Free Unknown by Poppy Page A

more and more with each familiar face. She avoided the stage where she and the other dancers had performed – was it really less than a day since they had been dancing without a care in the world? She didn’t want to see Neecrid again, who had died alone, it had been so quick, and Aya had been powerless to help her…
Suddenly, she saw a small movement, near one of the towers. It had been burned so badly that it looked as if it would soon collapse. Aya ran between the corpses and charred remains, and fell to her knees next to an Elf who was still breathing - just. He had been slashed on his face and body; his eyes were barely open, and he clutched at a wound on his chest. Aya’s stomach squirmed inside her - it was Dorran.
“Father,” Aya whispered, cupping his poor face in her hands. His skin was white as snow underneath the crimson, drying blood that covered his cheek, arms and chest. “Father!” she said desperately.
“Aya?” Dorran breathed, his eyes flickering open for a moment.
Tears poured freely down Aya’s cheeks. “It’ll be all right, father,” she sobbed quietly. “I can help you...”
“Aya,” Dorran’s weak hand clutched at her robes. His half-closed eyes were out of focus, and his lips shook, his head lolling as if he was looking for Aya, but couldn’t see her. He whispered something Aya couldn’t hear. “What?” she sobbed. “I can’t hear you,”
His lips were barely moving. She clutched his cold hand tightly in hers as she moved closer to him, silently praying for him, gazing at the man who she had always loved more than anyone else, her protector, her father…
“Flint… is dead,” Dorran hissed. “Run.”
His hand went limp, his sad eyes gazed past Aya, unseeing. A single tear trickled down his cheek as his final breath left his body. Aya didn’t know how long she lay on Dorran’s chest, sobbing as she clutched at him, begging him not to leave her, screaming for everything she had lost in a few short hours. She felt as if she were being torn into a thousand pieces. Her father had always been there for her, always given her strength, and now, like Flint, like Neecrid, like everyone, he was gone, and would never, ever come back…
“I’m so sorry,” said a voice behind Aya. She jumped round, her heart racing - it was Villid, his dark silhouette towering above her, still covered in blood and muck, wearing that terrible steel armour.
Aya held on to her father’s body, unable to stop the never ending tears, silently begging him to wake up. She lay in Villid’s shadow, clutching at her father, as if pleading would wake him up. Grief and terror bit at every part of her body. Then, slowly, fear was turning to anger. She stared down at her father’s innocent, lifeless face cupped in her shaking hands, and rage burned inside her. How she hated the Tyrans. How she hated this man standing right beside her. He was the one to blame for all of this… he had to pay...
Her father’s sword lay on the floor... she suddenly grabbed it and spun to her feet, holding it high above her head, wanting to kill him for what he and his tribe had done, bring him as much pain as he had given her…
The long, silver dagger swung through the air quickly, but Villid lunged back, instinctively blocking it with his axe. Metal on metal clanged and sparks exploded against the weapons. Aya swung again and again, tearful, angry screams piercing the morning air, and Villid blocked her attacks...
“Stop!” he yelled above the clashing of the metal. Aya didn’t listen; anger and hatred flowed through her and all she wanted to see was for this filthy Tyran to pay for what he and so many others had done. She swung at him over and over, trying to stab, slash, cut, kill – she didn’t care. It felt good to strike back, to be the one to hold the sword...
“Stop!” Villid bellowed, his arm slipping, Aya’s sword catching his shoulder, drawing blood. “Aya, stop!”
The sound of her name seemed to bring her to