My vision swims first in flickers, then in great, rolling waves. Each step forward is agony, but I force myself toward her, the thing that once had a human name, Aafje. I sneer, my teeth bared, watching her writhe in the prison of my illusions, her mind trapped in eternity's nothingness, her spirit screaming in the endless void I made for her.
But my luck has run out. The pain in my side is a burning brand; blood soaks my shirt, sticky and hot, too much for any human body to lose. I stumble, my sword heavy in my hand, and nearly fall. Desperation claws at me, so I grab the hilt, using it as a crutch to keep myself upright.
That hesitation, that moment of weakness, is all it takes. I see it in her eyes—the flicker, the focus, the light flooding back with murderous intensity. A gasp escapes me as she shakes off the last of my illusion, her black eyes burning into mine.
Her hair moves around her head like a crown of writhing snakes, alive with malice and hunger. She stands tall, regal, her skin pale as fresh snow, blood still drying on her claws. She smiles, teeth too sharp. Her voice is smooth, triumphant, every word slithering into my ears.
"Heu, puer, paene perfecisti. Primus es, qui ad me occidendam mille annis accessisti. Sed iam artem tuam novi; iterum non fiet."
["Wow, boy, you almost did it. You are the first human to get close enough to kill me in a thousand years. But now I know your trick. It won't happen again."]
She licks her lips, eyes lingering on me like a wolf sizing up a wounded deer.
"Potuisses multo amplius fieri."
["You could be so much more."]
My heart hammers, my blood pounding in my ears. I can barely hear the frantic sounds behind from the rest. I know they can't help me. No one can. I'm alone with the monster and once its done with me it'll move on to them, and I can feel death's cold breath on my neck.
She leans in, her face inches from mine. Her smile widens fangs glistening with blood.
"Dabo tibi donum, parvule mortalis."
["I'll leave you a gift, little mortal."]
Then her fist plunges into my open wound. The agony is blinding, a white-hot explosion that rips a scream from my throat. But it's worse than that its not just physical pain. I feel her inside me, not just in the wound, but deep, deeper than any pain I've ever known. She's touching my soul orb, the black sphere I saw before, the very core of who I am.
And she strikes it.
Once.
Twice.
Three, four, five each blow is a thunderclap of torment, each one reverberates through every part of me. I scream, sobbing, my body convulsing, tears streaming down my face. The pain isn't just physical it's annihilating, a violation of my very existence. I feel cracks spiderwebbing across my soul, hear the sound of breaking glass echo inside my skull.
Six, seven, eight, nine she doesn't stop she just laughs.
Ten, twenty, fifty my vision has all but gone.
Seventy, eighty, ninety my screams are hoarse, my throat raw, a soundless howl of agony.
One hundred.
I see it: the crack, jagged and deep, running straight through the heart of my soul orb. Beyond the crack is the void eternal, hungry, absolute.
She pulls her hand away, blood and shadow dripping from her claws, her smile cruel and satisfied.
"Cresce in unum nostrum, puer. Certe simul ludere possimus."
["Grow into one of us, boy. I'm sure we could have fun together."]
I'm barely conscious. I'm on my back, my hands clutching at my side, at my chest, as if I can hold myself together by sheer will. The pain is too much, it's everything, radiating from the wound and the crack in my soul.
She turns her gaze to the others, the last survivors of House Apophis. They're huddled together, wide-eyed, broken. She bows to them, mocking, her voice a venomous purr.
"Utinam videre possem quid vobis facturus sit."
["I wish I could see what he does to all of you."]
With that, the woods vanish. The burning trees, the blood-soaked moss we are dumped, shivering, back into the real world, the cold winter snow biting at our knees and faces. The sky is pale and empty. The world is silent but for my ragged, gasping breaths and the soft weeping of survivors.
The others stumble toward me. Zaria reaches me first, her hands shaking as she kneels in the snow. Lucian is close behind, his face drawn and pale. Rye stands over me, her eyes shining with tears.
"Ayato," Zaria whispers, voice trembling. "Ayato, can you hear me?"
I want to answer, but all I can manage is a groan. I try to sit up, but the world spins and I sink back, clutching at my side. The wound is still bleeding, hot and cold all at once, and the pain in my soul is a constant, throbbing ache.
Zaria brushes snow from my face, her eyes hard and furious. "What did she do to you?"
I shake my head, unable to find the words. How do you explain that your soul is broken? That the thing inside you is loose, and you don't know if you can keep it in check?
"She… she touched my soul," I manage, my voice barely a whisper. "There's a crack. I can feel it."
Rye bites her lip, her hands curled into fists. "We have to get help. The proctors someone"
But I know, even as she says it, that there is no help for this. No proctor, no mark can heal what's been done. I can feel the void pressing at the edges of the crack, like cold fingers prying me apart. She has cursed me.
Lucian stumbles to my side, his usual mask of cold indifference shattered, replaced by something panicked and fearful. He kneels in the snow, eyes wide, and looks at me like he's seeing a ghost. "What do you mean she touched your soul?" His voice is high pitched, almost desperate, as if the words themselves might anchor me to this world.
My lips are numb, teeth chattering. Everything aches. My vision is a tunnel, the edges swimming with white and red. I try to focus, try to make the words make sense. "My… soul orb," I mumble, the words thick and wet. "She struck it. Over and over. Injected her corruption into it." I cough, a spray of blood flecking the snow. "It's cracked. I can feel it."
Lucian's eyes go wide, horror etched into his face. He glances at the others Zaria, Rye, Niko, Imara, the handful who survived. There's confusion and fear in their eyes, but mostly, there's grief.
