Zalish’s memories go foggy, like the remnants of a strong rain. Behind her, she can hear her father take a deep breath, and she knows that she will not like what he has to say. “We go further.” At this, the drakoen smiles. The further in they go, the more he gets paid.

If she had not been rearing from this utterly baffling realization, she would sneer at the creature. But Zalish is too far into her own head to think about the creature’s obvious enjoyment of this slow yet brutal torture.

It seems that her mind has tricked her yet again. The girl she would see skulking around her old home, the one she saw dead in the field of flowers, they were both the same girl. The girl that she had just seen herself playing with. Teaching. Loving.

How could Zalish have forgotten what seems like such a vital character in her story? How are entire memories in her head completely wrong? She blinks and looks around.

While she had been contemplating the legitimacy of anything she’s ever thought in her life. The atmosphere had changed. The gritty and grimy pool of souls is what stares back at her.

Her teeth clench.

A tremble, deep and powerful, rocks the ground beneath them. “Wh-” Her eyes roll back.

The amonos are known to be fiercely loyal pack creatures. They form tribes, eight to be exact, all across the continent. Their main job, their divine right, has always been the protection of their realm. They are the only creatures strong enough, motivated enough, and trusted enough to serve as a policing force.

When other communities have problems, the amonos are the ones that are contacted. If anyone was to describe the governing hierarchy here, they would say without a doubt that the amono tribes sit just under their shadow leaders.

Of the eight tribes, the Zintonians are seen as the head, only for their direct contact with the Gods. Zulith is a divine messenger, so his word is practically that of the Gods themselves.

That’s why Zonith, sweet, unpredictable, ambitious Zonith, had no problem following his divine leader. Zulith only spoke when necessary, and when he did, it was usually to carve facts into the earth.

His word was truth, his word was law.

Or that was what Zonith had thought a year ago.

It only took one incident, one accusation to break Zalish. She was the daughter of the warlord. She was divinity itself. Yet her father didn’t raise a finger to help her when everything was at risk. Zulith had sat on his throne, cold and unbothered, and he had sentenced his one remaining child to something far worse than death.

He was going to leave her in limbo, forever trapped between the worlds, forever hungry and lonely, forever undying. And he was going to do it all without the vote of his hertri and hotri.

That was when Zonith was disillusioned. He learned then and there that his divine leader was not always right. And he learned that there were some decisions that you have to make, damn the consequences. When it came time, he chose her over him.

Zonith’s back stiffens as he notices a motion in his peripheral vision. Turning, he watches as Zalish’s body falls from between the drakoen’s hands. Her head hits the stones before he can get to her.

A hiss echoes, turning the air into something thicker. “That monster is strong, there is no doubt. But how strong is a monster that can shove me out.” Just as his words finish their path, Zalish begins to convulse.

Zalish looks upon her former self. “This is my death rites,” She whispers. To whom, she isn’t quite sure. She was forced into her rites just before the murder of that poor little girl. The murder of her sister. She watches the scene take place.

The pool of souls is the underground temple where honored dead warriors rest. There are a few chosen every year. Usually they’re old in age, nearing the end of their lives, and ready to be welcomed into the arms of the Gods.

Their blood is their sacrifice, their tithe, to those that stand above mere mortals. The chosen are bled dry into the pool, then their bodies are encased in a layer of putrid Rongona slew, forever preserved.

The once living amono statues are then decorated in the colors of their tribe and stationed within the rites room. Zalish had always been hesitant to enter the place. She can’t help but feel as if all of the dead there are not yet resting.

She can almost feel their fingers sliding along her shoulders and locking into her hair. She can almost feel their lips pressed against her ears. “You come child,” Her brows furrow, her body is full of hesitant energy.

Zalish doesn’t want to die tonight.

“Pa, can we please push this back?” Something sinister is stirring in the air, and it’s like Zulith can’t see it. Can’t sense it. Why can’t he feel it?

“Remember what I tell you my little monster.” His arms cross as he looks down at her.

Zalish doesn’t want to repeat it, but she does despite her feelings. “Fear is for those that have nothing after death, and we have everything.” She wants to tell him that her fear is justified, but she can’t. For Zalish doesn’t know what runs shivers up her spine.

