An Eldritch Legacy: Sin & Sacrilege

Beaten and bloodied, Irina fought against the instinct to open her eyes and meet the gaze she felt searing into her—burning unpleasantly into her skin and her soul. It would have even penetrated her sight had she not cut off the connection to the wind, which would have been around to help her see.

She had decided that if she was to be treated so brutally, then at the very least she would get to keep a certain bit of her pride by refusing to look at her sister, figuratively or not. The scent of ash lingered in the air as the glare of Lysandra quite literally burned into her flesh, and a twisted, giddy excitement radiated from her sister, who reveled in seeing her bleed precious blood.

Irina lay crumpled on the floor. Yet there was no clear distinction between the ruby crimson coating her skin and her flesh itself—they blended too well. It was hard to tell if she was truly bleeding, though the agony wracking her body told a different story. There would be bouts of shivers as the pain she was under would travel along her spine, seemingly reminding her of the events prior.

And could she scream? She would have, long ago. But the threads sewn into her flesh had robbed her of that right; her vocals were damaged and useless, so even if she wanted to, she could not.

All she could do was lie there, gasping for each breath, doing everything in her power to endure, to ensure that Lysandra would not enjoy her suffering.

She would not give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her break her vow. Not now. Not ever.

Just when she thought the torment had ended—

A sultry voice echoed. So eerily reminiscent of their mother's. Sickly sweet, but laced with venom deep and ancient. It curled around Irina like smoke, cloying and insidious. Despite not wanting to, her body simply followed its instincts and shivered against her will.

Lysandra.

There was something wrong with the way they all spoke. Irina had always wondered about that. Every word sounded off, every note so sick, she felt revolted, twisted—like it had been pulled through something rotten and made to smile. That was one of the many reasons why she had destroyed her vocal cords. So she would never sound like them. Many thought she was just throwing tantrums, and most likely they were correct, but Irina knew herself she was more than just a spoiled little girl seeking mommy's attention.

The thought of sharing even her voice with their mother was revolting. She would sever every connection if it meant never feeling like she belonged to that lineage.

Though her thoughts had good origins, she had never once thought to sit and see the irony of her thoughts and herself.

"How does it feel, sister?" Lysandra asked, circling the broken body of her younger sister. "Does the pain finally mean something to you?"

Her laughter spilled out like honey laced with poison, mocking Irina's refusal to yield. It was always amusing to watch her resist—to wear defiance like a crown, strutting around as though the world would give two shits whether the little girl was pissed off.

Irina had always carried herself as if she were better than them. As if she were untouchable, that attitude had made Lysandra disgusted with her little sister. What then would happen when she awakened if she were acting as though the heavens owed her? And though she had not yet awakened—and likely never would, after failing yet again, the Surge being their only chance to carry out their ceremonies under the radar—there was still a chance. A miracle, maybe.

But more than anything, Lysandra knew one truth: while all the sisters were broken, visibly or not, Irina's cracks ran the deepest.

And that was saying something. Her views of the world had transformed with the awakening she went through. So she probably knew more than she did.

She often wondered why their mother was so obsessed with this girl—why, despite the abuse, she watched Irina with such interest. But obsession was never new in their family. They had all been subjected to it in one form or another.

Still, Irina—poor little Irina—had it worst of all.

Being the youngest, well... for now, came with its curses.

Seeing the girl—barely a year her junior—lying in the dirt, trembling and defiant, sent a thrill through Lysandra. The sight of the Royal Southern blood spilled like wine was intoxicating.

She herself had never been allowed to bleed or otherwise bleed her sisters, not that she could have; those women were monsters, and then there was the behemoth that was the Duchess. The power she held was frightening, and that was even when she had yet to leave behind her mortal roots. Now that she had shed them, her perception had otherwise grown, and now the fear that was there before for their mother grew deeper and larger, looming over the entirety of the South Cardinal like a colossus.

A woman of that stature rarely demanded anything of them, and yet when she did, it was divine law. But their mother had always seemed intent on pushing this one to the edge.

Lysandra twirled her fingers, feeling the dagger appear in her hand without thought. A shimmer flickered in her emerald-pink irises as they darkened slightly. A pull. A temptation.

If not for the restraining echo of her mother's control, she might have opened Irina herself—just to see what ticked inside that warped soul. Who in their right mind would mutilate their own body just to escape a voice? Why disable her ears and then nearly her eyes? Just what pushed her to do things that made neither rhyme nor reason?

That wasn't normal. No. That was something fascinating. But in the end, the dagger disappeared. Looking at the squirming body on the floor, tormented and racked by pain.

And though the reasons for this torment were layered—some their mother's, some her own—Lysandra was growing impatient.

Crouching low, a strange blend of elegance and savagery in her movements, she leaned toward Irina's torn ear and whispered, certain the girl would hear her, somehow.

Her blackened nail, which seemed to transition between a claw and something feminine, traced a path along Irina's bloodied skin, circling gently. She liked the way her touch sent shivers through the girl's ravaged body. The sweat on her brow was fragrant—fear sweetened by pain. A delicacy.

She wished she could see the girl's eyes, but there was a curse there—protection, perhaps—sealing them shut to all but those Irina allowed. A gift or a curse, it annoyed her all the same.

"Why don't you open your eyes for me, dear sister? Hmm?" Lysandra cooed.

"I only want to see the beautiful colors you hide from us all."

The sound of her voice made Irina tremble harder, and it was only with great restraint that Lysandra didn't burst into laughter. Their mother's rules on etiquette were idiotic but firm.

"Do you really hate us so much you won't even look at us?" She whispered, dropping her voice to a husky purr.

Her fingers found the wounds she'd left—subtle but brutal—and pressed into them. The flesh squelched as it tried to clot, but Lysandra slowly pried them open, savoring the sensation. Ruby-red blood clung to her fingers like paint, and she brought it to her nose.

Lavender. Cherries. And something else... something other.

Being who her father was, Lysandra had a sensitivity to scents, to bloodlines. That made her all the more curious. Who was Irina's father, truly?

She looked so much like their mother, it was almost suspicious. Like she'd inherited nothing from the man. A shadow of lineage. But then again, none of their fathers remained alive long enough to know either.

"What do you say, little sis? Hey—will you open your eyes for Big Sis?" She asked again, smearing the blood across her lips before slipping a finger into her mouth.

She tasted it thoughtfully, hunting for a secret in the blood.

But still—no reply.

Then she remembered. Irina couldn't speak. Looking down, she found that even the shivers of the girl were nothing more than the body's instinctive reaction to pain.

The thrill vanished.

How boring.

She had fainted at some point during the exchange.

"Tsk..." Lysandra clicked her tongue.

"You're no fun to play with, little sis."

Standing, she sauntered from the arena, leaving Irina's limp body behind like discarded fabric. Whether she lived or died no longer mattered. She had done what was asked.

Now she wanted a bath. And sleep.

Silence stretched across the arena like a shroud.

Then—

A phantom figure materialized beside Irina, lifting her broken form gently. With a ripple of motion, it vanished, taking her with it.

And the arena fell quiet once more.

Well, as quiet as it could be.

From the lantern-lit shadows, a pair of ruby-crested eyes appeared—glowing with quiet fury, or was it amusement? The feelings were lost in the blur.

A whisper followed. Soft. Sweet. And too reminiscent of Lysandra.

"…Just how long will I have to wait?"

Then, silence again.

The eyes were gone.