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Center of Kurat City


Her little girl was dead

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Her little girl was dead.

Over the years, Taria had heard horrific stories of fellow Sisters of the Congregation who had suffered the loss of an offspring- some had been debilitated by madness. But Taria hadn't expected Kenit's absence to cause pain so profound.

To think that up until that morning she had been glad to have marked her daughter at birth...she had held onto it as the only way to feel her presence even after Kenit abandoned the sacred principles of Fate to join the army.

The void that would inevitably come had seemed far away, but it was here now. As soon as the door shut behind Genul, she fell to her knees, her breathing laborious and chest heaving. Kenit's absence gnawed all over her body, like a knife incessantly digging an abyss in her, causing pain that was diluted everywhere, yet nowhere precisely.

How she had underestimated Genul all this time...Contrary to her assumptions, he had accepted to be the target of the forces of order to save Kenit. She realized now that perhaps he was even more determined than Kenit ever was, and Taria pitied him for that.

Now, it was Taria's turn to act. As a Sister of Fate, she had the duty of stoicism no matter the adversity. But she found herself whimpering despite herself, though she remained dry, no tears coming out. Right now, all she wished was for the army to enter the room and execute her at that very moment.

"It's not over," she told herself. She grabbed her kerchief and wrapped it around her hands and she prayed. "Because the Congregation does Fate's work on earth, Fate will be on our side, too."

With the kerchief wrapped around her fingers, she found the strength to stand. And she looked straight at her daughter and swayed a hand, opening her fleshpaths.

Her years in the congregation had made her a messenger between the underworld and the upperworld, not a bloodshaman. Her roles consisted of retrieving Oluva from the underworld to open soldiers' fleshpaths, sending demons back to the underworld, and rescuing people unrightfully sent there. But today she needed to touch not only blood but human blood. No need to overthink it, she had made her choice the day she marked her daughter at birth, twenty-six years ago.

She pressed her hand and the blood inside the flask budged and the recipient spilled part of its content: a scarlet trail curled around itself to form a sphere that floated before her, between her and her daughter. She spread her fingers and the sphere of blood parted into three spheres.

"Myrta, I hope you are ready." She hardened her fists and the spheres of blood hit her body like arrows, at the top of her head, at the back of her hands, and the middle of her chest. Blood irrigated her fleshpaths. Her eyes rolled as the power spread through her, connecting her to the underworld.

She opened her eyes to the darkness. Around her spanned black dunes of layers of decomposed souls. A light breeze brushed across the ground, sending thick trails of thin black particles floating in the air like ash. Snarls, rattles, and cries echoed from the distance, but there were no demons nearby.

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