The Chosen: A Mythra Chronicles Short Story

The light in the Luminous Hearth was a dull and warm lie. It filtered through lanterns shaped like unopened moonpetal flowers and cast a golden haze that softened the rough edges of the room. To the mortals huddled within it, it offered comfort against the encroaching night of the Faewood. To me, it merely illuminated the excruciating brevity of their lives. I sat cloaked in the deepest shadow of the corner. The black wool of my attire drank the dim light and let the chill of my own existence pool beneath the rough-hewn table.

I engaged in people watching. That implies a casual passivity that does not suit my nature. I was hunting. My Master required a specific vintage of soul. One bent by regret or sharpened by unrequited ambition. I took the measure of the room to find it. I nursed a glass of red wine that tasted faintly of iron while my crimson eyes scanned the room over the rim.

I cataloged the gentle and mundane pulse of the room. I listened to the overlapping rhythms of their meager existences.

To my left, a middle-aged couple sat close enough that their shoulders touched. They were oblivious to the rest of the room. They were wrapped in a cocoon of quiet intimacy that I found tedious. The man was a woodcutter by the resin stains on his tunic. He took the woman's hand.

"It is good timber this season, Elara," he murmured. His voice was rough but full of a desperate hope. "Two more hauls like the last one and we can finally replace the thatch on the cottage. No more leaks this winter. I promise."

She smiled. It was a tired expression that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "Just do not work yourself into an early grave doing it, Thomas. The roof can wait. You cannot."

Unsuitable. Their love was a simple and sturdy thing. It lacked the jagged edges of despair or the sharp tang of ambition my Master savored. They were content in their struggle. I dismissed them.

Near the hearth, the air was thicker. It smelled of sawdust and old sweat. Three mill workers leaned heavily against a table, and their tankards left wet rings on the wood. Their conversation was a low and angry drone. It was a litany of grievances against a foreman named Brago.

"He docked me half a day's coin," one worker spat. He dropped his fist onto the table. "Said the saw blade dulled on my watch. Like I can tell the iron when to quit."

"Brago is a tyrant," his companion grunted. He stared into his ale as if the answer to his misery lay in the dregs. "He pushes us until our backs break, then hires a fresh lad for half the copper. If I did not have mouths to feed"

"But you do," the third sighed. "We all do. So we drink and we go back tomorrow."

Resentment. Common and pedestrian resentment. It had no flavor. It was the background noise of the working class. A dull ache rather than a sharp tragedy. I moved my gaze onward.

A sudden shout from the kitchen shattered the low hum. "Katy! The stew is turning to sludge! Service, girl!"

The barmaid named Katy moved with a frantic and practiced efficiency. She was young with a face flushed from the heat of the oven and strands of hair escaping her kerchief. She wiped her hands on her apron and grabbed two steaming bowls from the pass.

"Coming, Hobb!" she called back. Her voice was bright despite the fatigue I read in her posture. She navigated the crowded floor. She dodged a drunk miner's elbow with the grace of a dancer and deposited the bowls before the woodworkers.

She circled back to the bar where an old man sat alone. Fred.

I lingered on him. He sat with a posture that suggested a strength fading but not forgotten. His spine remained straight despite the years that pulled at his shoulders. His hands were wrapped around a mug of steaming mint tea. They were gnarled like old oak roots and scarred from decades of honest labor.

Katy paused in her work to lean against the counter across from him. It was a moment of respite in her chaotic shift.

"Another cup of mint, Fred?" she asked. Her tone shifted from professional briskness to a gentle warmth.

"Thank you, Katy," Fred replied. His voice was a deep rumble that was gravelly with age but steady. "And none of that strong stuff for you tonight. I saw you eyeing the keg. You are working too hard to be nursing a headache tomorrow."

Katy laughed. It sounded like a small bell. "Someone has to keep this place standing. Besides, you are one to talk about working hard. How is the farm?"

Fred's weathered face broke into a slow and proud smile. The lines around his eyes deepened. "Bessie finally dropped her calf this morning. Just before dawn. A heifer. Strong legs on her, Katy. She was up and nursing before the sun cleared the tree line."

"That is wonderful, Fred," Katy said. She reached out to pat his hand. "That is the start of a good season. Maybe you can finally fix that fence you have been grumbling about."

"Aye," Fred sighed. The smile faded into a look of quiet endurance. "The fence. And the barn roof. And the winter feed. It never ends, does it, girl? The work is the only thing that stays."

"And the friends," Katy corrected him. "Do not go getting philosophical on me again, Fred. Drink your tea. It will help the joints."

I watched the exchange. I noted the easy and paternal fondness between them. Fred possessed a potent and unbowed loyalty that had weathered the long years. He was strong-spirited but trapped in an aging cage.

