The Balance (First Draft | Discontinued)

Chapter 12 (Morana)

Morana watched as frost crept across the window of the train, her knees tucked against her chest and her eyes half-closed in fatigue. It was only at Pevnost Dukovníka that she would be safe again, so she'd pushed her soldiers to the brink in order to reach it. They were all slumped against the sides of the train car, utterly exhausted by their run from the woods of Riken to the nearest Moravský border town.

They were not too exhausted, however, to throw the occasional resentful glance her way. She could feel their eyes on her, as unnerving as having the barrel of a rifle on her. She knew she had let them down, not only for forcing them to abandon their captured comrades, but also for not having the bravery to tell them that the mission had failed in every aspect.

Coward, he'd called her, and he'd been right. Rather than die fighting like a proper soldier, she had played the frightened hare and run.

Coward.

She was so tired... so tired of it all. She let her eyes slip closed.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

"Ctihodnyá." A voice, low and hesitant, broke through the veil of her dreams.

Morana bolted upright, heart pounding with the staccato beat of a military drummer's tabor. The snow— the blood-tainted snow— him—

It isn't real. It isn't real. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down. It isn't real.

After a moment, she said, "What is it?"

There was a slight tremor to her voice, but the soldier didn't seem to notice. "We've arrived," he said.

Equal parts relief and dread filled her— here she was safe from Aleksander, but she had to face the commander. Had to tell him that she had failed. Had to tell him that she had run.

Rovnováže, give me strength, she prayed, and stepped off the train.

It was bitingly cold outside, the wind screaming like wounded soldiers and the sky the same dull grey of an old bayonet— harsh and unwelcoming, not that she deserved a welcome. The snow crunched under her boots and she flinched at the sound.

Her soldiers turned right, heading toward their barracks, leaving her alone to go to Pevnost Dukovníka. It was a fortress steeped in history— those weathered, sandy-pale stones had survived centuries, and they would continue to do so for centuries after her. The pitched rooves of the towers had been discolored by time; some were reddish-brown while others were grey. The walls were pockmarked by arched windows and cannonball shots from older days, but it still stood strong and always would, even when its inhabitants could not.

Normally, the sight of it was as comforting to her as a warm blanket, but this time, her feet dragged and she could hardly look at it. Hesitantly, she pulled the doors open and stepped inside. She knelt in front of the icon of Saint Janek, the youngest to die in Aleksander's massacre, and felt the tears begin to well as she murmured an apology.

Morana, Rolan, and Ivo had been old enough to witness their first true battle on the night of the massacre, but only she and Rolan had gone— the commander had deemed Ivo not yet strong enough and said that he would be sent the following year. They had gone with Anděl that night, gleefully watching as the heretic town burned, but that excitement had faded once they had returned a few days later. It had been completely silent as they'd stepped off the train, and the commander had been waiting for them there, his face unusually solemn even by his standards. He had directed them toward the church, and they saw it: twelve shrouds laid out side-by-side, dying sunlight filtering in through colored glass and painting the silk in pale hues.