The Council of Four
Around the Council’s table, arguments brewed like storm clouds. Four men, each bearing robes of brilliant scarlets and golds, shouted over one another in the grand chamber of Montclair Keep. The air was thick with the scent of burning cedar and hot wine, ceremonial offerings to the Watcher Gods. At the center of the table lay an ancient artifact marked with runes still smoldering faintly from the previous night’s failed ritual. Far below them, the sound of restless villagers chanting protests echoed—demanding salvation their lords could not provide.
"She’s late," hissed Count Fremin, his silver beard catching the firelight. "You promised this girl would solve everything, Klaus."
"And she will," answered Klaus, the youngest of the four. His hawk-like visage betrayed no unease. "Odalis succeeded at Greystone, did she not? She stopped the Red Famine’s curse when your priests failed."
"With magic none of us understands!" Fremin slammed his cup down, spilling ruby-colored wine across the oak surface. "She’s dangerous."
A horn sounded in warning just as the heavy oak doors groaned open. Odalis entered without ceremony, leading her horse by the bridle. Her emerald outfit was damp with dew, her boots still caked in forest mud. As she stepped across the threshold, silence fell; her presence commanded not by arrogance but an unspoken force coiled tightly within her. She regarded each man with a single measured glance before unhooking the pouch at her waist and tossing it onto the table.
"The heart of the forest beast," she announced simply.
The pouch hit the table with a sickening squelch and spilled its contents—a damp, gnarled mass of sinew and blackened veins. For a breathless moment, none spoke. Her voice cut through the tension like a blade.
"This is what protects your fields from rot and your beasts from madness. You asked it of me, and I brought it."
"But at what cost?" Fremin murmured, visibly recoiling. "What foulness is now loosed in its place?"
Odalis narrowed her eyes. "You said you wanted salvation, Count. Salvation does not come cleanly."
The Revelation at Greycliff
There are villagers alive who still remember the first time they saw Odalis. That was at Greycliff, before her name passed from whispered rumors to shouted pleas in every corner of Brittany. Greycliff was a barren strip of land where crops withered as if the soil bore ill will. The villagers prayed until their knees gave way, and their altars bled dry of offerings. So, the council sought her out.
Odalis came unbidden in the middle of a storm, her form backlit by lightning and shadowed by the yawning cave mouth that birthed her arrival. She did not pray. She did not weep. Odalis walked into the heart of the wasteland with her herbs and her iron dagger, muttering songs made of words long forgotten. The haunting keens of animals echoed in the hills, but by daybreak, the fields were teeming with new green buds. The price—the lives of every crow, raven, and stag within a mile—was steep, but the salvation undeniable.
What none of the villagers saw was Odalis’s face that night, staring into the pool of blood she'd spilled as if expecting someone—or something—to look back.
The Blood Price
"What would you have us do next?" Klaus asked, wary but intrigued.
Odalis slid her hood back, staring into the room's dim firelight. "If there’s rot in the roots of your land, there’s something we must unearth. And then, correct."
"Correct what?" Fremin spat. "One curse traded for another? One evil banished only to summon its brother? How many villagers must die before your debt is settled?"
Odalis fixed him with a gaze that made grown men flinch. "The blood price must be paid whether you believe in it or not."
"And if we refuse?" Fremin asked, fidgeting with the hilt of his ceremonial sword.
"Then don’t summon me again," she replied. "Die with your rot like men."
Epilogue
That very night, the Council would reconvene, their disagreements as loud as the storm gathering overhead. By dawn, it is said, Klaus rode furiously after Odalis to beg for her help again. No one knows her answer, only that crops flourished the following year—but always with a shadow cast over every sprouting seed. Stories of the Midwife of Darkness spread far across the land, leaving each town both grateful and haunted. And somewhere, in the forgotten groves and ruined keeps, something stirred. Something that watched her every move—and waited.
Odalis, cloak heavy with the weight of blood, rode on.
The price, it seemed, was never truly paid.
Genre: Dark Fantasy
The Source...check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: The Rise of the Ultra-Right Movement in the US
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