Random Short Stories

The Eagle's Hatchling [🪽]

(Fun Fact: Did you know Eagle Ra actually had a son?)
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The wind howled a mournful song through the jagged peaks that guarded the Valley of the Northern Kingdoms, a melody of solace that echoed in the heart of Eagle Ra, the deadly leader of the Golden Rose Cult.

The tabby was curled in her nest, a tiny, downy form lay nestled against her, its chest rising and falling in the rhythm of its first soft, gentle breaths. Her son.

For countless moons, this moment had been her sole focus, a flickering flame of hope in the bleak landscape of her cult's own brutal existence.

Her own birth had been a silent scream, a desperate plea amidst the carnage of a brutal power struggle. She, the sole survivor of a battle-hungry queen's brood, had been raised with the stench of blood and the echo of battle cries in her ears.

But now, as she gazed at her son, she felt a tremor in her heart, a flicker of a feeling foreign to her – a yearning for something more, something much gentler. A flicker of hope that perhaps this time, the cycle could be broken.

Yes, having a heir to continue her legacy would be good. But would everything really be worth it?

"You will be strong," she mumbled softly to him, her voice rough with unspoken fears. "Stronger than all the others. Welcome to the Golden Rose Cult, Olive." The days turned into weeks, the weeks into moons. Her son, whom she named Olive, grew stronger with each passing day.

His eyes, glinting like polished obsidian, reflected the light of the cavern's fire, his claws, sharp and gleaming, a testament to his lineage. He was everything she had hoped for. Yet, even as he grew, so did her unease.

The Golden Rose Cult, her tribe, was a brutal tapestry solely woven from savagery and violence. Every day, she witnessed the merciless slaughter of the sinned and the damned, the frenzied feasting that followed, the scent of blood clinging to the air like a shroud.

She had never known anything different. This was the cycle of life she had commanded her loyal followers into, the brutal reality of their existence. But now, looking at Olive, she saw a reflection of her own fear, a fear for his future, a fear that this cycle, this brutal dance of survival, would consume him as it had consumed her.

On one day, after a brutal hunting, the Cult gathered, their feathers ruffled with anticipation, their eyes burning with the potent, never-ending hunger for flesh. They gazed at her, waiting for her signal so they could eat.

Eagle flicked her tail, and the air crackled with a primal energy as they descended upon their prey, tearing through flesh and bone with a savage ferocity. Olive, young as he was, tried to mirror their fervour. His eyes, filled with a kitten's innocent wonder, held a glint of curiosity and hunger.

Eagle felt her heart ache. Her son, he was not like the others. He was gentle, caring, his laughter a sweet melody that contrasted starkly with the cult's harsh, guttural roars. He cared for the wounded, he protected the weak, he displayed empathy and compassion, qualities that were deemed second-place to bloodthirsty hunger in their tribe.

Every passing day, her unease grew. Her tribemates, her pawns, followed about their routines. They praised her, they worshipped her as their divine goddess. But she didn't care for that.

She cared for her son.

Eagle knew she had to act. She couldn't let him be consumed by the darkness, couldn't let him be stained with the blood of his own kind. She couldn't let him turn into the monster she herself had become.

Her resolve hardened. She would take him away, to the Guild Of Freedom, where he could learn a different way of life, a different freedom.

The decision tore at her. She couldn't bear to part with him; her only child. But her love for Olive was stronger than the calling of her Cult's bloody ways.