The New God's Of Avaricia

Ava, her thoughts a tempest of grief and anger, had no time to process the gruesome scene that lay before her. Her body moved of its own accord, driven by instinct and the survival instinct that had been honed in the dungeon's shadowy embrace. She scampered away from the executioner's block, the once-solid structure now trembling with the fury of the prophecy unleashed. The cobblestones of the square, slick with blood and shadow, were a treacherous dance floor for the macabre ballet that unfolded around her.

The crows had not ceased their assault, their beady eyes now fixed upon her with a hunger that was both ravenous and eerily sentient. Yet, she was not their target today. The execution that had taken place was not the one that had been written in the stars, not the one that the House of Bower had so eagerly anticipated. The prophecy had twisted their world into a grotesque reflection of itself, and Ava had become the linchpin of its dark design.

Her heart was a maelstrom of emotions: anger, sorrow, fear, and determination swirled within her like a storm that knew no bounds. Each beat sent waves of power through her veins, a power that was as intoxicating as it was terrifying. The very air around her crackled with arcane energy, the shadows at her feet coalescing into tendrils that reached out, seeking purchase in the chaos.

With a final, desperate wrench, Ava pulled her gaze from Elara's lifeless form. Her eyes scanned the square, taking in the carnage that surrounded her. The bodies of her sisters from the House of Garnet lay scattered like forgotten dolls, their once vibrant gowns stained with the crimson of their lifeblood. Their faces, twisted in the agony of their final moments, were a grim testament to the horrors that had been wrought upon them. Each corpse bore the unmistakable marks of the crows, their eyes pecked out, their throats torn open in a gruesome parody of the kisses they had once bestowed upon their clients.

Among the tapestry of death, Ava's eyes fell upon the mangled corpse of Madam Agatha. The woman who had been both mentor and tormentor lay crumpled amidst the mesh of shadows and feathers, her once regal figure now a sad parody of its former self. The madam's head was twisted at an impossible angle, her neck a grotesque mess of shredded flesh and snapped bone. Her eyes, once sharp with cunning, now stared vacantly into the void, their gleam extinguished by the cruel hand of fate. It was a sight that would haunt Ava's dreams for years to come, a stark reminder of the prophecy's inexorable march towards its bloody crescendo.

Her grief was a living, breathing entity, a beast that clawed at her soul and demanded to be heard. Yet, amidst the symphony of screams and the din of battle, she heard a sound that cut through the cacophony like a knife through the heart of the night. It was the unmistakable cry of a child, a piercing wail of pure terror that seemed to echo the very essence of her own fear.

Her body moved on instinct, the power within her coalescing into a tangible force. Ava felt a strange sensation, as if she were being torn apart and reassembled anew. Her flesh stretched and contorted, and from her sides emerged two extra sets of arms, each one tipped with hands that were as nimble as the finest silk. They grew like the branches of an ancient tree, unfurling from her torso in a display of power that was both terrifying and magnificent.

With a swiftness that defied belief, she wrapped these new limbs around the child's trembling body, her hands interlocking to form a protective cage. The girl's screams grew muffled against her chest, but she could feel the warmth of her heart beating in time with the rhythm of the prophecy's dark symphony. The crows, their eyes alight with an unearthly fire, dove and dove again, their sharp beaks aiming for the soft flesh of the girl. Yet, they could not breach the barrier Ava had created.

Her skin was not invincible, however, and the crows' relentless pecking began to take its toll. Each strike sent a jolt of pain through her body, the crimson blood spurting forth from the wounds like tiny geysers of lifeblood. It painted her crimson, a grisly mockery of the house she had once called home. The pain was a living, pulsing thing, a symphony of agony that played in concert with the crows' caws and the dying screams of her sisters.

Ava's thoughts swirled like the crows above her, chaotic and fevered. She wondered if this was it, the end of her story. Would she die here, in the very square where she had once danced and sung, her life a mere footnote in the grander narrative of the prophecy? Would she be remembered as a villain or a hero? Or would she be forgotten entirely, a mere casualty in the war of gods and men?

Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the rain of crows ceased. The air grew still, the cacophony of their wings and caws fading into the distance like the final, dying notes of a symphony. The silence was deafening, a sudden vacuum that seemed to suck the very air from her lungs. The survivors of the square staggered to their feet, their eyes wide with disbelief, their mouths agape like fish pulled from the water.

All that remained were the crows, feasting upon the corpses in a grim tableau of silence. Their beaks tore at the flesh of the fallen, their eyes gleaming with a hunger that was not of this world. The once-beautiful square was now a charnel house, a testament to the prophecy's destructive power. The cobblestones were slick with blood, the air thick with the coppery scent of death and the tang of iron. The crows, their feathers stained with the lifeblood of Sovereign's citizens, picked and pulled at the bodies with a methodical precision that spoke of an intelligence that belied their bestial nature.

Amidst the horror, a voice cut through the silence like a beacon of hope. It was the unmistakable timbre of an older woman, filled with a determination that seemed to defy the very fabric of the chaos around them.

The woman, her face a mask of desperation and love, barreled through the crowd, her eyes fixed on Ava and the child she held in her protective embrace. She was a blur of motion, her skirts fluttering like the wings of a moth drawn to the flame of hope that Ava had unwittingly become.

The crows, their hunger momentarily sated, took to the air once more as the woman approached, their beady eyes watching her with a cold, calculating interest. Ava could feel the power that had once filled her waning, the strength of her newfound limbs slowly fading. The child in her arms grew heavier, a testament to the toll the battle had taken on her.

The woman, her face etched with lines of age and a fierce determination, pushed through the last few feet that separated them. Her eyes, filled with a love that was as fierce as any battle cry, met Ava's. Without a word, she took the girl from her, cradling her in her arms as if she were made of the most delicate glass. The child, recognizing the warmth and safety of the woman's embrace, buried her face in her neck, her sobs subsiding into hiccups of relief.

The woman looked Ava over, her gaze lingering on the blood that painted the girl's skin. "Thank you," she whispered, the words thick with emotion. "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."

She was the child's mother.

Her eyes, red-rimmed with tears and fear, searched Ava's face, finding something there that she had not expected. Perhaps it was the fierce protection, or the unyielding resolve, but in that moment, she saw not the girl accused of witchcraft but a guardian angel sent from the heavens themselves.

And with that, the chaos in the square subsided, for now...

-To Be Continued-