LII: Live With A Whisper 

Souta: 

"This should do just fine," Thraevirula says, dusting her hands off. I look at her, gaze upon the armies that swallow the land, look to the South, where the giant blades of the glades now veer out of sight, covered by low clouds and fog. We are nearing the end of our march through the Giants Glades. 

I am more fidgety nowadays. My foot taps, my arms shake, and I sweat in my sleepless nights, dreaming of that great, terrible destiny which my uncle promises.

I am starting to realize, day by day, that I am a coward. Young soldiers around me valorize the war to come. I, who have seen civil war destroy my father, my family—I fear the slaughter. 

The thought is sobering. 

A white-gloved hand waves in front of my face. 

"Souta? Souta? Is there any thought behind that little noggin of yours?" the witch asks teasingly. I call her that now because I hear whispers of Thraevirula from our men. I now understand that the plagued are not just being herded by our army; rather they are being compelled. 

Compelled by her, the progenitor of this scourge. 

I don't understand at times. At times, I almost think it is wrong. But Masaru, when confronted, reminded me of the enemy's evil. Of their imperial tendencies, their inclinations to genocide and chaos. 

Still, the way this woman pokes me now, mocks me with her every smile, step, fluttering of eyebrows—I do not like her. In fact, I think I've finally learned to hate. 

Yet, she is my uncle's lover, so I must abide by her will. 

And thus we stand upon this small hill, she turning my chin to look at the treeline of the briars, edging ever closer. 

"What do you see, Souta?" she asks. I sigh. When Masaru asks this, it is charming. When she does it, it is calculated. 

"A forest." 

"Good, you can make out the treeline from this distance. That makes aiming a lot easier."

I frown. I was expecting her to, like Masaru, wax on about some vague notions of destiny. Yet…

"Why are we here?" I ask. 

She cocks her head and holds up a finger. Then, she pulls from her embellished leather purse, a single, small, silver stick. 

She holds it up between her fingers. "Do you know what this is?" 

"No." 

"It is a spear." 

I raise an eyebrow. "Smallest spear I've seen." 

At this small observation, Thraevirula cackles with laughter. It is so fake, so annoyingly tinged with her seductive mockery, that I must've made a face for her laughter cuts off without preamble. 

"Don't be like that, Souta. I assure you, this is well worth your time." 

"I didn't say anything." 

"Hmm. Well, you are right to be suspicious of this weapon. However, it is magically enhanced. And, not by runes, but rather, by old magicks, beyond the scope of the modern spiral." 

"Meaning?" 

"Meaning, very few people know what it is. Or how to use it for that matter," she sighs, bringing the stick up to the light of the sun, which peaks through the iron clouds. She seems to drift into a nostalgic remembrance of some event, some time long gone. I could recognize that look from anywhere—Uncle makes it all the time. 

I clear my throat: "You were saying?" 

She snaps out of her state, and, for a moment, I regret speaking. That was the first genuine emotion I've seen from this witch. But when she turns back to me, its all fake smiles and lilting voice once more. 

"This took me a long while to find. And it took me even longer to learn how to use—you see, I had a very horrible teacher. I'm hoping to pay him back in kind now." 

"Alright. What does this have to do with me—"

She puts a finger to my lips. "Patience child. Patience. First, allow me to pay that old man a visit." 

Before I can swat her hand away, she withdraws, and without warning, drops the stick into my palm. I fumble with it for a moment before securing it in my grasp. It truly is miniscule. I don't know how this will work—nor do I have any inkling of what she wants me to do with it. 

But, as soon as I think to ask her, I find the witch standing very still. 

Her eyes have rolled to the back of her head, and slowly, very slowly, she begins to count down. 

"3." "3."

 "2." "2." 

 "1." "1." 

 Her smile broadens as her voice impossibly echoes, doubles. 

 The air goes cold and still, blighted and raw. The stench of death wafts high—from where, I cannot fathom. 

 Everything is wrong now. 

 Then, she whispers. 

 "Found you, Raiten."