Doe

  1.5

  ???

  Death did not claim Persa.

  Pain, however, had her in its cruel embrace.

  Pain is good. Pain is life. Pain is good-

  ?

  She felt as though someone had shoved hot coals into her chest and let them simmer.

  -is life. Pain is good. Pain is life.

  A part of her did not, could not, believe that she was cognizant enough to draw on those old lessons. Basic training for the field, where she and her peers were forced to sit against walls for long minutes, carry large bundles up steep hills, and endure drippings of hot wax along their bodies.

  To teach them. To harden them under the Empress commands.

  She hated it then, even though she loved the Empress for her concern. Hated it now, even as she used it to iron her will and force herself back into focus.

  Pain is life. Pain is good. Pain is life. Pain is good.

  The weavings in her frock coat had saved her life. Every Honored Mask was given their uniforms and mask with their ceremony, woven of the finest materials that the empire had to offer, second only to the personal guards of the Empress herself.

  Armor, however, was outdated. Muskets had already found scattered use by previous iterations of mankind's kingdoms, both against each other and against gorgon threats, and the strongest had endured by advancing on that knowledge.

  It was a dark bit of history as the Empress did her good work, knowing how many misinformed or corrupted marksmen's lives were wasted in resisting her uplifting grace.

  Time had changed. Armor was no longer able to protect the lives of her agents and missionaries. And so she had dedicated artisans, mathematicians, scholars of all sorts into mastering the powers of the heavenly Glare.

  Now there were entire Blessed assigned to spend their gifts on empowering the new armors of her Honored Masked, weaving in the powers of a Glare into the very material of the fabric and mask itself.

  From the lessons she remembered, this was an arduous task, with a Blessed needing years of skill and days of imparting their Glare. Only the most talented of Honored Masked could do so to the tools of their choosing.

  Another reason that Sabra was so terrifying.

  I can hear fighting, was the next connecting thought. Sabra was slaughtering more of the cultists, most likely.

  How long had she been out? Not that long if the screaming was any indication.

  She almost managed to convince herself to lay there, unmoving, and pray for Sabra to handle this terrifying mess herself.

  Praying won't do me any good. The eye of heaven has closed by now. The Dark and Deep rule this world now.

  Yet that was not true. The Empress still reigned and Persa was her lash. One of many, true, but still with a purpose.

  Pain is good. Pain is life. Pain is good.

  Without any courage in the act, Persa roused herself slightly with the mantra.

  She could hear voices, now that she was focusing.

  "-not stopping! She's killing them up there!"

  "So don't be a fool and make things worse! Grab the Chronic, get to the cellar, and we go!"

  "S'not right, Mari-"

  A hard slap, loud enough that even over the screams of the dying and gunfire from a floor above, Persa could hear it.

  "I will kill you if you say anymore, do you understand me?"

  Another slap, just as hard.

  "Understand?"

  "Yes'm," the gruff male voice said.

  "You, child."

  "Y-Yes?" It was the masked woman who had stopped her fellow cultist from killing Milian.

  "You were quick with orders. I like that. You aren't from a lash I've seen, are you?"

  "No ma'am! From-"

  "Don't say anything further. The Oidan might not be completely unconscious and the Chronic is listening. I will set up preparations for the cellar, you will take the Chronic outside."

  "Ma'am! I mean uh, may I make a request?"

  A body fell from the top floor and crashed into the stairs with a horrible sound akin to dropping a heavy tome atop dry leaves.

  "Quickly," there was a dangerous tone to that single word.

  Of course the heretics would threaten to murder their own. They are a traitorous sort.

  "Please allow a small handful of us to remain behind and rally any other survivors away! The rest go with you!"

  From higher up, "Bullets don't work?!"

  Another cry of pain followed that.

  "There won't be enough men around to rally," the woman said. "And it may tip off the Aisan. I prefer to level it all and collect their eyes in the aftermath."

  "T-Then I cannot follow you."

  A moment of silence.

  "I take it back, child. I don't like you. Die here as you see fit. You will have little more than a minute once I reach the cellar. Men? To me."

  The tromp of boots on the hard floor followed.

  "Not many of us left," a new male voice said.