“We are chosen, little monster.” Zulith brings a finger down to trace the band on her arm. The golden birthmark is two inches wide, a feat among her kind. “You are a champion. You fight fear for your God, and he shall fight death for you.” She forces her lips to steady and bows her head.

Then it is done.

Tonight she must die.

Zalish turns away and drops down to sit next to the pool.

This is when her mind would wander, and sounds of the outside world would become silent and she would fill it with the sound of her own thoughts. But instead of that quiet, she hears something she doesn’t remember. Zalish’s ears perk up as she listens to the past voices of her father and his hotri.

The hotri is Zulith’s third. While the hertri is second to the warlord for his strength and strategy in battle, the hotri is the third for his connection to divinity. Zulith’s third is Fion, an amono pulled from the neighboring tribe, Feil.

He was gifted with the third eye. The man could see past magical barriers and sometimes he could even see into the future.

While spirit self sits, stuck in her own head, her present self hears the hotri speak to her father.

“Push this back, Zulith. Today is not the day this girl should see into the other world.” But Zulith dismisses him. He swats his hand in the air, as if he was pushing away an annoying little gnat.

“That is nonsense. You know as well as I do. If I push this back even a few seconds, lords will step up and spit on Zalish’s name. They already feel her illegitimate despite the fact that she has gone through the same rigors that their sons and daughters have gone through.”

His arms cross as his expression darkens. The scar along the middle of his face flattens with the pulling of his features. “You hear what they call her. Bugouti. Diseased child. They will think her weak. And if they think her weak, they think me weak.” He spits to the side then scrapes it away with the bottom of his foot.

“Lord, I sense that she will not survive this journey. Not today.” Zulith’s jaw clenches as he looks to Zalish. She sits with both her knees to the ground, her head tilted back. Her brown skin, too light when compared to those of her tribe, barely catching the reflection of the crystal’s light.

“This solves my problems. Should she live, those that oppose her legitimacy will have nothing to hold onto. And should she die… I will make another. And this one will bear far less problems.” Zulith claps his hands, gathering the attention of the rite’s witnesses. “We begin.”

So that is what they do.

Zalish’s head lays on the lap of the closest healer Zonith could find. But she’s just a midwife. This woman knows nothing about healing the condition that Zalish is currently suffering in.

This is where that pesky line between loyalty to his warlord, his divine leader, and his conscience comes into play. Zulith ordered Zalish’s return be kept quiet. Since her escape and multitude of evasions, each of the seven remaining tribes had sent delegates, spies, to keep tabs on the situation.

Zulith wants to handle this on his own terms, and if it gets out that Zalish has returned and Zulith told no one, not only will her punishment be even more grave, but there is a possibility that the tribes will attempt to band together to punish Zulith himself.

They all feel that his daughter has made a mockery of their leadership within the realm, and there are plenty of factions that have wanted the divine Zintonians to step down as representatives of the amono tribes for centuries. Zulith has done a grand job of keeping them in check so far, but it’s only a matter of time before infighting begins.

Zonith can only hope that Zalish isn’t in the middle of it all.

A shriek erupts, sending agony coursing through Zonith’s own head. He paws at his temples, his ears heating, as he looks up. His eyes find the drakoen. It lays on its back, its hands raised. The rough skin on his palms hiss as waves of steam waft from the limbs.

Zonith looks to Zalish, and he finds that her skin has taken on a terrible red tinge. The midwife, upon scrambling from the burning woman, sees that her white apron has been scorched where Zalish’s head had laid.

“Have you any idea what you did to me?!” The ground beneath her feet sizzles as she rushes to her father. “I begged you! Fion warned you, and you ignored us both because the ramblings of jealous outsiders got into your head?” He was supposed to be divine. How could he make a decision like that?

Zulith stands his ground as Zalish reaches him. “I did what I thought was necessary, as leaders do.”

A screech flees from the woman. “You don’t know the consequences of your actions, because I was forced to bare them. But you will.” They turn as her memories become solid once more, the woman’s shoulders shaking with anger.

Zalish holds her tremor in her body as she’s walked down the stone stairs and into the pool of rancid blood. It’s much thicker than she thought it would be. She nearly gags as she feels something so obviously solid brush against her thigh. ‘Oh gods, is that…’ The priest tasked with delivering her to the other side lays her on her back in the pool.

