bantayden TUChapter 10. Tachyon of Sparta
TUChapter 10. Tachyon of Sparta
TU10. Tachyon of Sparta
In the year 1182 Before the Common Era, a cheetah Wildren was born upon the sun-drenched isle of Scyros.
At merely eight months old, Tachyon, the daughter of Hermione, was already a blur of motion. She scrambled on all fours across the golden sands of the long beach, her bright eyes locked onto a darting lizard.
Sitting just outside their home, her mother — a remarkably beautiful Wildren — worked diligently on a piece of tanned leather. She barely caught the winded blur as her little girl zipped past her.
"Don't go too far!" Hermione's voice called out, though the warning waned, lost to the surging sea breeze that whipped past the child's twitching, spotted ears.
It was abundantly clear, even then, that this Wildren child possessed a gift of immense agility, a speed that would one day rival the messenger god, Hermes, himself.
In a blink, Tachyon caught up to the scurrying lizard. She snatched at it with a clumsy, open palm. But her sheer, terrifying momentum transformed the innocent gesture into a lethal strike. Her hand became a razor-sharp blade, severing the poor creature cleanly in half.
Tachyon merely smiled, her childish curiosity piqued by the warm, crimson blood smeared across the edge of her palm.
She couldn't fully understand what she had just done. How could she? She was a mere eight-month-old infant, a baby who could only babble nonsensical words.
Yet, there was no space for remorse or empathy in that tiny, beating heart. Her soul was entirely captivated by this newfound thrill. It was the visceral awakening of a rare and deadly combination of two Essences: Atramnéon and Bloodwrath.
Suddenly, the sharp shriek of another baby pierced the coastal air. This cry was soft yet entirely enchanting, like the wail of a nascent siren, knocking Tachyon out of her bloody daze.
The cheetah Wildren tilted her head, her amber eyes watching a beautiful, dark-haired baby nestled safely in a woman's arms as they disembarked from a grand Argonaut ship.
That was the very first time Tachyon laid eyes on Medelle, the girl who would grow up to be the famously bewitching sorceress of Corinth.
For years, even when memories grew hazy with the passage of time, Tachyon would always remember their inseparable moments. Their parents went way back, bound as great allies, and on the island of Scyros, the two girls became two halves of a whole.
They played, they pranked, they trained, and they relentlessly cultivated their Essences. Their friendship flourished into a beautiful, unbreakable bloom.
Together, the two blossomed into the greatest warriors in their own distinct rights. Medelle exceeded in her witchcraft, a dark and intricate magic inherited from her mother's infamous lineage. Meanwhile, Tachyon excelled in her unmatched agility and ruthless arcane strikes, taking entirely after her father's brutal legacy.
One fateful night, at the ripe age of eighteen, Tachyon lay shoulder-to-shoulder with the one and only true friend she knew. They rested on a private expanse of sand beach, accompanied only by a vast canvas of starry night and the rhythmic, scenic cascade of crashing waves.
The sea breeze wafted through Medelle's beautiful raven hair, carrying the delicate, sweet scent of daisies. Beside her, Medelle's violet eyes gleamed, reflecting the dancing pyre of their roaring bonfire.
"Nice smell," Tachyon murmured, leaning in and sniffing profusely. She watched the gentle rise and fall of Medelle's plump chest.
"Do you like it?" Medelle offered a handful of her silky raven locks to Tachyon for a closer inspection. "It's a gift from my father. He brought this perfume back from a kingdom he recently conquered."
"Wow! Your father is the greatest hero of all!" Tachyon beamed, her lips pulling back to reveal her sharp, predatory fangs.
"Same as your father, and your grandfather," Medelle replied, closing one eye in a playful tease. She always had a knack for a good, sweet kind of teasing that made Tachyon's heart flutter with pride.
"When we go out into the world to join the ranks of the greatest heroes," Tachyon declared, throwing a fist toward the stars, "I shall bring you the greatest, most precious perfume known to mankind! Even the goddess Hera herself will be jealous of you."
"Oh..." Medelle's dreamy violet eyes trailed down to Tachyon's muscular, scarred arms. "For whom?"
"For you, of course! You're my best friend!" Tachyon answered in an absolute flash. Everything about her was always two times faster than most — even her unwavering loyalty.
