You Already Won

She carried Gieventi Xoclug on her back.

A warrior of old.

A warrior of light.

A warrior till the end.

And the gods thought they could take that from her.

Ashantiana's steps were slow but steady. The cane now hung from her belt like a relic, and the old woman's body—still warm, still somehow heavier than it should've been—rested against her armor, arms limp around her neck.

She didn't cry.

Not anymore.

Her eyes hurt, dried raw by wind and grief and silence. Emotionally, she was just… spent. There was nothing left to give.

Why.

Why.

Why.

Why.

The question looped in her head, not demanding an answer, just echoing in the hollow places left behind.

She didn't hate the old woman.

She didn't blame her.

It made sense.

Too much sense.

It was something Gieventi would do, and had done, with full heart and bitter grace. She had chosen to defy a fate she couldn't stop, and in her own quiet, final way—she had won.

But it wasn't something Ashantiana could do.

Their paths had always diverged there.

Gieventi fought to shield others.

Ashantiana fought to die standing.

And that was the difference.

She had always known her end would come with blood and steel. Like her mother. Like her father. She would fall under the weight of too many enemies, too many wounds, and that would be her peace.

But not yet.

Not until she saw Selcentra.

Not until she buried what was left.

She walked through the back alley beside the orphanage, the night still warm, stars dimmed behind drifting clouds.

And for a moment, Ashantiana closed her eyes—not in grief, not in prayer—but to remember how that sound felt.

How life still lingered, even now.

She shifted Gieventi's weight gently on her back and stepped forward.

Once she reached the outer edge of the city, her heart—already hollow—dropped further.

Cries rang out through cracked windows and open doors. Wails of grief. Of realization.

In alleyways and gutters, she saw bodies slumped in final repose. Some with letters. Others with nothing but open eyes and empty hands.

Families had followed Gieventi's path.

Neighbors. Elders. Entire homes.

Some had done it quietly. Others had torn themselves from life in the streets.

And then… the warriors.

A few had begun fighting each other. Squads turned on squads, blades clashing in the night with no banner to protect, no king to serve. Some fought out of madness. Others, desperation. A few because they couldn't bear to not be at war.

Ashantiana walked through them like a ghost.

She did not stop. She did not look.

It wasn't her concern.

Not anymore.

She had one focus now. One thread keeping her upright.

The orphanage.

But as she approached, a deeper chill wrapped around her. The kind that didn't come from wind or fear.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

No laughter. No stories. No late-night shrieks of mischief. No Selcentra yelling about stolen treats or wrestling children off the rafters.

Nothing.

Her pace quickened. Her jaw locked.

She turned toward the back, toward the shadowed wall near the sleeping garden. There, gently, she laid Gieventi down against the old stone bricks, propping her up like a tired elder mid-nap.

The old woman looked peaceful.

Ashantiana brushed a hand over the woman's forehead once, then stood, her hands trembling not from grief now, but frustration.

She walked to the door. Knocked.

"Selcentra," she called.

No answer.

"Open the door."

Still nothing.

She knocked again. Harder. "It's me. I'm back."

Stupid. She knew.

She knew.

But it was worth a shot.

She waited five minutes.

Five long minutes.

No footsteps. No tiny voice shouting "Coming!"

No giggling.

No click of the latch.

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Nothing.

Finally, with a deep, shaky breath, she opened the door.

And stepped inside.

Inside was a sorry sight.

Death hung in the air like a haze, thick and weightless, yet pressing against her skin like cold fog. The moment she crossed the threshold, it was obvious—no breath stirred here.

Children lay across the floor, curled up beside books or faded toys. Some slumped over chairs. Others had simply… fallen mid-step. A small boy rested beneath a blanket, one hand holding a toy sword like he'd meant to return it to the shelf.

It looked peaceful.

Too peaceful.

Her boots echoed through the quiet as she stepped farther inside, each pace slower than the last. She passed a child with half a cookie in his hand. Another still clutched the end of a bedtime story.

The closer she got to the main hall, the more of them she saw.

The grand table—where they'd gathered for the promised late-night feast—was full.

Dozens of heads rested gently against wooden plates and linen napkins. Toddlers leaned against each other. Babies sat in their high chairs, faces soft, lips slightly parted like they'd fallen asleep mid-giggle.

