The Chronicles of Onyx Book Two - Fight of a Hero

Chapter Eight

Snow plowed beneath Onyx's vengeful strides, each step leaving a creator in the wintry landscape. Her eyes were a blazing gold, fueled by her fury, and her gaze remained fixed onto the path ahead. Her fists clenched at her sides, the knuckles turning a pale white from the intensity of her own grip.

Who was she to be restrained by such weakness? Onyx possessed the ability to fight and it surged through her veins. Like a new weapon begging to be put to use. She was now stronger than she had ever been before. Her power offered no end to the strength and resilience it provided her.

So why allow others to restrain her? She didn't need approval nor permission. She had no obligation to answer to anyone; she was free. Choices were hers to make, whether others approved or not. She never compelled anyone to join her; they were free to follow or stand aside.

But still, there, deep down in the darkest pit of her soul. Something nagged at her. Like a lingering stench.

Guilt.

Her gaze fell back, as a wave of realization washed upon her. What was she doing? This wasn't her like her, to run off alone without a single warning. To feel so much—rage, burning within her.

"What is wrong with me?" she thought harshly as she collapsed to the ground as the weight of her actions pressed heavily upon her. She could feel it now, the darkness growing within her. It clouded her sense of morality, taking over and acting as it pleased. It was as though she had become the shadow to her own mind, a mere reflection of whom she used to be.

"Rok," she cried out softly in the still, winter air. Now it was all she could bring her mind to conjure up. She longed to see Rok appear from the cover of the trees, to hold her in a tight embrace, and tell her it would be fine. To gaze into his kind, earthy eyes, and let them tame the fire in her own.

Yet, no one came. Only the silence and coldness of the winter air to accompany her.

"What have I done?" she thought to herself as a silver tear ran down her reddened cheek.

-ooooo-

Fire danced upon an oil-soaked arrowhead, with the shooters evil, dark eyes staring it down onto his target. Alone and in complete solitude. Perfect.

Sith's golden tusk glinting as he flashed a malicious sneer.

"Try to get away now, little pet," his thoughts snickered, with a sinister intent flickering in his obsidian gaze, as he let the flaming arrow lose.

-ooooo-

Onyx's head snapped up, the stench of smoke lingering in the air, filling her lungs. She rose franticly, whipping back in an instant, towards the direction of the smog. Only to witness the dancing embers of fire. The flames voraciously consumed shacks and forest, turning the trees into towering torches. The once blue sky now obscured by a thick haze of billowing smoke.

Frantic voices shattered the previously tranquil silence, transforming the mortal forms of the voices into those of the most feared hunters—Dire Wolves. Her elven father led them, yet there was an unrecognizable quality in his golden irises: rage.

But there, by his side, stood Rok's figure, a silhouette gradually being swallowed by the approaching flames.