  "Don't get too close to the stairs," the man who got slapped said. "That Masked is flickering about and with all that smoke, she's gonna be looking down here if they don't keep her busy."

  "I don't want to leave anyone behind," the girl said.

  They began speaking amongst each other. Coming up with ideas to signal a retreat and repeating concerns about the cellar.

  What is 'Mari' going to do? Set fire to the whole building?

  Persa chanced a slight turn of her head, her hair muffling the sound of her mask against the floor.

  Milian stood amongst monsters in human skin, the hand of one of the taller cultists keeping a firm grip on his shoulder. They seemed to be ignoring him for now, and most of their backs were turned to Persa, including the man with the scatter gun.

  The Chronic had boasted about training in knife fighting and gun use, but from her perspective Milian looked like a very scared boy, surrounded by murderous heretics on all fronts.

  Even if they knew better than to kill him, that did not necessarily mean he was safe.

  There was something there, looking at this poor boy, that sparked a memory in Persa. She could vividly remember a woman who looked so much like herself, older, leading her by the hand to blindfolded women.

  Persa could remember that woman kissing her forehead and promising to see her again, leaving her in the care of these strange women with piercing eyes decorating their cloth, one's bony hand pulling her away from the woman.

  The young Persa then had cried and begged for her mother, calling to her back as the Honored Masked walked away from her. Grief at her mother's abandonment.

  It bloomed inside her, looking at Milian right then and there. A deeper, more visceral emotion than her fear of being killed by lunatics.

  It was not grief.

  Hate.

  The feeling enveloped her, replacing the blood in her veins with fire, and she felt like she could rip a man's head off if she was able to get her hands around their throat.

  In the back of her mind, she knew that it was a false strength. She was just a normal woman after all.

  Besides, she had people to do that work for her.

  Sabra was still busy with the fight above, though there hadn't been any gunfire in long moments. Perhaps this bottom floor group were the only ones who had firearms remaining.

  That, or Sabra had successfully killed any who were proficient with them.

  She needed to move. Not because of any rational decision to act and remove the threats, to help Sabra, or even - in her heart of hearts - save Milian from his abductors.

  It was that hatred of the cultists. Their arrogance in striking at her and in turn striking at the Empress. She who reigned as humanity's greatest hope. Who had vanquished armies of the Dark Deep and reclaimed kingdoms lost to the gorgons.

  The Empress and her temple had been the ones to protect Persa, and now they strike at her?

  Persa slowly brought herself to a leaning position, focusing intently on the killers. The scum.

  Milian saw her, but didn't react. He was well trained.

  Rise.

  Her glimmer brought the dead into existence. Of the six people down here, half were shadowed by the dead.

  All of them looked at Persa with hungry eyes. They could feel the intent in her gaze.

  Fall, she thought, and let her Glare reach out.

  There was no right way to describe the transition. Not as though they stepped through a door. Nor as if they were once shadows and now were not.

  It was instant and powerful. A gasp that one might have mistaken for the shuddering of air, if not for the very human tremor that echoed around them.

  The young girl was first to notice, by dint of her ghost - a large man with gunshot wounds to his chest and face - grabbing her hair and slamming her face into the railing. It was enough force to shatter through the wood and toss her beyond the stairwell.

  Out of Persa's view, and thus, the dead-man vanished from existence.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Chaos erupted as the remaining dead went to work.

  "Thrice eyed-" One man's curse was cut off as the ghost of a man in a foreign military uniform pulled out a small knife and jabbed it into his gut. The man went down in a cry of pain, but had the skill to take hold of his sudden attacker and drag the dead man after him. It became a brutal wrestle that Persa made sure to keep in her vision.

  "No no no no," one of the younger voices said. His voice was cracking, a boy on the verge of adulthood. He went to the fallen man's side, trying to pull the dead man off.

  It would do him no good.

  "Gwyn!" The man with the scatter gun cried out to the girl who had been launched through the railing, only to stumble as his own dead attacked. A child wearing winter clothing, not a single injury to be seen, had tackled his leg and was biting at his thigh furiously.

  He shook off the child, turning and aiming the weapon-

  And froze at the sight.

  "Crys? Cryssy?" His voice was high pitched, wheezy. Shocked.

