The Scars We Leave — Chapter Four

A knight of the church is having her doubts, about herself and her place, but a report of a monstrous demon forces her to put the thoughts aside to do her duty.

Dark fantasy short, 4.2K words.

Header by Davide Cantelli via Unsplash.

Chapter Four: The Light from the Tower

Ilyana, a knight who serves the Church of the Sacred Tower, has been plagued with doubt and anxiety her entire life. But amidst a regional crisis and the report of a noble’s mansion being destroyed by a monster, she has to shoulder her responsibilities even amidst her fears.

You can find a directory of chapters in The Scars We Leave here.

4248 words.

CWs and Tags:

• Reference to slavery
• Sexual tension

All her life, Ilyana had dreamed of angels.

It was taught that, in a time long past, the god Amiel had descended to the world. Turning to the barren northern wasteland, a place known then as the Never-Ending Reaches, he had founded his kingdom. From the bastion of the holy white spire, Adamanthold, he ruled and blessed the land to grow and become vibrant. His kingdom was threatened by many enemies who sought his power; man, spirits, and demons alike.

The greatest of the god’s defenders were his angels. Amiel, it was said, had two wings, one white and one black. The former represented prosperity, guidance, and protection, and the latter represented strength, justice, and punishment. The angels were born from the feathers of Amiel’s white wing, holy warriors imbued with his power. Against their swords, none of the god’s foes would triumph.

When Amiel departed for the heavens again, his angels had stayed behind, choosing to live alongside humans. Their bloodlines, the legends claimed, would become the noble houses of Adamanthold.

The land Ilyana was born to was not Amiel’s ancient empire, but a place of strife and conflict now called Neverreach. The north, a territory of bickering states held together by the thinnest of alliances, was no storybook kingdom. But still, the myths of Amiel and his host fascinated her endlessly.

“Papa,” she would ask as a child, staring up at the white spire with wide eyes. “Am I really descended from an angel?”

“Of course, child,” her father would reply. “We have holy blood. That is why our family carries such responsibility.”

As she grew older, and that responsibility turned from an inspiring tale to a crushing weight that bore down and threatened to break her, Ilyana thought of the angels less and less. Her day to day was occupied with training in etiquette, with dancing and singing lessons, with classes for all the skills she would need as head of the family and as a wife. Her parents began taking her to social functions after puberty, introducing her early to the aristocratic men for them to judge her, to be caught by her looks and her manners.

“Some day, Ilyana,” her mother told her frequently. “You will choose one of these men to wed, and you will bear a child that will continue the Autumnheart bloodline.”

In that time, her dreams of angels had never seemed farther away. Sometimes, now, she asked herself if it was those dreams that had pushed her to run away and abandon her duties, or if it was merely her own black-hearted cowardice.

Did it matter?

Ilyana sat idly on the roof, kicking her feet in the air and watching the birds fly by. The bell-tower in Dreistan’s city hall sounded mid-morning, reminding her, as it always did, of Adamanthold’s massive time-keeping chimes. Sometimes, it made her wish she was back home, but the thought was always fleeting. Besides, with Duke Ivan’s death, she was needed here now more than ever. Succession in Neverreach was always a bloody, unstable affair.

She wasn’t a meek teenager avoiding the eyes of suitors at the ball anymore. Ilyana was a Whitewing Knight, a member of the church’s errant enforcers who kept the peace in and away from home. Right now, Dreistan hung in the calm before the storm, but if violence erupted, it would be her job to keep people safe.

In truth, she had hoped she wouldn’t find herself in a position this precarious so soon. She had only been a knight for a little over a year, and she was honest enough with herself to admit that it had been the Autumnheart name, not her own merit, that had landed her the rank. Although her swordsmanship was decent, even commendable, she had so far utterly failed to master the knights’ magical techniques. Against spirits and monsters, she was a liability to her comrades.

There was a knock on the trapdoor that led to the roof. “’Yana, are you up here?”

“Yes,” she called back.

The hatch opened and a woman poked her head out. Ilyana couldn’t help but notice how pretty the sun sparkling in Faren’s shiny brown hair was.

“Why do you always hide up here?” The older knight asked.

“I’m not hiding,” Ilyana protested. “I’m keeping watch on the streets. It’s a better view, and the wind feels nice.”

“Well, okay.” Her friend smiled. Faren had never once scolded her, only gently reminded her of her duties. “Can you meet us in the guest room? Someone is here with a report of a monster.”

She pulled her feet back onto the roof and shimmied over to the hatch. “I’m right behind you.”