Medelle giggled, her slender fingers curling over her lips as her eyes turned into joyful crescent moons.
Laying there in the sand, it struck Tachyon profoundly. They were no longer children. Medelle had matured into a staggeringly beautiful young lady, undoubtedly the most bewitching woman in all of Scyros. Meanwhile, Tachyon felt she was still just a brute — bigger, deadlier, and still comfortably draped in an old, stained tunic.
But peace, as it always did for heroes, shattered.
Later that same night, as Tachyon journeyed back from the beach, she found her mother wailing in front of their house, clutching her two younger daughters. Beside them stood a grim-faced messenger draped in a coarse brown robe.
"Oh, Tachyon, my love..." Hermione wept, her eyes a flooding river of sorrow. "Orestes has betrayed your father. He has taken over Thessaly."
"What?" It was as if the very air, and all the delight she had just felt, was violently sucked out of her soul. Her broad shoulders slumped.
"I journeyed here as fast as the winds and my boat would allow," the bald messenger said, shaking his head in mourning. "Orestes murdered King Pyrrhus at Delphi. It was a vile execution, driven by his sinister intention to reclaim your mother's hand in marriage."
There was no remorse, nor even a flicker of sorrow in Tachyon's amber eyes. Instead, her long claws slowly extended, digging so deeply into her own palms that they drew blood.
A searing, bottomless wrath had awakened.
Hermione reached out, clasping her eldest daughter's trembling, muscular shoulders. "My baby... You must avenge your father's honour. Sever Orestes's head from his treacherous neck. I shall not be wedded to this monster!"
And so, the wheel of revenge began to turn.
The heavy thumping of Tachyon's own heartbeat filled her ears, a furious war drum. Her bloodshot eyes glowed with a feral malice in the dark. Her conquest of Thessaly had begun that very morning.
By the time dawn broke, Tachyon was pacing like a caged lion in front of her house, strapping on her leather armour and preparing for the arduous journey ahead.
The news had already spread to the other side of the island. Medelle rushed to Tachyon's house, her usual pristine composure abandoned.
Seeing Tachyon's blood-tainted hands, the sorceress hurried forward, gently catching her friend's palms. "You hurt yourself again," Medelle gasped softly. She quickly procured her medical balm, gingerly applying the soothing salve to the deep, self-inflicted crescent wounds.
"This is nothing but a scratch," Tachyon smirked, allowing her blazing Bloodwrath to temporarily subside under Medelle's tender touch.
Medelle's gaze drifted to the heavy travel pouch resting by Tachyon's feet. Her violet eyes widened. "Do you plan to journey to the mainland?"
Tachyon's heavy silence and her stubborn refusal to meet her friend's eyes were all the answer Medelle needed.
"Then let me come with you!"
"This is my revenge, my honour, Medelle," Tachyon rationalised, her voice a low growl. "You shall not—"
"And what army exactly would you bring to defeat Orestes's kingdom?" Medelle interrupted, her tone sharp with brilliant logic. "How exactly do you plan to topple an entire entrenched regime by yourself?"
That was, indeed, a great question. One that Tachyon, in her blind rage, had entirely forgotten to ask. She scratched the back of her head, her feline ears flattening. "I will figure something out. I'm fast."
"You are fast," Medelle agreed, searching her friend's amber eyes deeply. "But I am the efficient one. Let me come with you. I shall ask my father for a battalion, and together, we shall reclaim the kingdom for us."
Tachyon felt Medelle's warm palm press firmly against her chest, right over her beating heart. Their friendship transcended mere bloodlines; it was a bond forged in the very soul.
"Together, we are unstoppable!" Tachyon finally conceded, offering a fierce grin. Medelle nodded with unwavering resolve.
True to her word, Medelle proved to be the strongest and most trusted ally Tachyon could ever ask for.
First, they required seasoned warriors. Upon hearing the tragic news of Thessaly and the treacherous murder of its king, Medelle's father, Jason, dispatched a hardened battalion of men and women from Argos to serve under his daughter. Together, they formed a fearsome new army, namely the New Argonauts.
As the campaign raged, Tachyon became the terrifying warchief, a vanguard of death who perfected her Bloodwrath and Atramnéon Essences to ruthlessly cut down her enemies.
