The heavy tang of iron hung in the air
The heavy tang of iron hung in the air, mingling with the acrid stench of burning thatch. Screams echoed through the once-pristine valley, rolling off the verdant hills like thunder. Althea crouched low behind a crumbling stone wall, her heart pounding against her ribs. The raiders had come at dawn, their banners bearing the blood-red spiral of the Northern Warlord. They were relentless, sparing nothing and no one.
Her dark, wavy hair clung to her sweat-soaked forehead, and her bronzed skin was smeared with ash and grime. Strapped across her back was her father's spear, ornately carved with symbols honoring the Thracian goddess Bendis. She wore a sleeveless tunic of deep crimson fabric—stained now with smoke and dirt—cinched at the waist with a leather girdle, its edges fraying from years of wear. Sandals, woven from reeds and reinforced with iron-studded straps, clung tightly to her calves, though one of the bindings had nearly come undone in her sprint for cover.
The clash of blades and the guttural cries of fighters tore through the haze of golden morning light. Althea clenched the haft of the spear, its ancient wood rough under her fingertips. She had never planned to use it—not like this. Not in desperation. Her sisters had laughed when she practiced with it in the moonlight, calling her foolish for wanting to join the warriors. Now, where were they? Taken? Dead? She had seen Myrrine’s bright blue cloak trampled in the dirt by enemy hooves and heard no more screams from the olive grove where her mother hid.
Althea bit back the rising bile in her throat. This wasn’t the time to falter. She could almost hear her father's voice, steady and low as he instructed her years ago: "A hunter waits. A hunter assesses." She slanted her gaze over the edge of the jagged wall, scanning the chaos. A burly raider with a flame-haired beard was bellowing orders, his ax hanging low in one hand. The throng of invaders was thinning near the hills; their focus was centered on looting the village square. This was her chance to escape, but she couldn't—wouldn’t—leave until she struck a blow for her family.
The Whispering Grove
Hours earlier, the forest had seemed an innocent refuge. Althea had strolled its verdant paths with Myrrine, laughing as they picked wild olives, their hands sticky with the sap of fresh figs. Life had seemed unchanged in those moments, as if war and greed hadn't reached these hills. Myrrine had teasingly laid a woven olive wreath on her older sister's brow and called her "queen of the hunt." But now, those same woods were a charred scar, dotted with smashed roots and the cloying scent of death.
Althea remembered the grove’s guardian raven. Thracian legend whispered that Bendis often sent a raven to guide her chosen warriors to glory—or to warn them of their imminent death. She had seen it perch above her that morning, its sooty feathers glinting faintly blue, its black, orb-like eye locked on hers. She had dismissed it as superstition then. But now, with her back against the crumbling stone and her blood roaring in her ears, she couldn’t ignore the feeling that something divine lingered beside her.
The raven’s cry pierced the dawn sky, shrill and commanding, as it swooped low over the battlefield. It settled on the scorched branch of a cypress tree, its gaze fixed on Althea, unblinking. She couldn’t deny it any longer. It was a sign.
She surged to her feet before fear could claim her. Running low and fast, she darted through the long shadows of the battle, her spear poised. With each step, she prayed not for survival, but for precision. The flame-haired leader turned, half-distracted by a villager’s cry. And there it was: an opening, clean and certain.
The Strike
The lessons her father ingrained in her guided Althea’s hand. Barring doubt, barring hesitation. Her muscles coiled; the spear left her grasp like an extension of her own breath. It flew true, carving through the air until it sank deep into the warlord's chest with a sickening crunch. His laughter ended mid-roar as his body crumpled to the ground, the crude spiral on his tunic now soaked with his own blood.
For a moment, an unnatural silence fell over the battlefield. Althea stood frozen, her chest heaving. The surviving raiders turned their hungry eyes toward her. She was no longer hidden…but she no longer cared. The raven cawed triumphantly, its wings spreading wide as it seemed to burst into the heavens. Althea raced back toward the tree line, weaving through the chaos with the speed of a hare. She didn’t know if she would make it out alive, but she had done what mattered.
Reckoning
Days passed before Althea dared to return to her village. The fires had burned themselves out, leaving blackened ruins and gray heaps of ash where homes had once stood. The bodies of the fallen were set in neat rows, their faces covered. She found Myrrine’s hand—lifeless, pale, and delicate, clasping the olive wreath she had woven. Tears streamed down her face as she knelt beside her sister, whispering words of apology and promises of vengeance.
The surviving villagers spoke of her ambush with reverence, calling her “Bendis’ Arrow.” But Althea paid little attention. There were still fields to replant, fallen to bury, and nights to endure when the memories of blood pulled at the edges of her dreams.
And yet, in those quiet moments when the memory of the raven returned, a small ember of purpose burned in her chest. Her grief would not end here. Her family would not be forgotten. Althea would take the raven’s blessing and carry it as a flame into the dark. She would become what her people needed: a warrior, a savior, a lingering shadow to those who dared to harm her land.
And somewhere, a black raven circled high overhead, watching, waiting.
Genre: Historical Fiction
The Source...check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Reading Every Reader's Review of My New Book and I'm Speechless: Thank You
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