December 3rd, 1440
Cleo had yet to set eyes on the warlock. Either he came and went while she was away, or he had truly vanished, slipping away like a ghost.
"Back to it again, spinster?" came the sharp voice of Maria, the elder wise woman, jolting Cleo from her thoughts.
"I do wonder what has you so lost in your mind morning till dusk these days… though with the influx of men, it's hard not to think one—gruesome and ugly as they may be—has finally caught your eye."
Only a month had passed since the four-year war came to an end. Men who survived returned to wed, to build homes, and start new lives. Yet none who sought Cleo's hand received it.
Cleo laughed, yielding the only seat in the room, beside the window—strategically positioned across from the warlock's lodgings. Maria, cunning as ever, cast Cleo a knowing smile. Cleo caught the unspoken accusation instantly.
"I come here simply because it's far from all the sorrow," she replied dismissively.
Maria folded her weathered hands, lowering her head. "Yes… much sorrow of late. Children buried fathers they'll never meet, still resting within their mothers' wombs." She clutched her rosary, shuddering. "This war, its cruelty—unlike anything we've known."
Cleo nodded, her gaze drifting back to the window, where a broad figure was lugging something heavy in a brown sack. She showed no reaction to his sudden, anticipated appearance. Maria, however, knew better than to leave such things unaddressed.
"I forbid any interaction with that demon and the living," Maria muttered sternly. "He is wicked and should not exist in this world. I pray the lords come to their decision soon and—"
"What decision?" Cleo interrupted calmly.
Maria snapped her gaze up, eyes narrowing fiercely. "You—" She rose from her seat, her long frame towering over Cleo. "Speak not a word of this, or believe me, I'll inform your brother about your fixation on that… that—"
"Demon?"
"That demon!" Maria's chest heaved, her breaths ragged.
Cleo nodded slightly, frowning. "I understand." She was already at the door when Maria called after her.
"I do not want to see you here again. We are wise women; death and sorrow have always been at our heels. God knows I have seen more of it than you in my time."
"And that is why you remain the mother of spinsters."
The chair scraped against the floor, Maria's steps creaking over the worn wood. A cold, wet hand grasped Cleo's shoulder, spinning her around, and the older woman slapped her across the cheek. The pin securing Cleo's scarf tumbled to the ground, the scarf falling across her face.
"I will delight in seeing the punishment your brother has in store for you tonight," Maria muttered with dark satisfaction.
At that moment, Zadarrah stepped out of his quarters. His hands hung loosely in his pockets, observing as Cleo was dragged by her hair back toward the palace by the elder woman. He gave it little thought; he needed someone to clean his quarters, and if Cleo were unavailable, he'd simply have to find another.
The whip cracked across her back with a deafening thud. Cleo knelt, enduring each stroke from her eldest brother, Michael. Her gown was soaked in blood, her fingers bruised and raw from gripping the cold floor.
"Stand up," Michael commanded, still breathless.
Cleo gritted her teeth, her annoyance flaring as she rose to her feet, her dress slipping loosely off her shoulders. Michael's gaze lingered on her body as she stood before him.
"I have nothing but respect and love for you," he murmured. "I expect you to show the same for others. We are all God's creations, and this is but a small reminder of the punishment that awaits should you stray from His commandments."
She kept her gaze averted, her eyes fixed on the blood pooling at her feet. Michael stepped closer, gathering a handful of her hair and forcing her to meet his eyes.
"Your beauty is ethereal," he whispered, his grip tightening, his voice low and dangerous in her ear. "You do not belong in the house of any man who does not know your true worth. I won't allow you to risk the one place you're free to be with me." His grip on her hair hardened. "If I see you so much as cross paths with him, I will lock you in my chambers until your final breath. Do you understand?"
Cleo reared her head back, staring blankly into his eyes. Her defiance was one of the many reasons he valued her above all others, and she understood well enough that he saw her as something beyond a sister.
His hand fell, caressing her cheek in an attempt to soften the harshness of his grip. "You may go," he said quietly.
She stepped aside without a word, moving swiftly toward the door.
"I love you, Cleo," he murmured.
Silence hung heavily between them. Cleo's hand lingered on the handle as she released a silent exhale before stepping out into the hallway. She should find Samuel, her "good brother," the one who loved her rightly and tenderly, as any brother should. Leaving bloody footprints in her wake, she hastened to her quarters, the only sanctuary offering her true privacy.
Once inside, she fell to her knees, whispering, "Dear Lord, forgive me for my transgressions. I act not of my own will but Yours. Let it be Your will, Lord."
Standing, she lifted her hands in an orans gesture, praying, "Our Father, who art in heaven…" now, in that moment She felt nothing wordly—not even the pulsating pain at her back. Most times she felt very little at all.
Her eyes drifted to the window, where, at ground level, she could see the warlock, dragging a corpse across the dry, dusty earth.
Blood still trickled from her fingertips, and she raised her hand to examine it under the moonlight, watching the red glow on her brown skin. Slowly, she dragged her finger across her lips, smearing her blood, savoring the sensation as her wounds healed instantly.
Her gaze returned to Zadarrah. She licked the blood from her lips, contemplating the obstacles that lay between her and the object of her desires. Her lips curled downward as she noticed her missing rosary. When had she removed it? She never took it off; it was her constant reminder, her anchor to her worth as God's creation.
In the darkness, her sharp eyes watched Zadarrah retreat further and further from the grounds, heading to where hounds and pigs where kept likely for them to feast on the body he'd leave behind. She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners as a familiar sensation pulsed through her veins, leaving her blood hot while her skin remained cold to the touch. Zadarrah was divine in his own way, though what could be done for his soul, so surely destined for damnation?
Her smile faded at the dark thought of him suffering such a fate. Lifting her head high, she turned away, feeling the weight of destiny pressing down on her. After all these years, she was certain her life was reaching a crescendo.