To her surprise, she floats.

If the man had eyes, Zalish is sure they would roll at they expression on her face.

Zalish had always been a warrior. It’s what she was born to be. She had trained and prepared extensively for the moment that she would enter some battle field. She had thought herself prepared to take another man’s life.

The young woman hadn’t known what to expect, but she was surely surprised when her first field mission wasn’t to slay the foreigners steadily pushing at their coast. For all her life, her father had alluded to some grand battle between those of her world, and those of the new.

Blood and screams and the sound of flesh shredding between claws had been what she had steeled herself against. But what she found, just the night before, was a scared group of sirens hiding on land.

Zalish was not prepared to cut down a small group of women. She wasn’t prepared to hear two young companions beg their friend to stand down, to submit. She wasn’t prepared for their agonizing screams as she tore a hole through a woman that was just trying to protect her family.

But what was done was done. Zalish had taken her first life, and she was to be celebrated and honored with a short cleansing and a trip to the other side. The girl wouldn’t admit it to her father, but as the holy man placed his hand on her forehead, terror took over her body.

Zulith’s shadow towered over her as he grabbed a hold of her shoulders. His face, stoic yet soft, betrayed nothing. Her father simply nodded, signaling for her to close her eyes before he shoved her body under.

Fight entered her bloodstream. A gurgled scream tore from her as her body shifted under the sloshing blood. Her mouth, her nose, her ears filled with the liquid, warm and bitter and salty.

And in that moment, memories that she knew weren’t her own, filled her as well.

Zalish’s claws tore at her father’s arms, her body buckling beneath the water, but he did not relent. The sound of death flitted between her ears, triggering something dark within her.

As blood pooled down her throat, the muffled sound of screams could just barely be heard from within the dark depths that strangled her.

But she had no time to make sense of them, because her soul was snatched from her body.

It isn’t darkness that she wakes up to. Almost as if stepping through a liquid wall, Zalish rises from the pool, flaming stars and spacious dust blowing around her.

Zalish looks to her father, who watches the memory like a desperate eagle watches a stumbling fawn. “What you failed to realize, was that my sponsor is not one of the war gods.”

It was said that the Zintonian’s were blessed by the gods of war. They were gifted with strength and courage and battle strategy. There are three gods of war. Hariasa is the goddess of battle. She is the one that grants foresight and strategy.

Bolgor is the god of deceit. Those blessed by him are said to be the most duplicitous of all the realms creatures. They are said to be able to sense the emotions and sometimes catch the thoughts of those around them.

And finally, there is Minyo, the god of war and the older brother of Hariasa. It is said that his weapon of choice is a spear, its head made from the bones of his youngest brother, of whom he killed on the battle field.

Those blessed by him are granted immense strength and an acute ability to handle nearly any weapon.

Zalish had received none of those blessings.

Her head cocks as she stands shoulder to shoulder with her father, her eyes unblinking as the ground beneath them turns to liquid darkness. “Can you guess who awaited me, father?”

Her voice bares no venom as she speaks, yet she feels her father flinch at the sound of her voice.

She gasps, though nothing blocks her airways this time. The young girl is terrifyingly aware that someone is watching her, in this very moment. But as far as her eyes can see… there is nothing but color.

Zalish waves her hand in the air, and her fingers sink right through what she thought to be flames. When she looks down, she finds that she stands on nothing.

She floats nowhere.

“It is nice of you to finally visit.” She twists, her eyes scanning everything, nothing, to find where the voice came from. “I have not received a single prayer or dream from you. That disappointed me.”

The language that’s spoken isn’t anything that she’s familiar with, yet Zalish can still understand it perfectly. “Who are you? Where are you?”

The voice tsks. “Those are the wrong questions. Try again.”

She spins again, believing the words to have been whispered over her left shoulder. “Where am I?”

“Wrong. Again.” Tears bubble up in her eyes, but she bites her lip in an attempt to distract her from her fears. How can she be nowhere?

“Am I dead?”

The voice chuckles. “You were not born alive. Go again.” Her brows furrow.