I swirled the wine and let its iron tang rise. The taste matched the man. Aged. Bitter. Clinging to purpose. He would do. That specific quality was a vintage my Master would appreciate. That endurance in the face of inevitable decay. That fierce protectiveness he held for the girl and his small life. He was a man who would bargain hard for the safety of what he loved. A tragedy waiting to be harvested.

I had found my quarry. I prepared to rise to make my approach and to whisper the first words of the contract that would bind him.
***

Then the door banged open. It admitted a blast of cold night air and a clamor of vulgar noise that instantly soured the atmosphere. The selection was interrupted.

Five young men stomped in. They brought with them a gust of cold air and the stench of cheap sour ale. They were loud and clumsy. They radiated a desperate need to be feared. Their black armor was ill-fitting, boiled leather dyed with soot that flaked at the seams. Around their necks hung amulets of obsidian glass carved so crudely they looked like lumps of coal.

"Voidwalker business!" the leader bellowed. He was a thick-necked boy with a patchy beard; he was clearly trying to grow into a symbol of authority. "Official inspection! We are collecting the Requisite Tithe for the Order!"

They moved through the room like a plague of locusts. Two of them descended on the couple by the window. They moved with the swagger of men who had never faced a thing that could hunt them back.

One ruffian was a lanky youth with bad teeth and a worse smell. He leaned over the woodcutter's wife, Elara. He did not just look. He invaded. He flicked her ear with a dirty finger and made her recoil.

"Nice ring," he sneered. His eyes locked onto the simple gold band on her finger. "Gold? That is a heavy burden for a simple woman. Material attachments anchor the soul. The Void demands we lighten your load."

"Please," Thomas the woodcutter begged. His hand hovered over hers. It trembled as a pitiful shield against their aggression. "It was her mother's. It is all we have of her. We have copper. Take the coin."

The ruffian laughed. It was a harsh barking sound. He reached down and snatched a small loaf of bread from their plate. He took a huge bite and chewed with his mouth open before he spat the masticated lump onto the floor between Thomas's boots.

"The Void does not want copper, old man," the ruffian said. He leaned in close to savor their fear. "It wants sacrifice. It wants what hurts to give. The Void does not bargain."

He yanked the ring from Elara's finger. She cried out. Not in pain but in loss.

A curl of distaste settled in my gut. They utilized the language of the Order. Concepts of sacrifice and detachment used to justify petty theft. It was a grotesque pantomime.

They moved from the broken couple to the bar. They sought harder targets to validate their own toughness. The three miners I had observed earlier sat rigid. Their hands were white knuckled around their tankards. These were men who broke stone for a living. They were thick-muscled and hardened by the deep dark. Yet faced with the unpredictable malice of these impostors, they shrank.

"You three," one of the ruffians barked. He slammed the butt of his spear onto the counter. He was a wiry youth with eyes that darted nervously. He was eager to prove his cruelty. "You reek of the earth. The Order requires a tithe from the deep places. Empty your belts."

The older miner hesitated. He was a man with a beard seemingly made of wire and coal dust. "We have nothing but our day's wage, lad. And it is already spent on this ale."

"Then you offer the ale," the ruffian sneered. With a backhanded swipe, he knocked the heavy stone mug from the miner's hand. It shattered on the floor and splashed dark stout over the miner's boots. "To the floor! The Void drinks first!"

The miner half rose. His jaw worked. A lifetime of pride warred with the survival instinct. His companions grabbed his arms and pulled him back down. They sat simmering in impotent rage and stared at the spilled ale while the ruffians laughed.

I watched the miner's hand twitch toward the heavy iron pick hanging at his belt, then stop. Restraint. Or fear. It was disappointing. A true dwarf of Hammerdeep would have buried that mug in the boy's skull. Consequences be damned. These men had been broken long before tonight.

The commotion drew Hobb from the kitchen. The swing door flew open. The cook emerged. He was a large, red-faced man wiping his hands on a stained apron. He held a heavy iron ladle like a mace.

"What in the blazes is going on out here?" Hobb bellowed. His voice boomed with the territorial authority of a man whose roast is in danger of burning. "Katy? Why is there shouting? I have customers waiting on"

He stopped. The leader of the ruffians stepped into his path, blocking the view of the room.

"The kitchen is closed, fat man," the leader said. He poked Hobb in the belly with his cudgel. "Unless you are cooking for the Order."

Hobb blinked. His indignation momentarily stalled his fear. "The Order? You lot look like you could not order a sandwich, let alone a town. Get out of my establishment before I"

The leader did not let him finish. He drove the pommel of his cudgel into Hobb's stomach. It was not a killing blow, but it was cruel. Hobb doubled over, wheezing. The ladle clattered to the floor.