Lucian turns back to me, his gloved hand gripping my shoulder. "Listen, man, I don't know what you're talking about, but I'm going to try and heal you. But I need your permission."
Blood seeps through my fingers, sticky and hot, pooling beneath me. I can't stop shivering, can barely keep my eyes open. My body is giving out. I'm dying.
Lucian's voice is steadier than his eyes. "My mark lets me heal others, but it comes at a cost. We'd both be marked joined. I could never hurt you, and you could never hurt me. It'll let me use my blood to heal you, and… we'll be able to communicate, like, telepathically. I'll always know where you are and you me."
I try to laugh at the absurdity, but it comes out as a wet, ragged cough. I spit blood, staining the snow even redder. "You're basically a fucking vampire, then?" I rasp, the corner of my mouth twitching with a ghost of a smile.
Lucian shrugs, lips pressed into a thin line. "Yeah, kinda. Do you consent? Once I mark you, it can't be undone. We'll be joined together until one of us dies."
The pain is so much I want to cry. My body's shaking, breath coming in short, shallow pants. Maybe I'm already halfway gone. "Sure, man," I whisper, the words barely more than a sigh. "Go for it. It's better than dying here."
He doesn't hesitate. Lucian pulls a knife from his boot, the metal flashing dull in the gray morning light. He drags the blade across his own wrist, deep and sure, and holds it out to me, his voice all command now. "Drink."
For a second I hesitate some animal part of me recoiling from the intimacy, from the strangeness, from the unknown magic. But I'm dying, and I know it. So I press my lips to his wrist and drink.
His blood is hot, metallic and gross. It floods my mouth, slides down my throat, and my vision explodes with red. I gasp, my whole body arching, the pain in my wound flaring, then dimming. Everything is too bright, too loud. Then I feel Lucian's mind brush against mine hesitant, but insistent, a presence at the edge of thought like a door slowly creaking open.
Don't fight it, he whispers not aloud, but inside my head. The words echo, clear and urgent. Let me in, Ayato. Let it happen you are kin now.
For a moment, our thoughts tangle: flashes of memory, pain, hope, grief. I see him and his brothers playing on the green lawns of a sprawling estate, sunlight flickering through budding trees. His father, tall and dark-eyed, scoops him up by the waist, ruffling his hair and laughing. Lucian squeals, twisting away, running in circles, wooden sword in hand, pretending to be an Elite of the old stories brave, invincible, destined. His mother's voice rings out, soft and musical, calling him her little conjurer, pride and love shining in her smile.
The scene flickers, time racing forward. A boar hunt in the woods men with red sashes, horns echoing through the trees. His father falls, trampled and torn, the ground muddy and red. Lucian's heart cracks, and the world grows smaller. He stands in black at the funeral, hand clutching his mother's, his brothers silent and pale. Grief eats at them. Then his mother, brittle with sorrow, vanishes behind her bedroom door and never comes out again. The news comes in whispers she took her own life. Lucian is alone, rage and confusion swirling in his chest, hardening into something cold and distant. He builds walls, thick and high, around his heart, lets no one in. He learns how to survive with ice in his veins.
Then I see him see me.
My parents, hanging from the branches their faces purple. The rope bites into their necks, the crowd jeers. I feel Lucian flinch at the sight, the callous laughter of inquisitors. He sees me in the outskirts, small and angry, fists bloodied from a dozen brawls, dirt-streaked and wild-eyed, learning that mercy is a weakness and trust is a death sentence. He feels the hunger, the cold, the way I sleep with one eye open, always afraid, always alone.
He sees my rampage at Castle Ravenstone the fury, the violence, the bodies left dead in my wake. He feels the heat of my rage, the way the voices urge me towards death and destruction like a reaper. The king's voice echoes, cold and triumphant, declaring me one of his own. Lucian feels my hate and my disdain for the Empire how every hall and marble statue is soaked in the blood of people like me, how the "civilized" world is built on bones and lies.
Then the healing starts. It's not gentle, not soft or gradual. It's a surge—a violent, electric rush that tears through me, blood and tissue reknitting themselves in a feverish dance. I feel the skin along my side crawl, muscle flex and stitch, the wound closing with a grinding, itchy pain that makes me grit my teeth and bite back a scream. The worst of the agony drains away, replaced by a deep, bruised ache. My body is mending, but the ache in my soul remains: splintered, cracked, a wound Lucian can't fix.
My senses return, first in fragments and then all at once. The world comes back into focus around me the hiss of the winter wind, the sound of falling snow, my house mates shallow breathing. My vision clears, the gray sky.
I push myself upright, wincing at the aftershocks of pain, but I can move again. I take a deep, steadying breath, filling my lungs with icy air. I look around at the little knot of survivors, all of them battered, bloodied, but alive. We're huddled in the snow, scattered around the spot where the monster spat us back into the world. Those damn woods gone like they never existed.
Lucian is watching me, his eyes sharp and full of something I haven't seen there before respect. He meets my gaze, and for a moment, there's nothing between us but mutual understanding.
I nod to him, my voice rough but true. "Thank you. For healing me."
He shrugs, a wry smile flickering across his lips. "Of course. You did save our asses by fighting that damn thing one on one least I could do."
Then, I feel his mind brush against mine, the new bond humming. I agree with your assessment of this empire, by the way. It's a rot that should be washed away. The words ring clear and secret in my skull, untouched by the wind or the fear around us.
A real smile breaks across my face a small thing, but genuine. A kindred spirit, after all. I've felt alone for so long. But here, in the aftermath, there's someone who sees the world as I do: broken, corrupt, crying out for change.