Mlendera has a minion!

Minion the Lovetron 3000

The choosing ceremony was held at dusk, when the sky over the village glowed like a banked ember.
Villagers crowded the square, murmuring with excitement as the elders stepped forward in their ceremonial robes.
They spoke of honor, of destiny, of a “guardian-to-be” who would ensure the village’s safety for generations.
And when they called Mlendera’s name, the crowd erupted in awe.

Her mother reached her first – eyes shining, hands trembling with pride.
She cupped Mlendera’s face as though this moment were a blessing rather than a bewildering shock.
“You were meant for greatness,” she whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I always knew it.”

Mlendera tried to ask exactly what greatness she had been chosen for, but her mother pulled her into a tight embrace, overwhelmed by the honor her daughter had earned.
Villagers pressed in with congratulations, praising Mlendera’s bravery, her honor, her supposed destiny.
The elders extracted her from the crowd with serene smiles, offering no explanations as they ushered her through the temple doors.

The temple swallowed her that night.

What happened within its stone heart was never told.
Only whispers escaped: the low thrum of ancient chants, the hiss of incense, the sculptor’s tools shaping marble and gems.
They say the ritual fire, older than the village itself, was called forth to bind her spirit.

Mlendera felt its heat coil through her veins, felt her breath slow, felt her voice slip away like smoke.
Awareness remained sharp and unblinking, but her body hardened into perfect stillness.

When dawn came, the elders unveiled a marble figure in the courtyard.
Her hands were folded. Her face was serene.
A faint ember‑glow seemed trapped beneath the stone, evidence of a guardian spirit who would one day rise brighter than flame.
The villagers praised her devotion, marveled at her sacrifice, and believed the elders when they said Mlendera had chosen this fate willingly.

No one questioned the sorrow carved into her eyes, not even her own mother.

Years passed. Seasons shifted.
Children grew up learning to bow before her.
Songs were written about her courage.
And beneath the marble, Mlendera listened to every word, unable to protest the lie that had become her legacy.

When word of advancing armed forces reached the village, the elders gathered again.
Their voices trembled as they recited the ancient invocation, hands pressed to the cold stone.
Finally, the prophecy had come due.
Their guardian would awaken.

The marble warmed.
Cracks spread like pale lightning.
A soft, ember‑red glow pulsed from within.
Mlendera drew breath for the first time in decades.
She blinked, flexed her fingers, and watched her marble joints move with impossible fluidity.

The elders greeted her with relief, speaking of enemies approaching, of her sacred duty to protect the village.
She listened without expression, her mind burning with years of quiet memory.

As when Mlendera first entered the temple, the events surrounding her exit were shrouded in mystery.
Some said a great heat rolled through the temple like a silent storm.
Others claimed they saw a brief flare of red light through the windows.
But no one heard a cry, and when Mlendera emerged, the elders were simply… absent.
The temple behind her was still and empty, as though the air itself had swallowed their presence.

She walked into the square alone, her marble form moving with slow, deliberate grace.
A faint glow clung to her stone skin, like embers refusing to die.
Villagers gathered at a distance, unsure whether to kneel or flee.
They had worshipped her. They had sung her name.
But now, seeing her alive and unreadable, they found themselves questioning the stories they had been told.

Mlendera stood at the center of the square, the night pressing close around her.
The distant rumble of war echoed on the horizon.
She had a choice to make.

She could defend them.
She could abandon them.
She could let the prophecy burn itself out without her.

The villagers watched, breath held, as Mlendera remained perfectly still, like a flame deciding whether to warm or consume.

Profile and story by Calypso
Background pattern from Colourlovers
Image is of “Sleeping Beauty,” sculpted by Louis Sussmann-Hellborn
Photographer unknown