sincerity immortal

The Wraith

The spring is bright and cool and clear as Aaryn squats at the shores, leaning toward the water. The surface breaks. Rippling reflections fill his hands. His own face, again and again. He rises. He wipes his mouth. The water stirs with an image, a face echoing — not his own —

He turns.

A tall woman with hunting leather, engraved wristbands, a single gloved hand, watching him. A lifted collar, confident shoulders. Hair blacker than he's ever seen. She contemplates him. A calm stream of examination flows down him, head to toe.

Black ink rings her throat like a chain.

The water ruffles as Aaryn's wings arch out behind him, staining the pool in a thousand colors. His fangs jut out and he makes a sound like burning acid. The woman's face is expressionless. Impassive to the threat display. She inhales slowly.

Aaryn edges his foot backward, toward the water.

"I won't hurt you," she says.

Aaryn stares.

"You're in danger," she says.

Aaryn lowers his wings, slightly, to cue his attention.

"The Royal Guard is pursuing you. Any moment they'll—"

The woman's head turns like a predator that's caught a scent. At her hip gleams a sword, black as blood. Her hands are long, with one stuffed tautly into a leather glove. Her fingers tense.

Aaryn tracks the woman's gaze. The forest sits, frozen. Shadows, stillness, nature uninterrupted. Then the shadows shift and out of the trees a man steps forward. Sunlight falls on him. On his shoulder, a gold royal crest.

"Good work, Ria. You've found it," he says.

And Aaryn is puzzled. But his hair bristles, like he knows something without knowing it. His fangs moisten, coating themselves, his senses alerted by some subliminal danger.

Three more guards — four — five — emerge from the forest. Modest armor covers them. Silver with gold royal crests. From their backs and thighs hang scabbards and blades. One guard reaches to his hip where a mass of ropes dangle. He hefts the ropes from their clasp. A net-like weapon loosens at his feet and thuds with metallic density. Iron spheres weigh down the lead points. The ropes undulate with every motion passing through his hand.

The guard hoists the net. He begins to spin it. The spheres whistle with speed, accelerating —

Aaryn flares his wings, tall, wide, stiff as bone. Blood flushes through their webbing, dying the wing-flesh. Violent colors set them ablaze. He hisses and flashes his fangs.

"Grab it! Avoid the venom—"

The woman unsheathes her sword. She brandishes it like a needle, elegant with precision. She lunges, quartering the net. The metal spheres thump and roll and settle, inert.

All turn to the woman, surprised and then betrayed. The guards yell, fuming, and, one by one, collapse, brought to their knees by the black-blood sword which shines wickedly.

Aaryn lowers his wings. He watches as the woman defends him, indefatigable, keeping the guards at bay. None can penetrate her field.

The spring is bright and flat and serene, and the sun beams down, plastering shadows to the grass. The guards halt and they stand still and watch the woman with their shadows completely motionless under them, and the woman watches them too with their shadows pasted like mud on the ground. She calculates their breathing and their foot-weight. A few moments pass with only the shadows shifting by the movement of the sun.