Chapter 1: The Aftermath of War [Her Feathers of Grief & Darkness]

— Aleora —

Four months before the coronation

The sky was a moving mass of thick, grey clouds. Gathered at the horizons, they steadily shifted toward the mainland, rumbling and groaning on their way, sending drizzles to the filthy earth down below. A storm would be coming soon.
The tang of blood was heavy in the air, as was the smell of death. For as far as one could see, every inch of the ground was littered with bodies of men and horses, broken swords and dying flames. Ashes floated to the ground like dirty flakes of snow, choking black smoke spiralled to the sky like ladders to heaven. Colours were bled out along with the lives, bleaching out the earth into a grey expanse. The same landscape went on for miles. All had fallen. All was ruined. There was nothing but death. If death had a color, it would be grey.
In the midst of the ruination stood a girl. The blood of her enemy dripped down her blade, their ashes clung to her hair and armour. If death were a person, it would be her.
The girl took in the scene quietly. She did not appear disturbed, as one as young as her should, nor was she satisfied, as a victor of the war should feel. The brutality she had exercised did not stir anything inside her, for her young eyes had seen too much, her slender hands had spilled too much blood.
A cold wind blew past, bringing a fresh scent of death. Her horse tossed its head in displeasure, hating the rotting smell. Stroking its mane reassuringly, the horse stilled and followed her led to trudge through the corpses. Despite the biting cold seeping through her armour, she took her time to survey the battlefield, making sure those who had fallen could not raise. Her master would not tolerate any mistakes.
She stopped. The sound was barely audible, but the wind carried it to her ears. Landing with a soft thud, she was careful not to step on the bodies near her feet. A few feet before her laid an opposing solider with a deep side wound, breathing. She prodded forward, her scythe leaving a bloody trail in her wake.
His expression twisted into a mocking jeer upon her approach. Shaking, he sputtered incoherent insults mixed with her name, relaying her sins and calling her a demon, as though words alone could kill. No, words indeed had power, but he himself did not, and that rendered him powerless still. She did not think he understood that.
She cocked her head and observed him, trying to decipher any difference in this solider and the last she had slaughtered. They all had the same face, bright eyes and crooked mouth, twitching arms reaching as if to strangle her neck. They never seemed to notice, between her and them, there was an invisible wall of infinite distance.
At one point, drained out of words, he spat blood at her boot.
Noticing the tattered flag of the Alliance at her foot then, she rubbed the blood on it with her boot. She asked if he had any last words, but the man was seized by a surge of anger that pushed him on his feet. With a cry, he lunged for her head.
Spinning on her heels, she sidestepped his sloppy attack and watched him writhing and cursing atop his dead comrades. She had half the mind to tell him not to waste his dying breath on cursing an enemy, but on the occasion when she did said that, it served only to infuriate them more.
“O-one day,” he gasped, eyes shinning with the final strength as he stood once again. She almost admired his relentlessness, wondering briefly if that was what the Marshal said as the dying embers before cold, the only moment when humans were made less ugly. “ — one day you will drown in your sins. Golden-Eyed Reaper, I shall not be your last, but the beginning of your endless suffering.”
Unperturbed, she lifted her scythe. Her lips moved, voice soft against the wind, but it carried to the ears of the man nonetheless.
Eyes widened, his steps faltered.
Without further warning, she swung the scythe in a silvery arc, cleanly slicing through the man’s neck. His head landed several feet away while the body fell forward, his fingers a few inches before touching her boots.
The infinite distance.
She stared blankly past the blood spattering onto her mask, watching the light going out from the eyes.
Dead. Once again, a stillness overtook the battlefield.
She thought to herself how fragile humans were, their lives as meaningless and insignificant as ants crawling underneath her feet. And no matter how many times she witnessed death, she found neither beauty nor ugliness in it. It simply was.
A drop of water fell onto her mask. A heartbeat later, as if the heavens were mourning for the last solider, a shower of rain poured from the sky, cleansing the battlefield. With her head lifted skyward to greet the downpour, she closed her eyes to feel the rain, relishing the way it glided over her armour and soaked her hair, washing away the scent of death on her.
She did not know how many she had delivered in the past weeks, but she was glad it was over for now.
Straightening herself, she suppressed the fatigue weighting down her shoulders and made to leave. But something was standing in her path.
It was a boy. His body bordered between a child and a youth, not quite falling into either category. The edges of his features were smudged, as though someone had accidentally erased the eyes and nose. She knew what he would say before his lips parted to form words.
“You are a murderer.”
She tightened her grip on the scythe.
“You are a murderer.”
“You are a murderer.”
“You are a murderer.”
She could feel the darkness inside her thrashing like a creature given life, trying to break out of her ribcage and swallow the world. A rush of dizziness overwhelmed her, filling her with visions of the world crumbling. She saw how the ground trembled and the sky split, spilling clouds and stars onto the earth. If she submit to her darkness —
“Commander?” someone called from the distant.
She broke out of her trance. The boy was nowhere to be seen — another delusion. The familiar numbness returned to her.
“Commander, are you all right?”
She turned to find her comrade looking at her in concern, her horse’s rein in his hand. He must have come over from the other side of the battlefield when she wasn’t paying attention. Her fingers flew to her neck, where strips of linens were securely wrapped. They came away slicked with the wetness of blood.
With a flick of her wrists, the scythe vanished into a waft of dark smoke.
Swinging onto the saddle, she led them away.
Her comrade followed a stride behind her, he said, “A truce has been sent earlier from the Alliance —they would like to negotiate for a peace treaty.”
Scanning the wreckage before her, she said, “They should have known better.”
“Should we prepare a surprise attack on their port cities now that we have taken down their broader walls? They no longer have enough men to guard them, we can —”
“There will be no more war this year,” she cut him off. “The coronation of the Crown Prince will take place in winter, the Marshal and the Emperor will not want to take risks. A temporary alliance would be the best option for both the Empire and the Alliance.”
“Of course.”
“Pass the order that we depart at dawn, we will return to the Empire for once.”
With that said, she stirred her horse away from the battleground.