Slowburn | Enemies to lovers | dark romance | false prophets | Space Opera | triangle | strong femme characters | eventual Romance | Eventual smut |
A desperate Baron.
A yearning Duke.
A woman who weaves destruction with an army of fire.
In the m...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The planet Nimic. Homeworld of the Galicine.
On the cold front of a winter storm, children are born on the precipice of war. They came crawling from the depths of a rampant flame, not babes ready to nurse but fully grown beings with a hunger untethered. No cries harken into the cold dark night to shift the journeys of falling snow. They simply appear, where there is nothing, the Galicine rise.
That is the story that Hawk has been told since she was old enough to make any sense of the words. As the years piled onto each other, to debase fact from fiction grew to be a game.
It is no secret in the far stretches of the universes expanse that the Galicine were creatures more than man. That they tasted the flesh of lesser beings and left civilization's to burn when they proved not useful.
Yet, to watch a man crawl from the fires, take heave of an axe and place themselves amongst a rank, seems unlikely. There are mothers in the warships lower stock that feed children born from their wombs. Fathers watch in stoic apathy as their sons are sent on missions that bare no return.
Nothing is ever born of fire. The flames take with a righteous fury. They do not give, nor feel, or offer life in the form of soldiers or captains.
There is a reason for the story, she supposes. To watch a man burn sort of feels like birth in its own right. The screams, flailing, falling to the snow pack in search of gentle hands to grasp their heads.
Fire is the cleansing agent that tears depravity and disorder from the balance of things. At least that is what Hawk tells herself to make the horrors halt from clouding her mind. After a few moments the bodies fail to emit sound and crack to the earth in a pile of ash. It seems all men die in the same way, with hands clutched to their chests and mouths agape.
I am the sword of the dawn. The echo in the light of dusk.
It was something like that, her fathers last words.
It sounded like an oath, or a prayer. Though, she knew better. The Galicine didn't bow to any gods beyond the ones that they create.
"How's that for a fire walk?" The Corrino general asked. Hawk didn't know his name, they all looked similar with their emerald green tunics and shoulder length hair. His golden mask glowed with the remnants of the flames stealing her father from this world.
"All things must fall to dust," Hawk replied. She could have run into the winter peaks and disappeared, let the GrayWolves tear her limb from torso.
No man is meant to fire walk unless they are already on the verge of death or mental decay. Mikel Tarrat and his generals were in perfect health if you don't consider the hubris that held to their shoulders like a cancerous growth.
"What will happen now?" She asked.
"It is the emperors decision," the Corrino said. "A noble execution, if you're lucky."
Lucky. There is no translation for the word in the Galicine language. There is only: Svillya, to die well.
