SNIPPET
The leaves crunched under her boots as she ventured into the forest, a welcome sound amidst all the events that’d just occurred. Spectre could still feel her sister’s piercing stare on her back, the stinging on her cheek. It would soon bruise, but she couldn’t be bothered; all her attention was focused on moving her feet. To keep the crunching consistent until she had travelled deep enough to escape Marion’s birdlike vision.
Spectre had thought to save the people. She had fought so tirelessly, night after night for the cure. In the end, as it turned out, the person the Fae were looking to wasn’t her. It never was.
Maybe she’d really been too self-absorbed. Really, she was just another Fae. Just another child of an ironbaned soldier.
No one would utter a word if Spectre stood and quit her cause. Like the generals. If a war hero could get away with abandoning the people when they needed him, no one would miss her presence. But would she?
It was only when she tripped on a root that she noticed her increasing footpace. Sighing, she leaned on a tree’s mossy trunk and slide down onto the grass. The bugs chirping around her stopped into a deafening silence. A sharp glint caught her eye in the gloom. Strays of light from the setting sun had weaseled their way to her brooch.
Her cold fingers traced its outline, and the mercenary suddenly recalled having left her gloves on the table. A soft chuckle escaped her lips as the scars on her hands stood out wildly. All that effort to appear strong and flawless, while her sister does it all without disturbing a strand of her impeccably neat hair.
Click.
The brooch’s pin was released and she slid it off her jacket. How strange, she thought as she turned it a few times in her right hand. That you once meant all the pride and honour to me.
Now, it was a well-faceted gem, cut and polished till it was a decoration.
A decoration from the royalty, a voice chided her in her mind.
Spectre pressed her lips together, her fingers tightening around the jewelry at the same time. She stood, and stomped one foot hard against the ground. Dirt immediately collected around her heel, but it was ignored as the boot’s sole worked to scrape a small pit. And without a moment’s hesitation, her hand tilted, and the intricate piece of grey corundum fell. It was buried within four kicks of dirt and a few good stamps.
No time to stand around, Spectre mused as she trudged further into the forest. Her parents were dying and she needed an apothecary.
A specific, flame-crazed apothecary.