Ilyana had always felt inadequate next to Faren. Paraded around by her parents back home, she had been judged chiefly on her appearance: Whichever noble son she was meeting with would look appreciatively at her wavy, pale blonde hair, neatly combed and styled, her soft blue eyes, the way the hue of her dress had been carefully chosen to complement her cream-colored skin, its bodice carefully tailored to fill out her small chest. In those moments, she had always felt like an item in a shop window being appraised by a buyer.

Nowadays, she let her hair grew long and messy, and she wore armor, not dresses, but the sense of being judged hadn’t really changed. Instead of a candidate for marriage weighed against the other aristocratic daughters, she was a warrior weighed against other warriors. In that regard, Ilyana could not help but feel that she fell short.

Faren was taller, stronger, faster, more ironclad of will and gentler of demeanor than her. In their engraved silver armor, she was a model picture of a Whitewing Knight. She had unlocked her astral self during training, while Ilyana had yet to manifest it even months into fieldwork.

“It will come to you,” Faren had told her, hands on Ilyana’s shoulders. “Finding yourself is a personal journey we all walk at our own pace.”

It made her wonder. If this was a journey, had she even taken the right road?

The two of them found Tristan, the last member of the squad, already talking with their visitor in the chapterhouse’s guest room. The broad-shouldered knight made his chair look undersized by comparison. “Oh, Ilyana!” He looked back at the guest, a harrowed looking middle aged man. “Please, would you start over, for my friends here?”

Ilyana and Faren settled into the loose ring of chairs, and the man nodded, sighing deeply. “My name is Abel Maddox. I am a servant and butler for the Deacon family here in Dreistan. I am here on behalf of my master Lord William to bring an urgent matter to your attention.”

The Deacons. Ilyana knew the name. They were a minor peerage, unrelated to the church, and their youngest son, Marcus, had a bad reputation. Despite their lack of divine lineage, they were one of the wealthiest families in Askervall.

“I previously worked at my lord’s country house, nearby outside the city. However…” Abel took a ragged breath. “Last night, we came under attack by a sinister demon. The creature leveled the mansion utterly, a three story building reduced to rubble.”

“Can you describe the demon for us?” Faren leaned in, her eyes intent.

“It took the form of a human boy, but its eyes were unnatural, and shadows moved around it and destroyed everything they touched, like the night itself had animated.”

“Do you know of anything in or near the house that could have attracted it?” Tristan asked. “Magical artifacts, old shrines, the like.”

The grim-faced butler shook his head. “I can think of nothing. Its appearance was quite sudden. No one saw it approach. It was as if it had just appeared within the building itself.”

“Did anyone try to fight it?”

“The manor’s guards made a brief attempt, but it plucked the weapons from their hands and shattered them. After that, I believe all who were present ran for their lives.”

“Any deaths?”

“All who were there have been accounted for in the city, save Lord Marcus and his attendant. Master William has promised a sizable donation to the church if his brother is found alive.”

“We’ll do the best we can,” Faren told him. “Tell Lord William to keep his faith.”

They thanked the man and ushered him out. Once he was gone, Faren let out a breath. “This is the last thing we need. Vadik is set to arrive in Dreistan in a matter of days.”

Ilyana looked at her. “The duke’s nephew? I thought he had been living in the southern territories.”

“He was. He’s coming back to challenge Lady Tanya for Askervall’s dukedom. The cardinal plans to receive him, and we’re to serve as guard.”

“Vadik is an undesirable type.” Tristan rumbled. “Rumors are, his time in the south has eroded his faith in the church, and he’s taken a foreign wife instead of marrying into another divine house.”

Faren nodded. “I think everyone here would be happier with Ivan’s sister on the throne. This was a prosperous region under him.”

“We don’t have time to go hunting elementals, then.” Ilyana frowned.

Tristan crossed his arms. “We can’t ignore a request from the Deacons.” He grinned. “The only thing for it is to skewer the beast and be back in time for dinner, eh? Let’s suit up.”

We’re hunting a spirit, Ilyana thought as she went into the back room to gather her gear. That means applying astral salve.

With no magical power to speak of, yet, she couldn’t see or interact with elementals on her own. Until she bound her astral self, Ilyana had to rely on a type of enchanted salve that would pull her close enough to the spiritual plane to fight. It was something all Whitewing Knights carried, but her squad definitely used it more often than most.

“Faren?” Ilyana called. “Can you…” She held up the clear jar of salve.

