sanctuary | on hold indefinitely

prologue

She didn't want to watch the bodies burn, so instead she watched the glowing embers dance against the pitch-black night. She was still near choking on the rancid smell of burning flesh. 

The group laughed maniacally over shrieks of agony until the sounds merged into one constant, high-pitched hum of white noise that rang in her ears so that she wondered if she would ever hear silence again. They were applauding as though they were taking in a show. Their actors were corpses of festering skin and charred bone, their stages stakes with rope tied around, connecting wood with lifeless hands. Only their heads were visible in the darkness, disembodied like pale balloons floating behind the flames, wearing sickly grins as they untethered themselves from their strings.

She wished that she felt shocked or disgusted. The first few times, she had. Now, she felt nothing at all.

"Come on, Devan," a silhouette shouted in her ear, intertwining her dainty fingers through hers. The sharp stench of alcohol laced her slurred words. "Dance with us."

She pulled her around the fire as though it was some sort of ritual, stumbling awkwardly as she tried to dance to the sound of death. Only when the flames flickered against her, illuminating her in their orange glow, did she recognise who it was. Her sister.

Farah was grinning, clutching a bottle of beer in the hand that wasn't holding hers. Her dark hair was tangled and matted, sticking to her face where sweat had gathered. Her black eyes glistened as she glanced at her between sways.

"Why aren't you dancing?"

Devan didn't have an answer, so she snatched the bottle from Farah and gulped down the remainder of its contents. It was warm and bitter and she felt every moment of it slipping down her throat. She could taste the other thing in it, too, the thing that was far stronger than beer or any other alcoholic beverage: the thing that left a metallic aftertaste that reminded her of blood.

She threw the empty bottle on the fire—on the bodies. Her sister cheered and grabbed her other hand.

"That's more like it," she said, dancing again. This time, Devan joined her, waiting for the buzz to fill her head with something other than this. As she moved, something caught her eye: a hand had escaped the flames and lay atop the burning wood, close enough to touch. On its pale, bloody wrist, an outline of a shield was tattooed in thin black lines.

It was the last thing Devan remembered seeing before the night truly began.