The Balance (First Draft | Discontinued)

Chapter 15 (Morana)

Morana stood outside the council room. There was a meeting today, and she hoped that they would allow her this time. And so she had come, ready to put all of their doubts and misgivings about her firmly in the past... but the door was blocked.

"You're to wait outside." The commander folded his arms, muddy-green eyes narrowed as he stared at her impassively.

Her eyes widened. "But I—"

"Outside," he enunciated. And with that, he closed the door in her face.

Morana couldn't tear her eyes from the spot where he'd been standing. They think there's a possibility that you are the traitor, Ivo had said. The commander had thrown her out of the last meeting, but she hadn't expected him to do it a second time, not truly. She set her hand against the door, letting her fingers trail lightly down its surface, before sighing and turning away.

If she hadn't failed—

But they had to know that she would never betray them. They had to.

Head drooping, she left. The gas lamp above her guttered, casting shadows on the wall as Morana trudged to the dining hall. The commander had told her to wait outside, but she was not a child to sit with her ear pressed to the door, hoping for scraps of information. She could accept this with the little dignity she had left, but some part of her couldn't help but think that she shouldn't have to.

She had failed. She had run like a coward, and the weight of that had seeped into her bones and made her feel as if she were burdened down with the plate armor of past centuries. But this... to take this away... You should be in there with them, Morana thought, sparing one glance back toward the council room. But she wasn't, and she refused to wait for them.

She could feel the heat of the flames in the fireplace as she entered the dining hall, hear the crackle as the bark of the logs was devoured. Someone had tossed pine needles into the fireplace, and the scent— fresh and soothing— permeated the room. A warm glow from the fire washed over the wood floor and stone wall, creating a dim yet comforting atmosphere.

One long table stretched almost from wall to wall, light shining off its dark oak surface and making some of the crevices and chips appear darkened. Morana ran her thumb over a gash at the head of the table. Supposedly, Jozef the Warrior Saint had driven the point of his sword into it, fed up with the ceaseless bickering of military strategists and decorated officers who had never actually set foot on the battlefield. He'd outlined his own plan and enacted it within the week, leading to one of Moravsko's largest military victories in history.

At the table now were the six children, all too young to attend meetings. The days of government men and women were long gone, and instead of military documents, the boots of a small, sandy-haired boy rested on the tabletop.

Morana sighed. "Antonín, take your boots off the table, please."

He looked up, dark eyes gleaming. "Morana! Is the meeting done? Are you going to kill heretics? Can we go? Please, I can do it—"

She laughed, sitting down next to him and moving his boots back down to the floor. "Maybe in a few years."

She didn't want to tell them that she hadn't even been allowed past the door— didn't want to tell them that her own mission against heretics had ended with a frenzied retreat back across the border. Perhaps it was cowardly of her, but she just wanted to be free of the weight, even if it was only for a little while.