“Oh! Of course, you’ll need that, won’t you?”

They ducked into the sleeping quarters together and shut the door. The salve had to be drawn near the wearer’s heart and activated with a spark of magic, so Ilyana couldn’t do it alone. And she would probably faint of embarrassment if Tristan saw her shirtless.

She handed the jar to Faren and took a deep breath. This was routine for them, she reminded herself. There was nothing to it. It didn’t…mean anything. It was just the job. “Okay, I’m ready.”

Ilyana closed her eyes and pulled her shirt off over her head, leaving her chest naked. Forcing herself to stay still, she felt Faren’s finger, wet with the ointment, a second later. The other knight moved with slow, agonizing precision, drawing the activating glyph near her breast. Ilyana shivered when that finger drifted a little too close.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, it’s cold.”

Just like every other time, unbidden images, unwanted feelings, intruded on her mind. The thought of Faren’s hand sliding further, touching other places. Grasping her, holding her. Pulling their bodies together. Drifting down to caress something else. Ilyana blushed furiously, hating herself, hating the heat growing between her legs, hating that she couldn’t stop these feelings. Every time. Chastity, she told herself. I am a knight. This lust is unseemly. She hated even admitting it was lust.

Ilyana felt the tiny jolt of the salve being activated. It sunk into her skin, becoming a temporary, angular tattoo.

“Okay, done!” Faren said, and it was her beaming smile the Autumnheart girl opened her eyes back to.

Ilyana gathered her equipment quickly. She changed into soft cotton underclothes, and her armor went on above that: A chainmail shirt and leggings, sturdy leather boots, half-finger gloves, and her set of silver partial plate. The silvery pauldrons, couters, vambraces, and greaves which made up the standard field set for a Whitewing Knight were engraved with the symbols of their order and kept polished to a mirror sheen.

She strapped on her sword with grateful tenderness. The weapon, enchanted and custom-made for her, was a work of art. A gorgeous, deadly piece that had set the Autumnhearts back thousands of gold marks. The church couldn’t afford to outfit all their knights with magical items, but her family’s wealth had made it possible.

Ilyana had named the blade Argenstahl, and those words, “silver-steel,” were etched into the base of the blade. The cross guard was set with tiny pearls and crafted to look like upturned wings, the pommel a polished round stone. The metal had a shiny, white-ish tint almost like rose-gold, a side effect of the process by which spirits had been bound into it. The sword was her prized possession. Wielding it made her feel grounded, present in the world in a way Ilyana usually wasn’t. Holding something truly hers lifted her soul like no pretty dress or jewel-encrusted necklace ever could.

Argenstahl sheathed at her hip, her knight’s armor donned, Ilyana met her comrades in the courtyard. Faren and Tristan were already there, the former carrying a long spear and the latter a bow. They hadn’t fought together more than a handful of times, but she marveled at her friends’ skills and the sight they struck wearing full regalia. Did she look anything like that, standing next to them?

Tristan nodded at her as she stepped out of the building. “I packed some food, in case this does end up taking too long,” he said.

“We can hope,” Faren said dubiously. “But an elemental strong enough to level a mansion isn’t likely to be an easy hunt. Cardinal Finn may simply have to do without our presence.”

“He wouldn’t be happy about that.” Ilyana frowned. “He’s always…pushy.”

“We’re alone, Ilyana, you can call him a bastard.” Tristan laughed. “It’s okay, everyone here thinks it.”

“He’ll survive.” Faren shrugged. “And if by some calamity he doesn’t, well…may Amiel be kinder on the bastard’s soul than he was to his peers in life.”

The laughs, the easy banter, these were things Ilyana loved about her new life. At home, no one laughed, and the smiles were fake. The Autumnhearts were too concerned with doctrine and politics to make time for trifles like companionship. Her parents hadn’t even met at the time their marriage had been arranged. It had simply been determined by their own families that the union would be advantageous, and the children would have the desired peerage.

“Some day, Ilyana,” she remembered her mother’s lectures. “…You will bear a child that will continue the Autumnheart bloodline.”

She’d run from that fate so far. Would she keep running?

The Deacon country house was only about an hour out from the city, but the trek still gave them plenty of time to talk about the circumstances.

“You know…” Faren thought aloud. “It doesn’t feel like a coincidence that Askervall’s second largest noble family is attacked weeks after the duke dies.”

“You think someone wanted to make sure they didn’t make a run for the throne?” Tristan asked.