  The big man had no time to react before a dead child leapt at his arm, pulling down the scatter gun. The round went off, blasting a hole into the wooden floor and sending a wave of shrapnel in every direction, his own compatriots crying out as they were perforated.

  Persa's mask and jacket glowed as faint eyes weaved around her and strong wind pushed aside the worst of it.

  "I can't get him to stop!" The boy cried out, throwing punches at the dead soldier. He pulled out a knife and started stabbing at the corpse. "Help me! Help me for the Empress's sake!"

  "Do not dare," Persa said, rising to her feet. The man with the scatter gun was holding his dead 'Crys' at arms length and the boy was busy with the corpse slowly killing his companion. Only two people noticed her as she spoke again, "Keep the Empress out of your filthy, heretical-"

  The bigger of the two charged her while his compatriot began to work a box and chain, the same kind for creating the smoke.

  Oh. They had figured out she was using a Glare.

  And I still haven't drawn my gun. Persa you imbecile.

  Sabra appeared in a rush of ringlets, thrusting one knife into the neck of the charging man, the force taking him off balance in a blood-gurgling scramble. She freed the knife just as he tripped over his own feet, barely sparing her next target a glance before she flicked the blade out.

  The weapon took only a hand-span's distance from her fingers before eyes weaved over the metal, followed soon by white rings, and the blade vanished from existence.

  A dozen or so feet away, the knife reappeared in another group of rings, flying true into the gut of a masked woman trying to swing a smoking box on a chain. Not likely fatal, but enough force and pain to have her crumple to the ground, tool dropped and forgotten as she wailed.

  The dead began to rise around Sabra, and Persa was quick to avert her gaze, inadvertently freeing the man with the scatter gun.

  Empty of ammunition, he was quick to back pedal to his compatriots before she could reassert her Glare. He and the boy brought the wounded companion up to his feet, moving each other away from the front doors.

  Persa's Glimmer had just summoned the 'Crys' and dead soldier when Sabra snapped her fingers, "Stairs. I'll clean this up."

  Let me, was the first thought Persa had, before the tromp of more boots caught her attention.

  Dozens of men and women were coming down, trailed by smoke. How many were in this Empress forsaken home?! Sabra must have slaughtered half their number, hadn't she?

  Persa passed her Glimmer over the oncoming monsters.

  Not as many phantoms as she could raise, with so many covered in thick smoke, and sometimes when they did appear they were flimsy and more ghost than corpse.

  It would have to do.

  Fell, she roared within her Glare, and the dead did her bidding. Men and women were knocked down the stairs from one dead boy, his face swollen in some kind of sickness. A man screamed seeing a woman launch at him with a bulging belly, the two of them toppling behind a bannister and vanishing into smoke.

  He probably did not even notice that the specter was gone now that he was obscured. She could hear his screams slowly growing farther away as he made it into one of the hallways.

  Two cultists looked down at Persa, one with a wood-axe and another with a flintlock pistol.

  The pistol heretic had a second to double-take at his companion before the axe buried itself into his compatriot's skull, the corpse vanishing as the gun-wielding villain toppled lifelessly to the ground.

  Not even your dead allies are safe, she thought with cold satisfaction.

  One of the benefits of crossfire.

  A brick bounced heavily off of the weaving of her mask, making her lose concentration and line of sight as she shuffled back.

  "It's the Oidan! Stay in the smoke!" A heavily muffled and pained woman's voice yelled out.

  Persa glanced and saw the girl who had her face smashed through a bannister, mask partially raised so that she could spit out blood and teeth onto the floor. Another brick was within her hand.

  Whatever courage she had, the heretic abandoned it for survival, ducking into a hallway just as her dead-man rose to life. He vanished just as soon.

  "Heresy!" Persa shouted in anger and spite. "You will all be judged under the eye of heaven!"

  A gunshot was the response, not landing anywhere close to where Persa or her allies stood. Shooting just to make a point? Wasting ammunition?

  She glared back at the gunner and caught the attacker with her Glare.

  Lunacy.

  One of her dead - another child - was now tearing into the face of this cultists mask, her ally trying to chop at the corpse with a butcher's knife. The dead child's head was askew, holding on only by sinew, but it refused to relent on its mission.

