“Okay Doc, lay it on me,” said a detective working on his newly assigned case.

  On an examination table of the morgue was as most can automatically assume was a dead body.

  The woman was in her mid-twenties, her athletic build clear even in stillness. Her olive-toned skin had taken on a muted shade after death, the blood no longer bringing it warmth. Short, dark hair framed her face, and a nasty bruise marred the area beneath her jaw, circling her neck. Her gray-blue eyes, now closed, had once held a fierce intensity. Scars—testaments to hardship and survival—were visible along her arms and shoulders, and a military tattoo marked her skin, a silent testament to her service. A white sheet covered her body, preserving her dignity after the examination.

  “It appears to a rough way to go detective,” replied the medical examiner. “From what you were able to provide, and I was able to confirm. I can tell you this was self-inflicted most likely by hanging herself given by how she was found. The blood alcohol was to the point that her liver would have a hell of a time to sober her up. The blood tests also show a few antidepressants. If that wasn’t enough the damaged larynx a workable airway she probably would’ve completed her death by either alcohol poisoning, overdose, or a combination of both by either accidentally doing so or not. Either way I didn’t like this exam.”

  The detective remembered the relative sterileness of the apartment with only a handful of personal affects that would’ve given any personality. The couple of photos from foreign countries; places like Iraq, Afghanistan, or even the United Arab Emirates. The detective didn’t have the heart to see if a date and country was written on the back. The citations and promotions told her story more than the physical and mental scars that the woman may have suffered.

  “I’m sorry,” the detective whispered to the cold, deceased body of the victim of their own mind. “I wish we could’ve done better for you Sargeant Monroe.”

  The medical examiner handed the detective a certified copy of their notes. The name on the file read: Katherine Monroe.

  ...

  “Detail order arms,” said a detailed commander as the honor guard went ahead with the twenty-one-gun salute.

  Katherine’s body, now in a casket, was now being lowered into the ground as the symbolic rifles rang out the shots as taps played by a beguiler.

  Many people decided to show to the funeral of the decorated veteran. Many were blood family her parents, siblings, and an array of aunts, uncles, and cousins in the front. Closely followed by people who have served with Katherine Monroe ranging from Private — of which there was only two or three. — to the rank of Master Sargeant, with a solitary Major. Many tears were shed by the attendees as they recounted the memories that they had with Katherine as a focal point.

  The wake was somewhere between mourning the loss of a friend, a family member— no matter if they were blood or not—, and a celebration of life in the way the many Marines in attendance only knew how: a lot of drunken singing and telling stories mainly the good ones leading to laughter leaving the wake in a state of lightened melancholy.

  ...

  Lira Wynford knelt near a ritual circle she had drawn herself, arguing with herself whether she should complete it.

  The ritual circle was small enough that she could wipe it away with her hand. The problem was the items mixed in the ritual bowl at her knees. Sure, she could put the mixture of powders, sands, and feathers, as well as a couple of hairs, all that was needed was an incantation and some of Lira’s blood.

  Lira was a “magic user,” more specifically a witch. Although the practice of witchcraft was not outright illegal within the country. It was the nominal predecessors of other covens that made witches and other practitioners of witchcraft either nervous or mistrustful of her. The nervous glances she was getting from the group she had decided to work with to remove a coven that was not safe for the world at large. Let alone the immediate towns and villages.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  As a way of reassurance Lira finally made her decision, putting the contents of her bowl into a sealable bottle and wiping away the ritual circle that she had drawn in the dirt.

  The group she was with was an eclectic group, made up of the usual archetypes of warriors, scouts or archers—Lira wasn’t sure which was which as to her they looked the same—, and magic users as the healers and ranged damage dealers, depending on what the mage or witch studied.

  The hideout lay hidden in the wilderness, disguised as an ancient crypt half-swallowed by tangling roots and dense moss. Crumbling stonework and toppled statues, their faces worn smooth by centuries of rain and wind, guarded the entrance. Vines and thorny underbrush almost completely concealed the dark archway leading inside, so only those who knew precisely where to look would ever find it. The earth around the crypt was pockmarked with strange, scorched patterns, and the air felt heavier—thick with an eerie silence, broken only by the cawing of distant crows and the low, unsettling hum that seemed to radiate from the cold stone itself.

