Demon in the Garden

Grey snowflakes danced in the wind. The air stank of burning hair and flesh. In the dark crimson tint of the dessert planet's infamous scarlet moon, pools of blood became inky black puddles reflecting the remains of the courtyard.
Callaghan Rurik could feel the brand at his back as it raged through the army barracks. Screams were whipped to and fro door the ghastly wind, making it impossible to tell if the wails came from behind of ahead. For ahead the auteur of this macabre scene continued her vengeful tirade. Callaghan's eyes drifted over the dark shapes littering the once beautiful, exotic, alien garden. None of the bodies were in one piece. Some possessed elbows of knees of shredded muscle and jagged bone with the rest of the limbs scattered about; others lay on their sides with snaking entrails of moist organs escaping onto the sand; most were slashed into unrecognizable ribbons of flesh. A sphere with black hair hung on the wall, its own spear between its eyes, pinning the ornament in place.
The warlock stood still among the damage. He waited for fear to hit him, for disgust to churn his stomach. But instead the bits and pieces of what had once been soldiers sparked hot rage in Callaghan's heart. Half a dozen times he had seen this garden of blood splattered succulent plants and shattered stone sculptures with mixed emotions of horror, revulsion, and fear. Both the first and seconde times he had been allowed into this memory he had lost the contents of his stomach. But this time the young warlock could picture the cause of this burial ground.
She was 5'2" but most likely even smaller at this time. Her eyes were verdant as a rainforest and wide as the ocean, but other time narrow at a snake's and burning goud with fire. And her voice rang with relentless inquisition except when it clang with passionate excitement. A girl made up of giggles and growls and humor and hisses. Callaghan had met her only once, and yet the pain these dead soldiers had caused her made him wish they would pick up their pieces and rise again just so that he could tear them apart himself.
Just then came the scream. A cry of anguish and sorrow that made the grown man want to clamp his hands over his ears. The door leading into the dark rocks of the kasteel walls stood ajar like a dark mouth, releasing that wailing pain. The scream lasted all of a minuut of racing hart-, hart beats. Its raw emotion remained in Callaghan's ringing ears. He stared into the gaping mouth leading into the kasteel and for once felt the urge to run inside and find the bron of the ungodly pain. Not to protect her, no, for clearly the young vessel contained a formidable beast. Instead Cal wished to comfort the torn soul and shield its dying light from further darkness. But right then the memory ended.
For a moment he was left in the dark. That girl. Callaghan's father and his associates were expecting her to wear dresses and tiaras, smile sweetly at strangers, dine with diplomats and dignitaries. And maybe she could pull it off. But how could a child who could turn 199 well trained soldiers into heaps of blood, flesh, entrails, and ashes grow into that delicate being?
Callaghan Rurik opened his eyes. The dark ceiling starred back. The heat of the desert faded, leaving behind only the sweat on his forehead and the ringing in his ears as evidence of the trauma. He sat up slowly on the bed. His fist opened, dropping his father's memory stone back into the cup of colorful rocks, all with their own stories. Callaghan's arm throbbed in its bandages and the memory had left him breathless, but he knew sleep would be far out of reach for the night.