Shattered Eternity: Nine of Hearts

I’ve always fucking hated the Whiteguard.

Those smug bastards with their gleaming armor, strutting around like they own the godsdamn world. If they all died choking on their own blood, it still wouldn’t be enough. Their corpses would be more useful as fertilizer for my garden—at least then, they’d finally serve a fucking purpose.

I shift my weight, the sticky warmth of blood soaking into my clothes as I lay sprawled among the mangled bodies of the Whiteguard. Their lifeless eyes stare at nothing, their mouths frozen mid-scream. Around me, the Cauldron-born scatter into the night, their chains broken, fleeing in all directions to freedom. My hands are red to the elbows, fingers aching from the grip of my blade, but I’m not done.

Not yet.

With a giggle, I stretch out my arms and drag them through the blood-soaked snow, tracing wide arcs like a child making angels. The irony is delicious—angels in the blood of devils. The metallic tang of death clings to the air, mixing with the sharp chill of frost. My chest heaves with laughter, the sound raw and unhinged, echoing off the stone walls.

But that’s not enough for me. No, I want to see their faces when it all burns down. I want to watch their smug grins twist into terror as they realize they’re nothing. I want their blood on my hands, their screams echoing in my ears.

And don’t even get me started on Marcus Deamhan. That tyrannical piece of shit should have been rotting in a ditch decades ago, but that bastard just won’t die. The whole damn kingdom of Bas Righ would be better off if someone set his precious Highhold Castle on fire with him inside.

Someone like me.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

You want to know why, don’t you? Why the fire in me burns so hot it feels like it could consume the world? To understand that, we need to go back. Back to when I was twelve. Back to the night it all began. When I died and a monster was born.

The city of Frosthelm was a weird place.

It was big and loud, with the constant clatter of wagon wheels on cobblestones and the distant cries of merchants echoing through the alleys. It was so cold that it felt like the wind was trying to bite me through my coat, and the smoky air stung my nose with every breath. I’d never seen anywhere else, so I guess I thought it was normal for a place to feel so alive and so mean all at the same time.

The streets were packed with people shouting and hurrying, and the air smelled like smoke, dirt, and the leftover fish guts from the market. I loved it and hated it all at once. It made me feel small, but it also made me feel like anything could happen.

“Delaney, love, eyes up,” my father’s voice called. He had this way of sounding calm even when things weren’t, which always made me feel better. “You’re our little Midnight Star. Don’t forget it.”

That was his thing to say. Midnight Star. It made me feel special, like I could shine even in the darkest places. My mother would always laugh and add, “The brightest star in the coldest sky.” They said it so much I started to believe it, even when my hands were sweaty, and my knees felt wobbly.

“She’s fine, Ren,” my mother said, her voice playful. “Delaney was born for this. Weren’t you, my little star?” She smiled at me, and I couldn’t help but grin back, even though my stomach felt like it was full of bees.

We were on the corner of Baide Street, where the well-to-do liked to wander after dinner, dressed in their fine coats and gloves.

My parents had scoped out the spot earlier, planning every detail. My dad crouched beside me, adjusting my cloak and whispering, “This is your stage, Midnight Star. You dazzle them, and we’ll handle the rest.“”

My mom winked at me as she took her place at the edge of the gathering crowd. The faint tune of her singing began, soft and lilting, drawing people closer like moths to a flame. I took a deep breath, planted my feet, and began my routine. I started with a slow cartwheel, letting the hem of my patched cloak flutter in the cold air, and then followed it with a series of quick flips. Each movement grew sharper, faster, more daring.

I spun on my hands and launched into a backflip, landing lightly on the cobblestones. The faint crunch of snow underfoot punctuated the stillness before I sprang into a handstand, holding perfectly still for just long enough to make the crowd hold their breath. Then, with a graceful arc, I pushed off and twisted mid-air, landing in a low bow to a smattering of cheers.

The crowd edged closer as I climbed atop a wooden crate we had set up as a makeshift stage. From there, I leapt into a somersault, landing in a tight roll before springing to my feet again. My movements grew wilder as the music from my mother’s lilting song swelled, my body twisting and turning as though I was the wind itself.

A high backflip ended with a flourish, my arms thrown wide, and the crowd gasped in unison.

Coins clinked steadily into my mother’s hat as I leapt and twirled, every movement designed to hold the crowd’s attention. My parents moved like shadows through the mesmerized audience—my dad apologizing profusely as his hand slipped into a gentleman’s pocket, my mom brushing past a lady with an embroidered purse, her nimble fingers quick and deft. None of them noticed a thing, too enchanted by my act to see anything else.