Medelle, conversely, became the revered and terrifying mage. She manipulated roaring fire and crushing telekinesis, but her magical prowess was far from her best trait. Blessed with the brilliant, intricate, and complex mind of her mother, Medea, Medelle strategised a brutally simple, yet devastatingly effective tactic for their conquest.
In the initial stage of battle, the Argonauts would launch a coordinated long-range assault, raining magic and arrows to severely weaken the enemy's ranks and shatter their defensive lines. Then, the grim wail of the 'death horn' would sound across the battlefield, sparking terror and flight in the hearts of their foes.
But the most gruesome part of the strategy lay in the last stand — reserved for those foolish enough to stay and fight.
While Medelle unleashed the very forces of nature against the besieged walls, Tachyon would descend upon the survivors. Fuelled by an ever-increasing Bloodwrath, the cheetah Wildren unleashed a storm of pure carnage, leaving nothing but torn entrails, shattered bones, and rivers of blood in her wake.
They were a small army of a mere hundred at first. But once the tales of their undefeated record spread wide, like a ferocious wildfire sweeping through dry brush, warriors from across the lands flocked to join their banner. They sought nothing but glory, winning countless battles while suffering miraculously few losses.
All of this was thanks to Medelle's unmatched tactical mind. However, it was a tragedy of history that sheer intellect was so rarely celebrated, constantly overshadowed by the more conspicuous, visceral glory of a warrior bleeding on the battlefield.
Titled 'Tachyon of Sparta', drawing upon her mother's proud legacy, the Wildren war chief became a brutal symbol. She struck absolute fear into the hearts of their enemies. She was the most feared heroine in history. At least, until the theatre of war shifted.
When the conflict moved from the blood-soaked landscape to the unforgiving sea, the tempestuous realm of Poseidon, the Argonauts found themselves haunted by the waves.
For three agonising months, the naval battle remained locked in a bitter, bloody stalemate.
Frustrated beyond measure, Tachyon stormed into the stern tent of the main flagship. Having just been forced to physically swim back from an enemy's vessel, she was drenched. Her soaked bare feet slapped aggressively against the fine carpets and the wooden planks underfoot.
"Medelle! We can't fight like this!" Tachyon roared at the sorceress.
The witch was unfazed. She stood with both of her palms pressed onto a long table that was absolutely brimming with strange tubes, curved glass pipes, and bubbling, soot-stained alchemy.
Not heeding Tachyon's thunderous roar, Medelle's violet eyes remained downcast, intensely focused on a small, flickering torch.
"Are you not hearing me? Or have you gone completely deaf!?" Tachyon screamed, her amber eyes burning with frantic energy. "Every time you send us out there, Orestes's ships sail off as though they're personally favoured by the North Wind!"
Eventually, Tachyon realised that no matter how loud she yelled, raw volume would never earn the specific attention she desperately needed from Medelle.
The witch calmly dragged a slender finger against a glass tube, producing a tantalising, high-pitched screech. Without lifting her head, her gaze finally drifted down to Tachyon's dripping toes. "What about the basilisk greaves I gave you?"
Tachyon's eyes bulged in exasperation. She stubbornly shoved her hands into her armpits. "I am not wearing those silly frog feet."
Medelle could only sigh with profound fondness. "Firstly, they are not frog feet. They are carefully designed after—"
"Yeah, yeah, so I can run on water, whatever," Tachyon hissed, still feeling the hot boil of her blood.
"Shameful, really, though it is a flawless design of nature," Medelle mused. Reaching out, the witch pulled a thick towel up to carefully cover Tachyon's shivering, tense shoulders. A small smile played at the edge of Medelle's lips. "If you wouldn't mind loosening your tensed-up muscles for just a moment..."
Her delicate fingers danced along her friend's dewy skin, pressing expertly into muscles that had been hardened by war and tanned by the relentless sun.
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"Fine..." Tachyon groaned, forcibly reeling in her focus. And just like that, beneath the witch's touch, the feral beast within her was subdued.
"Good girl," Medelle purred, already taking Tachyon by the hand and leading her toward the cluttered, long table.
"What is all this?" Tachyon probed, rubbing her chin in confusion. Her cheetah ears twitched as she leaned closer. "It's like... glasses and crushed herbs. Are you making a magic potion?"
