Chương 119: BLOOD AND BIRTH

Torvin did not let the moment breathe. Steel whispered. Jax's head came off clean. For the briefest instant, the expression on his friend's face remained almost thoughtful — lips parted as if another argument still waited to be spoken. Then gravity claimed him. The head struck the stone with a heavy, final thud and rolled across the vault floor, leaving a crescent smear of red in its wake, until it tapped softly against Lyle's boot. The body stood swaying for half a heartbeat.

Blood surged from the severed neck in thick, rhythmic pulses, splashing against crates and pooling darkly beneath the corpse before it collapsed forward into its own spreading warmth. Silence swallowed the vault. Lyle looked down. He smiled. Then he pressed his heel onto Jax's face and applied weight, twiating his foot. Bone cracked softly beneath leather.

"If only you'd been cooperative," Lyle said lightly.

"We might have returned to Nordhelm with our positions restored." He ground the skull against stone with idle satisfaction then kicked it away. Torvin lowered his blade. His gaze drifted to the body — to the widening pool beneath it, thick and metallic in scent.

"The bastard deserved it," he muttered."Why would you remain loyal to a woman who is already dead?" The words felt like splinters in his mouth. He turned to the men.

"The dreamfield Jax was maintaining would have collapsed by now," he said briskly.

"Prepare to move." There was no argument. Grey robes were pulled over shoulders. Hoods drawn up. Weapons reclaimed — swords etched with faded sigils, hooked spears, brutal axes meant less for elegance and more for finality. They moved with the quiet efficiency of men long accustomed to violence. Torvin pivoted toward the stairwell— —and caught something strange from the corner of his eye. Jax's body twitched. Not a spasm. A distortion. For a fraction of a second, it seemed to flicker, like a damaged reflection.

Torvin's head snapped back. The corpse lay still. Headless. Blood continuing its patient spread. Normal. Two men edged closer to dispose of the body.

"Leave it," Torvin snapped. They withdrew immediately. Clad now in uniform grey, the Dishonored began ascending the narrow stone staircase that led from the hidden vault to the jewelry shop above. They had reached the midpoint— —when the door at the top creaked open. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Cold night air spilled downward. A silhouette filled the doorway. Broad shoulders. Still stance. An axe resting against one side.

Torvin narrowed his eyes.

"Who's there?" The man's voice descended calmly.

"Oh. So that's where you were hiding all this time." He shifted slightly, scratching his beard absentmindedly.

"I really shouldn't have turned off my surveillance whenever someone entered a building." Torvin nodded once toward one of his men. The man drew his sword and charged up the remaining steps with a roar. Steel flashed. And in the blink of an eye, his head separated from his shoulders. It rolled down the stairs, striking men in its descent. His body followed. Torvin stiffened despite the feeling of deja vu. Recognition dawned. Roric Thorne. Roric stepped down one stair.

The temperature in the stairwell seemed to drop. The Dishonored reacted instantly — pouncing together in coordinated fury. Roric's foot slammed into the stone. The staircase shattered. Stone exploded outward in a violent collapse. Men screamed as the structure gave way beneath them. They tumbled backward into the vault below, crashing against crates and each other in a rain of rubble. Outside the shop, artifacts flared faintly — positioned at the four corners a few feet from the building.

They formed a barrier that muffled sound and would absorbed the shockwaves to spare the surrounding buildings from destruction. They were mostly used when hunting highly evolved beasts so Roric thought to borrow them in his hunt. Below, Lyle, still beside Jax's corpse, barely had time to curse before the ceiling above him fractured and several of his men slammed into the vault floor in a heap. Dust filled the air. Stone fragments clattered to rest.

Roric descended through the wreckage with controlled steps, boots landing solidly on the vault floor. He took a moment to study his surroundings. The vault was large — thirty paces long, perhaps twenty wide, with a high arched ceiling supported by thick stone pillars. Enough room to maneuver. Enough room to run. Enough room to kill. Roric removed a gilded Nulbrand collar from within his coat. He snapped it open.

Silver bonds of restrained light shot outward like hunting serpents, wrapping around the Dishonored one by one. The collar's glow dulled immediately as it equalized. It would suppress saints from fully using their power and limiting whatever damage may ensure to this city lock at least. Of course, Roric limited himself as well. Down here they were all equal, they would not fight like Saints. They would fight like men and be slaughtered accordingly. Lyle rolled behind a crate, cursing.

"Kill him!" he shouted. They moved as one. Even restrained, they were strong. Too strong for ordinary men. A spear lunged from the left while a blade slashed from the right. Another came low, aiming for Roric's knee. He parried high, twisted his torso to let the low strike glance off his greave, and drove his elbow into a man's face hard enough to collapse bone inward. Another Dishonored channeled a flicker of diminished flame into his blade, swinging for Roric's ribs. Roric caught the wrist.

The flame sputtered uselessly under the collar's suppression. He stepped in close and drove the edge of his axe upward beneath the man's jaw. Steel entered through the soft palate. Exited through the skull. The body spasmed before falling. Three more came at once — one from behind, two from the front. They moved like a single organism, covering blind spots, rotating strikes with disciplined coordination. Roric blocked one sword but a second blade scored across his shoulder. Pain flared. He did not slow.

He pivoted and brought his axe down into a man's collarbone with crushing force. Bone split. The blade lodged deep. Roric kicked the dying man free and wrenched his weapon loose in one brutal motion, tearing flesh and tendon. Another Dishonored attempted to grapple him from behind. Roric let it happen. He dropped his weight suddenly, throwing the man over his shoulder and into a pillar hard enough to crack both stone and spine. The man slid down, leaving a dark smear. They pressed him again.

Even diminished, they were relentless. A coordinated shove nearly forced him back against the wall. Roric exhaled sharply and surged forward instead. He seized one attacker by the throat and slammed him face-first into the floor. Once. Twice. On the third impact, the skull fractured like brittle pottery. The body went slack. He rose, breathing heavier now. Two more men circled warily. Roric stepped forward without hesitation.

He caught one's blade between his axe haft and forearm, twisted sharply to disarm him, then drove the butt of his axe into the man's sternum. Ribs collapsed inward audibly. Before the man could fall, Roric reversed the weapon and brought the blade down through his clavicle and deep into the chest cavity, splitting heart and lung. The last of the immediate attackers lunged in desperation. Roric sidestepped, hooked his foot behind the man's ankle, and slammed him backward. The axe descended once. Clean. Final.

Across the vault, Lyle watched from behind his crate, breathing hard, eyes calculating. Roric turned slowly. Dust hung in the air. Blood pooled across the stone. Several Dishonored still stood. But fewer now. Much fewer. The difference between him and them was hat they were trying to do away with a person. He was not treating them like people. He was hunting them like animals. Far across the city— Elara awoke with a scream. Her body arched violently in the bed. Her hands flew to her stomach.

Pain tore through her in waves.

"Aunt!" Aina rushed in, servants close behind.

"Auntie, what's wrong?" Elara could not answer. Her fingers clenched into the sheets. Aina stepped closer— —and froze. The sheets were soaked. Dark. Wet. Bloodstained. Her breath hitched.

"Get Miss Gable!" Aina shouted immediately.

"Now!" Servants scattered. Elara gasped as another contraction seized her, body trembling, eyes wide with fear and something else— Something urgent. Something arriving. Her water had broken.