  A hand tugged at Persa's sleeve and she whirled on it, Glare brimming with blessed power.

  Milian stood there, staring up at Persa with terror, "The time is almost up!"

  Persa blinked.

  "The cellar!"

  Oh Heavenly Eye, the cellar.

  "Sabra!"

  "Oidan," Sabra said, appearing beside her in a moment. She idly flicked blood off the blade. "I will remind you to use our-"

  "We need to leave, now! One of the cultists mentioned she would bring down the building!"

  Barely a second's pause to register than before she vanished to one of the drapes and ripped them from their mantle, wrapping it around her arm and smashing through the front window.

  As she pulled back, a burst of bullets crashed into the window sill and struck her, driving Sabra off her feet.

  "S-"

  Sabra vanished, briefly appearing in mid-air over Persa and Milian, and then behind the pair. She held them with a steel-vice embrace and suddenly-

  Gone.

  -they were out in the far field, at the edge of the forest.

  The trio looked back to the house, seeing the small line of muskets aimed at the house. Outdated and mostly for civilian use nowadays, it was still horrifying to see nearly fifty guns aimed at where they had been just moments prior.

  "Quiet," Sabra murmured. "I don't want to get their attention right now. Not if there are hidden attackers in the trees as well."

  She need not worry about the sound.

  The explosion sounded like a god gasping for life.

  A crackle of breath and then a bark of power as sweet, succulent, air rushed in and out in a pillar of fire and smoke. At one moment, the mansion was there and then in the next there was just the flash, and a booming wave of pressure soared over grass and dirt like a scythe through wheat.

  Persa, Sabra, and Milian had to duck down as the wave passed over them, their clothing sparkling like stars as high-speed debris peppered them like a hail storm. Only the three of them holding onto each other prevented the group from rolling across the ground.

  A piece of something, perhaps a stone or mortar, struck the weave of her coat and sent Persa skidding back to one knee.

  She couldn't even hear her own scream, the explosion had been so loud, but she could feel the hoarseness of her throat and pain in her chest from the blow.

  Sabra cupped her face by the mask, two lenses peering into another - though Persa's eyes were blurry with tears of pain - and then Sabra looked away.

  Nothingness and then they were far away into the woods.

  Atop a tree.

  Blurs of scenery that only added to her pain, mentally this time around.

  And then finally onto a nearby building of some sort. Sabra was quick to hunker them down behind the rooftop entrance and below its lip. It was good that Sabra was doing all the work; Persa felt about as adroit as a bag of rice.

  Milian huddled beside Persa, practically burying himself against her, while Sabra leaned against the wall lip, taking deep breaths.

  "Are you alright-" Milian began to ask after a moment, only for Sabra to quickly swipe the air, gesturing for them to be quiet.

  Milian gave Peras a worried look, but Persa didn't have any words for the child. She didn't think she had the air for it. Her throat might have been damaged, even.

  Sabra vanished.

  A minute passed. Persa was beginning to feel her limbs gain some semblance of strength again.

  Sabra reappeared, "All clear. Most folk are gawking at the fire and rushing over to the farm. We'll have time to rest and make sure that we are presentable to our soldiers."

  She wants to preserve our image? Persa thought, aghast. Had she not been savoring her breath and basking in the time to rest, she might have had strong words for her guardian.

  Sabra briefly looked over Milian, but the boy seemed to have only modest scrapes for his troubles. She did take time to apply a bandage to one cut under his chin, showing a surprising amount of care to the task.

  The Aisan looked over to Peras, her gaze penetrating even with the mask covering her expression.

  "Hurts," Persa admitted, coughing at the exhalation.

  Sabra rushed over quickly, peering at the frock, "The weave held, according to my eyes."

  Persa nodded, gritting her teeth, "Every breath hurts." Another coughing fit that had her curling up in pain.

  Sabra's rough hands were soon on Persa's coat, unbuttoning the frock with haste.

  Milian was quick to look away.

  Good boy.

  She wasn't even happy with Sabra doing the same to her uniform top, but suffered the indecency and noticeably warm hands as her guardian inspected her abdomen.

  "Heavy bruising on your ribs," Sabra said finally. A finger prod made Persa wince and flinch as she gasped. "Apologies, Persa. If I may move you?"

