There was a distant rumble in the sky. The clouds thickened and hid the last of the sun’s rays in the distance. Sinialli raised her chin and opened her throat to the world, an ancient custom that most cultures forewent as it revealed their weakest point. She bared her throat to the gods now, trying to win back their favour.
The sky lit up so brightly, it was as if it wanted the day to last forever and keep her from her fate. It was not enough, but it made her smile all the same. It felt like the gods answered her thoughts.
She waited for the light’s sound to reach her in another rumble that entered through her lips, vibrated down her throat, and settled in her lungs. Then it went somewhere further, somewhere deep inside, where she had always thought there was another piece or organ or even a soul – something that helped her scent and guide the magic around her.
The sound settled there. The stink of blood stuck under her nose as if she had dabbed it on her lips like the pastes she used regularly. Her chin stopped quivering. The sky turned black and her vision turned grey.
A single figure appeared, standing still on top of the rubble of the gate.
It was time.
With all her siblings dead, it would take Sinialli longer to get ready than usual.
Not that she wanted to. She did not. She wanted to join them. She wanted to lie down beside them in the ruins of her home and close her eyes.
The silhouette shifted. The rain that beat down on the figure bounced off the metal of his shoulder guards. It created a new melody that the scents tried to latch onto. It only angered Sinialli more. She grabbed at the scents before they could escape, pulling them into herself and weaving them into a spell that would throw the soldier back down the mountain and break all his bones.
The magic faltered, as before, before the spell even reached him. Then the scent of blood overwhelmed her, clogging her throat and forcing her to duck her head. Right there, at her feet, were two simple wooden sticks. They served the same function as the more intricate ones she usually wore to twist her hair into a high bun. They looked simple and boring, old, and not for someone of her status as the highest-paying courtesan in all of Trace.
They looked simple.
They were not.
The blood under her nose had her leaning closer to them and picking them up. The wood was soaked and soft in her hands. One of them was tinted red. When she twisted one of the sticks, it pulled apart to reveal a thin metal blade. It was barely longer than her forefinger. It looked almost as sharp as her nails. The metal cut into the wood when she snapped it closed again. It did not latch perfectly.
They would not do.
That thought had her putting the musical instrument away and rising. She had better tools than these idiots could give her. It was only when she was facing the private rooms of the pavilion that she realized she had moved. The sorrow of the dead behind her had her hunching over again.
Then she was in her mother’s office, tending to the cut on her hand from the broken string. Once the scent of sage faded and the God of Healing stitched her skin back together, Sinialli felt her body move as if a puppet on strings. She had learned the art but was nowhere near as skilled as one of her siblings. Their shadow puppetry was even better.
Her shadow moved ahead of her as she walked the private halls of the pavilion. The soldiers had not needed to go that deep inside to destroy everything. Not at first. Not when the courtesans thought they stood a chance.
Sinialli’s shadow slipped into a tear of the tapestry in the hall. When it came out, it matched her body again. She stepped over a broken vase and her shadow swallowed it whole. The darkness climbed up her legs as she walked further inside. She was not even sure what cast such strong light for her outline to be so dark.
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