None of them stirred.

No one moaned. No one cried.

There was no sign of struggle. No fear.

Just… silence.

A hush of final dreams.

Ashantiana stood frozen, her lungs refusing to draw breath. Her fists clenched, nails biting into her palms. Her voice cracked as she whispered:

"Selcentra?"

No response.

She swallowed hard.

Louder now. "Is anyone alive?"

She waited.

Nothing.

"Selcentra…?" she called again, voice shaking now.

No answer.

"Where the hell are you? SELCENTRA!"

She screamed it, fists pounding the wall beside her. "SELCENTRA!"

The name tore from her throat with no resistance. The grief cracked her open, and she didn't stop herself—didn't want to stop.

"Please," she whispered, stepping between the still children. "Please, just answer me."

She didn't know what state she'd find her sister in.

She didn't care anymore if it hurt. If it ruined her.

She just needed to find her.

To see her.

To know.

With every nerve on fire and a scream lodged deep in her soul, Ashantiana turned and walked through the orphanage.

Room by room.

Searching.

She opened door after door, her boots heavy, her hands trembling, her body moving like it didn't belong to her anymore.

She turned corners, checked rooms, searched cribs, stepped over still legs and toys long dropped.

Until she saw it.

And everything inside her broke.

There, in the last room at the end of the corridor—what once had been a playroom filled with paints and story scrolls—Selcentra hung from a silken curtain cord tied to an old support beam, her dress stained and her feet inches off the floor.

Ashantiana couldn't comprehend it.

Her vision blurred.

At first, she thought it was the moonlight stinging her eyes.

But no.

She was crying.

No—weeping.

Like a dam shattering under too much weight, like every ounce of strength she'd held up until now gave out all at once.

"SELCENTRA—NO!"

The scream came raw, violent, uncontrolled.

She rushed forward, her shaking hands fumbling with the knot, ripping the fabric, nearly falling as she caught her sister's body and cradled her to the floor.

"Please—please no, please not you—!"

Her hands hovered, searching for breath, for a pulse, for something. The room spun, filled with the scent of stale sweetness and death. The older children were there, too—slumped against walls, resting their heads on desks. The whole room, like a captured moment of goodbye.

Ashantiana's heart pounded, body shaking as she pulled her sister close, rocking back and forth, her sobs now primal.

"I wasn't supposed to lose you. Not you. You're all I have—you're all I have!"

She pressed her head to Selcentra's chest.

And that's when she felt it.

A flutter.

A faint motion.

A beat.

Her breath caught.

She froze, blinked—again, again, again.

Selcentra's chest moved.

"You're—" Her voice shattered into disbelief. "You're alive?!"

Ashantiana scrambled, pulling her sister's face to hers. "Selcentra! Stay with me. Do you hear me?! You're okay. You're okay. You're not going anywhere. Not you. Not after all this."

Tears streamed down her face, now mixed with laughter—mad, relieved, terrified laughter.

"Of course you didn't die. Of course you—damn it, Sel, of course you didn't."

She pressed her forehead to her sister's, holding her tightly in the middle of the dead.

Because for one unbearable moment, she had thought everything good was gone.

But Selcentra—soft-breathing, barely clinging to life—

Wasn't.

Selcentra stirred in her arms.

Slow. Shallow.

Then her eyes fluttered open—and Ashantiana's heart stopped again.

Her irises were clouded, laced with black veins, like ink had bled into her soul. Her lips parted in a wet cough, spattering blood—and something darker, thicker—onto her chest and sister's armor. Her fingers twitched like she was still halfway between worlds.

She blinked, dazed.

"Oh… you came with me…" she murmured.

Ashantiana pulled her closer, arms trembling. "Came with you?!" her voice cracked. "No, you idiot, I'm not dead!"

She was crying again—without restraint, without control. Her voice rose like a blade drawn against the heavens.

"Why?!" she whispered. "Why, Selcentra? Why would you do this?!"

Selcentra's breath hitched. Her eyes drifted away, voice soft. "I know… I know it's selfish…"

She swallowed, then coughed again. Her breath rattled in her throat.

"But I didn't want Gieventi to die alone."

Ashantiana froze.

"I hated the plan," Selcentra whispered. "She hated the plan. But it was the only way. They… they were going to use the children. Turn them into fuel. Into currency. Into gold." Her body spasmed, and Ashantiana held her tighter.

