DEATH IS ETERNAL #452 by GIC

THE WOMAN WHO RODE THROUGH FIRE and THE SONG OF THE SILENT RIVER

Contents

1. THE WOMAN WHO RODE THROUGH FIRE (genre: erotic thriller)

2. THE SONG OF THE SILENT RIVER (genre: fable)

THE WOMAN WHO RODE THROUGH FIRE

Genre: erotic thriller

Word count: 492

Photo by Martin Sanchez on Unsplash

The war was supposed to be over. But the thunder of rifles still rolled across the lowland, swallowed by fog thick as cream. Somewhere beyond the mangrove and swamp grass, soldiers were still dying for a cause already buried.

Captain Etta Vireaux crouched beneath a cypress, sweat slipping down the hollow of her back. Beneath her grey uniform, the lace of her chemise clung damp to her skin. She reached into her satchel and pulled out a folded scrap of silk — not for warmth. For memory. For her.

Lieutenant Syl Rios.

Skybound Cavalry. Rider of night storms. Sharp-mouthed and sure. They had met once in the ruins of a scorched inn near the Calderon River — both bleeding, both pretending not to care. The kiss they had shared had tasted like whisky, gunmetal and surrender.

Now, the smokehouse loomed ahead, a husk from cannon fire days ago. And there she was — silhouetted in the wreckage, gun slung low, hair loose beneath a battered cap.

“You followed me,” Syl said, voice low and thick.

“You ran,” Etta replied. “Didn’t leave much choice.”

Syl smile was slow and bitter. “Thought we agreed no more ghosts.”

But Etta had never been good at letting go.

She stepped inside, boots silent on scorched wood. Their fingers met first — a brush of soot and longing. Then came mouths. Desperate. Breathless. Syl pulled Etta’s coat free and dragged her into the shadows. Their bodies collided, uniforms falling like lies.

There was no gentleness. Only need.

Syl pressed Etta against the bricks, teeth on her collarbone. Eta gasped, tangled her fingers in dark hair. The heat between them grew — raw, ragged. Etta ground her thigh into Syl’s hip and swallowed the groan.

“Say it,” Syl breathed.

“I wanted you,” Etta whispered. “Since Brightvale.”

And Brightvale had been the beginning of the end.

After, they lay tangles in silence, slick with sweat and soot. Outside, gunfire faded like thunder.

“We don’t get another chance,” Syl said. “Tomorrow, Velshari forces take the marsh.”

Etta nodded, throat tight. “Then let’s leave something behind.”

They kissed like a promise.

At dawn, the Velshari rose from the reeds — grey banners in the mist. Etta led the flank charge, sabre bared, heart splintering. Syl darted north with the last of the Skybound scouts.

She saw her fall — trapped beneath a broken cart, blood at her temple. Their eyes locked. Etta’s breath caught.

Then the cannon roared.

Three days later, the order came for New Viranth: the war was over. Signed. Done.

But Etta still lived — hollowed, burned down to ash.

That night, in a tent reeking of sulphur and memory, she pressed a scrap of silk to her lips — navy blue, torn from Syl’s sash.

Not peace. Not closure.

Just a name. A taste. The ghost of a woman who rode through fire.

And the promise that in another world, beneath calmer skies, they would find each other again — not as enemies.

But as something whole.

The end

THE SONG OF THE SILENT RIVER

Genre: fable

Word count: 1,006

Photo by Boston Public Library on Unsplash