Chương 88: Wrath

The first thing the scythe said to Zayn was: — At last. Not a voice in the air. Not a voice in his head either. Something between the two. A whisper lodged in the marrow, in the burned skin of his left forearm, in the empty space where his heart should have understood that he had just lost too much to keep beating normally. Zayn was still on the ground. The earth beneath his fingers was wet. His shoulder was pierced by a white arrow. His back was bleeding where his failed wings had torn away in black shreds.

The ravine before him had swallowed Narek. The camp behind him was burning. And in his left forearm, the mark of Wrath was still opening. A black tattoo, deep and uneven, like charred chains wrapped beneath the skin. Every line looked as if it had been carved in with a blade heated to white-hot. Every beat of his blood widened it a little more. [Fall recognized.] [WRATH.] The shadow between his fingers stretched. Long. Curved. Too thin at first. Then the shape gained weight. A black shaft, smooth as burned bone.

A huge curved blade that reflected none of the firelight. On the contrary, it seemed to stain it. The edge was uneven. It trembled slightly, like a mouth still hesitating over the best way to smile. A scythe. No. Not just a scythe. A thing that had agreed to become a weapon because a weapon has the right to be carried to the throats of the living. — Up, it said. Zayn did not move. He was still staring at the ravine. The place where Narek had vanished. His gray ears. His stupid smile.

His fever-hot hand around his wrist. His voice saying: Promise? The scythe sighed. An almost human sound. Almost disgusted. — Don't do that. Zayn's hand trembled around the shaft. — What? His own voice was dead. — Stare into the void as if it might give something back to you. The scythe laughed softly. — Voids give nothing back. They only learn where to cut. Zayn closed his eyes. For one second, he saw the Mist-Fangs' fire before the attack. Narek pushing a piece of meat toward him.

Brakka grumbling that his bandages were badly tied. Saeva smiling as if she already regretted being capable of smiling. Odran, silent. Korr, at the edge of the fire, listening like an ancient tree. Then the third spear going through Brakka's throat. Then Narek falling. The world turned white. Not with light. With hatred. Zayn stood up. The arrow lodged in his shoulder shifted. The filaments were still searching for his throat. He grabbed the shaft. Pulled. His flesh came with it. He pulled harder.

The arrow came free with a piece of him. The filaments writhed, pale and alive, trying to cling to his skin. The scythe spoke. — Filthy. Zayn tightened his grip on the shaft. — Yes. — Cut. He cut. The blade passed through the air without resistance. The filaments were severed. Not torn. Not ripped away. Cut. And for one second, something in the world seemed to understand that this weapon had not been made to wound. It had been made to end. Zayn watched the filaments fall into the mud.

Then he turned his head toward the forest. The demon was gone. But things remained. Masked creatures between the trees. Elven corpses still guided by black threads. Hollowed beastmen bodies used as banners. Assailants now retreating because their theater had burned enough. They had accomplished their mission. They wanted to flee. The scythe chuckled. — Look at them. They think the scene is over. Zayn walked forward. One step. Then another. The children he had saved were behind him, curled up in the mud.

One was crying. The other had stopped making any sound. He did not look at them. That was perhaps his first true fall. Not the moment he had eaten in Rhel-Fosse. Not the moment he had lied to the beastmen. Not even the moment Wrath had answered. It was this. Not looking at the living because the dead weighed more. A masked creature raised its bow. Zayn almost vanished. Not fast like Saeva. Not powerful like Korr. Not precise like Odran. He moved like a fracture that had finally found the direction in which to open.

The arrow flew. The scythe cut it out of the air. The creature recoiled. Zayn arrived in front of it. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. The blade traced a black arc. The masked head fell. [Soul strength absorbed: +0] The scythe hissed. — Hollow. Bad meal. Zayn said nothing. A second creature tried to flee toward the trees. He threw the scythe on instinct. Impossible. A scythe was not a spear.

But the weapon left his hands and spun through the air as if it had been waiting for that mistake to prove it could be worse. It pierced the creature's leg. Came back. The shaft struck Zayn's palm with a sharp crack. — Again, it murmured. He obeyed. The second cut opened its back. The third cut its throat. Nothing. No gain. No warmth. No reward. Only mud, flames, the void, and that weapon laughing low every time a body understood too late that it had not been real enough to survive his hatred.

Then a beastman warrior burst from the trees. Not one of the Mist-Fangs. Not Red-Fang either. A wolf-man with black fur, eyes veiled in white, filaments sunk into his shoulders. Alive or dead, Zayn could not tell. He still carried his aura. Weak. Warped. Like a flame caught in someone else's hand. The warrior charged. The martial pressure struck Zayn. His body wanted to recoil. His instinct wanted to survive. His Gluttony wanted to take. His Wrath wanted to cut. The scythe vibrated in his hand.

