Ravenna's woven story

The Grandelder broke the silence.

"You have just entered our tribe, and we welcome you with open arms. Guests, tell us—who are you? Where do you come from? And how is it possible that you fell from the sky?"

Ravenna drew a long, steadying breath. Her gaze drifted across the circle of elders before coming to rest on the Grandelder. Quick-witted, she recalled the convoy leader's respectful greeting from earlier. With graceful precision, she let go of Dahlia's hands, cupped one fist in her other hand, and bowed her head first to the Grandelder, then to the rest of the council.

"Elders. Grandelder," she said politely.

Her gesture was well received. A soft murmur of approval passed among the elders, their smiles subtle but unmistakable. The Grandelder gave a slow nod of acknowledgment.

Ravenna began to speak, carefully choosing her words.

"I am Ravenna. This is Dahlia. Though not sisters by blood, we have long been bound as sisters in heart, raised together under the same master. We trained in a remote place, far from here—so distant, in fact, that we do not know where it lies, nor in which direction. Our master never let us leave, not even once, and we never questioned it. The outside world never called to us. Not then.

She often warned us about the world beyond. Yes, it is beautiful, she said—but it is also perilous. Danger lies hidden in the open, and cruelty often walks in plain sight. She spoke of things she had seen, the hardships she had faced, and the darkness she knew lurked in the hearts of many. Her words stayed with us, carved deep into our minds, leaving little room for curiosity or rebellion. We felt safe with her, under her watchful care.

She was powerful—more than anyone we've ever known. She could fly, move objects with a glance, even bend space around herself and vanish in an instant. We never doubted her strength.

Then, one day, she came to us and said, 'Ravenna, Dahlia, the time has come. You must see the world with your own eyes. Only then can you truly understand it.'

We were overjoyed. For all the fear she had instilled in us, the moment those words left her lips, something awoke within us—a hidden longing we hadn't known was there. It blossomed instantly. Still, even in our excitement, a quiet dread lingered in our hearts. But it was no match for the thrill of finally stepping into the unknown."

In time, Master led us beyond the walls that had caged our lives, and for the first time, we stepped into the world. It was breathtaking—cities bursting with color, lands draped in lush beauty, and people of every kind, each carrying stories in their eyes. The world was nothing like we had been told. At that moment, we began to question the warnings that had shaped our childhood. Could a place so wondrous truly be as dangerous as the Master had claimed?

We wandered through towns both quiet and grand, and in each one, the Master bought us small treasures—trinkets to mark our journey. She collected some for herself as well, smiling wistfully, saying she wished to keep some for herself too and some others she had bought separately for the purpose of not reaching our true destination empty handed.

Eventually, we reached a city unlike any before. Towering, vibrant, and steeped in traditions that clung to every stone. Master whispered that this was her homeland.

As we approached its outer edge, the world still felt familiar like the other we've passed through except grandier. We expected bustling activities, the sweet scent of bread and pastries stemming from ovens, the scent of flower nectars and the warmth of every life that walked the streets. But when we crossed its boundary, all those hopes died and shattered.

What greeted us was not life, but death—endless, staggering death.

The land was littered with corpses, stretched as far as our eyes could see. The air was thick with smoke, blood, and the screams of men locked in savage battle. It was a vision of hell—soldiers tearing each other apart in ceaseless carnage. Master's homeland had fallen to war, and the heart of it now bled before us.

I stood frozen, trembling so violently I lost control of my body. My sister clutched my hand, but she too was no better. We were children in a nightmare too vast to understand.

For the first time, we saw limbs torn from bodies, intestines uncoiled across the ground, heads separated from their necks, staring blankly into the sky. Flies buzzed hungrily in the silence between screams.

It was the day we truly understood fear.

"But my master… Her reaction was entirely different. She was furious— not just angry, but a kind of rage that thickened the very air around us. You could feel it, like heat rising before a storm. Then, without a word, she vanished.

When she reappeared, it was in the heart of the battlefield — right where the fighting was fiercest. Her staff swung in great arcs, sending soldiers flying in waves to her left and right. She was unstoppable… at least, for a time.

But even with all her power, she wasn't a god. She could strike down hundreds, even thousands — yes — but every blow drained her strength. Her energy bled out with each attack, and eventually, her efforts were no longer enough. The enemy simply kept coming. Reinforcements poured in like an endless tide.

And in the chaos, she forgot us — the two disciples she had brought along. We stood on that blood-soaked field, terrified. We realized that if we stayed, we would die. I grabbed Dahlia and ran — back toward the outskirts, away from the heart of the battle, toward whatever safety we could find.

But we had been seen.

Enemy scouts spotted us, and pursuit began. We ran like our lives depended on it — because they did. Our lungs burned, our hearts pounded like war drums. We tore through forests, scrambled over rocky paths, fled down into valleys and up again into hills — always running, always chased. The world became a blur of trees, rocks, and shadows.

Somewhere along the way, Dahlia fell. She hit her head — hard — and collapsed. From that moment on, she wasn't the same. She stopped speaking. She stopped reacting. The trauma had shattered something deep inside her, and the tears started falling. They just wouldn't stop.

I had to carry her — support her as best I could while we kept running, deeper into the unknown. Days passed. I don't know how many. We were exhausted, starving, broken.

And then we reached it — a cliff. A dead end.

Below was nothing but a terrifying drop, a fall so steep it whispered certain death. I stood there, trembling. My sister is unresponsive in my arms. Behind us, the sounds of pursuit grow closer. I was alone to make a decision. No master. No protection. No time.

There were only two choices: jump… or be captured.

My master had always said— 'In war, capture is worse than death.' She told us stories. Of those enslaved. Stripped of dignity. Passed from hand to hand like a coin. Raped. Killed for sport. 'If you ever face the certainty of capture,' she'd said, 'and you have a choice of death before you can be captured, take it because it is the last freedom you own.'