"The poison was supposed to be quick. Gieventi made it herself. I drank it after the feast. I smiled, I sat with them, and I waited…"

She closed her eyes.

"But it didn't work. My body fought it, or maybe I just—wasn't ready. So I… I hung myself. But…" she trailed off, closing her eyes, laughing softly, bitterly. "That didn't fully work either."

Ashantiana pressed her forehead to her sister's. "What was the point, Selcentra? Why?! Why did you bring me here?!"

Selcentra opened her eyes, and they shimmered—not just with tears, but with the red and black shimmer of a soul breaking apart.

"I just wanted to say goodbye," she whispered.

Her voice cracked.

"I heard Father died… and I broke. I missed you. I missed Mom. I just—I wanted one last night to remember what it felt like to be with you. To laugh. To smile. To… pretend."

She stood slowly, Ashantiana helping her up. But as she got to her feet, the weight of it all crushed down.

Selcentra cried—red and black tears streaking down her cheeks like a bleeding sky. Her body shook, her hands covering her face as her words collapsed into sobs.

"I don't want to die!" she wailed.

"I didn't want to kill the children! We had no choice! We didn't have time, we didn't have anything! And I gave up—I gave up hope."

Ashantiana held her, arms wrapped tight.

Selcentra shook in her grasp, guilt pouring out of her like blood. A girl who only wanted to protect, to be brave in her own way. And failed.

But she was still alive.

Still here.

And Ashantiana didn't let go.

Selcentra's body collapsed again, her legs giving out beneath her. Ashantiana caught her before she hit the floor, lowering her gently into her lap. Her breathing was shallow, uneven, every gasp laced with blood and guilt.

She looked up at her sister through watery, broken eyes.

"I'm sorry, Tiana…" she whispered.

Ashantiana shook her head. "Don't—"

"I'm sorry for putting so much on you. For dragging you into this. For forcing you to see what we did… what I did."

She coughed again, black and red spattering across her chin.

"But… if I'm honest… I did it because I wanted to. I wanted things to go my way. Even if it meant putting the weight on someone else. And I… I hate that about me."

Her voice cracked.

"Maybe this is my way of atoning."

Ashantiana gripped her tighter. "No. Sel—no."

She brushed the hair from her sister's face, trying to steady her voice.

"You're brave. You were born into a family of warriors and still chose to be yourself. You lived for others. You loved deeply. That isn't selfish. That's—"

But Selcentra cut her off, a bitter laugh rising from her chest.

"That sister you knew?" she rasped. "She's dead, Tiana. I don't know what I am now."

She gave a cracked, choked smile, her lips smeared with blood.

"I murdered children. I forced my sister to carry a burden she didn't deserve. All because I wanted a little more time. A few more memories. I'm… sorry."

Ashantiana's hands shook.

"It's not your fault, Selcentra! It's the gods. It's the Supreme Families. It's this cursed realm and the monsters who made us their sport."

"You…" Selcentra gurgled through her next breath, "You've always been the best sister. The strongest warrior I've ever met."

Ashantiana felt her own throat close.

"I have… one more request," Selcentra whispered.

Ashantiana already knew.

She didn't respond.

Because there was no argument left.

No miracle. No cure. No future.

Just mercy.

Selcentra's hand found hers, weak and trembling.

"Please."

Ashantiana nodded once, tears falling soundlessly.

She shifted her sister gently, resting her against her chest.

And then she began to sing.

A simple melody.

An old one.

A song their mother sang to them when they were small. It had no real words—just soft syllables and lullaby rhythms that wrapped around the world like a warm blanket in the dark.

Selcentra hummed along the best she could. The sound was broken. Wet. Fading.

But it was still her.

They reached the final note together.

And then, in unison, they whispered:

"I love you."

Ashantiana's arms tensed.

With a swift, practiced movement, she snapped her sister's neck.

There was no sound.

No struggle.

Only peace.

She held her for a long while after, gently closing Selcentra's eyes with trembling fingers. She kissed her forehead and rested her against the wall like she was only sleeping.

And then, alone in the silence of death and love, Ashantiana Zarget sat still in the middle of the room.

A warrior.

A sister.

The last ember of her family.