— That one still has breath. The warrior struck. Zayn blocked with the shaft. The impact threw him against a tree trunk. His ribs cracked. The warrior came again. Zayn felt the mark on his tongue burn at the same time as the one on his forearm. Gluttony. Wrath. Two different hungers. Not yet allied. Not yet mastered. The scythe whispered: — Eat him. Zayn looked up. — What? — You want their breath, don't you? The voice grew softer. More poisonous. — They gave you a fire. They gave you a name.

They gave you a brother. Then they died. But this one still has something to take. The warrior attacked. Zayn dodged badly. The enemy blade opened his side. He dropped to one knee, then lunged inside the guard. His teeth sank into the warrior's forearm. Beastman flesh. Hot blood. Warped aura. The mark on his tongue opened like a maw. The taste was violent. Not like demonic flesh. Not like the possessed bird-man. This was more alive. Denser. More loaded with instinct, breath, muscular memory. Zayn tore off a piece.

Swallowing was a choice. He made it. The scythe trembled. Around its blade, black smoke formed. Not true aura. Not the breath of the Mist-Fangs. Not that clear projection of body, instinct, and will. A filthy imitation. A pressure born from stolen breath, crushed by Gluttony, inflamed by Wrath, then channeled into the blade. The warrior recoiled. For the first time, fear appeared in his veiled eyes. The scythe laughed. — You see? You cannot become them. The black smoke thickened around the edge.

— But you can defile what they were. Zayn struck. The blade met the warrior's aura. The aura resisted. One second. Then it split. Not because Zayn understood it. Because the scythe hated it. The warrior fell in two pieces. This time, the system answered. [Soul strength absorbed: +2] [Envy efficiency reduced due to density gap.] Current soul strength: 62 Warmth entered Zayn's collarbone, where Envy slept like a mark that was never satisfied. Two points. For a warrior who would have terrified a human soldier.

The scythe sneered. — Even the dead already find you too expensive. Zayn pressed a hand to his collarbone. He could feel it. The Fall of Envy was absorbing less. The higher his own soul strength rose, the less the small souls filled the void. The world was still telling him the same thing: you will not become king by gathering crumbs. Fine. He was not gathering anything. He was setting the table on fire. Zayn went back toward the camp. Every step left blood behind. Not only his.

The wings he had ripped from the flesh of the possessed bird-man were now nothing but two lines of pain in his back. Fragments of black membrane still hung beneath his shoulder blades, slowly retracting into his flesh like ashamed beasts. He could still feel their structure. Hollow bones. Tendons. Beating. Refusal to fall. He could call them again. Maybe. Not now. Now, he did not need the sky. He needed the ruins. The Mist-Fangs were no longer screaming. That was what stopped him at the entrance to the camp.

The silence. The camp had burned too fast, then gone out badly. Huts were still smoking. The hanging hides were nothing but black shreds. The north palisade had collapsed. The central fire was scattered into the mud. Zayn entered. The scythe slid in his hand as if it already knew the way. — Look carefully, it whispered. Do not let anything become blurred. He saw Brakka. She was near the healer's hut. On her knees. Even dead, she looked as though she refused to fall all the way.

One hand was clenched around a broken white spear. The other was braced in front of her, as if she had still been trying to block someone's path. Zayn stopped in front of her. For one second, he waited. An insult. An order. A slap to the back of the head. A sentence about his poorly tied bandages. Nothing. The scythe murmured: — She was heavy. She fell well. Zayn struck the blade against the ground. — Shut up. The scythe laughed. — There. Keep that voice. He moved on. Odran was farther away, near the palisade.

He had killed many enemies. You could see it in the ring of bodies around him. Masked creatures. Two manipulated elven corpses. One possessed beastman with his head torn off. Odran was sitting against a tree, hatchet still in his hands, chest pierced by three white arrows. His mouth was open. As if he had finally found something to say. But no one had remained to hear it. Zayn kept walking. Saeva was not in the camp. He found only her spear. Stuck in the ground near the escape path. Broken in two.

Feline blood on the shaft. No body. The scythe whispered: — Maybe alive. Zayn stopped. The world held its breath. Then the scythe added, softly: — Maybe not. He walked again. At the center, Korr had fallen. Not on his back. Not defeated like that. On his knees, both hands still clenched around his hatchet, head bowed, like a chief refusing to lie down as long as a single enemy could still believe the camp was open. In front of him, five manipulated elven corpses had been cut to pieces.

Behind him, three children lay dead beneath the hide he had clearly tried to shield with his own body. Zayn looked at Korr. The chief who had let him live. The chief who had called him debt. The chief who had given him a place harsh enough to be real. The chief who had not shouted save yourself, but whose eyes had said: keep what remains. Zayn opened his mouth. No word came out. The scythe was silent too. For one second. Only one. Then it said: — They kept what they could. What do you keep?