“If I am dead, then that means this is the otherworld, right?” This calms her down. She’s where she’s supposed to be then. This must be the god that blessed her with her ring.

“You are not in the otherworld child.” The voice laughs, and it’s a sound so vicious that Zalish’s hands fly to protect her ears. “You are in the Underworld.”

But…No… Zalish is meant to meet the war gods, and they are in the otherworld, not… Zalish peels her eyes open and comes face to face with a startling sight.

Eyes brighter than her own stare back at her, framed by snow white lashes. Hair a dark burgundy hangs over the face of a man with skin darker than her father’s. Two hands wrap around her waist while another goes to lift up her chin.

“My, your beauty didn’t shine so brightly when I envisioned you twenty-one years ago.” The man smiles, and when he does, Zalish knows who it is that speaks to her. His teeth, a pearly white, are embedded with silver spikes that face outward, cutting into his skin with each word he says.

“You are not a war god.” His smile grows, eliciting a trail of golden blood. “This is not the otherworld.” Zalish begins to shake as the man nods at her to go on. “How…”

He laughs. “You were mine the day you died in your mother’s womb. A cursed, plagued child of death. How could I resist.” Air falls out of her mouth as Athula, the god of sin, wraps one of his hands around the back of her neck.

Zulith takes a step back and trips over something. He stumbles, a breath leaving him, as he watches his only remaining heir be tainted by the Dark God. “You let him-”

Zalish scoffs. “You don’t let a God do anything. They do as they please.” The scene that plays out in front of them is a hard one to watch.

She can’t say that she was violated, for that would feel too much like admitting that she was weak. But the Dark God had whispered something into her ear right as he grabbed her neck.

He had said something that had sparked a reaction that was much unlike herself just as he burned that mark into her neck. His mark. And what had followed was an act of depravity that Zalish had repressed until this very day.

Zulith retched, and there was some sick part of her that reveled in his agony. If he had left this for another day, another year, maybe she would have learned of her sponsor before then.

Had she known who would await for her on the otherside, Zalish might have very well chosen to take her own life. “This was just one of the consequences of your actions. And you and I both know that I speak not of the death rites.”

It is not a secret that the warlord had affairs outside of his kind. It was not prohibited to fuck outside of their species, but there was an unspoken law against procreation. One of which Zulith had broken. That is why Zalish’s skin is a few shades lighter than those of her tribe.

That is why she was whispered about and sneered at. That is why she was pushed harder. Yet another unfortunate result of Zulith’s actions.

She recalls when she was younger. The other kids would call her a Bugouti, and though she hadn’t known what it meant, she understood enough to come to the conclusion that it was not good.

Many thought that she would not be able to shift, and when she did, many believed that her form would be a mere limping pup compared to their own. Her brows furrow as her chest heats. Zalish’s lip curls as she looks at her father. “Disgusting.” He shakes and shivers, his eyes cast down.

A coldness takes over her as she walks to him. This whimpering giant is the man that tore her apart? This man is the one that she aspired to be for twenty years? Zalish doesn’t know what compels her, what gives her the courage, but her fingers run over her fathers head as she forces it up. “Watch.”

“I didn’t know. I didn’t know, little monster.” Something about this rubs her the wrong way. It almost sounds as if he’s begging for something. Understanding? Forgiveness?

His eyes remain closed.

This won’t do.

She peels his eyelids open and holds his head by his jaw. There is little physical resistance from him. Perhaps he thinks of this as his karmic punishment for all his wrongdoings. “I was chosen father. Watch what he did to his champion.”

A scream bubbles up as the skin on her neck is seared. “I see it in your eyes, you don’t like the fact that we are connected.” Something like a frown graces his face. “Unfortunately for you, I cannot let you go now. We are fated. Do you know what that means? I cannot let anyone else have you. Not until I’m sure.”

His finger traces over the burn on her neck. “Should anyone ever get close enough to see this mark, there soul will be mine, forever.” Her heart thumps for the first time since she woke up in this strange place.

And as Zalish looks into the eyes of this clearly psychotic God, she loses all inhibition.

Then the God of sinners does as his title would suggest.

He sins.

