The Balance (First Draft | Discontinued)

Chapter 1 (Morana)

Morana watched the last of the heretics disappear into the woods, her troops hunting him down like wolves after a doe. She smiled to herself— they had tried to raid Nymlice, expecting an easy victory, but the people of the border town had kept them at bay long enough for her soldiers to arrive. 

From there, it had been easy: she had ordered her soldiers to sweep behind the heretics and trap them between the walls of Nymlice and their rifles. Now there was nothing left of them but their lone runner, soon to be dead as well.

Sure enough, the captain approached her with a small smile on his face. "He's dead, ctihodnyá."

She had to suppress a grin. Good. "Gather the troops. It's time to go."

He nodded once and marched off, shouting to other crimson-clad soldiers. She wore white herself, but regardless of the color, there was no mistaking what they were: defenders of this country, of its faith.

While waiting, she looked around. Nymlice was a typical little town sitting on the outskirts of Moravsko, Morana's home country and pride. Stores and homes surrounded the town square, which had a statue of a man at the center, no doubt a saint. Trees were planted in front of the stores, their leaves fluttering in the breeze, and small flowers sprouted in the cracks of the cobblestone. The church steeple rose high in the distance, shining gold in the early morning sun. She could imagine normal life here— the chatter of neighbors as they passed each other on the way to work, the smell of fresh-baked bread wafting from the bakery, the bells of the church tolling on the hour as the sun made its journey across the sky.

She wondered how many people in the square now worked at those stores, or went there often. Did the elderly woman across from her knead dough in the bakery? Was the young man by the statue a soldier returning home for the first time in years, looking for the woman he loved? How many of them would have died in this attack?

She was glad that she would never know. Luckily for the townspeople, Nymlice had been connected to the wire system not long ago and could send wired messages; without it, the news would have traveled too slowly and it would not have taken long for the heretics to overrun them. They were worse than wild dogs, the filthy, unbelieving—

"All ready to march, ctihodnyá," said Klimy, returning.

She turned to him. "Then let's go."

As they passed through the town, people knelt in silence. She knew it was for her, so before she stepped onto the train, she gave them a small bow.

"They won't forget you, ctihodnyá," Klimy remarked. "I expect they'll write of you in their church log."

"It would be an honor."

The train began to move and a cloud of steam billowed past, carried by the wild winter wind. She watched the snow whirl past them and breathed in the cold, feeling rejuvenated. Her muscles would ache tomorrow, she knew, but it'd be well worth it. It was always worth it.

Leaning back against the wall of the train car, she listened the murmurs of the soldiers. Their voices were low, but it was not difficult for her to them.

One of them, a bit louder, said, "It was much easier than I thought it would be."

The speaker was young, although probably only a year or so younger than Morana. She was sitting with one leg extended in front of her, twirling a strand of pale hair around her gloved finger.