Prophesy

Niṣṭhā was not, strictly speaking, a believer in prophecy. She considered the exercise frivolous and futile, the indolent, idle vice of the flaccid and feeble-minded.

Such a sentiment, of course, amounted to blasphemy of the highest order. However, Niṣṭhā, save for a healthy concern for her own skin, was of a disposition largely unmoved by the platitudes of the faithful. Blasphemy be damned—Niṣṭhā wanted to be queen.

Now, that was a dangerous thought to bandy about. The rightful heir by prophecy was her sister, Arasi—whom Niṣṭhā really considered dull and unambitious; an insipid, lucky fool whose only merit was her beauty and the pure, unmarred deep of her skin.

Niṣṭhā was scarred. Niṣṭhā had been scarred ever since she’d stood with eyes afire between her sister and their irascible devil of a father-ruler, who breathed only the blood-black misery of the soul. Niṣṭhā had been scarred ever since she’d taken his blade to her cheek for her daring, and when the young prophetess had seen her face with its stark, bone-white twist, she’d cowed and called Arasi queen.

The mantle Niṣṭhā deserved—the mantle she ached for with that deep, burning, shameful want.

There would be no more vacillating. Niṣṭhā was no woman of inaction, nor one prone to flights of fancy. Phantasy was the balm to soothe the gnawing pains of the soul, but action—action was its cure.

Niṣṭhā gathered her blades.

The temple of the prophetess lay hidden, lightless, in the shades of a cliffside. It was beastly and sepulchral in nature, fashioned out of the pale granite of the mountain in coarse, saw-edged spires.

Niṣṭhā led her men through the cold with a wolfish smile. Into the great maw of heaven and of hell they followed her, swords at the ready.

The temple’s guards were cut down swiftly. No resistance could have been material to Niṣṭhā’s army, small in number though it was. Her men were too well-trained, too disciplined, too hungry for violence. Blood rained upon the stone floor, the tiles had become slick with black, the path forward littered with pale, lifeless bodies.

“DHAUMIRA!” she roared.

The prophetess, cowardice laid bare, emerged from the shadow of a great pillar. Her brow was bowed, her veil askew. Niṣṭhā grinned, teeth bared.

“The great prophetess has made herself known.” Niṣṭhā stood, hair matted with sweat and bloodied flesh, blade outstretched. “If you’ve any honour, you’ll stand and face what you denied me.”

A growing puddle formed at Dhaumira’s feet. The prophetess fell to her knees.

“I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “I’m sorry.”

Niṣṭhā rushed forward and stuck her blade under Dhaumira’s chin, close enough to bite, but not enough to kill. “Look at me, you spineless wretch.”

Trembling, Dhaumira raised her head. Niṣṭhā tore her veil from her crown, and sucked in a violent breath.

Pallid, worm-like scars scoured both her eyes. Ugly. Jagged. Carved.

Dhaumira was sightless.

“I-I beg you, Princess.”

“Who did this to you?”

Dhaumira squeezed her eyes shut and turned her face away. “P-Please. Please.”

“Who.” Niṣṭhā, a vise coil tightening her ribs, jabbed her sword against the shaking woman.

“H-His Majesty,” she blurted, tears streaming, a thread of blood sliding down her throat.

Niṣṭhā fought not to pull away. Even in death, her father haunted her. She saw his face nightly, covered in black, tarry ichor. It clung to every inch of him. Stained her irreparably.

“Who did you see,” demanded Niṣṭhā. “Who did you see on the throne?”

“Please,” whimpered Dhaumira. “Spare me.”

“Was it Arasi?” she hissed. “Was it my sister!”

Dhaumira clasped her hands together, a litany on her lips, please, please. Niṣṭhā could barely breathe. She felt the eyes of her soldiers, watching ever so closely. Felt the shadow of death over her shoulder, digging its claws into her skin.

With a ragged cry, peering into that horror-filled face, she lifted her sword, and swung.

Niṣṭhā set the palace ablaze. She rained fury down upon them—savage, voracious murder. The pulse of mutinous war throbbed around her. The drums of violence, come to the door.

As far as the eye could see was the bloodied detritus of revolution, still fresh with the scent of iron. Niṣṭhā stepped on the bodies of fallen men, kicked weapons out of stiff hands, and marched, marched toward the throne.

She sliced a man’s throat, cut another down. She was carnage embodied, fury given form. Her blades ate men like air. With the heat of a hundred fires at her back she shattered the doors to her sister’s refuge, to find her standing, proud as ever, alone with nothing and no one to guard her.

Niṣṭhā laughed darkly. “You’ve always been a sentimental fool.”

Even still, Arasi straightened. “I want no blood spilt between us, Sister.”

“Haven’t you noticed,” gestured Niṣṭhā laughingly to the wreckage beyond the throne room doors. “It’s too late for that, Your Majesty.”

“Niṣṭhā,” said Arasi. “I love you.”

“How dare you!” Niṣṭhā charged, blades raised, only to be met by Arasi’s daggers. Steel shrieked against steel. Niṣṭhā struck and struck again. Arasi deflected each blow with terrible grace.

They danced in torment, each a mirror of the other. A beautiful, crimson storm, blood for blood, strike for strike. Till at last, with a shout, Niṣṭhā plunged her blade into Arasi’s side. Arasi’s breath left her in a ragged gasp.

Niṣṭhā felt it sing through her veins—triumph, at last, the throne would be hers. She opened her mouth to speak, to claim what she had won, but the words caught. Something was wrong. A coldness spreading through her chest. A strange, distant ache.

She looked down.

Steel protruded from between her ribs, Arasi's dagger buried to the hilt. When had—? She hadn't felt—

Niṣṭhā wrapped her fingers around the blade. Pulled. White-hot agony tore through her and she screamed, releasing it. The weapon remained lodged, immovable. She tried again, hands slick with blood, but her grip faltered. Her strength was leaving her.

She coughed. Choked. Raised her trembling hand to her mouth.

It came away red.

Arasi looked at her with something like torment, something like relief.

“Arasi…” she gasped. “Arasi.”

“Sister.” Arasi staggered, fell to her knees.

Niṣṭhā stumbled, struggling to find breath. “Arasi.”

Her vision was going black. Outside, the fight raged on.

She fell backward. For a long, terrible moment, she could only hear the whine of blood in her ears. Her vision went dark.

Niṣṭhā became dimly aware of Arasi crawling, dragging herself to her side. Arasi's hand found hers, slick with blood. Her sister's face swam into view, pale and stricken.

“I'm here, Sister. I'm here,” whispered Arasi. “Forgive me.”

Her father, again, standing behind her sister, pale and bloated and ghoulish. Her father, the day he’d died.

“My sister. My brave one.” Arasi was stroking her hair with a weak, trembling hand.

Niṣṭhā could not speak. Her father. Her father, in the flesh. She was terrified. She felt small.

“We were always destined to die like this.”

Niṣṭhā—Niṣṭhā struggled to—struggled to—neither of them. Had her father known?

Father, begged Niṣṭhā, Father, please don’t hit her. She’s just a child.

“Shh,” soothed Arasi. “Rest, rest, Niṣṭhā.”

She reached out a hand to touch Arasi’s face. Perfect. Beautiful. So much blood.

Had her father known—neither of them would live?

Father, she sobbed, let it be me. Let it be me. Hit me. Let it be me.

She was so, so cold. Where was her sister? Her little sister?

The world was going grey. Arasi's voice, so far away now.

"Niṣṭhā," came Arasi's fractured voice. "I've always loved you."

She tried to hold on. Tried to—

And then—a final, trembling exhale.

Let it be me.