November 30th 1440
The sounds of war filled the air, a cacophony of clashing swords, the screams of men and women fighting with the valor of seasoned warriors. Flesh was torn from bone, blood soaking the earth beneath them, turning the soil into a gruesome swamp. Corpses littered the battlefield, flies perching them, some barely distinguishable from the ground they now claimed. Above, even the thunder crashing through the sky was barely acknowledged—merely a sign of a darker force rising, as though nature itself was indifferent to the horrors below.
Far, far away from the war in a remote yet buzzing diner Cleo's eyes spring open. she lifts her head from the table. The weight of exhaustion pressed on her bones. Her brothers, if present, would have scolded her for it. But they were gone—always at war. She tugged the cloak further over her head, its fabric soft and thick, concealing her dark skin and the wild curls of her hair. Her brown eyes swept over fifty men seated around scattered tables, each one stinking of sweat, ale, and something worse.
She had attended the morning Mass, as was her duty, though it was not far from the capital. A journey on foot, yes—she had no horse. The satchel she left behind had, by some miracle, remained untouched. Bags were not allowed in the cathedral, and in this tavern, where she now sat, the men would often make her beg for her belongings. Today, however, she would not need to engage them.
But peace would not last. An arrogant man, gap-toothed and bleary-eyed with drink, stumbled towards her. He grinned as he used the tip of his bottle to lift the hem of cloak, revealing her face.
Cleo's expression was blank, and instead of reacting to his boldness, she rose with quiet dignity, bowing slightly as she stepped past him. "Peace be with you," she said softly, her voice even as she strode out of the unfit establishment, soon she would have to reconsider attending mass solely for the rotten scandals who harass her.
The sun was no longer visible from where she stood, tucked beneath the jagged edges of the rocky plains. The third hour of noon had passed, and her journey had brought her close to the battlefield. The stench of death reached her nostrils, and if she strained her eyes, she might catch sight of him—the one she was searching for. But as she walked, a slurred voice echoed behind her.
"Oi!"
Before she could react, something hard collided with her temple. The world spun as a bottle shattered against her skull, sending her stumbling. She barely regained her footing when a fist slammed into her jaw. The taste of blood filled her mouth as she fell to the ground, her fingers clawing at the damp earth for balance.
Dazed, Cleo gasped for air as she sensed the man's weight bearing down on her, his filthy boots pressing her into the dirt. His hands were rough and brutal, tearing at her clothes, choking her as he pressed his knee into her chest. His lips curled into a lecherous smile as he descended upon her, his breath hot and rank against her skin.
He had his way with her, leaving her bruised, broken, and naked, discarded behind the tavern where no one would bother to look. A dumping ground for trash. He spat on the ground beside her, adjusting his clothes as he staggered to his feet, muttering under his breath about how the quiet ones were always the best.
"Quam barbarum!"
The words sliced through the air, freezing the man in his tracks. He turned to find a figure standing behind him, cloaked in her unsoiled dark blue attire, a satchel slung over one shoulder. cleo. her gaze was sharp, unyielding, and her voice held an unnerving calm.
he turned his head to see the empty space where her body ought to be laying. dead. yet, Her skin glistened like polished ebony in the dim light, and her lips, blood-red, parted in a knowing smile.
"Even as you waste your life as a heathen," she said stepping closer, "I will pray the Lord has mercy on your soul…"
The ground trembled beneath the man's feet. The air grew thick, oppressive, as though an unseen force had descended upon him. His heart pounded in his chest, sweat beading on his forehead as her laughter filled his ears—a sound so dark, so filled with malice, it sent shivers down his spine. His knees buckled as the weight of her presence bore down on him, and his voice caught in his throat.
The last words he heard were a whispered curse as her gaze fixed on him with an unholy light.
"Because I will not."