Oruka: City of Walls

Chapter 1 - Ghosts

F A I N E, The Second Hildemoer Sister

They stared, mute, as water slammed against glass like so many incorporeal bullets, bursting back into nothingness upon impact. Plack, plack, plack! Beyond the pelting rain, night stretched on into oblivion. Everything was pitch black, save for the occasional flash of lightning that lit up the estate, revealing empty stables, a garden overrun with neglect, and the silhouette of a lone figure standing at the highest tower.

For an indeterminate amount of time, the newly minted Reaper remained utterly still against this onslaught. Unmoved as thunder pealed, unflinching as the floor beneath them trembled. Were it not for the faintest bloom of fog against pane, one might have assumed it was a statue keeping silent vigil by the window and not a living, breathing person.

Unfortunately for Faine, they were still very much alive. Tragically so. And the longer the storm raved, the more they imagined that these wrathful drops were all aiming for their head. Their stupid, vile head.

Even the sky is mad at you.

A childish thought to be sure, fueled solely by rage and shame. But, in that moment, it felt as real as fact.

Gales of wind wailed against wood and stone with such force that it shook the house's very bones. Windows rattled, walls trembled, and Faine ground their teeth so hard they were sure there would be no enamel left come morning.

What have I done...

They clenched and unclenched their gloved hands, face taut from tears long dried. There were none left now; the well had been depleted, leaving behind only disdain and regret.

What. Have. You. Done??

--------------------

Trust Orukan nobility to always choose the most melodramatic path possible. Faine had never meant for things to get so catastrophic. Death may have been her calling, but only as one of its many shepherds. She had no head for judging, nor interest in experimenting, and not even a slight penchant for murdering. She was, in all honesty, meant to be the boring one.

And yet.

It was hard to keep looking. The tides of panic rose in her throat, bile tickling her tonsils, but Faine forced her gaze to hold. She owed that much, at least. To look—really look—at the destruction she had caused.

Strewn about her feet were the cold, bloody remains of a woman in her middling years. Not for the first time that night, Faine marveled at how untouched Mother's head was compared to the rest of her corpse. Hair streaked with grey, mouth bowed in an eternal frown, eyes once lit with scorn now cloudy and dim. All of it framed, rather morbidly, in a scarlet pool, not a speck of blood to be found on smooth, brown skin. She always thought it odd that the Master Painter chose to Will her skin to youthfulness, yet left her greying hair untouched. What was the point of that, anyway?

A crack of lightning split the sky. Thunder followed suit seconds later, the first of many heralds of the storm to come.

It was then, and only then, that the reality of what had just transpired hit her squarely in the chest. She would never be able to truly answer that question. Not now, not ever. The source of so much of her knowledge—of her very existence—was gone. Faine had not realized how much she relied on Mother's guidance until that moment, when the loss of her finally seeped through the child's veins and entered fully into her bloodstream. It filled her with lead, made her so heavy she could scarcely move.

Somewhere behind her, a cough broke through the growing din of wind and rain and self-loathing. Faine's heart lurched. She peeled her eyes away from one grisly scene to land on another, far more gut wrenching one.