This is my entry for The Rule of 3 Blogfest. You should most definitely check out the participants. 600 words or less about events in the town of Renaissance with these prompts:
There is fear of an impending misfortune.
There is an argument.
The stars had burned out in Briton's eyes. That was what happened, they burned out. They still had so much to shine for, but time had decided such light was blasphemous. Especially in Renaissance.
"We should go, Rist."
Erik's fingers caught at the faux leather jacket Briton had picked out for me just that morning. I ignored him.
"You can go, Erik. I'm staying here."
"The hell you are. The Battlestand is off-limits to civilians." His voice took on a sarcastic, desperate tone, but it barely registered through the ringing in my ears. "Remember what happened Rist? Why we shouldn't be here?"
He grabbed the collar of my jacket hoisted me up, but I kept staring at the dew resting on Briton's blue pajamas. "Why did he come here?"
"He was addled, do you need a better reason? He probably saw a bluebird and chased it."
My knife was out of my belt and against his throat before he had time to flinch. "Don't say that. Never, ever call him that." Erik didn't move, but his eyes flickered down to Briton. Erik's blue eyes saw the world the same way mine did. Behind them, his brain thought in patterns I could relate to. That was why Erik was head of his class and Briton was 'addled'.
Heat radiated from my electrically charged blade, not enough to burn but enough to make slicing easier, should I want to kill him. "The the Graces killed him. They hate us, hate that our blood was in Renaissance before the war, before the Last Betrayal, before they even arrived."
Erik didn't falter - he never did. "Then you're in danger too. If the Graces find us in the Battlestand, especially on the anniversary of the Last Betrayal, we'll both be convicted of conspiracy."
I lowered the blade, feeling a sickness spread through my veins. He was right.
Erik turned me away from Briton gently, and that was the last picture I had of my brother. Sleeping on bloodied grass, his face peaceful, his precious heart silent.
We ran across the dark field, ignoring the tombs and weather-worn statues, ducking under the rays that could send an alert straight to the Graces. I stopped in my tracks. "The rays. Briton wouldn't have known to duck under them."
Erik was scrambling over the boundary gate, assuming I was just behind him.
I looked at the gleaming metal gate. It alerted guards the second it felt unusual heat, but it was programmed to ignore animals. The solution had been simple: fur gloves. We didn't go to Battlestand often, but when we did, we wore those gloves. Briton didn't have any.
"They knew he was here."
Erik reached the top of the gate; the Graces were waiting for him. Seven shocks shot at him from all directions, frying him almost to death in two seconds.
I didn't stay to watch which side of the gate he landed on, I was already sprinting across Battlestand.
A shock burst past my right ear. I kept running, my electric knife still hot in my hand. The Battlestand was located in the middle of the city. If I could make it across the opposite gate, I could survive. I could disappear. I could hide.
But I could not leave.
If you really knew what was happening in this town, you'd scram. You'd risk the beasts in Asart, you'd risk the ghosts of the Culdees. You wouldn't stay here. The gods have abandoned us - why would you stay?
Funny how we used to be the center of the universe.
I hope you like it!