M E L I T A
Her fingers were shaking in the hollowed, midnight corridors, but she refused to let the rest of her frame tremble. She might’ve been a leaf on a mighty oak, but she wasn’t going to quiver or quaver; there were things to be done, matters to be settled, fights to be ventured, friends and family to be found. She muffled a shuddering breath, then maneuvered closer to the edge of her chosen bough, glancing out into the twilight span, narrowing her eyes in hopes of finding anything beyond the veil and shades of darkness glaring back at her. Had this not been a pattern in her life, she might’ve been more alarmed and apprehensive – but took instantly to her more impulsive nature, ducking below a few fronds and stems, noting the subtle shift in scenery and surroundings – a quiet murmur, a silent, ghostly presence, a wayfaring wraith traipsing down lanes. Melita swallowed, then moved back to where she’d been, further and further into a thicket’s trap, pondering over her next options. She was attune and familiar with the ominous proceedings of predators, of demons, of malevolence and injustice; she’d been thrown into massacre and tortures at an early age, crossed and riddled and scored her foundation with upheaval and vengeance. If this was something coming, then she had to be ready, armed, prepared for a fight. There was no telling what could lurk in these woods; the unknown threatened to close over her, and she wouldn’t allow it to smother, to consume, without knives and daggers at the ready.
It marched without aplomb, hushed and diligent, perhaps searching for its next meal. She could hear it breathing somewhere nearby, closer and closer – and the wrenching notion that she could be its target scratched against her core, and she straightened her spine, muffled her breath, steeled herself for the ensuing battle. She lacked fundamental weapons – was without her beloved rapier, her favored shield, her leather armor, her plethora of blades, or barrage of trusted allies and companions. The forest supplied her with branches, and maybe, given enough time, she could whittle something into sharp and caustic spines, barbs, and thorns, but carnivores and fiends rarely waited for their prey to come up with a notable strategy. The girl’s gaze merely rested on the ivory contortions of her worn shoes, and decided they’d earned their right as worthy ammunition.
She’d just have to angle it enough, trust her throw, steady her hand, to ensure she’d chase the incoming monster away – be the bigger brute, the nefarious behemoth, the beast who ripped, tore, and howled in the depths of the gloom. If it was implored to follow the trace of her delivery, then she’d been in a worse scenario, but the audacious, emboldened reel of her movements and motions were already captivated, locked, and loaded. She’d take the risk (she always had; rushing straight into the fight with fire at her back and in her tempest: a blazing inferno, a force of disaster and change).
Fingers grasped at the sole of her shoe, stretching herself over the branch, gaining a better look and access to her foreboding adversary. It was difficult to pinpoint through the trees, but she could hear its approach, the alteration in its breathing, and something told her to stop, to cease, to desist, but the rest of her figure simply couldn’t keep up with the rapid alterations. She hurled the object towards the bulking shape, and only moments later realized the familiarity in the lion’s walk, posture, demeanor, and hue. The youth probably should’ve had the wherewithal to look utterly ashamed, but not a sign, not a trace, of humiliation shaded her cheeks in the crisp folds of shadow and gloaming. “Iskra!” She hollered instead of roared, waving from her tree stand with a persevering, ethereal quality.