A dull pain pulses through her. Athula had taken more than her own soul. “There was not much that I remembered of that night. Of course, because we’re standing in my mind, it makes sense that the memories would return.” Zalish blinks. “I believe we’ve seen enough of this.”

As she swallows, the scene melted away.

A sob rigid and wet escapes her mouth as soon as soon as she breaks through the surface of the pool. Everything in her aches. Her chest expands to an agonizing degree as she swims to the edge and drags herself out.

In that moment, Zalish wanted nothing more than to scream, to release the pressure steadily building in her. “Child-” She swats at the priest that attempts to place his hand on her shoulder.

Her eyes rise to meet the area where his should be and for a second, Zalish swears she sees someone appear behind him. She blinks and the figure is gone. “Touch me again, and I’ll tear your neck from your body.” Though she shakes and shivers, something in her eyes must alert the man that her words are to be taken seriously.

He backs away.

Clearing her throat, Zalish looks up to her father, a sneer taking residence on her face. There are things she wants to say, concerns she wants to raise, but for some reason, she cannot remember what they are.

There’s only one thing that she can hear so clearly from her time beyond the realm. ‘Should anyone ever get close enough to see this mark, their soul will be mine, forever’.

A face and a name suddenly comes to her, and she stumbles back. Athula. She had met Athula. That cannot bode well for her future.

Those that stand around her already harbor motivations for having her put down like a dirty dog. They can never know. If they figure out who has blessed her so greatly, there will be no doubt in their minds that she is the product of everything disgusting the realm has to offer.

So before anyone can say anything to her, Zalish rings out her sopping hair then leaves the room. And thankfully, no one follows her out.

“You should have followed me, but in your heart, in your soul, you knew something was wrong. So you ran from your responsibilities. This seems to be a common theme Papa.”

Zalish had long since let go of her father. Together they now rest of the solid floor. It shudders and shakes and if the earth is trying to rise up to attack them. Debris falls from the sky, which has now taken on a peculiar deep red color. Clouds thick with mist, collide with one another, growing.

Her stomach twists as the next scene unfolds before them.

This too, is new information to her.

Zalish leaves red footprints in her wake as she walks out of the back entrance. Eyes, blue and wary, follow her every step, so she makes sure her hands don’t tremble and her eyes don’t cast down.

Her head is heavy, though she keeps it just high enough to not cause any concern. For some reason, her mind has gone foggy. Once she passes the closest pair of eyes, she shakes her head, hoping to knock some sense into herself. She… She can’t remember anything. Her eyes water. Why can’t she remember anything?

The girl stumbles once as she passes through the exit, her hands flying out to stabilize herself. The dress clinging to her body is suffocating. A cough rises in her throat, but she holds it down, one of her hands rising to cover her trembling lips.

She feels cold, so cold, as she travels through the array of mobile homes. Eyes continue to follow her, most knowing exactly why she’s covered from head to toe in rapidly drying umber liquid.

When she raises her head, she sees that she’s made it to her small little home. Zalish pushes the heavy flap up and falls into the construction. Her cough finally leaves her, resulting in blood splattering on the solid dirt floors. “Zalish!” Kalyssa jumps up from her cot, her big amber eyes widening at the sight of her soiled and distraught sister.

“Back!” Zalish holds out one hand as she heaves, her eyes crossing. “Stay back!” She gags, more blood leaving her. She’s not so sure it’s the blood from the pool. This blood is fresher. Darker. Blacker. But this blood can’t be hers…

Zalish’s vision goes black as the spewage leaks from her mouth in a steady and disturbing scene. It’s only when she feels the soft tips of fingers on her neck that she realizes her sister has disregarded her orders.

Try as she might, she can’t stop the river flowing out of her long enough to speak. Kalyssa, hearing no other orders from her sister, wraps Zalish’s hair around her tiny hand and lifts it up. “You didn’t tell me… That’s why you were the way you were yesterday.” Zalish had been a stoic wreck when she had come back from her first field mission. The young girl sighs as she sweeps the few remaining wisps of hair off of her sister’s neck.

“Wait, what’s this? When did you-” Her fingers brush the mark branded on the sick woman’s neck. Zalish’s hair stands to attention as a zap of some foreign energy zips through her, pulsing at the point of contact. And suddenly the world becomes something other. The onslaught of bloody vomit halts as Zalish’s head shoots up. Her eyes, though closed, see something that is unimaginable. Intangible.

