Children of Fire and Sun: Part One

Prologue: Lysa (Wælgarth)

"Something unholy lurks in the woods. But what is it?"
— Jafar Zaldre, a pilgrim.
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Lysa Trellis was on a fool quest, and she knew it.

She did not know what madness gripped her suddenly, that she ventured out in the middle of the night, armed with only an old dagger and this ancient horse that could barely trot, let alone gallop. Anything could happen to her at this hour of the night. Wælgarth was safe, gods knew that, but men lurked everywhere looking for a chance. She might be a lady, but she still was a woman.

Janus, her brother, called her wild. He would emphasise it with a shake of his head, a hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. Mayhap it was that wildness in her soul that beckoned her to the open that night. A chance to satiate a hidden ache for freedom. Complete, utter freedom. Or mayhap it was a plea for help, a desperate wish to disappear before she could be handed over to the man she was bequeathed to.

And any sane woman betrothed to Lord Edmund Eni would feel the same way.

She gave a bitter chuckle. Here was her dear brother Janus, the epitome of everything one could associate with the word honourable. Then there was his beloved brother-in-arms, his closest companion, Edmund Eni. Eni was a boisterous fellow, with a colourful reputation amongst the population of tavern wenches. Yet somehow he had ensnared her brother dearest. Lysa was here to be the sacrificial lamb, who would solidify their bond, and unite their two houses through holy, nay unholy matrimony, as she liked to call it.

She patted the matted fur on top of the horse's head as it hobbled along the deserted path. "He might as well have married me to you. Say what Wylde?"

The creature gave a snort before resuming its slow walk. The bemused expression on Lysa's face drained with it. No matter how much she jested about the matter, she could not quite bring herself to accept the predicament. Like the said lamb, she had no desire to be sacrificed. But she did not know a way out. It was to marry Edmund or find himself another lord. How was she supposed to tell her brother that she harboured no interest in men of any kind?

That fool will never understand, even if it slaps him hard across his face. She grunted under her breath. A stray tear of frustration escaped her left eye. Yes, she did love her brother, but he angered her a lot at times. Here she harboured desires of being independent, to know love in the arms of a woman, while her brother was set on ensuring that she would remain unhappy for the rest of her life. Did he not see the follies of his friend? Or was her life a gamble to be played with? She wished she knew the answers.

Her dark curls blew in the chilly winds of the northwest. It was dark, a moonless night with clouds so grey that all the stars were blotted out of sight. Despite the fur cloaks that adorned her lithe, agile frame, Lysa shivered. The cold was too much, even for her who was born and brought up in these cold climes. At times like this, she wished she was born somewhere further south, where the sun shone for endless hours and the nights were a comfort instead of being a bane.

But this cold was different even if she did not notice it at the beginning. Neither could Lysa place what felt so wrong. It bit her skin, shearing it like a thousand pieces of shattered glass, before wrapping itself around her bones, asking her to let it all go. To shed these furs and lie down in the cold till she was numb like the frosted dew atop the blades of grass. Her cerulean eyes darted towards the misty path ahead. She could not comprehend much of her surroundings, save for the hoofbeats of her horse, which told her she was on a dirt track.

Patience, Lysa, have patience. She repeated to herself. Just a little more, and before long, you will see that it is over. It could not be much longer now before she would be greeted by the great ash trees of the Æscford woods. She would venture up to the clearing and then be back. As much as she wanted so back to the comfort of her warm chambers, Lysa knew that this could not wait. Not after what she thought she had heard.

A shiver ran down her spine at its very thought.

A year and a half before, Briar, her handmaiden, had met a brutal end after she stumbled out of a window. She was a sweet girl, if not a little stupid. Goose pimples erupted upon the exposed skin of Lysa’s as she remembered the bloodied snow, and how the poor girl's neck twisted like scythes of the North. Briar did not have a close kin who could take care of her last rites. Thus, she was interred by their family in the ancient graveyard within the woods.

Yet for the last month or so, Lysa had heard her. Not in dreams, no. Lysa was not the kind who dreamt, at least not the ones that were coherent or proper enough to be talked about with another. No, each time it happened, she was wide awake and alone. She would hear Briar's voice, soft with a slight rasp, calling for her.

Come to me, my lady....

It was no haint, Lysa had decided. That could not be, for they had taken utter care to make sure Briar was laid to rest with the utmost respect. Janus would have it no other way. Besides, why would a haint wait for so long to return from the grave? Lysa was certain that it was the betrothal that caused her to hear things that were not truly there. Nevertheless, she wanted to be sure. She wanted to see Briar's grave for herself.

At that very moment, the horse halted suddenly, breaking her train of thought.

Wylde went rigid, legs stretched out as if it were about to rear. Lysa gasped, the sound jarring in the quietness of the cold night. This old horse could never, lest he risk breaking his spine in two. It had been years since Wylde had shown signs of sudden tension, such as this.. If anything, this old one was known for being dependable.

"Wylde?" Lysa nudged the horse, but he refused to yield. "Come on, old boy. What is wrong?"

Despite her gentle caresses and soft reassurances, Wylde held onto his rigid posture. A dull fear coiled low in her stomach. What if she failed to return to the castle by dawn? The last thing she wanted anyone to think was that she had run away in fear of being wedded like a coward. Thus, seeing there was nothing else that could be done, Lysa climbed down from her steed to inspect what was wrong with him.

A shudder traversed her entire being as soon as Lysa set her foot down. Lysa clutched the cloak closer to her body. Sharp chills ran down her spine. It was too dark. Nothing could be seen. She clutched the dagger by her side till her knuckles turned white, as a multitude of unseen eyes seemed to trail her from every direction. There was hunger in that gaze, which bored her into being. It was not desire, but a primal want to feed. Whatever was beyond the thick veil that separated them wanted her. It wanted to devour her.

Lysa stood unmoving, staring at the dark. Her body quivered akin to a leaf caught in a thunderstorm. There was nothing in the world that could want to make her go into those woods willingly anymore. She had to return home.

But as she took tentative steps backwards to reach for the saddle, she felt something hard pierce through the back of her head and sink in, hot as fire and cold as ice. Her mouth flew open, frozen in mid-scream. All her sensations were lost in this paradoxical turmoil. The sky above stretched endlessly, unforgiving.

Little had Lysa realised that a desperate wish, made from the heart, is always answered. Sooner or later.

***