And there I stood… with that choice in my hand.

I looked at my sister — broken, weeping, unreachable — and I knew I wouldn't leave her behind. I gathered my courage. I silenced my fear.

And I jumped together with Dahlia pulled along with me.

We plunged from the cliff into the void… and I truly believed that was the end.

But then, luckily it wasn't.

We woke up in the desert. Alive. Broken, but breathing. And Baole… he said we fell from the sky.

I don't know how. I don't understand that part either. But this is the truth — as much as I can remember."

Ravenna exhaled slowly, her voice tapering off into silence. The room had fallen so still that the sound of a pin drop might have echoed like thunder. She wiped the corner of her eye, dabbing away a tear that lingered — just enough to sell the story, not too much to lose control.

She had crafted every word with care, weaving a tale from nothing, balancing sorrow with restraint, blending memory with imagination. Her tone had shifted where it needed to — heavy when grief struck, distant when memories surfaced, and soft when fear colored her voice. She had even dragged her breaths in places, as though remembering painful truths that took effort to speak. And in those moments, she'd let her eyes drift, feigning the deep haze of recollection.

But none of it had been real.

Not the battlefield. Not the staff sweeping through thousands. Not the escape under her master's command.

The truth — the real truth was something no one here would believe. How could they? That she and Dahlia had lived not in a far-off country, but in a place detached from the world altogether. A dark space of void and silence. That their master had not been a protector, but a possessor, someone who had tried to claim them wholly, in body and in soul. That they had fled through a stone step that bridged to the endless overcast, pierced the fabric of its void and when they had fallen, they had been flung into the strange desert world like stars falling from a forgotten sky.

Even she would have doubted it all… if she hadn't lived it herself.

Still, her fabricated story seemed to be working. She could see it in the eyes of the elders — how their thoughts spun quietly behind their composed expressions. Each of them, including the Grandelder, was filling in the blanks of her tale with their own imaginations. That was what she'd hoped for.

The scale of the battle wasn't something she had ever seen with her own eyes, and the thousand soldiers felled by a single swing of the frictional master's staff — she wasn't even sure her real master was capable of that. But what did logic matter anymore? She had seen things in all her life from Hecuba that made even wild fantasy look tame. Voodoo rites, whispers that turned into fire, shadows that moved against the wind. If Hecuba could be capable of such, who's to say her story wasn't at least possible?

The way she had portrayed their master as someone immensely powerful— was not just for the spoken, but she had told it to serve a purpose. In her version, the master was a fierce, selfless master, someone who had loved her disciples and only lost them because she had been concerned for her homeland and her attention had been drowned in the battle.

That image mattered.

Ravenna didn't yet trust these people. Their smiles might be warm, but warmth could be a mask. She needed them to believe that she and Dahlia weren't just fragile strays — but apprentices to someone who could shake the earth if ever wronged. It doesn't matter if that said master was drowned by the war or she came out alive, that was left unknown and someone who could warp and distort the air to disappear should have no difficulty finding her apprentice anytime. Fear of the unknown was often the best shield.

Because if there was one lesson Ravenna had learned well from Hecuba, it was this: The heart of man is the most dangerous thing of all.

A soft cough from the Grandelder cut through the silence, rousing everyone from the spell Ravenna's story had cast. The elders shifted in their seats, murmurs quieting as attention returned to the front. Even the convoy leader, and the men who had brought Ravenna and Dahlia to the tribe, seemed to exhale for the first time in minutes.

Baole, in particular, looked shaken. He had asked Ravenna questions back in the desert during the rescue, and though she'd given him answers, they had been vague — guarded. What she had just revealed now… this was something else entirely. A war, a cliff, a fall that ended not in death but in a desert from the sky?

He could hardly believe it.

The Grandelder adjusted himself on his elevated seat, his old bones creaking as he leaned forward, eyes steady on Ravenna.

"Your story is… peculiar," he said at last, his voice low but carrying weight. "To have lived through a battle of such scale — one that even I, nor any elder here, has ever seen — and to have fallen from a cliff into the sky… and survived…" He paused, shaking his head faintly. "That must have been a bitter ordeal… for children so young."

His tone, while curious, held no suspicion. Only a genuine note of sympathy lingered in his words and in the softened lines of his expression.

Ravenna bowed slightly. "Thank you, Grandelder, for your kindness."

The old man nodded slowly. "It is nothing," he said. "For now, consider our tribe your home. Focus on your recovery. We will have someone tend to your sister. And once your strength returns, we will speak again. You will be free to choose your path from there."

"Thank you," Ravenna said again, bowing deeper this time, her voice steady with gratitude.

There was a calmness that settled over the hall — brief, but palpable — as though the weight of her tale still hung in the air, demanding time to settle.

—-------

As the grand hall emptied, the elders remained seated, their expressions contemplative. The Grandelder leaned forward, his fingers steepled.

"Her tale is extraordinary," he began. "A battle of such magnitude, a fall from a cliff only to drop from the sky into the desert. What do we make of this?"

Elder Mako said thoughtfully. "It's a tale woven with care. Whether it's truth or fabrication, it served its purpose—to earn our sympathy and trust."

Elder Suri nodded. "Indeed. But the girl's demeanor, her poise, and the emotion in her eyes suggest she's experienced great hardship and it can be further seen from the other girl with endless tears on her face that they had truly gone through something."

The Grandelder sighed. "Regardless of the story's veracity, they are here now. We must decide how to proceed."

Elder Toma interjected, "We should keep a watchful eye. Offer them shelter, but ensure they are not a threat."

The Grandelder agreed. "Yes. Let us extend our hospitality, but remain vigilant. Time will reveal their true nature."