  “I can feel the magic in the area,” said one of the two mages. “I don’t think we made it in time.”

  The group of seven made their way on and deep into the crypt. Luckily for the group all the traps or possibility of traps were nonexistent.

  At the bottom of a set of stairs. Down a couple of halls, they finally made it to the ritual area.

  The area was large a group of witches chanting in the macabre way that a group synchronously can summon anything from minor demons or a complete abomination that the only goal was to wipe out all signs of life.

  The light warrior of the group silently signaled to attack.

  Skills, and spells went through as the witches in their obliviousness chanted. The kills were quick and somewhere between painless or painful.

  It wasn’t until Lira was able to approach the ritual circle after the cultist-like coven was eliminated. Her practical armor shifted slightly as she pulled a notebook from a pocket of the robes that she had over it.

  The notebook wasn’t her spellbook it was her notes on necromancy rituals and other like magic. She examined the runes one by one. Then, she had a disturbing revelation as the runes and lines of the ritual started to glow.

  “TAKE COVER,” she yelled, dashing to duck on the opposite side of a makeshift altar.

  KRRRRCK. BOOOOM.

  Lira’s ears rang as the ritual had either failed or succeed as they had accidentally supplied the blood the ritual may have needed to be completed. Hesitantly, Lira twisted and lifted herself to see over the altar.

  Inside the ritual circle was not a zombie, demon, or other abomination. It was a woman.

  Her form laid hunched as she was roughly placed where she was. The female form did not stir as her eyes were still closed showing she might be unconscious. Lira though she had to be as the woman had to be as the nude form never gestured to cover herself.

  Lira was the first to move laying the woman on her back. “Does anyone have a blanket or something to cover her with?” Lira asked. She knew they did as it took them two days to get to the crypt turned coven hall, but no one moved.

  “Fucking bastards,” Lira commented as she roughly pulled down a tapestry not sure if it was to a noble house that was long ago forgotten or to the former coven.

  As Lira knelt beside the unconscious woman, her first action was to check for signs of life—searching for the steady rise and fall of breath, the faint pulse at her wrist. Satisfied that the stranger was alive, Lira took in several striking details. The woman's athletic build was unmistakable, her olive-toned skin marked by scars along her arms and shoulders—each a testament to hardship and survival. Short, dark hair framed her face, and a tattoo, crisp and bold, stood out against her skin. Its meaning was lost on Lira, yet it suggested a story she did not know, hinting at a life shaped by discipline and conflict. Even in stillness, there was an aura of strength and resilience about her, making it clear that this stranger was no ordinary arrival to Aerilon. Wanting to grant her some dignity when she awoke, Lira gently placed a tapestry over Katherine’s body, shielding her from the chill and any prying eyes.

  It doesn’t take long for the woman to stir. With a low groan, she shifted, signaling to the group that she was regaining consciousness.

  “If this is hell, why’s it so damn chilly?” Her voice was raw, gritty—like someone who’d spent days shouting over the roar of battlefields or forges.

  She tried to push herself upright, but Lira gently pressed a hand to her shoulder, urging her to stay put. “Easy there,” Lira said, her tone calm but firm. “You’ve been through a lot. Let’s not rush things.”

  The woman cracked a tired smile, not fully aware yet, and muttered, “Heh, that’s what she said.”

  But as clarity returned, her demeanor sharpened. Her eyes snapped open, and with surprising strength, she bolted upright, nearly knocking Lira back.

  “Where am I? Why am I naked? And—how am I alive?” The questions tumbled out, her tone defensive, as if bracing for a fight.

  Lira raised both hands in a gesture of peace. “Hang on. You’re safe. You’re in the woods north of Wynford Duchy. We… found you during a ritual. Well, ‘found’ might not cover it—you were, sort of, brought here.”

  “Are we in a crypt?”

  “Um...technically... yes. Yes, we are in a crypt.”