Chapter 83: Survive
Terror. There’s no other word for it, no bravado or clever turn of phrase that can mask the truth. I am terrified. The air is thick with the feeling of dread, as real as the blood still dripping from the leaves above our heads. The forest is silent except for the ragged, hitched breathing of the survivors and the muffled sobs of those too shell-shocked to do anything but crumple in on themselves. My own heart hammers so loud I can barely hear anything else.
Elijah is gone, vanished with a shimmer as soon as the first scream tore through the air hiding himself in pure invisibility. I wonder if he plans on bolting. It would be the smart thing to do, and I hesitate to admit that i would not be tempted to run as well.
Around me is carnage, guts of children everywhere, the sickly sweet stench of death. The others are scattered, some pressed together back to back, others on their knees clutching their heads in sheer terror. I scan the survivors, counting, cataloguing: Lucian, pale and focused, lips moving in silent calculation; Zaria, eyes narrowed, expression cold and unreadable; Arya, her hair wild her face covered in blood the roots below her curl at her fingers; Vihaan, jaw clenched, knuckles bone-white on the hilt of his sword; Imara, lips pressed to a silent prayer, muscles tensed and ready. Rye had fire on her palms near Niko. Joon- Ha was crouched near Bragg.
Bragg, the big fool, the one with the mark that could turn the tide of any fight, if only he could use it. He’s covered in blood, face and hair streaked red, his hands trembling so violently they might as well be broken. His eyes are wide, unseeing, his breath coming in short, frantic gasps that sound more like a dying animal than a person. He’s paralyzed a mountain turned into a pile of rubble by fear.
I want to feel pity, but all I can summon is a scalding, bitter anger. The gods, if they even exist, must be laughing at the sight of him. Why would fate or divinity, or whatever rotten force runs this world bless a fucking incompetent fool with a mark as powerful as telekinesis? How many people have to die before the strong are allowed to be strong? I seethe at him in silence, words like poison behind my teeth. Worthless. Weak. The kind of person who gets others killed. All the detriment in this world stems from a lack of individual ability.
The abomination’s voice slides through the trees, oily and cold, its words slithering into my ears from every angle and none at all.
"Unus ex vobis odorem praebet singularem. Quam divinum est sanguinem, quam fortiter in venis vestris currit, quam inebrians est."
[One of you smells interesting. Such strong divine blood, how thickly it runs in your veins, how intoxicating.]
Eww so fucking disgusting the sound of its hunger was evident. Who is it even talking about. Me? I suppose having three marks of power. But what does it mean blood of the divine?
What do you want?" I call out, trying to sound braver than I am. My words ring hollow in the dead air.
The thing laughs, the sound like bones grinding together. "Omnia volo, sed nunc cena diu merita contenta ero. Fatum nostrum fuit congressus!"