Seven Witches

eighteen

Hera;

Hera's back ached from standing straight for too long. The commander of the armies was inspecting the batch, his hands behind his back as he eyed each and every soldier. "Head up," he nudged one man on the chin, striking his knees so that he'd stand better.

When he stopped by Hera, he ran a look from her toes to her head, and then clicked his tongue. He felt around her arms, shaking his head. "You're too weak,"

She felt his words sink to her core, unable to talk back to him. After the inspection, the commander left with no further comments. The men sighed and resumed the daily training and she joined.

Ivan was by her side immediately, looking at her arm. "I think you need to start building muscle, before you really get to hold weapons."

Hera nodded, noticing the new clothes he wore, the fresh smell of soap on him. The two trained until afternoon, Ivan yelling instructions and Hera struggling to follow. "You shouldn't overwork yourself, if you do, you might end up unable to move your arms the next morning." He said when she tried to lift a pair of heavy weights.

Lunch passed in a blur of sweaty soldiers and dry food. Hera devoured her plate, convinced that if she ate more, she'd become stronger. After the meal, she bathed in hot water. Ivan had always reminded her to ensure it was hot, or else her muscles would clench.

She was done from everything by the time the sun began setting, deciding to visit Paul before the clock struck midnight.

As she headed to kitchen to ask for Paul's whereabouts, she had earned herself a view long gazes from the kitchen girls and boys. She hadn't been back here since her recruit, had recognised some of those who watched her walk with her red cardigan and army boots.

Hera waved to those she remembered their names but they didn't wave back, had most likely not recognised her at all. It did not matter, she needed to talk to the cook.

Cook usually worked hard after lunch to prepare dinner, cutting onions, pealing potatoes, all sorts of work. Hera would sometimes help her and earn herself some buttered toast. So when she asked to speak with cook, the younger servant girls scurrying away, she was surprised to have found her frowning.

All her life, she'd never seen cook mad. She only stared at her furious set of brows, wondering if she had wronged her. "Hello," she said softly.

The cook only pressed her lips together, taking in the military uniform and the bandages on her arms. "What is it?" she asked firmly.

Hera swallowed. "Are you mad at me?"

She put down the cutting knife she had been using to chop some lettuce and stared at Hera as she said, "Of course I am, and I'm sure a bunch of us are too." Somewhat, Hera had already known the reason behind that.

She looked away, not wanting to hear the words she was sure were about to leave her mouth. "Where is Paul," Not a question.

"How old are you? Seventeen? You think it's so smart of you to throw away your youth." Her voice was harder than she'd ever heard it, more hurtful.

Hera closed her eyes, "Where is Paul?" she repeated, unable to look into cook's face.

"And for what have you done it? The money? The power? The dignity?"

"Please I don't want to hea—"

"Tell me why you left with no word to nobody, why you made such a foolish—"

"Because this is who I want to be!"

The entire kitchen went quiet, looking at the two of them. Cook shook her head, the wrinkles around her curling lip more pronounced than ever. "Paul's in his room, leaving soon to buy some spices." She resumed chopping, eyes darting between her and the lettuce. Before she started to head out, cook gave her a wary look and spoke softly, "Don't lead Paul on if you plan on dying soon."