Medelle chuckled, the sound like velvet. "I'll show you. You wouldn't understand if I just explained it, anyway."
With dramatic flair, she tilted a pinch of mundane seawater into one of the glass beakers containing a sooty, black sludge. The tar-like liquid bubbled violently, making the cheetah Wildren stick her tongue out in distaste.
Suddenly, a fierce fire sparked and crackled inside the glass, erupting into a furious green flame. To Tachyon's absolute shock, the more Medelle added water to the fire, the more powerful and writhing the unnatural flame became.
Tachyon's amber eyes widened, beautifully mirroring the dancing, aggressive blaze. "It's... masterful witchcraft," she gasped in awe.
Medelle squeezed Tachyon's shoulders, expertly massaging the last knot out of her tense fibres. "One would naturally jump to such a conclusion. But this, my dear, is mere science. Specifically, chemistry."
The foreign word made Tachyon scrunch up her face. "Science? That sounds like a made-up word!"
Her eyes crinkling into joyful crescents, Medelle nodded toward the table. "Very well. There is another critical component I am thinking of adding. It's called sulphur." She held up a small, cloudy vial and carefully unclogged it.
Tachyon leaned in to take a whiff and instantly gagged. Her eyes watered, and her throat caught profusely as she coughed. "Eww! Rotten eggs!?"
The witch chuckled brightly, shielding the vial's opening with a small piece of cloth. "Well, do you have any better suggestions?"
"Let's just not go there." Tachyon wildly waved the foul air away from her sensitive nose, though a massive grin was already splitting her face. "But this is amazing, Medelle! You are amazing!"
Overcome with sheer ecstasy, Tachyon lunged forward, embracing her best friend with overwhelming joy. She kissed Medelle fiercely on the left cheek, and then the right.
"Stop it, heheh," Medelle giggled, attempting to squirm away as her friend's enthusiasm and saliva, got all over her face and her pristine sorceress robes.
But as she laughed, it was clear she didn't mind it in the slightest.
With the discovery of this Hellenic fire, a demonic blaze that could not be snuffed out by the sea, but rather fed upon it, the tide of the war instantly turned. They fashioned long, flexible catapults that hurled urns of the devastating liquid fire directly onto the enemy warships.
Just like that, the New Argonauts decimated King Orestes's naval fleet, burning them into utter submission. With the sea finally theirs, Tachyon and Medelle expanded their glorious conquest at a rapid, terrifying rate, forging a legacy unlike anything the world had ever seen before.
One night, like so many before it, the Argonauts erected their sprawling war camp after conquering the entire eastern shore of Thessaly.
Deep within the inner encampment stood a tall, lavish tent. Inside, Medelle rubbed her tired brow, her violet eyes scanning a massive battle map. She had dealt with literally everything: their own and the enemy's arsenal, troop resources, supply logistics, camp sanitation, and even acting as the judge for the pettiest crimes committed by their own men.
Their numbers had grown a hundredfold since they first set foot on the mainland; the army had become a lumbering, unwieldy beast.
Every movement required Medelle's careful planning and flawless strategy. Given her inherently distrustful nature, she refused to let anyone but Tachyon help with this high-level management. Well, that was only half true. The simple fact was that the rest of the commanders were fundamentally incapable of handling such intricate details.
Tired and profoundly overworked, Medelle was still far from giving up. She knew their ultimate goal was soon to be achieved. She would do anything for her beloved friend, Tachyon.
Not far from the tense, stifling atmosphere of the strategy tent, lively folk songs and music seeped through the night air. Joyous warriors surrounded roaring bonfires, celebrating yet another glorious victory.
Drunk on heavy wine and the thrill of past battle, Tachyon had challenged her warriors to a footrace. With her immense, unnatural speed, none had ever come close to beating her.
"Tachyon," a beautiful young man called out, wobbling to her side. A cute, drunken hiccup escaped his lips, earning a curious glance from the warchief. His hair was the colour of golden sand, and his eyes were as blue as the Aegean Sea. But his true charm lay in the way his smile deeply creased his cheek, revealing a boyish dimple.
"Would you consider..." young Ortheus began, striking up every ounce of his courage, "if I beat you in a race, would you go on a date with me?"
