Chương 156: The Weight Of A Feather

Arvid felt his head throb; his preened feathers were chalked with dust and blood. Today was supposed to be his day, the day when he broke his family business out of the confines of his country and into the broader world. He slumped against a wall, dirtying his well-put outfit; his damaged hearing functioned just enough to hear his fellow survivors weep, whine, and pray to their gods.

'This was supposed to be my day…' Gazing up, he peered past the plume of dust with his Aarakocran eyes to the starry display. His wing was torn; he didn't want to believe it, but he felt it — he would never fly again; the damage was substantial. Sitting in a daze, he fantasized about being home once more — fantasized about finding a lover with beautiful feathers and settling down to live a calm life, one with little chicks running around, one without greed or pushing out of his comforts for work ever again.

A slow, peaceful existence — one that moved along with his pace instead of dragging him along painfully. A life with no more struggles… just peace. Arvid felt his ear pop. A slow drip of blood began dripping down his side, fouling his opalescent and emerald-green feather. He looked over to other bawling survivors, recognizing none of them as royalty, just forgotten low-end nobles and merchants like him who were unfortunate enough to receive an invitation to this event.

'This was supposed to be my breakthrough, the day where I made the connections to propel my family business to the next stage.' Slowly standing up, Arvid gazed around in a stupefied state. As an Aarakocra, he was born with incredible eyes, perfect vision, rivaling even weaker Dreamers. A boon that was necessary when one took flight, and an old adaptation that other humanoids could only wish for. Arvid's eyes parsed through shapes in the veil.

'Corpses, a few survivors… and a—' His eyes lit up; he saw the outline of someone wielding a blade. The only people that he knew of who were permitted to wield weaponry were guards; he pointed off into the distance while looking at the nearby survivors with a beaked grin and shouted.

"Look! A guard has come to save us!" Survivors quickly snapped out of their desperate, somber states. Some people cheered, while others prayed in joy; a miracle had truly happened; their prayers were heard, their gods had listened to their desperate pleas, and finally they were going to be saved. One of the survivors, an older woman, shoved her injured daughter as well as her husband to the side and ran over to the guard with an ear-to-ear grin.

Arvid was no mental affinity Dreamer, but he could simply hear her thoughts by reading what was splayed across her face — though her thoughts and his were fairly similar.

'Finally! I can go home!' He was happy, joyful even; if not for the fact that his wings didn't work in the moment, he would leap into the sky and dance around, but like many things — joy came to an end abruptly. Arvid's face twisted from joy to horror as he was the first to see the weapon-wielding silhouette slash their sword through the old woman's neck. Breathlessly, he stood up to fall over again; he cried out.

"R-Run!" If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. The sole assailant swung their blade around gracelessly, as it bit into the backs and sides of fleeing partygoers. Cries, screams, and wails all blended into an incoherent choir. The event had long since descended into chaos. Arvid tried to crawl away; his injuries were dire; every moment felt like the edge. He watched in terror, dreading the moment the mundane assailant's poor sword technique turned to him.

The fleeing event-goers stood no chance. All it took was a single strike — and one by one, the escaping attendees either faded into the veil of dust or felt the bite of cold steel. Arvid was left alone… abandoned by his fellow survivors. The assailant turned to him and delivered a shallow cut to his back. He wailed, cried, pleaded, and prayed in vain as the attacker slowly stabbed and cut at him.

Finally, he looked at the sole assailant's sword dangled right above his neck; It pressed against his neck enough to pierce through the layer of feathers and tense the skin underneath — drawing a thin stream of blood from it. Arvid pleaded, and pleaded again and again; logic and reason had long been lost during the present massacre. With a graceless movement, the assailant loosened their grip, allowing the blade's own weight to seep further into Arvid's neck, slowly widening the wound.

Tears welled up, regrets formed, anger boiled, sadness spawned; he cursed his weakness, and finally his eyes fixated on something behind the assailant with a knowing, content look. His post-mortem was a sickening sight — blood began to rush out of his mouth with a pathetic, reactionary gargle and bubbled out of his neck with a tepidly viscous flow.

The assailant laughed, not in a deranged manner, but normally; if not for the low visibility and the surrounding carnage, the man would have seemed like an everyday person, one who no one would ever see as a killer. However, to his misfortune, his deed had been done and his time had come; June stood behind him, with glowing golden eyes peering through the opaque veil of dust. The assailant didn't have time to recount his life as June grabbed the side of the perpetrator's head and wrenched it violently.

The man's head nearly rotated 180 degrees before plopping over onto Arvid's corpse. June dragged his forearm across his brow to wipe off a bead of sweat; he looked at his fallen enemy, then at Arvid's dead body and frowned. He cursed his choices and cursed his luck for putting him in a situation where he had to kill once more. He winced and shut his eyes.

'I hope getting your neck snapped is painless… maybe I should have interrogated him first, though...' Leaning over, June gingerly reached down to grab the attacker's caked blade. He dragged his hand along the weapon to get a feel for its dimensions, then swiped his finger along the tip, tracing it down the sharp end of his acquired weapon. Looking at his finger, a jagged cut was left. The blade was dulled, though the fact that it was caked with blood may have played a large role in its current debased state.

'It'll do for now' He flourished the blade to shake off any loose blood, but to his luck, the weapon had been improperly taken care of before the attack had begun.

'Ann would kill someone for mistreating their weapon…' The weapon's hilt had a give to it; the blade was chipped and improperly cleaned, let alone sharpened. While June wasn't a professional in weapon care, Ann, Silvester, and Eren had taught him a little about maintaining tools of their trade. With a gruff sigh, he looked at Arvid's corpse once more and gave it a resigned look, then shook his head. He still had to find Lilia… and so he walked off into the veil dust, not looking back.