Her mouth, still open, widens to an unbearable length, jaw creaking and groaning with the motion.

Her throat stretches and tears with the force of the scream that’s clawing it’s way from the depths of her soul, up her neck, and through her gaping mouth.

Through her lids, she sees that thing. That intangible, unreal thing. Her neck pulses, signals shooting to her head. They tell her that it isn’t untouchable. They tell her that the pain will go away if she reaches it. If she grabs it. And so the woman, desperate to escape the agony cutting rivets down her throat, flies forward.

She throws herself into this thing. She wraps her hands around it, it’s slushy form slurping around and engulfing her body. And then she falls forward, her mouth still open, but the sound no more. Her eyes remain closed as her body, abused and drenched, crumbles into the ground, completely unaware that her sister, her little monster, crumbles with her.

In that moment, everything comes back to her. All of the scrapped and hidden memories of her darling Little Monster come flooding back to her with a force so strong, that she’s knocked off of her feet. Zalish flies away from her father, back pounding into the groaning ground. She shudders as scene after scene flits behind her eyelids, searing themselves into her head.

Thunder sounds, shaking the ground beneath her as she tenses her eyelids. “No!” Zalish grabs at her temples as the red sky darkens, momentarily illuminated with striking bolts of lightening. “No. No. No.” Her neck heats, and she finds herself running her fingers over the scar. “I’m sorry. I know I deserve this punishment, but please!” She had failed to keep her sister away from her. That was the one thing she had remembered, and she couldn’t even uphold that.

Zalish pulls her hands forward, her palms coming together. In the distance, she hears her father’s scream. “Athula, I beg you, please show me mercy!” Another shriek is ripped from her as the ground creeks. The scene around them falls away, dripping from their vision like wet paint.

The majestic grasslands that were once tinted from the sun’s light has turned manic, the tall grasses pulled to the side by a wind strong enough to flip a house. “Please!” When Zalish closes her eyes, she sees her sister. Kalyssa’s face twisted with anguish. Her bleeding ears. The nails of her fingers pulled back. The red splotches in her lifeless eyes. The little girl had tried to fight Zalish. She had tried to live.

She hears her sister’s laugh in her ears, echoing, her screams bouncing off the walls of her skull. Zalish’s fingers hook on her ears. She doesn’t want to hear anymore. “Anything! I’ll do anything!” She’ll do anything to not remember the smell of her flesh melting as Zulith shoved a hot branding iron into the skin of her arm. She’ll do anything to forget him denouncing her, branded her as a traitor of the amono.

She’ll do anything to forget the feeling of her sister’s blood on her hands, her soul against her skin.

“You’ll do anything?” A laugh, cold and sharp, cuts through the noise. “Will you give me everything.” She has no tithe. She has nothing left to give. “Oh, but you do, plagued one. I want everything you have. Your mind, your body, your loyalty, your suffering. Give it all to me.”

The ground splits, and both Zulith and Zalish fall through it.

This world is filled with terrifying things. It’s filled with creatures of all shapes and all sizes. Monsters capable of terrible deeds. Gods angry with the loss of their followers. But Zonith had never really been afraid of anything. He was an amono. He was big and strong and fast. He was blessed.

He had no doubts that his leader was the strongest and the fastest and the smartest. He was sure of it.

He had been so sure of it.

Then Zulith screamed. Zulith of Zintoninas fell, his large and powerful body thumping hard against the ground as his mouth pulled into a shriek. Hands, big enough to palm melons, raced to his face, their fingers trembling as they loosely traced his eyes. Those remaining in the throne room rushed to his aid, but Zonith’s attention was pulled elsewhere.

Zonith’s eyes witnessed something more terrifying than dragons and wars. He witnessed something more scarring than being forced to watch as a father branded his screaming and pleading and broken daughter.

He witnessed a woman at death’s door.

He witnessed her half dead body rise.

He witnessed her lifeless eyes flicker to the thing nearest to her.

He witnessed her grab the hand of the unconscious drakoen.

He witnessed her use its talons to shred her own throat.

He witnessed her gurgle.

And then, he witnessed her die.