❛ You can tear me down, break me, beat me, but I'll remember. ❜

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PREVIOUSLY...
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Through manipulation and the blood of the innocent, Palmira made certain the people of Rupteran were prepared for a war she believed was inevitable. A war between the gods—Lucifer and those loyal to him—and mankind. All she needed was a weapon that could kill gods, and Azura was that weapon. Palmira threatened Ari's life, forcing Azura to choose between saving Ari and allowing Palmira to use her power to continue to enslave Rupteran for a war that may not even be real, or letting him die. Ari demanded she not submit, and Azura was subjected to watching Palmira kill Ari before her. Azura managed to escape.

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Rosabel will never get used to the frigid air of Kitala. It's biting and awful and every morning she wakes just as grumpy and exhausted as when she went to sleep. But still she crawls from beneath her furs, pulls on her boots, shrugs into her coat, shoves a thick hat over her fiery hair, and braces herself to be slammed with the cold by gritting her teeth and sending a prayer to the Mother not to freeze to death.

No amount of preparation will ever make it easier.

As she steps out of the humble hut, the air knocks the breath from her lungs and stings her eyes.

"Good morning, Rosabel!" someone greets, their voice far too cheery and clearly one of the people that have the privilege of sleeping in one of the huts that make up the ramshackle village.

Rosabel grunts in response, shuffling forward to begin her duties that she refuses to abandon. She can hear Raffy's voice now, rumbling and filled with annoyance. You don't need to do this, Rosa. Go back to bed, Rosa. You're going to catch your death, Rosa.

Raffy can sod off. That's probably what she'd say to him if the man weren't twice her size and just as stubborn, and if she didn't rely on his strength so much.

She trudges through the wide street, the road cleared of snow by those who brave the cold before the sun is even up. She can't help but feel sorry for those people and knows her own jobs are easy in comparison. It's why she won't neglect them, though she's aware no one will look at her any less if she does.

Rosabel approaches the tents with trepidation, her heart always hurting to see them. People wander between the hide tents, buried in layers of ragged clothing, their noses pink from the cold. Rosabel's own nose is numb and that numbness is spreading too fast.

But she won't turn back to her hut. She won't tear her gaze away from the people that huddle together, blowing on their cupped hands or inching closer to their small fires. Each of them watch her as she passes, some of them even brave enough to greet her. There's no cheeriness amongst the camp like there is in the village, but a line has been drawn and there's only so much Rosabel can do to make it less harsh.

She moves towards the sagging wooden structure, smoke rising from the fire within, the tantalising smell of cooking meat and boiling stew wafting towards her.

Raffy is there, as usual, a deep scowl on his bronzed features as he takes in her slouched form. She stands a little straighter beneath his gaze, trying to pretend she's as tall as him though he'll always tower over her.

She steps behind the table, grabs a bowl and begins spooning slop into it to hand to the line of people already forming, her fingers trembling with the cold.

She ignores Raffy's hulking figure at her side, his grunt of acknowledgement telling her his mood isn't as foul as it usually is.

"Thank you, dear," an elderly woman says as her hands cup Rosabel's around the bowl. Rosabel looks at the older woman, her skin sagging, her hair a mess of greying frizz, and Rosabel forces a smile on her lips. It hurts her every time she has to do it, knowing she can offer these people no more than a bowl of warm stew and a strained smile. She's tried to do more but...

Her gaze darts to the village on the hill, tucked into the base of the mountain. And further into the mountain is where she really wants these people to be, amongst the thriving sanctuary that has stayed thriving because they refuse to let outsiders in.

Rosabel has been there a few times. She's tried bargaining though she has nothing to bargain with. She's tried pleading and begging though it left a bad taste in her mouth. She's tried everything to save these people this continued torture. But to no avail. The witches are as stubborn as they are reclusive.

"I can feel your melancholy," Raffy says at her side, his deep voice vibrating into Rosabel from where their shoulders touch.

Rosabel sighs, passing another bowl of stew to yet another hunched figure in rags, barely clinging to life. "I was thinking of going to see the witches again."

Raffy huffs. "The last journey nearly killed you."

Rosabel presses her lips together, refusing to answer that because it's the truth. She near froze to death on the mountain passage and couldn't make the journey back without...

She closes her eyes, familiar dread and resentment churning in her gut.

Without using abilities that are as dangerous to herself as they are to other people. She was too young before the fall to have undergone proper training. She was too young, and now they're all suffering because she can't use her gifts like she should. She was meant to be their hope. She was meant to be a lot of things.

The dread and resentment continue to swirl within her, needling into her. Dread because these people are still helpless and searching for a home that may not exist. And resentment for the witches that have turned their backs on them. And for herself, for not being the leader these people need her to be.

"I need to keep trying," she says, straightening her spine and forcing herself to look at her people, to see each of them as she does every morning, reminding herself of why she nearly kills herself every time she grovels at the feet of the witches. She would do anything for her people.

"You're no use to your people if you're dead," Raffy growls and she grumbles a curse under her breath that he scowls at.

She sets the ladle down and steps back from the table to rub her grainy eyes, still tired from yet another sleepless night. "What would you have me do, Raffy? It's not like we can ever go to the mainland."

"And why not?"

Rosabel glares at him, violet eyes flickering with more than just sorrow as her old fury lifts its head. Old and useless to her. For too long she thought about her impossible revenge, knowing she would never have it. All that anger left her with is exhaustion. "I'm not sure if you noticed, but the Empire still exists, and while it does, no shape-shifter is safe."

Raffy grunts and Rosabel's shoulders slump.

It's a familiar argument. Though Raffy isn't a shape-shifter and has only been with them for a few months, she still considers him one of her people. This is his home and he was here long before Rosabel and her people arrived. She doesn't know why he helps them when he has no obligation to her, but he does, and she finds herself leaning on his strength more often than not.

She's dragged from her thoughts as a sharp itch nags at her arm and she frowns. She peels her sleeve up as the itch turns into a sharp burn that has her hissing. She lifts her arm and her heart stops beating for a moment.

"Rosa?"

But she's not listening. The sygil on her arm shines brighter than it ever has for a moment before it dulls and fades, becoming nothing more than a scar. The light it's emitted for most of her life snuffs out and she's left feeling cold. She blinks at it, shock barrelling through her as a denial rises on her lips.

Rosabel lifts her gaze as something in her breaks and crumbles. She stares at Raffy, then at her people, then back at her arm, her hope dying along with that light.

"Ari," she whimpers.