Baroness Vilaya emerged from the night like a horrible memory, her cape rising like the cursed wings of a moth in the electric rain. A butterfly mad with bloodlust.
Front lit by the Fire Moon as she was, she looked aflame, as if she’d wrapped herself in a cloak of embers. I was drawn to her, as all life is drawn ever closer to death, and I consumed the last vestiges of hope perhaps anywhere in existence.
I could not see her hand, but her saber was searching for blood; a stinger beneath her wings. Legends are often the flesh which clings to a skeleton of truth, but some legends I now believe. I believe her blade will scream louder than I as it wrenches soul from skin. I believe the Baroness Vilaya has lived 1,000 lifetimes and defied 1,000 fates. I believe, now, in the Kingdom of Dusk and the pantheon of royal demons who drink from its poisoned wells.
Had I believed any sooner, might I have been spared?
I imagine not. Belief is an admission of madness at its core, and madness spares not the wicked, the winged, the wretched, nor the innocent.
Notes: I used an image as a writing prompt for this piece. You may be able to find the image on the artist’s ArtStation page.
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