“The Princess led her forces to confront the Order at a place now known as the Broken Vale. It had once been a beautiful location, home to many wonderful creatures. Now, it has been desecrated at the gorge where the young females had been brought to ruin. It was there we found the weapon that the Hollow Order had been perfecting.”
“A group of elite soldiers, highly and specially trained, had undergone a long, painful ritual that became known as “The Hollowing”. These males were immune to emotions of any kind — the ritual had been designed with the Princess’s magick in mind. There was nothing for her to draw on in these walking voids. There was no resonance for her to work with. She cast her magick into emptiness, her spells swallowed without effect.”
“Do you know what happens when you have warriors who can’t feel? They have nothing to lose.”
“Many died in that gorge. I, myself, was gravely wounded. The Princess… well, she saved us all, as I’ve told you before. At great personal cost.”
“The Hollow Order failed that day. The day of the Princess’s sacrifice. To them, she became known as the Witch who Wields the Wound. In Goira, she became a savior, a martyr and a beacon of hope.”
“What happened to the Princess?” Ash asks, her voice quiet.
I underestimated how painful it would be to revisit this, especially with her.
“She survived… after a fashion.”
She’s silent and I mentally pack up the painful memories I just relived for her. It’s amazing how talking about the past can make your heart race, your blood burn, your hands tremble. I can feel the violence and helplessness of that day in my body, like it’s happening in the present moment.
After a long silence, she asks, “What is the Princess’s name? You’ve spoken about her before, but I don’t think you’ve ever said it.”
The air in my lungs freezes.
I’m such a stupid asshole. How could I think that I could walk her through that time, that battle and she wouldn’t ask one of the most obvious points? Stupid. Stupid.Stupid.
“Flint?”
I realize she’s pulled away from me, waiting for an answer. What happens if I ignore her question? I could just tell her it’s too painful and she’d let it be. But, what happens if I answer her question?
Please Gods, help me.
I clear my throat softly.
“Ember.” I pause. “Her name is Ember.”
When Ash thanksme for my input and my story, she goes to shower and get ready to write for the day. Calida curls herself around my neck like a weighty, scaly scarf, but I appreciate her presence.
There was a lot I had left out of the story. How Ash had wailed and raged upon hearing of her mother’s death.
How the battle had really ended…
I watch in horror and fascination as the Princess whips out power. At first, she wields a whip of flame, incinerating every being it comes into contact with. I watch as the bodies heat, and then crumble from the intense heat she is producing.
The next instant, she is throwing spears of ice with deadly accuracy. Her eyes glow a molten silver as she reaches out to pluck the complicated strings of emotions from her own troops. One particularly large adversary crumples as her ice punches through its chest. But she’s slowing.
She’s struggling, I realize. The princess can barely stand. I can see and almost feel her grit her teeth and lock her knees to keep herself upright against the pain, the failure, the hopelessness engulfing her. The people around her — they don’t have any emotions left to give. They’re dissociating, if they’re still breathing at all. We’ve been in battle for so long, too long. Her own emotions are far too detached to be of any use. This is the end. There’s nothing else to call on, to summon. They’ve made sure the land around her is dead from their hateful rite; she can’t even ground herself…
Calida bops me with her tail, bringing me back to the present.
I don’t dwell on those moments often. Not anymore, at least.
I used to. It used to replay in my mind, over and over, an endless loop of Ash reaching for the Wound. She had exhausted our emotions and her own, so she reached and reached. Deeper, further, into the battlefield, the land itself. Into despair and rage, grief and terror, of the thousands dying, of the land itself. Into the raw pain of war and suffering.
The Wound — the emotional scar carved into our world by the collective suffering of our people.
She had pulled it into herself, like a star collapsing. And in those moments before, I felt her hand on my cheek, her lips on mine. Then she had exploded outward with nuclear devastation, obliterating the army — and shattering herself in the process.
Her body survived, but her mind was fractured under the weight of so much borrowed agony. Her memories were locked away for her own survival, sealing her as Casie.
Now, the time in the hourglass is almost out, and Goira needs our Princess again.
