Constantine (Daughter of War #1)

Prologue

The recurring term 'Pst.' throughout the story is to be read as 'Pietist'.

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Lady Marcella Rutherland's people had come to see her child die.

Weak winter sunlight glinted off the gruesome structure erected in the centre of the town square. Branches as thick as thighs were bound together to form a pyre. Motionless, she just observed the various expressions of the townspeople. The wind cut into her bones, despite her being clothed in a warm, woollen dress. Her mind went numb, unable to absorb the full impact of the situation. Hysteria gurgled at her lips—everyone was so eager to see the burning of a helpless child.

Absurd, yet terrifying.

The baby in her arms clawed at her, bawling its pathetic little lungs out. She grasped its fat little fingers with her long, slender ones. The baby gurgled, ceasing to wail. Marcella smiled a mirthless smile. How could she betray one so innocent? How could she do this? How could she condone with this blasphemy?

But it had to be done.

One of the townsmen threw a lit torch into the pyre. The flames licked up the wood immediately, transforming it into a demonic chasm ready to devour anything in its path. An orange wave rose towards the sky, inducing gore-hungry bellows and ward-evil prayers from the crowd. Marcella stifled a sob.

The bishop, with his voluminous robes threatening to swallow him whole, adjusted the ridiculous-looking hat perched atop his balding head. Clearing his throat and flipping a copy of the Manuscript open, he mumbled for Marcella to begin her part in the ritual. With a deep breath, she closed her eyes and began to sing:

"For when a daughter of war is born,

A sign that the great land will be torn,

One hero will ride through the night,

An epitome of shadows and light..."

It was amazing, how the prophecy that damned her child to burn was so hypnotising. Beautiful, uplifting, haunting. The words wove into her soul, as though she were a part of this treacherous, bewitching song.

Disgust clawed at the back of her throat—and it was for her own self.

No backing out now. No backing out now. She chanted the words over and over in her head, the only phrase keeping her anchored to the world. It was the only thing that kept her from screaming and fleeing the scene. The only thing that kept her from attempting an escape to a better world, where she and her child could live without fear of being hunted.

Stop this. Stop these perfidious thoughts.

She continued to sing. Marcella managed to pick up the faint yet precise words of the prayer conducted by the bishop: "May Heaven's curse be upon thee, worm. Thou spawn of the Devil. May a thousand wounds be inflicted upon thee, so that thy sins might be forgiven. May thou find peace, lest thou riseth from the grave to haunt innocents once more..."

You let a thousand wounds be inflicted upon yourself, and see if you can preach any longer. The venom in her accidentally slipped out. Not again. Do not think.

Instead, she concentrated on her surroundings. She felt them—the judgemental glares of the people. They probably thought that she was the Devil himself, for giving birth to this child.

So be it.

Marcella felt her husband looming behind her. She could taste the apprehension laced throughout his muscles on the tip of her tongue. He was probably worried for her. She then realised that she was swaying unsteadily on her feet. Marcella steeled herself—she couldn't afford to show weakness. Not now. Not when the crowd's focus was pinned upon her.