The Evil We Command

Chapter 1

Miriam sat on the carpet in front of the fire, toying with the future.

Miriam was a Truthteller - a witch that could see through people's lies, look into the future but could also only tell the truth. It was a gift and a curse, but I had never bothered her because at the end of the day, she was always able to make some spare change to fund her and her dying father.

Truthtellers were extremely rare, and so far she was the only one she knew of on the continent.

"Miriam," wheezed an old voice from a bedroom. Her father. She got off the carpet and padded to the bedroom softly.

"Yes, Papa?" she asked when she had reached the room. The old man was wrapped up in bed. Two blankets covered him, taking him away from the chill of mid winter.

"What do you want, Papa?" she whispered while swiping the grey hear out of his face. His forehead was smeared with sweat.

"Miriam, fetch me some water," he said in barely more than a whisper. She knew what he really wanted, but didn't complain as she left the room to get a glass of water. She filled the glass up and then brought it to his room, but by the time she got there, he was already fast asleep.

I better get some sleep myself, she thought. Tomorrow was a market and she had to have enough energy for that. She slunk to her room, changed into her nightclothes and as soon as her head hit the pillow, she was sound asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The man woke up with a sudden jolt. A nightmare. It had been the same he had had every single night since the beginning of winter. The death of all of his people, because of him. Well, not entirely. It was because of an invasion by the White Wolves, a tribe of savage people that had escaped society and now wanted to bring it down, one person at a time.

A chill went down his spine. His dreams had been true, he had found in previous years, but that didn't mean he was a Truthteller. Truthtellers were hunted down in the twenty-fourth century and any ones that were... There weren't any left, and that was it. It was just a coincidence.

He walked over to the double doors and opened them, nodding at the guards as he passed. "Prince Hemingdale," they said together. He padded softly down the carpeted stairs towards the conference room where he would call up his fellow world leaders and they would confirm his concern: he was insane. Or maybe his other fear that his dreams were true.

He entered the lavish room, grabbed the remote for the screen and aimed it at the dark screen. The streets of New London filled up the screen. Screaming and running in the streets. Blood patterned pavement. Different camera angles showed the atrocities that were happening.

And then he realised. The White Wolves had taken New London.