A Grim Glory - ON HOLD

Grim. The creature that lurks in the dark. The creature that does not hesitate to kill. So they say.


3. On the run

Merana walked. Far, far away. With her hood over her black-blue hair, no one had even recognized her, let alone stopped her.

As the sun began to set, Merana's anger was wearing away, replacing itself with an empty feeling. Her parents were dead. Stolen from her before their time.

A black carpet settled over the land as Merana started setting up for sleep. It was cold. Very cold. The tent would only keep so much warmth inside. She gathered what sticks she could find and settled down to light a fire. Matches! She had forgotten matches! Merana groaned, sinking backwards towards the ground. She played absentmindedly with a piece of flint, trying to work out what she could do. Flint... Flint...... She sat up, rummaging around in her bag. She emerged moments later brandishing another knife. Another stainless steel knife.

For what seemed like an age, Merana struck the flint against the metal, preying. Hoping. Just as a small spark ignited the wood, she caught sight of something moving in the shadows. She stared at the spot of blackness, searching for any sign of life. Nothing. A shiver ran down her spine. It was nothing. Just her mind. It had to be her mind. She curled up, tucking her knees under her chin. She nibbled on some bread, staring into the dancing flames. She had done it. Her, Merana, had run away from home. She buried her head in her hands, feeling the sting in her eyes long before she actually started crying.

Merana blinked her eyes open. She must have fallen asleep whilst crying. Her eyes stung as sunlight filtered through the trees above her. She was outside. The tent standing behind her. She frowned. Something seemed different. She glanced around, looking at everything. Her eyes rested on the fire. Written in the ashes, rather messily if she did say so herself, was one word.


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