"We will take the roast too," the leader hissed. He leaned over the gasping cook. "And the wine. And whatever coin you have hidden in that flour sack."

He shoved Hobb backward. The cook stumbled and fell hard against the doorframe. He slid down to sit in the sawdust, clutching his belly. His face was a mask of shock.

"Anyone else want to play hero?" the leader shouted. He spun around. His eyes were wild and excited by the ease of his dominance.

He turned his gaze to Katy, who was now backed against the shelves, trembling.

"The spirits cling to you, girl," he sneered. His voice was thick with mock sanctity. "The Void sees your stain. Might be you need cleansing. Deep cleansing. The kind that leaves marks."

As he spoke he reached out and dragged his filthy hand across her bodice. Slow and deliberate. Grease and ash smeared the fabric leaving dark streaks like bruises on linen.

A heavy stool scraped against the stone floor near the bar. The sound cut through the tension. Fred stood up.

The old man rose to his full height. His chest heaved. His face flushed with a bright and righteous crimson. For a second the years seemed to fall away. I saw the outline of the man he had been. Broad. Capable. A force to be reckoned with.

"You let her be," Fred growled. His voice shook not with fear but with fury. He took a step forward. His gnarled fists raised. "You get out of here. You are not Voidwalkers. You are just trash."

The leader turned slowly. A cruel smile spread across his face. He pulled a long serrated dagger from his belt.

"Trash?" he asked softly. He stepped into Fred's personal space. He poked the tip of the dagger against the old man's chest. "You think because you are grey you are safe? The Void eats the old first. They are softer."

He shoved Fred. It was not a hard shove but Fred's legs were stiff with age and they betrayed him. He stumbled back. His boots slipped on the floorboards. He collapsed heavily onto his stool. He tried to rise again but his breath hitched. His body failed the command of his will. He sat there with his head bowed low. Fred's knuckles whitened around his knees. His head dipped. Not from pain but from the weight of eyes he could no longer meet.

The leader laughed. It was a harsh barking sound. "Look at him! The defender of the weak! Can not even stand on his own two feet."

He turned back to the room and spread his arms wide. "Now," he shouted. His eyes gleamed with malice. "Because of this cowardly old man the price goes up! We are not just taking a tithe. We are taxing the room! Pay the Cost of Contempt! Everything of value. Now! Or we burn this rat trap down!"

His pack spread out. They overturned bags and snatched necklaces and grabbed the woodworkers' carving knives. They were stripping these people of their dignity coin by coin.

I had seen enough. My hunt was over. The selection was irrelevant. The hunt soured. This was not selection. It was sanitation.
***

I reached beneath my cloak. I did not draw a weapon. I drew a handful of silver and gold coins. Heavy and bright. I let them drop onto my table.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

The sound cut through the chaotic noise of the room like a bell.

The hefty one who I had mentally named Grak was bullying the mill workers near the hearth. His head snapped toward the sound. He saw the gold glinting in the lantern light. His eyes widened. Pupils dilated with raw animal greed. He forgot the mill workers. He forgot the mission.

He lumbered toward my corner. His heavy boots thudded on the floor planks. He stopped at my table and his shadow fell over me. He did not even look at my face. He just reached a thick grime encrusted hand across the wood. Fingers grasped for the pile.

I lifted my head slowly. The hood fell back an inch. My crimson eyes locked onto his.

"Those," I murmured. My voice was a low and chilling whisper that carried no room for argument. "Are not for you."

Grak froze. His hand hung suspended in the air inches from the gold. He stared at me. His mouth hung slightly open. His greed warred with a sudden and primal biological alarm screaming in his hindbrain. He did not speak. He did not breathe. He just stood there paralyzed by the sudden realization that he had stepped into a cage with something much larger than himself.

"Grak!" the leader bellowed from the bar. "What are you doing? Grab it!"

Grak did not move. The leader swore. He abandoned Katy and stormed over. His boots were loud on the wood. He shoved Grak aside.

"Useless ox," he muttered. He looked at me and sneered. "You got something to say old man? Or are you paying the tax?"

I placed my hand flat over the coins, covering them completely.

The leader stared at my hand. His face twisted in annoyance. "Have it your way," he spat. He reached out and seized my wrist. He dug his fingers in to force my hand away.

I stopped. Time seemed to suspend in the tavern. I looked up at him.

A sly thin smile curved my lips. A dark expression that held no warmth and no fear. Only a profound dark gratitude for the permission he had just granted me.

Thank you for touching me.

I rose. It was a fluid and weightless unfolding of ancient power. My hand moved faster than the eye could track. I reversed the grip. I clamped my fingers around the leader's throat.

