Honor to the Dead

Image by yabadene belkacem from Pixabay

Just a moment more, she thought as her companions’ voices urged her to flee. “Hurry,” they whispered, afraid of being heard, frantic to be away.

He deserved better than this, better than burial in a grave with a headstone that was not his own. Better than to have died, felled by nameless wraiths that struck through the mist, then dissolved into darkness.

Calista had stumbled on him in the dark. The others had wanted to leave him, to continue their own flight. She couldn’t do it. He was human, like them. Hunted, like them. She insisted on burying him.

“Calista, we must be gone.” Her bodyguard’s voice. 

Asira was right. They could delay no longer. Calista, the last survivor of the royal line, rose sadly to leave, swearing an oath of revenge for the death of the unknown stranger.

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This microfiction was inspired by the image.