His sheer boldness spoke volumes. None had ever dared to court the mightiest, most fearsome heroine in the camp.
With or without the terrifying Bloodwrath, Ortheus found Tachyon to be deeply attractive, even more so than Medelle, who was widely considered one of the most proper and beautiful ladies of the age, a woman rivalling even Helen of Troy. Yet, the young warrior's heart was set firmly on Tachyon.
She was beautiful, fierce, and wild. Very wild indeed.
"Why not!" Tachyon laughed, flashing her fangs. And so, the race began with its incredible stakes. The loud, booming cheers of the Argonauts reverberated through the camp, loud enough to wake the giants from their ancient slumbers.
Naturally, the commotion drew Medelle from her tent. She came to investigate and found the two running a two-hundred-metre dash. She shook her head at the thoroughly unhelpful sight.
One of those games again, she thought bitterly.
"It's like this every Wednesday. What is the deal with you men?" Medelle sighed to a bystander, casually inspecting her long, oval-shaped nails.
"Tachyon said she'll marry that young bloke if she loses the race," one of the burly men replied with a grin.
That single sentence wiped the aloof smile right off Medelle's face. She watched as Tachyon casually crossed the finish line before Ortheus had even cleared a hundred metres. The desperate young man plunged face-first into the dirt trail.
Despite the crushing defeat, Tachyon trotted back and offered him a hand in a display of good sportsmanship.
To everyone else, she was a humbling, gracious winner.
To Medelle, it was something entirely different. She felt a dark, searing burn in her heart — a twisted possessiveness she could not yet fully explain.
For three long years, their relentless conquests systematically brought the kingdom to its knees. King Orestes eventually rallied his last remaining army, retreating into the impenetrable capital fortress of Thessaly in a frail, desperate final attempt. And there it was, the last battle was finally within Tachyon's grasp.
As pure and imminent as victory sounded, Tachyon couldn't have been happier. She was still racing with Ortheus every Wednesday night.
Over the years, his pace had grown significantly better, improving from finishing only half the distance to crossing the three-quarter mark. Yet, he still inevitably plunged his face into the mud, hopelessly trying to match the incredible, god-like speed of Tachyon.
It had become a cherished little tradition in the camp. The warriors would cheer and even place bets, as if hoping that one day, Ortheus might actually triumph.
That night, the Argonauts gathered around the fire. The mud-soaked Ortheus, who possessed the beautiful, lilting voice of a songstress, began to sing. Fearing outright rejection, he professed his love by hiding it deep within the subtext of a poem. He referred to Tachyon as the most beautiful warrior, Atalanta.
As suspected, Tachyon, who sat listening happily, could only appreciate the surface melody and the rhythm. But there was someone else in the crowd who possessed the intellect to interpret the hidden lyrics immediately.
Long after the bonfire had died down and the men had dispersed to their bedrolls, Tachyon and Medelle walked side by side back to Medelle's living quarters — the tall, lavish tent reserved for the most powerful sorceress in their ranks.
"Tachyon... that boy, Ortheus," Medelle said suddenly, her fingers pulling sharply at the edge of her friend's tunic.
"That fool!" Tachyon burped, awkwardly suppressing the gas. "I know him by his name by now."
"Why do you purposefully slow down in your races with him?" Medelle asked, her voice turning frigid.
"I did?" Tachyon hiccupped, her amber eyes blurred under the heavy influence of the wine. "I just thought it'd be fun to give him a bit of hope—"
"Why?" Medelle interrupted, the word slicing through the air like a blade.
Tachyon was entirely lost for words. She could feel Medelle's hand trembling intensely against her tunic.
"Tell him there will be no more races."
"But I love to race!" Tachyon argued, her feline ears flicking in confusion.
"Stop it—now!" Medelle's voice cracked into a sudden, guttural scream.
"It's part of me... I..." Tachyon's ears dropped flat against her head. She completely failed to understand this violently strong reaction from her best friend. "It's part of us?"
That was the very first time Tachyon saw a terrifying, unhinged darkness lurking deep within Medelle's violet eyes.
For what felt like an eternity, they stood in silence until Medelle was the first to let her hand drop. "Forget it," Medelle mumbled, already turning away. She swept into her tent and disappeared into the shadows.
