Beneath Dark Skies

Moth to A Flame

"My son,

If I do not make it out, you must. Remember who you are. Remember what our name truly means. ..."

Kay's fingers traced the letter's worn edges, not with sentiment, but with the cold amusement of someone dissecting a memory like it was a corpse on a slab.

"One day, you will make them pay for what they've done."

He folded the letter.

Then, with a flick of his wrist, he sent it spinning into the nearby flame.

Sentiment was a chain, and Kay had no interest in being shackled.

Unfortunately, some wounds were meant to fester.

His eyes shifted to the grand ceremonial hall, the light casting long, jagged shadows over a sea of fresh recruits. Faces. Names. Bodies.

Unimportant.

He looked just for her.

Skyleen Winters.

A slow, dark smile spread across his face.

It was never about her.

And yet — she will never escape me now.

Kay licked his lips and tilted his head just slightly, watching her like she was a spark and he already smelled smoke. When he moved, it wasn't steps. It was inevitability.

Oh, how he had waited for this moment.

Revenge.

He laughed softly.

Yes.

Revenge.

His favorite pastime.

***********************************************************************************************

The hall was too bright, too grand, too suffocating, the light seared into my skull, bouncing off the marble like it had a personal vendetta. My shoulders stiffened, breath caught somewhere between too shallow and not enough.

I stood at the edge of the room, back straight, my expression carefully neutral.

A Winters is not seen, my father had always told me. A Winters commands.

But right now?

I didn't feel like I commanded anything.

Suddenly, the atmosphere flickered. Like the room glitched for half a second and decided to obey a new rule.

I forced myself to turn slow, reluctant, like I already knew exactly what I'd see. I didn't want to. But something inside me sharp, loud, and not entirely sane screamed: Look at me.

So I did.

And there he was.

Kay.

He moved through the room like it was made for him, like the rest of us were background characters he hadn't decided whether to keep or discard.

 As for me? He'd toss me without blinking, leave me buried, then deliver a monologue about the justice of it all.

I could imagine people clapping and silently agreeing. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if he had a cult, just for the fun of it.

His uniform barely passed for military: coat unbuttoned, collar skewed just enough to make the whole thing feel like a mockery of discipline. Faint greenish veins pulsed along his jaw, vanishing beneath skin too flawless to be real.