“The Deacons aren’t a divine house, though,” Ilyana said. “Their peerage is from King Tandor of the Second Empire, not angelic lineage. The Church would never recognize them.”

“There’s our aristocrat,” Tristan smiled. “I could never keep all those details straight.”

“She’s right, though,” Faren added. “Accountability to Adamanthold is one of the only things that holds the five provinces together. Backing as a divine house is the most important requirement to rule.”

“You think it was something else?” Ilyana wondered. “Or…just random?”

“It doesn’t feel random.” Faren shifted uneasily. “Let’s just keep on our guard, okay?”

They rounded a corner descending into the valley, and the mansion came into view. Or at least, what was left of it.

Abel’s description might actually have been an understatement. Almost nothing of the structure remained standing. The skeleton of the house had been completely broken, and the rubble of all three stories lay in one massive heap. Splintered wood and roofing tiles were scattered around the copse. An invading army would have struggled to do this much damage.

On top of it all, Ilyana’s astrally enhanced senses confirmed the report that an elemental was responsible. Invisible to the mundane eye, tendrils of wispy black fog hung over the ruins, aimless spirits called by magic and left over to fade when their purpose was done. She had never seen this much residual energy anywhere, even on the battlefield. What kind of creature had caused it?

“Amiel’s golden teeth,” Tristan muttered. “I figured he was exaggerating when he said it was leveled, but…”

Faren hefted her spear. “Remember, we’ve got two missing persons. Let’s get down there and…see if anything’s still alive.”

They split up to comb through the destruction from different angles, Faren and Tristan starting at the sides and Ilyana from the front.

She found what remained of the main door, the shattered pieces crushed by the floors above them collapsing in. A huge piece of the second story wall lay half-covered in the debris, and it looked like a hole the size of a person had punched right through it.

It’s a miracle so many people made it out alive, she thought. She remembered the butler’s description of the monster breaking their weapons. Unless…it let them live?

The traces of magic made her skin tingle as she walked through them. Ilyana almost thought she could hear the spirits’ voices: Incessant, clingy whispers, like they were begging her for something. But she couldn’t hear what. Following the noise, though…the most intense sources of magic might lead her to where the attack had started.

Ilyana took a turn around a fragment of wall that was barely standing, and startled back with a yelp.

A figure was standing there, where there definitely hadn’t been one when they’d surveyed the place from afar. It was obviously a spirit, with sea blue skin and sharply pointed ears. It had four slit-like eyes, each a different color, and a nest of thick, scaly, black threads for hair, each tipped with a spike. Its nails were uncomfortably long and claw-like, and a long, fleshy tail emerged from its lower back and ended in four human-like fingers. The creature wore a bizarre outfit that seemed like a mockery of human nobility; dark trousers, no undershirt or shoes, and a waistcoat in a garish, variegated tye-dye of the ugliest colors manageable.

“Hello, Ilyana.” It smiled with two rows of sharp teeth.

Pushing down panic, she drew Argenstahl in a practiced motion and swung with a guttural shout. The blade literally sung as it cut the air, a high-pitched noise vibrating off it as the magic activated. Her target lurched aside just before the stroke came down, and a shockwave rippled off the steel and cut into the rubble covering the ground.

“Is that any way to greet someone?” It frowned, standing right next to her. Ilyana jumped back, raising her sword defensively.

Faren and Tristan came running quickly, responding to her shout and racing across the ruins. They drew weapons and pointed them at the creature.

“Are you the one responsible for this?!” Tristan demanded.

“Wait, that’s…!” Faren pointed at the spirit’s feet with her spear. Completely distracted by the monster, Ilyana had failed to notice the corpse laying on the ground. The dead man was wearing soiled nightclothes, and his skull had been split wide open, drenching his face in blood.

“Marcus Deacon,” she said grimly. “You killed him.”

“Oh, not at all.” The spirit raised its hands. “I wish I could take credit for such gorgeous work, but I’m only here for the…aftermath.” It licked its claw with a long, forked tongue.

“What do you mean?” Faren tightened her grip on her spear, edging closer. Ilyana could feel power rolling off her companions: They’d activated their astral selves.

“This man… Afraid of weakness, powerlessness, loss of control. Common fears, yes, but so strongly felt. To have his entire life, and then his life itself, ripped away by his own victim. It was a delicious meal. But I am not the one who killed him.”

“You’re a fey,” Tristan accused. “Fear spawn.”

“Oh, don’t mistake me,” the spirit said. “I am so much more than that. Call me Phobos. That’s the name your kind gave to my like.”