At last, the grand siege of Thessaly reached its bloody zenith.
The Argonauts completely surrounded the towering Fortress of King Orestes. Large copper pans full of pyres were placed at regular intervals, allowing the sorcerers to spin the Empyrion fire into devastating, soaring fireballs. Under Medelle's ruthless leadership, they had perfectly mastered the dark art of the siege.
Tachyon stood at the chaotic edge of the war camp, her amber eyes reflecting the burning fortress walls. The warning horn blew in all directions, a terrifying herald that signalled the impending slaughter. The wise citizens and surrendering warriors had already fled from the impending doom.
"It is your turn, Tachyon of Sparta," Medelle said coldly, her usual velvety tone entirely absent.
Tachyon smiled a wide, toothy grin, confidently meeting Medelle's violet gaze. She nodded back with a regal bow of her head. "It is your fate to reclaim your rightful throne. This is his last chapter," Medelle emphasised.
"Right!" The cheetah Wildren fell into a low, coiled running pose, her palms pressed flat against the earth. "Talk soon!"
And the moment the long wail of the warning horn stopped, she whispered, "Atramnéon!"
She burst forward into a terrifying blur, her arms swinging like deadly pendulums.
Within a single second, she bolted directly up the sheer face of the fortress wall, her momentum allowing her to climb the impossible vertical stone. Her feral heart pumped furiously; her vision was completely overtaken by a violent filter of red.
The defending warriors stationed atop the wall simply collapsed to the stone floor, their severed heads rolling cleanly off their necks before they even realised they were dead.
Blood and gore instantly pooled at the parapets, but Tachyon had already woven seamlessly through their dense archery ranks. The desperate bowmen loosed random arrows at the blurring phantom rushing their way. But in less than a mere eyeblink, they felt their guts violently spilling out under the sun, meeting their gruesome demise.
The vicious strikes and sheer, unrelenting carnage twisted the guts of all the spectators watching from below. Tachyon's acceleration only grew with ever-increasing speed, fueled endlessly as long as her Bloodwrath compelled her forward.
She became a true, unstoppable force of nature.
Even the battle-hardened Argonauts standing by in the camp found themselves praying to the goddess Athena, quietly wishing for a painless death for their enemies.
In under an hour, the enemy's defensive ranks were completely scattered. The cries of the fleeing men and their pathetic begs for mercy fell entirely on deaf ears. Because the sound of their voices literally could not catch up to her impossible velocity, she never even heard them.
She painted the inner fortress with a horrific tapestry of blood and gore. Eventually, she sprinted up the long, elevated archway connecting directly to the King's tower.
The passage was heavily blocked.
"Guards up!" the elite royal guards shouted, barking desperate commands. Their heavy iron shields rose, interlacing seamlessly to form an impenetrable wall, while a dense thicket of lethal spears spiked outward.
"Morons!" Tachyon roared. Her powerful legs bulged with effort, a furious heat rising to her cheeks. She spiralled rapidly upward along the curved stone, running upside-down on the ceiling before launching herself directly behind the phalanx's speared wall.
She pivoted sharply on her heel, immediately spinning into a devastating whirlwind of razor-sharp edges. She became a living meat grinder, instantly mauling the elite men into a gruesome pile of fresh flesh and crimson ooze.
Drenched entirely in the shadows and the hot blood of her enemies, she roared in pure, primal triumph and darted toward the grand chamber doors.
Inside, cloaked figures — including two very small ones — shrieked in terror as the thick, magically reinforced doors suddenly shattered into thousands of splinters. A deafening boom echoed through the tower.
She struck before the dust even settled. Twisted corpses hit the ground, bones violently protruding from their knees and elbows, their dead eyes staring unblinking at the ceiling. A massive pool of blood quickly rushed out across the pristine marble floors.
But as the haze cleared, a single glimpse from her amber eyes brought her murderous spree to a horrifying halt. Her heart leapt into her throat, and all the warm blood drained instantly from her face.
The blinding fog of the Bloodwrath vanished in a heartbeat. Her trembling bare foot stepped numbly into the thick pool of crimson.
"Ma... Mother?!" Tachyon screamed, her amber eyes widening in pure, unadulterated horror. Her bloodstained fingers shook uncontrollably as she desperately brushed a lock of hair off the fallen woman's face.
