The Weight of the Truth

Elyra grabbed the edge of the open door and threw her through, slamming it behind them. Already standing, Amara looked about the room frantically for a way out, but the only window was barred and closed. "Looking there is pointless," Elyra remarked icily. "The bars are iron, beyond a witch’s power to overcome."

Amara's features were covered in resignation instead of fright. With her arms and knees crossed and her chin tilted defiantly, she fell heavily onto the bed. Fearlessly, she demanded, "And there’s another that’s come, what of it?" "Did you anticipate that this would be the last? Since he was driven back, has the blood in your veins remained the same?

"Inviting them into the house now?" Elyra shot back, her voice full of rage. "What of the old stories about granting entry to the damned?"

Amara gave a nasty sneer. "Your mother already did that and more when she took your father to her." Even though the words were probably unintentional, they caused Elyra's heart to pause for a brief while. "And I never said it was a demon, did I?" Her gaze become strained and aloof. "This one is different in some way. Perhaps worse than a half-breed demon.

Elyra grabbed a vase that was within reach and threw it at the girl's head without giving it any thought. Not because the witch, who didn't flinch, had avoided, but just by coincidence, it missed by a hair's breadth. Rather, Amara's lips curled into a faint, overly childlike smile. She said, "And if you wanted to, you have your own weapons to take my head," in a professional manner.

With a savage hiss, Elyra turned away from the youngster. No one, not even the elderly woman, could aggravate her more, even though she thought of her as a younger sister.

Amara stood up, and Elyra heard it. The sharpness of Amara's voice was only audible to abnormal ears. "If you cannot bear the weight of the truth, then it is your burden to carry, not mine," she said. In any case, no matter how you put it, half-breed. What about it? Are the names I'm given any more polite? Even while she knew by now—after many forced encounters—that it wasn't really aimed at her, her contempt was still palpable and pressing against Elyra.

Halfway through the threshold, Elyra stopped and looked back, her eyes sparking with defiance. "There's no use wasting angry words on me if they're intended for the elderly woman. Like me, your father was a devil. He gave you a harsh tongue; try it on someone else. She hoped Amara would persevere because it was almost a challenge.

The unruly toddler could not be subdued, and there was no point in wasting the valuable time before nightfall on pointless pretense. Elyra dismissed pretenses and games and trailed behind Amara as she left the room. However, Elyra went out the door as Amara turned to face the stairway. She sensed Amara's intention and could not bear to make fun of her grandmother tonight.

This evening, her hunt would be motivated by more than just hunger for the first time.

Despite appearances, Amara did not enter the old woman's chambers. Rather, she walked down the corridor with a determined stride. What had appeared to be a straightforward exit suddenly carried a burden she was unable to ignore. The deeper wounds her father had left behind were not concealed by Elyra's grin, which was so infrequently sincere. The matron's window's broken lock would never be fixed, and the bars were ripped apart, leaving a gaping hole.

The door drew near. Amara slipped through the worn ledge with the agility of a child and discovered that the old latticework was still attached to the stone by vines rather than wood. Where her feet had found traction, a few thick strands of ivy shimmered down the wall. Her lips curled into a delicate, impish smile. She enjoyed getting away in this way, and Elyra assumed she would tell her mistress about it without realizing she was gone.

As the sun sank below the horizon, Amara was glad to see it go. Even for those who braved its glaring rays, the day had been exhausting, but more significantly, her real co-conspirator could take off his bulky robes as the sun went down, unencumbered by the limitations of daylight. He wouldn't expose himself just yet.

He waited near the massive oak, the sole tree whose roots defied the earth's stubbornness and could resist the city's unrelenting sprawl. When she saw him, her expression brightened, but he just nodded slowly, his body language concealing his feelings.

He was contacted by the half-blooded successor to her father's throne, who was now looking for the angel that was stalking the city. She bowed deeply through their mental link. And if I'm not mistaken, the angel is looking for a demon successor who is little more than a quarter-blood! The male god-sentinel would not bother to try to help a simple lady, thinking her a complete devil.

"How much is missed now by the gods tasked with guarding our world?" In a gesture of irritation, a sprig of straw between his ruby-brushed lips rose, dipped, and rolled across his mouth, pressed by his tongue. He said out loud, "And why should it matter to either of us?" as he turned away from Elyra's target and headed into the woodland.

Teacher, how would this be played? With her eyes shining in the darkness with a furious intensity, Amara fell into step behind him, encased in his shadow. Her actual strength—her mother's birthright—emerged for a brief moment. Demons are much easier to get rid of than angels.

With his hood still on, he said, "Enough," yet she could feel a slight smirk behind him. His never-ending entertainment was planning, a huge game of pawns that neither the gods of heaven nor the kings of hell could see but which shaped their own destinies. Though he rarely shared her enthusiasm, he was always the first to jump in when a new game came up. And the manor's shadow-imp? How did he respond when he saw this messenger?

It didn't matter. She gave him reassurance, pondering the idea for a moment before dismissing it. He listened and kept a careful eye on her. "I've never met whoever he reports to. However, a shadow-imp?

"Little better than a common pest for reporting unseen matters," Gramor said. "The home mistress is unaware of the sacred blood and doesn't wish to learn about it. She wouldn't listen to me when I brought up the subject. She just wanted it resolved.

Amara continued as usual, staring up at the sky where the first courageous star broke through the dusk. Reading secrets in the heavens intended only for her kind, her eyes narrowed. She muttered, "There will be blood on the moon tonight." "That has not happened since…"

Gramor stopped in front of her and carefully pulled his hood back to look at her. Softly, "Since the night Astra fled," he concluded. Even though there was no moonlight yet, he was certain of her past performance. "Otherworldly blood will be spilled then, as it was that night."

His lips were pursed as much as his rough face would permit as he gazed for a long time. But since then, blood from demons had been shed. What was different about tonight?

Amara gave an unsure shake of her head before realizing the reality. Her face grew tense and pale as she looked nervously at her instructor. He could sense their connection immediately; no words or mental connection were necessary.

His eyes flared crimson for a moment, but his rough face showed little emotion, too hardened for human feeling. He then concurred, saying in a low, tight voice, "It will be the blood of the next heir that spills."