Short Stories

Red Skies

Saoirse swept down the halls of the Berean castle in her mortal body. Such a fragile thing—with skin like the moon and flowing hair drifting behind her as sleek and silent as an ebony night. Fingernails so perfectly shaped, no scars or marks marring her skin. And eyes—smoldering eyes that reflected the power nestled deep within her.

Yes, this mortal body would suffice. Mother would be proud.

Deep in the crevices of this body's mind, she felt the distant screaming of the mortal Witch, like a tiny vibration near the back of her skull. A little buzz. Serilda, they had called her.

They would call her that no longer.

Saoirse shuffled through the Witch's memories as she stepped down the corridors. Forests and people she'd called family. Greed and anger and a driving thirst for knowledge, power—

That had led her on this journey.

This journey to offering up her own body to a goddess. If immortality was what she sought, it was what she got. Forever trapped in her own mind, her own body. Unable to escape.

Saoirse reached wide oak doors, flanked by Witches. They showed no fear in the presence of their empress. They didn't seem to notice to brightening of the girl's eyes.

Saoirse reached out with her endless power, claws of flame tearing apart both of them.

She shredded the Witches into blood and ash, leaving their remains on the stone floor as she pushed past the heavy doors. Serilda's body was weak, though a vessel of power in other ways. Ways Saoirse appreciated more than brute strength others had to offer.

Bright midday sunlight gleamed in the blue sky, showering the city in a golden sheen.

Saoirse soaked in the warmth, the power radiating off the sun giving her pale skin a silvery glow.

The entire city sprawled before her. Awaiting her.

She walked through the courtyard, over the outer bailey. Grass withered beneath her bare feet, leaving gray footprints in her wake. A phantom of silver and fire.

The Witches at the portcullis saw her approaching and began raising it, but they were too slow. The spikes had barely risen off the stone walkway when Saoirse sent a beast of flame roaring through the iron. Melting a wide hole for her to stride through, leaving puddles of hardening gray ore on the cobbles.

She had so much work to do now that she could finally interact with this world Mother had blessed them with.

Now that she'd achieved her lifelong dream before her siblings.

A smirk coiled on Saoirse's mortal lips—the reaction so foreign to her. The emotions tied with carrying herself in a body, hosting a mind. She had prepared herself for the physical movement—walking about, running—but not for little things that came naturally.

Like her fists curling into tight balls as she bestowed the charred apple tree orchard—stumps and blackened trees left behind by that retched Witch.

Kailen.

The bald one.

The idiot one who had accidentally stolen a droplet of the goddess's power when she'd snooped into Saoirse's little pet's shrine. When she'd stared into those powerful, persuasive eyes Saoirse had whispered for Serilda to paint with the blood of a sacrifice.