Ilyana had read about fey, but never encountered one. Elemental spirits from a layer of the spiritual plane called Faerie, they were personifications of human emotions. According to legend, they were bound by an ancient pact never to lie, but it was still a fatal mistake to trust one.

“I don’t care how highly you think of yourself,” Faren sneered. “You may not have killed this man, but you’re still a threat.”

She lunged forward with inhuman speed. Ilyana could see the glowing silhouette in her core, Faren’s astral self. Her spear lashed out, once, twice, three attacks in the blink of an eye. Somehow, the phobos twisted around every one of them. In a tiny moment of vulnerability as the knight pulled her weapon back, it darted in.

“Faren!” Ilyana screamed and lurched towards them, feeling like she was moving in slow motion.

The spirit grabbed Faren’s face in its palms, and an instant later, she broke away, howling. She dropped her spear and clutched her chest, her face the most agonized Ilyana had ever seen her.

Ilyana’s own strike came down. Again, the shockwave only cut air as the creature disappeared out from underneath it, almost too fast to track.

“Are you alright!?” She stood guard in front of her friend, looking wildly in all directions.

“I…” Faren sobbed.

“I only shared a small taste,” the fey said dryly, reappearing. “I thought a knight would be more resilient…Faren.”

“How do you know her name?” Tristan growled, his bowstring pulled back. One tiny movement would bury an arrow in the creature, if it only gave him a chance.

“I know all your names, Tristan.” The phobos spread its hands. “Humans are defined by their emotions, and in a world like this…” It looked up with an odd expression. “Fear is oh so defining.”

Faren leaned over and picked her spear back up. “Amiel help me, I will kill you right here unless you give me a solid answer,” she growled, tears on her face. “If it wasn’t you, who did all this?”

“Look for the slave boy with the scar on his face. He thinks he’s cut his collar off, but he only traded it for one the eye can’t see.” It laughed. “Beware, though, the shadow at his back will kill anything that gets in its way. And it is stronger than you.”

“What?” Ilyana cried, confused.

Suddenly its claws were on her face, gently holding instead of cutting. “I had better go, my old friend, before your companion makes good on her promises. But I’ll see you again.” And then it was gone.

“When he touched me, I saw…things I don’t want to talk about,” Faren said, refusing to make eye contact. They were all huddled together in the ruins, recuperating after the strange encounter.

Ilyana rubbed the back of her friend’s neck soothingly. “You don’t have to.”

Tristan was running his hands through the rubble, picking out small pieces of wood and stone and breaking them in half with his fingers. “What do we do now? Vadik is due any day and now we have that thing prowling around on top of the shadow spirit that attacked this place.”

“’The slave boy with the scar on his face,’” Ilyana mused. “Didn’t slavers just come through Dreistan last week?”

“…They did.” Faren nodded. “They were out in force after Ivan’s death, taking advantage of the fact no one was enforcing Amiel’s Writ.”

“Fey aren’t supposed to lie, right?” Tristan said. “So if the Deacons purchased any slaves…”

“We can check the records.” Ilyana put her hand on Argenstahl’s hilt for comfort. “Could they have enslaved a mage who snapped and turned on them?”

“Maybe,” Faren said. “If so, how’d he get enslaved in the first place?”

“I have a feeling…” Tristan stood up. “That we’ve gotten ourselves into a proper clusterfuck.”

They trudged back to the city, no one really relishing the idea of delivering confirmation of Marcus Deacon’s death to his brother. Tristan volunteered for the job, though, knowing that Faren should rest and Ilyana would prefer to stay with her.

Having shed their armor, they sat together on the floor of the sleeping quarters.

“You did well, ‘Yana.” Faren gave her a tired smile.

“Did I?” Ilyana hung her head and sighed. “I don’t think I did anything.”

“You protected me,” her friend said gratefully. “You stepped up and prevented a worse outcome. I may be shaken, but…none of us were hurt. Would that be true if you had done nothing?”

“…I don’t know,” Ilyana responded begrudgingly.

“We don’t have to know, because you acted. That’s what the white wing represents. We protect people.”

“…Thanks.”

Still, she couldn’t help but think about the fey’s words. Why did it seem interested in her specifically?

Surely there was nothing remarkable about her. Maybe it was just targeting the most defenseless member of the group. Unless…

“Common fears, yes, but so strongly felt,” It had said. “A delicious meal.”

The thought reminded her of the predatory gazes of suitors on the ballroom floor.

Ilyana felt sick.

Next Chapter: The Steel in Her Grip