I am the Author of My Story

My name is Xanthea; it is the one I chose. I was hatched with another.

   This is the story of choices, both for good and ill, that brought me to this place—and gave that name meaning.

   I did not come here by myself. But I am alone now. So it falls to me to add our story to those already recorded here.

   I am a warrior, no poet, no writer of tales. What follows is my honest account. I will begin twenty-six days ago—the day the first ripple began.

I Walked a Dark Road

I walked into the brightening east—toward home, and the person I’d left behind.

   Over my shoulder, the ocean waves rolled red in the dawn. I glanced—but didn’t let it linger. I couldn’t fail her again.

   It wasn’t long before I came upon rusted ruins—ancient bones of a world whose makers had long ago joined them. Even in hatching sunrise, they felt like watching things.

   The hairs rose on my neck.

   Not a sound, or a movement. But something pressed against the edge of my awareness. A presence; quiet, nervous, watching.

   My long hair whipped about in the breeze. I should have bound it. Too late now.

   My hand closed on my rapier’s grip, grounding me. Breaths came quicker. My training steadied them. Dropping my pack, I took a defensive stance. Ready.

   “I know you’re there,” I challenged. “Step out and face me.”

   The wind rustled. The insects hummed. Nothing.

   Then the reply.

   Figures detached from the shadowed ruins a few paces ahead. Rapiers glinted crimson like fresh blood in the dawn.

   Bandits. Three to my one.

   My heart kicked—hard. Not fear. Determination, and the knowledge that every time a blade was drawn, someone paid for it.

   Drawing my rapier from over my shoulder, I stepped forward.

   The lead one’s brow creased, then he called over to me, “Who are you?”