  Persa allowed it, helping turn and twist around, Sabra making sure she hadn't missed a gunshot or stab wound. Persa could remember those distant sessions back at the temple, being taught to be aware that some wounds may not have an exit, and be so clean as to leave no trace of blood until it was too late.

  Seemingly satisfied, Sabra was much more gentle in buttoning up the front of Persa's uniform and coat with steady hands, which Persa appreciated. She would try not to think too hard about the whole ordeal, though she knew it to be futile. It was often humored that the Heavenly Eye winked the most confounding thoughts and memories before bed rest.

  "Don't speak, only nod," Sabra said, once Persa was properly clothed. "Bullet?"

  She nodded.

  "Anything else?"

  Another nod. Persa grimaced, "Stone."

  "I said not to speak," Sabra gently chided, though to Persa's credit she did not cough this time.

  "Are you well, Sabra?" Persa asked. The older woman had taken many bullets.

  She paused for a moment, considering, before she began undoing her own frock, "Only minor aches and pains, but it would be good to have your eyes on me. Would be foolish to brush off any chance of serious injury."

  Persa nodded, eyes scanning over Sabra's physique as the shirt was unbuttoned and pulled down to her waist.

  Muscle. Was Persa's first thought, A lot of it.

  Sabra's gut was built like a barrel, thick and sturdy, shadows showing the lines of work she put into core. Broad shoulders and thick arms that Persa did not think her hands could wrap around, larger support binder than her own for defined pectorals.

  Dear Empress, what happened to her?! Was the second thought.

  The entirety of Sabra's body was crossmarked with scar tissue of differing shades and sizes, the largest stretching from shoulder to the small of her back as she turned around, cutting through the muscle definition. It looked as if a claw had raked into and ripped out ladles worth of flesh.

  The bruises from the fight were not helping, already growing into hefty welts.

  Persa gulped, "No bleeding that I can see." She took another long look at Sabra before saying, "I believe you are safe."

  "Lucky," Sabra groused, pulling her attire back on. "The weaving on my uniform was unraveling at the end there. A scatter gun might have done the trick. I'll need to use one of our spares, assuming it hasn't been sabotaged yet."

  That pulled Persa out of her thoughts, "Sabotaged?"

  "I expect so, at the least. This is far, far, more than we anticipated. Let alone what sort of aggression we were told to expect. Had they played this smarter, we might have all perished."

  And joined the dead, Persa thought. Perhaps only existing if someone found my eyes and a way to summon me to do their bidding.

  A sickening thought, not helped by the likelihood that it would be a heretic.

  "For now, we rest here," Sabra went on. "Gather our strength and plan on what information to present on the morrow. And to Ladley."

  "In regards to information, Honored Aisan," Milian said. "They mentioned lashes of the organization."

  Sabra nodded, "Tell me everything I missed."

  ???

  Ladley and his men were shocked and astounded by Sabra's report.

  "They tried to assassinate you?!" The man shouted, aghast. "They must be fools."

  "Most were," Sabra replied coolly. "Most are also dead now."

  They had decided to let Sabra take the lead in breaking down what they knew. She could adequately skim over how they had been hoodwinked and focus more on the visceral victory.

  Persa was still recovering, using all her strength to remain upright and seated. Milian was a child and not one many took seriously, and in any case, he was busy writing up the report.

  "For now, focus on sending a small amount of forces to assist with the fire," Sabra continued. "Order them to keep an eye out for any potential survivors or items of interest. Watches, jewelry, papers, anything that allows us to identify them. You and the rest will fortify this location while we plan our next moves. Make the patrols subtle, understood?"

  "Yes, Honored Aisan." He turned to Persa and bowed, "Honored Oidan."

  Persa just nodded.

  "We've learned much," Sabra said intently, once the room had been cleared. She removed her blade mask and ran a hand through her hair, smiling, "They overplayed their hand."

  That wasn't what I wanted to hear. Don't smile about this.

  Persa couldn't even feel any real anger. Exhaustion was draped over her and the dull ache of that gunshot blast to her chest was pulsing through her ribcage.

  She just removed her mask and gently placed it on her night-stand, taking a deep breath of non-stuffy air.

  Still hurts. Ow.