“Keep going, love,” my mom murmured as she passed me, her smile full of pride and mischief. “You’re doing beautifully.”

I pushed myself harder, leaping higher and twirling faster, until I landed with a flourish, arms outstretched. The crowd erupted in cheers, and my parents exchanged a knowing glance as they slipped back to my side, their pockets fuller than when we’d started.

I loved my parents so much it almost hurt. They were everything. My dad, Ren, was tall and strong, with a laugh that could make anyone smile, and my mom, Lila, had this way of making everything feel magical, like her songs could take you somewhere else. Together, we could turn even the coldest nights into something wondrous, even if it meant tricking the rich to keep us fed.

The streets of Frosthelm were alive that night, even more so than usual. Lanterns hung from ropes stretched between the leaning buildings, their flickering light creating pools of warmth on the frozen cobblestones.

The streets felt alive, bustling with energy despite the cold, and the faint hum of conversation mingled with the occasional clatter of hooves against stone. Vendors called out their wares, their voices rising above the clamor of footsteps and distant laughter.

One man shouted about fresh loaves of bread, their crusts golden and crisp. Another waved dried herbs tied in neat bundles, their earthy scent mingling with the smoky air. A woman with a cart full of glass trinkets held one up, the sparkling colors catching the lantern light and drawing oohs from passersby.

My father carried our props in a patched-up sack slung over his shoulder, and my mother walked beside him, humming a tune to herself. I tried to walk like I wasn’t nervous, but my hands wouldn’t stop fidgeting with the hem of my cloak.

As we wove through the crowds, we passed all kinds of people. A man with a pushcart piled high with roasted chestnuts called out, “Hot chestnuts, straight from the fire!” My stomach growled at the smell, but we couldn’t spare a coin.

A group of children darted past, chasing each other through the narrow streets. Their laughter was bright, but it ended quickly when a pair of guards in blue-and-gold cloaks marched by, their boots echoing sharply against the stone.

“Keep moving,” one of them barked at a woman with a bundle of cloth in her arms. She flinched but hurried on, clutching her bundle tighter. I caught a glimpse of the baby’s face nestled inside and felt a pang in my chest. It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair.

“Eyes forward, Delaney,” my dad said gently. “Don’t let it weigh you down.”

As the crowd began to thin, we wound our way toward the square, our usual spot tucked near a crumbling fountain. The walk there always felt like a transition—the noise and bustle slowly fading, replaced by the quiet anticipation of setting up our stage.

The hydra banners loomed over us from every corner, the blue and gold vibrant even in the dim light. Each snarling head of the six-headed hydra symbolized the king’s oppressive power, a reminder that any attempt to resist would only lead to more heads rising in its place.

It wasn’t just a banner; it was a warning, looming like a shadow over everything we did. Each snarling head seemed to watch us, daring anyone to step out of line.

“Smile, love,” my mom said as she laid out our stage cloth. “A smile can warm even the coldest heart.”

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. The act started like it always did, with my dad juggling his flaming torches. He made it look effortless, tossing them higher and higher, the firelight reflecting in the wide eyes of the gathering crowd. My mom began to sing, her voice clear and bright, weaving a spell that held everyone in place. She twirled and spun, her skirt flaring out like a flower in bloom.

When my turn came, I stepped into the center, my heart pounding. The world felt too big for a moment, too loud and full of eyes. But then I thought of my parents’ words. Midnight Star. I took a deep breath and began to move.

A cartwheel, then a flip, and I landed on my feet with a grin. Someone in the crowd clapped, then another. A coin clinked into the cup my mom held, and a thrill shot through me. We were doing it. For a little while, we were magic.

The crowd began to thin as the night wore on. My mom thanked the last of the watchers as my dad packed up the props. The coins we’d earned jingled in the cup, not much, but enough to get us through the next few days. My stomach growled again, and my mom laughed softly.

“Think we can afford an apple this time?” I asked, half-joking.

“Maybe two,” she said, pulling me into a quick hug. “You earned it, little Midnight Star.”

After packing up, we made our way back through the winding streets. The warmth of the market lingered in my mind, a stark contrast to the biting cold that now cut through the air. The laughter and light of earlier seemed distant as the city settled into its nighttime quiet.

