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WHEN IS A PERSON, A GOD?
ONE YEAR AGO
THE GIRL WAS NO SAINT. Most importantly, she had no plans of becoming a martyr on her way to godhood.
More an executioner than a lamb to the slaughter ― Anya's hands were wet and reddened by blood, the murderous crimson so deep and encompassing, it was difficult to imagine the girl would ever manage to wash the color off of her skin.
It haunted her every time, the possibility of being marked as a sinner for the rest of her days. She used to believe in the illusion that the dark taint would stay with her, to serve as a reminder and force her to understand life's merciless nature would never let go of her. She didn't give into it anymore. In her life, Anya had gotten rid of those dark, red stains enough times to know that in the end, they always gave way to soap and water. She didn't owe the world any memories.
The coastline was scattered with lifeless bodies, the blood seeping from their wounds was becoming one with the ocean water that reached the shore. It was all quiet on the narrow expanse of sand ― were it not for the corpses serving as evidence, no one would have suspected a slaughter had taken place mere minutes earlier.
The pragmatist in Anya uttered profanities at the fact that no one was even going to pay her for all of that work. Her clothes were black, so the crimson stains wouldn't show easily, but that didn't make wearing them feel any less disgusting. She'd have to wash the blood out of the fabric later that same day, or the smell would become almost impossible to get rid of. At least if this had been a commissioned murder, the money would have sweetened the troublesome experience. That wasn't the case, though ― as with all actions motivated by the barely-standing human conscience and nothing else, her only reward would be going to sleep that night without being ripped apart by the fangs of guilt. That went a long way these days.
Anya manouvered between the dead, making her way across the coast while keeping up her guard in case anyone else had been hiding in the shadows of the wide cargo ships moored in the abandoned harbor. She was absent-mindedly repeating the words of an old prayer from bygone times in her head ― Anya never really believed in Saints, but her mother had been a devotee and she'd taught her daughter the words of every invocation a good, faithful child should know. Years later, the ghost of that past life kept following Anya, making her bless the men she killed with one meaningless May the Saints receive you after another. Saints wouldn't be able to do much for these ones, at this point.
Not that the likes of these people deserved any mercy, in this life or another.
After the creation of the Fold, Ravka saw barely any sea-based trade ― if any of it was happening, the shipments were delivered to and set off from the newer facilities, farther north along the sea border.