Zayn looked at the children. Then the fire. Then the open cage. It was still there. Blackened. Empty. One of the posts had burned halfway through. The rope Narek had thrown aside lay in the mud. Zayn approached. Picked it up. It was wet, filthy, intact in places. Narek had thrown that rope away. Narek had said: If you want to stay, stay. Then he had fallen into the ravine. Zayn clenched the rope so hard his fingers bled. The scythe drew close to his ear without moving. — The white woods take everything.

Zayn closed his eyes. He knew. Somewhere very far behind the rage, he knew the evidence was too beautiful, too cruel, too directed. He knew a severed hand did not walk by itself. He knew a message could be fabricated. He knew an elven corpse could be used. He knew the man in the white cloak had smiled like someone waiting for his anger. He knew. But knowing did not bring Narek back. Knowing did not raise Brakka. Knowing did not give the fire its voice back. Knowing did not fill the empty cage.

So Zayn opened his eyes. And chose something other than knowing. — The elves, he murmured. The scythe vibrated with pleasure. — Maybe. Zayn tightened his grip on the shaft. — They'll know. — Good. — If they did this, I'll burn them. — Good. — If they didn't… He looked at Korr. Brakka. Odran. Saeva's spear. Narek's rope. — Then I'll open them until I find who used their dead. The scythe laughed. This time, the sound was almost happy. — Even better. The survivors arrived at dusk. Not Mist-Fangs.

Beastmen from neighboring clans, drawn by the smoke, by the screams that had stopped, by the white signs left deliberately at the edge of the trees. Varok was among them. Wounded. Alive. His face emptied when he saw the camp. Mara-Kharn arrived as well, carrying an unconscious child who was not of the clan. She stopped when she saw Brakka. Her eyes closed. Just for a second. Then they opened again, harder. A Red-Fang warrior pointed at Zayn. — It's him. Zayn slowly turned his head.

The warrior took a step back when he saw the scythe. — Wherever he walks, clans burn, the man went on, louder now, for the others to hear. We should have handed him over. We should have— The scythe murmured: — Cut. Zayn did not move. Not yet. The warrior continued: — The Mist-Fangs died for keeping a human taint! Varok said: — Be quiet. But too late. The word taint had struck something. Zayn stepped forward. Mara-Kharn placed herself in his path. — Human. He looked at her. — Move. She felt what he had become.

Not only the scythe. Not only the hatred. The emptiness behind it. — They are survivors, she said. Zayn looked at the warrior who had accused him. — No. The scythe rose. — They are mouths. Mara-Kharn lifted her hammer. — Don't do this. Zayn smiled. Not like before. Not with sarcasm. Without humor. — I listened to the living. They died anyway. He passed her. Mara-Kharn struck. He blocked with the scythe. The impact sent him to one knee, but dark smoke coiled around the black blade. Not true aura.

An imitation of stolen breath. Filthy. Unstable. Enough to make the hammer tremble. Mara-Kharn's eyes widened. — What is that— Zayn pivoted and did not kill her. Not out of mercy. Because she was not the word that had just struck him. He slipped under her arm and came in front of the Red-Fang warrior. The man tried to raise his axe. Too slow. The scythe cut. Once. [Soul strength absorbed: +1] [Envy efficiency reduced.] Current soul strength: 63 The body fell. The circle exploded. Varok shouted.

Two warriors attacked Zayn. The scythe laughed. This was not a fight. It was a mistake calling for others. Zayn killed the first. Wounded the second. Cut the leg off a third who had only drawn his weapon too quickly. Mara-Kharn finally struck him full force. He flew through a burned hut and fell into the ash. For one second, the scythe vanished. The hatred wavered under the impact. Then Zayn heard the words again: Wherever he walks, clans burn. The scythe reappeared in his hand. More solid. — Yes, it murmured.

Let them learn. Zayn stood up. Varok stepped in front of him, covered in blood, eyes full of rage and fear. — Stop! Zayn looked at him. Varok. The one who had accused him. The one who had seen the evidence. The one who had eventually doubted. The one who was still alive while Narek was not. Zayn could have killed him. The scythe wanted him to. He felt it. Like a hunger in his hand. But behind Varok, a child was crying. A child Mara-Kharn was holding against her. A survivor. Zayn looked at the child.

Then the open cage. Then the rope. Then he turned his back. — Leave. Varok trembled. — What? — Leave before I change my mind. Mara-Kharn stared at him. — Where will you go? Zayn picked his split half-mask out of the mud and put it back on his face. His mouth remained visible. The mark on his tongue burned when he answered: — Where the evidence points. Varok spat blood. — The elves? Zayn did not answer. He did not need to. He left the ruins of the Mist-Fangs before full nightfall. Alone.

With a scythe that existed only because he hated enough to carry it. With a black mark coiled around his forearm. With a collarbone that stole crumbs of soul and already wanted more. With a tongue that remembered wings. And behind him, the survivors watched the demonic human vanish into the trees. No one tried to follow him. Not that night. That night, the beastman continent lost a clan. The following month, it would learn that some fires do not stop at palisades.