I clung to my dad’s arm, feeling the warmth of his coat through my own. Our little room above the tanner’s shop wasn’t much, but it was home. When we reached it, the familiar smell of leather and smoke greeted us, and I felt my shoulders relax.

Later, after we finished our simple meal of bread and cheese, I sat by the small window, looking out over the rooftops. The flickering lights of Frosthelm stretched endlessly, and I felt both comforted and restless as I thought about tomorrow’s plans and the promise of a new city. The city stretched on and on, a maze of lights and shadows.

Somewhere out there, Winger was waiting. I didn’t tell my parents I was going; they wouldn’t have let me. But I couldn’t stop thinking about him, shivering in that filthy pen, treated like he didn’t matter. Winger wasn’t just a creature to me—he was my friend, someone who needed a little light in his dark world.

Helping him felt like something I had to do, even if it meant sneaking out on nights like this. But I couldn’t leave him alone, not tonight.

Winger’s pen behind the butcher’s shop was as awful as ever, the stench of old blood and rotting scraps making my stomach churn. His fur was matted with grime, and his wings, folded tight around his thin body, looked ragged and torn at the edges.

The ground was a mix of mud and filth, and his breath came in soft, shallow huffs, like he was too tired to even speak. It made my chest ache just looking at him. He was huddled in the corner, his wings wrapped around him like a makeshift blanket, shielding him from the cold.

His fur was thin and patchy, offering little protection against the biting wind that whistled through the gaps in the butcher’s shed. When he heard me, his ears twitched, swiveling toward the faint sound of my footsteps, and he looked up, his sharp eyes softening with recognition and relief.

“Delaney,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the rustling of his wings as they shifted slightly. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s too dangerous.”

I crouched down beside him, my heart aching at how small and fragile he seemed. “I brought you bread,” I said, holding out the small loaf wrapped in a piece of cloth. “And a story. I thought you might like to hear one tonight.”

His ears perked up slightly, and he shuffled closer, his movements slow and careful, as though every motion cost him energy he didn’t have to spare. His wings rustled against the dirt, and his breath was visible in the frigid air, each exhale a ghost of warmth that disappeared almost instantly.

“What’s it about?” he asked, his voice filled with quiet curiosity as he leaned his head closer to mine.

“It’s about a girl who could fly,” I said, sitting beside him. “She didn’t have wings, but she didn’t need them. She just believed she could shine brighter than anything else in the night.”

He smiled, his sharp teeth glinting in the moonlight. “Someday, I’ll fly too.”

“You will,” I promised. “I’ll make sure of it.”

When I got back home, my parents were still awake, waiting for me with worried looks. My mom pulled me into her arms without a word, holding me tight. Her embrace was warm, and I could feel her heartbeat, steady and strong. My dad just shook his head, but there was no anger in his eyes, only relief.

“You gave us quite a scare, Midnight Star,” he said, ruffling my hair gently. “You know better than to wander off alone.”

“I’m sorry,” I murmured, guilt bubbling up, but my mom placed a soft kiss on my forehead.

“Tomorrow’s a new day,” she said, her voice soothing. “We’ve got a big day ahead, selling those goods at the market. And after that, we’ll start getting ready to leave Frosthelm. A fresh start in a new city.”

“A new city?” I asked, looking between them.

“Yes,” my dad said with a small smile. “Someplace warmer, quieter, where we can breathe a little easier.”

“And you’ll be right there with us, lighting the way,” my mom added, stroking my hair. “Our little Midnight Star.”

For a while, we just sat there, the three of us close together on the worn rug. The faint glow of the candlelight flickered against the walls, casting soft shadows that made the room feel even cozier.

My mom hummed a tune, the same one she used to sing during her performances, the melody wrapping around us like a warm blanket. The rug beneath us was threadbare, its fabric rough but familiar under my fingers. My dad leaned back against the wall, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder, his touch steady and reassuring.

The faint smell of leather from the shop below mixed with the aroma of the bread we had just eaten, making the tiny room feel like the safest place in the world. The small room felt like the coziest place in the world, wrapped in the warmth of their love. The faint glow of the candlelight flickered against the walls, and the familiar smell of bread and leather lingered in the air. For a moment, nothing bad could ever touch us.

I barely had time to close my eyes before a loud crash jolted me awake. The door to our little room burst open with a deafening crash, splintering wood and sending shards flying across the floor.