It was Hermione's unblinking eyes that stared emptily back at her.
Collapsing onto the cold marble, an agonising cry seeped out from between her gritted teeth. With a broken mind, she used her trembling arms to gather her mother's remains, pulling the woman tightly to her chest. But the warm corpse offered no comfort; the horrifying reality was undeniable. She had just murdered her own mother.
"How could this be?" Tachyon's desperate wailing echoed tragically throughout the grand chamber.
A slow, deliberate footstep shattered the sorrowful air.
Standing quietly in the deep shadows of the room, the fire witch slowly emerged into the flickering light. Her beautiful face was entirely unreadable. "Such an untamable beast you are, my friend."
"Medelle?" Tachyon sniffed, hot tears rushing freely from her eyes. "How could this be? Why... why are they here?"
Eliciting no emotional response from her best friend, Medelle simply crouched beside the two smaller corpses. She coldly pulled back the blood-soaked fabrics, revealing two familiar blonde heads.
"Your sisters..."
"What—No, no, no—NO!" Tachyon screamed in absolute anguish, her voice howling like a devastating cyclone. The broken Wildren slammed the heels of her palms fiercely against her own temples, hitting herself over and over until her head began to bleed.
Medelle cast her violet gaze down, entirely unbothered by the horrific display of grief. She slowly circled the broken Wildren, eventually crouching down right beside her ear. "It looks as though your mother and your sweet sisters sought refuge under King Orestes. They betrayed you, my love."
"Impossible! She... she promised! She swore she'd never court him!" Tachyon sobbed, her entire world shattering into pieces.
"I am not here to debate politics or speak ill of the dead," Medelle replied smoothly, gracefully rising to her feet. "What's done is done." The sorceress extended her pale palm in an open invitation. "Come. We need to finish what we started."
"I cannot..." Tachyon's voice was a hollow, low murmur at first, before rising into a desperate plea. "I cannot do this anymore, Medelle!"
"Stop whining, please," Medelle sighed, rolling her eyes. She had always been known as a cold witch, but this was a terrifying new depth. "Look at the bright side. I will soon kill my father and crown myself the Empress. Together, our empire shall be the most powerful known in all of history. Scholars shall revere us, and epic songs shall be written in the glory of our names forever."
Medelle spread her arms wide, then wrapped them around her own shoulders in a tight self-embrace. She rocked slowly from side to side. "And in the afterlife, we shall rule together in Tartarus. Such a dark, beautiful novelty..." She gasped softly in twisted ecstasy.
But in her madness, Medelle hadn't realised she had just opened Pandora's box.
Trembling, Tachyon slowly raised her bloodstained palms. Refusing to be a pawn in this horrific prophecy, she executed her deadly Atramnéon one final time.
In a single strike, the razor-sharp leading edges of her own palms cleanly severed both of her legs at the thighs. Tachyon let out a bloodcurdling scream of pure agony, feeling the white-hot pain of the catastrophic wound.
"TACHYON!!!" Medelle screamed in absolute terror, her composure shattering as she rushed to the Wildren's side.
With frantic haste, Medelle embraced Tachyon, pulling her bleeding friend tightly into her arms. "Why? I... I did all of this for us," the witch confessed, her voice trembling with sudden, horrific realisation.
"Let me go, Medelle," Tachyon growled through the blinding pain, her amber eyes locking onto the witch's violet ones. "If you ever loved me..."
Medelle's grand, twisted ploy had gone terribly, irreparably wrong. She had never accounted for her wild friend executing such a brutally selfless act. In her obsessive fear of losing Tachyon after their conquest ended, Medelle had created a tragic, self-fulfilling prophecy. It was a nightmare she had woven entirely with her own hands.
Massive amounts of blood pumped rapidly from Tachyon's brutal wounds, pooling into the marble floor. Her beautiful amber eyes quickly swam out of focus.
But in that final, fading moment, the cheetah Wildren let out a gentle smile. A smile of bittersweet relief, knowing that despite the madness, Medelle did love her — she loved her enough to finally let her go.
And then, Tachyon of Sparta was no more. The fastest hero in history bled out, dying quietly in the arms of her beloved best friend.
From an innocent eight-month-old infant on the beach, down to the very last of her breath.
It was always love.