East was nothing but treacherous sea.
Zagros Fortress was cold, foreboding, and loomed over the lands below. The fortress itself had been carved into the very stone of the mountain, and what stone had been taken from it built the rest.
It was composed of six towers.
Two for the lower areas right where the wall touched the base of the mountain.
The middle two were watch towers for the north and south, situated at its furthest lengths and jutting from the mountain’s body. They also sheltered the centre of the fortress – which housed their living and training areas – from the northerly cool winds.
The topmost two towers allowed them to see the east and west simultaneously. The areas between them housed the library, the records chamber, and then a higher section that only a certain few were permitted to enter.
First, she had to go deeper inside the mass of the mountain before she would be closer to the summit, where Wren was likely situated on her viewing and planning platform.
Pushing down on the pommel of her sword to stop the tip from smacking against the stairs, she began the long and gruelling climb. Sweat trickled down her back, causing her black Demonslayer uniform to cling to her heated skin, but she never slowed or wiped her brow.
It still amazes me that Wren climbs these daily. No wonder their Head Elder was so damn fit.
Her own lungs were moments from seizing, and her side already burned with a stitch.
As she reached the last steps, her tired and wobbling knees threatened to give out, but she used the last of her energy in a burst to the top of them.
She was greeted by two Master rank guildmembers. The blue insignia pressed into the upper chest of their uniform in the centre of their sternum matched her own. A circle that tapered off at the end before it could finish completing, with a sword stabbing all the way through.
It was impossible to tell who was who, since their uniforms matched so completely with their face coverings and hoods. She couldn’t even assume the eyes of the person staring back at her belonged to who she thought. Everyone had to be treated the same for their station.
It gave their positions autonomy.
Emerie hadn’t put her own hood up yet, as that was something they usually did only when at their stations. Emerie only had to take orders from any of those who had a silver emblem – an Elder.
But all had to obey the command of their medallion wearer.
Both Master rank guildmembers standing guard nodded. They stepped to the side, allowing her freedom to enter. Emerie rapped the back of her knuckles against the door.
“Head Elder, you called fo–”
“Enter, Emerie.” The weight of Wren’s voice boomed past the thick, distressed timber of the door.
Once she was inside, she closed the door behind her. Then she promptly knocked her ankles together, clasped her hands behind her back, rolled back her shoulders, and lifted her chin. She stood at the ready, waiting for Wren to start the conversation.
The room was bleak, made completely of stone and the rare marble that had been found when they’d carved into the mountainside. It was dimly lit. Wren rarely used more than a handful of candles – just enough to allow her to see their plans on the table, but not enough for others to steer their footing around the furniture.
Wren was under the belief that they should all be able to see in the dark, just like their formidable enemy.
The Head Elder stood at a rectangular, glassless, waist-high window that spanned the entire left-to-right curved section of that wall. Standing similarly to Emerie, she looked out over the entirety of the fortress like she was a hawk searching for its next prey.
Her hands were loosely clasped behind her back. Emerie’s were stiff, as though having just a muscle out of place could be taken disrespectfully.
There was no one else in the room with them, and the silence Wren forced upon them was long and uncomfortable. Especially with the waning, near-full moon highlighting her silhouette and casting a dark shadow over her.
“You are among the few who are an expert with a whip,” Wren factually stated without turning. “It’s not an easy tool to master.”
Emerie’s gaze darted down to the whip coiled neatly at the woman’s hip. It was different than the generic version that other guildmembers were given, as it had a singular thread of blue within its plait.
When Wren dipped her head ever so slightly to peer at Emerie from the corner of her eye, she stiffened further.
“That is correct,” she answered, despite having not been asked a question.
“You are to join the team of Elders who are currently readying themselves on the floor below. You will join them outside of the gates.”
Her brows twitched to knot, but she quickly managed to stop her confusion from fully forming. I don’t understand. She nodded, before stepping back to do as she was told.
“Halt.”
Emerie stood straight once more.
Shit. Wren had noticed her facial twitch, and her hawk-like gaze pierced all the way to Emerie’s centre as she examined her.
Her feet were silent as she drew away from the window to fully face Emerie, and a mirror threatened to stare back at her. They had no blood relation, as made apparent by the fact that Wren was much paler than her and lacked that scattering of freckles. She also had dark chestnut hair in comparison to Emerie’s usual orange nest of knots, but much about them was the same.
Their blue eyes were similar, their busty statures were the same, and even the scarring on their faces mirrored each other’s.
It’d always been difficult for Emerie to look at the impression of her own appearance on Wren. From her forehead, down the right side of her face, all the way down to the visible part of her neck, Wren had the webbing evidence of a burn scar. Emerie’s was on the left and was almost identical; both of their scarring showing signs of going lower down their bodies.
Even the singular claw mark splitting their bottom lip was the same, just on opposing sides.
For the longest time, Emerie had wondered if that was the reason the Head Elder had taken an interest in her. Given that they were also both excellent whip bearers, obedient, and outwardly cold – although that was a farce on Emerie’s part – it was like she was looking at an older version of herself.
Did Wren feel the same way, just in reverse?
There had been whispers that Wren was looking into her replacement, who would train under her until her death or when she stepped down. She was egotistical and political; it wouldn’t be an unjustified assumption that Wren would replace herself with a potential younger version.
“I give you the freedom to speak.” There was a calculating glint to her icy-blue eyes.