The Whiteguard stormed in, their heavy boots thudding against the wooden planks and their gleaming armor catching the dim light of the street below. The room filled with the clatter of drawn swords and the sharp bark of orders, drowning out the sound of my mother’s startled gasp. Before I could even process what was happening, rough hands yanked me out of bed.

“What’s going on?” I cried, my voice shaking.

“Quiet,” one of the guards barked, his grip like iron on my arm. My parents were being dragged out too, their faces pale but calm as they tried to shield me with their bodies.

We were hauled into the icy street, where snow swirled around us like a suffocating shroud. The cold seeped through my thin clothes, biting into my skin until it felt like needles. The guards shoved us to our knees, their boots crunching on the frozen ground with a sound that felt final, like a hammer striking an anvil.

My knees hit the snow, the icy wetness soaking through and stinging my skin, but the sharp pain in my chest from fear drowned out everything else. My breath came in ragged gasps, each exhale forming small clouds that vanished into the night as quickly as my hope. I shivered, not just from the cold but from the fear clawing its way up my throat.

One by one, they began pulling out crates and bundles from a cart nearby—all the stolen goods my parents had been preparing to sell. My mom and dad exchanged a look, and I saw something in their eyes I couldn’t understand. Not fear, but something close to acceptance.

“It’s going to be alright, Delaney,” my dad said softly, his voice steady. “We’ll get through this, my little Midnight Star.”

“Hush,” my mom added, her smile trembling but still there. “Close your eyes if you need to.”

Before they could say more, the captain of the Whiteguard stepped forward. He was tall and imposing, his face hidden behind the cold gleam of his helmet. He glanced at the stolen goods, then at us, and spoke a single word:

“Guilty.”

The swords came down in a blur of silver and red.

The sound of the blades slicing through the air was sharp and final, like the crack of a whip. For a moment, I couldn’t move. My mind refused to accept what I had just seen—my parents, my whole world, falling lifeless into the snow.

Their blood spread like ink, dark and vivid against the stark white, and the scene felt distant, unreal, like it was happening to someone else. Time seemed to stop as my breath caught in my throat, frozen there as my heart pounded in disbelief. Only then did the scream rip out of me, raw and endless, as if it could somehow undo the horror before my eyes. But nothing could stop it. Nothing could stop what had already happened.

The captain of the Whiteguard turned to his men, his tone casual, almost bored. “Deal with the kid,” he said, before striding off into the night, his boots crunching over the bloodied snow.

The remaining Whiteguard exchanged glances. “What are we supposed to do with her?” one muttered.

“You want to fill out the orphanage forms?” another replied, his voice dripping with disdain.

“Hell no. It’s winter. Just toss her in the slums. Nature will handle it.”

Without another word, they grabbed me by the arms and dragged me through the streets. I kicked and thrashed, my raw throat tearing with every sob, but their hands were iron clamps, unyielding and cold. The icy cobblestones beneath my bare feet sent sharp shocks of pain through my legs, while the wind cut at my face, leaving me trembling and breathless.

The dark shadows of buildings loomed above, pressing down as the guards hauled me toward an unknown fate. I thrashed and kicked, trying to free myself, but their grips were unyielding, like iron clamps biting into my skin. The icy cobblestones beneath my bare feet sent sharp shocks of pain through my legs with every stumble.

The cold wind tore at my face, mingling with the hot sting of tears that refused to stop. Around me, the city was quiet except for the distant sounds of revelers and the sharp echo of the guards’ boots on stone.

It felt like the world was both closing in and stretching endlessly, the looming shadows of buildings pressing down as they hauled me toward an unknown fate. The icy cobblestones bit into my bare feet, each step sending sharp, stinging pain through my legs.

Their iron grips tightened, unyielding and bruising, as they dragged me forward. The unforgiving ground and the cold wind lashed at me, mixing with the hot sting of tears streaming down my face.

Every sound—the crunch of boots, the faint laughter of distant revelers—felt distant, as if the world was closing in and stretching endlessly at the same time. The cold wind lashed against my face, mixing with the hot sting of tears as I stumbled to keep up. I kicked and screamed, my raw throat tearing with every sob, but the guards didn’t even flinch.

Their grasp tightened, dragging me forward with no more thought than if they were hauling a sack of grain. They hauled me into the deepest, darkest part of the slums and threw me into a filthy alley. The icy ground bit through my thin clothes, and I curled up, trembling.

“Enjoy the cold, kid,” one of them sneered before they walked away, their laughter echoing in the distance.

I was alone. Alone in the dark, in the cold, with nothing but the snow and silence to keep me company.