  Pain is good. Pain is life. Pain is good.

  "What did we miss in that house?" Milian asked quietly, putting aside his writing equipment. His knees were brought to his chest, arms wrapped around them. His goggles were off, showing clean circles around his eyes where the dust hadn't touched them. "That they were almost willing to destroy it. And me."

  The second part was much softer.

  "I don't believe we missed anything," Sabra said. "I believe the plan was to simply kill us and then level the building. You would likely be a bargaining chip, if they were foolhardy, or manipulated into sending false information if smart."

  Milian hugged his knees tighter.

  "Too many are dead now," Sabra said, still smiling. It was mean, wide, and too noticeable for Persa. "They'll have internal strife with their losses. More so, with how many likely died from that explosion. If what you two heard is true, then it's likely it has been for some time. The 'True Seers' must have recruited from more extreme branches when they felt their numbers were too small."

  "Or perhaps they arrived here on their own? Made problems that galvanized the colony and True Seers?" Milian asked.

  "Possible. We should consider all avenues and discuss next moves."

  No more work, she pleaded internally. Get yourself out of here, Persa.

  "I will be taking a much needed bath," Persa said. "You two may discuss matters. Milian? You will be after me and then straight to bed."

  "Yes. Thank you."

  Sabra did frown, "Recuperation is good, but we must discuss next moves."

  "I don't know if either of us can help you, when we are so exhausted and injured. We aren't strong like you," Persa admitted. She didn't like playing to ego, but this was still technically true. Milian looked like he was going to fall asleep right now and Persa was… well, she had never been one for physical activities.

  Her guardian considered for a moment before nodding, "Very well then. We shall end it for the night. We stay in one room, barring the bathing periods, we get to work after the first two rounds of patrol. Will you need assistance, Persa?"

  She felt heat rising to her head at the implication, "No. Um, no thank you, Sabra. I am able to handle this myself."

  Sabra shrugged, "Call if you do need it. I don't want you injuring yourself."

  I don't even know what to say to that.

  Persa rose without a word, going to the restroom, and gently closing the door. She took a long, long moment to let the heat die down, but that was not the end of her ordeal.

  Sickness took its place as she began to run the bath, hands on the sink.

  The nausea was the worst sort, a kind that put her on the edge of vomiting yet unable.

  She had killed before, of course. It was rare for an Oidan to not need to shed blood, even in training, and her experience pre-dated even that. Having to slay insane heretics was not much of a burden to bear, especially when they had attacked first, in the grand scheme of the world.

  It was always the emotions.

  Feeling that excitement at exploring and investigation, the adrenaline of fear, the heat of hatred, the… the inspection of Sabra, all of that mixed in with genuine pain and weakness.

  Both from her enemies and from her guardian.

  It was the idea of having to go to sleep, dreaming under this blind eye, knowing that to wake up was to continue this work. The anxiety of once more feeling that wave of toxic but empowering sensations.

  She wanted sweets, Empress damn it all. Or perhaps a heavy liquor to end the night.

  Nothing they had at the moment.

  Persa looked up into her mirror reflection after starting the bath. There hadn't been a clean or well-maintained mirror on the ship. This one was pristine and allowed her to see the dust coating her curly hair and down the length of her neck. She could see the bruising on her ribs, more when she released the meager chest binder.

  Right where the scatter gun had been aimed.

  I said no. I cried out. They would have killed me.

  I would have been damned.

  Finally, Persa looked into her own eyes.

  These blessed eyes, given to her by Heaven itself, such beautiful gray and silver. The eyes that had made her mother abandon her at the temple, because the world and thus the Empress, would benefit from their grace.

  Within these eyes, Persa could see a thousand and more dead souls. All of the dead were writhing, thrashing, clawing at the glistening shell that contained them. She could get lost in her own eyes, counting the innumerable fallen, noting how animals and critters appeared so irregularly amongst the sea of damned.

  And they were damned. Perhaps not by the Heavenly Eye, perhaps not even by the Dark Deep.

  Perhaps, her eyes were what damned them all into her servitude, only to be freed when she gazed upon the right… or wrong, living soul that ended them. Shackled to her and to their killers.

  Persa stared into the legion of the damned for long moments.

  They would be her compatriots, one way or another.