He made a wet choking sound as I lifted him. He rose onto his tiptoes. Boots scrabbled for purchase on the floorboards. Then he left the ground entirely. I held him suspended at arm's length. His face turned a mottled ugly purple.

I looked at the cheap mock obsidian amulet dangling from his neck. It was an insult.

"You seek greatness," I whispered. My voice was a silken and chilling caress. "But you commit blasphemy."

I brought him closer until his bulging eyes were inches from my crimson ones.

"The true Voidwalkers hunt my kind with a silence that is terrifying. They trade their names for the power to unmake me. They are a noble enemy worthy of the dark." My grip tightened. Not enough to kill but enough to make his vision swim. "You act the part of a lion little dog but you lack the teeth. To wear their symbol without their scars is not just a lie. It is vulgar."

I felt his will crumble under the weight of my disdain.

"You confuse amateur insolence with the Voidwalker's zeal," I finished. "And I do not tolerate bad acting."

The spell of shock broke. The other four ruffians roared. A sound of fear masquerading as rage. They drew their weapons. Cheap iron swords and rusted cleavers. They charged the corner.

I dropped the leader. He hit the floor like a sack of wet grain. He gasped for air and his fight was extinguished. I did not draw my sword. To use steel on such refuse would be an insult to the blade.

I moved to meet the charge.

The first to reach me was a wiry youth with a serrated knife. He lunged for my ribs. I stepped inside his arc. My movement was a blur of shadow. I caught his wrist in my left hand halting his momentum instantly. With a sharp precise twist I snapped the radius bone. The sound was like a dry branch breaking in winter. He screamed and dropped the knife but I was not finished. I drove the heel of my palm into his temple. The scream cut off as he collapsed. His body was limp before it hit the floor.

Grak the brute was next. He swung a heavy cudgel with enough force to crack stone. I did not block it. I simply was not there when it landed. I ducked under the swing. The wind of it stirred my hair. I drove my fist into his solar plexus. It was a blow delivered with vampiric strength. I felt his ribs give way. He folded around my fist coughing blood and fell to his knees. He wheezed a final rattling breath before tipping face first onto the floorboards.

The remaining two faltered. They looked at their fallen comrades then at me. A dark unbreathing statue standing amidst the carnage. The realization of their mistake dawned in their eyes cold and terrifying. One turned to run.

I picked up a heavy pewter tankard from the table and threw it. It struck the fleeing man at the base of the skull with a sickening thud. He went down hard sliding into the wall and did not move again.

The last man stood trembling. It was the one who had taken the bread from the woodcutter's wife. His sword shook in his hand. He dropped the weapon. It clattered loudly in the silence. He fell to his knees with hands raised in supplication.

"Please," he wept. "Mercy. I yield."

"The Void does not bargain," I stated. I threw the thief's own words back at him.

I closed the distance in a single stride. I did not strike him. I simply placed my hand on his shoulder and squeezed. The clavicle shattered under my grip. He fainted from the pain and crumbled into a heap beside Grak.

It was over. The violence had lasted less than ten seconds.

I stood amidst the wreckage. Four men lay broken dead or dying on the mossy floor. The scent of blood began to mingle with the pine and ale. A copper tang awakened a deep ancient thirst I pushed aside.

I smoothed my cloak. I walked back to the leader who was curled in a fetal ball. He wheezed softly. Unconscious but alive. I reached down. I grabbed him by the back of his belt and his collar and hauled him up. I slung his limp body over my left shoulder effortlessly. He was heavy dead weight but to me he was light as a feather. He was the acquisition. A toy for the Master.

I walked to the bar. The silence in the room was thick. A physical weight. The patrons were statues of fear. Their eyes were wide and tracking my movement.

Katy stood rigid behind the counter. Her hands clutched her apron. Tears dried on her pale cheeks. She looked at the bodies then at me. She was unable to reconcile the violence with the quiet man who had sat in the corner.

I reached into my pouch and placed a single gold piece on the counter. It spun for a moment before settling with a clear ring.

"For the damages Katy," I said. My voice returned to its cultured baritone. "The vermin have been cleansed."

I turned toward the bar where Fred still sat. The old man was pale. His chest heaved as he fought for breath. But he was looking at me. His eyes held fear, yes, but beneath it there was a hard, recognizing light. He knew what I was. Or at least he knew I was a monster. But he also knew I had done what he could not.

Fred did not speak. He just nodded. Once. Slow. Not thanks. Not approval. Just recognition. Predator to predator.

I returned the nod. A gesture of respect to an old lion who had lost his teeth.

I turned and swept out of the tavern. The cool night air of the Faewood washed over me. I carried my prize into the darkness and left the light and the living behind. My search was concluded.

The Chosen

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