddly warm as she flipped it in her hand, hilt side to her brother. "Take it," she said softly.

His wide gray eyes darted up to her, and his mouth opened with an objection that didn't come out. "Take it," she said again, voice still barely above a whisper. She saw out of the corner of her eye their father standing at the edge of the bleak clearing, watching expectantly. He couldn't see the knife.

Kiril reluctantly obliged, holding it loosely in his hand. She watched his grip tighten in a knowing fear as he looked up at her.

She smiled at him, and threw herself onto the blade.

Mitroshka screamed out behind her, lurching forward towards them as if he could undo the damage with sheer will, but she raised a wobbly hand that halted him in his steps.

Her body slumped forward, the blade tearing upwards through her stomach. It burned like nothing ever had. She tried to speak, but agony had her in its stranglehold, and she didn't want to give their father the privilege of knowing how much it hurt.

It didn't last long, though. Her body was already beginning to grow cold and numb.

"You're the only one who can finish what I started," she fought to get out. It was a relief, finally letting go of these words that had been trapped in her chest for so long.

Mitroshka she loved, but he was too prone to anger. To sinking to their fathers level out of spite for her. And Vsevolod- he was a mirror image of their father. Strong willed, and manipulative. Dangerous even. Perhaps different enough to turn a new leaf for the family, but not someone whose purity she trusted.

It had to be Kiril.

The blade wedged itself upwards into her ribs, and she spasmed in Kiril's thin arms. Death was coming for her, just as she had made it come for their lovely, pathetic mother only hours prior.

Fear overtook her as her vision filled with dark spots, but she kept the smile plastered to her face. It would all be for nothing if Kiril came to fear death.

She spit out her last words on her last breath. Selfish words.

"Forgive me."