Chương 87: The Night in Flames

The elf sold the dead before he understood he had just sold the living. His name was Elvarin Soreth. An elementalist researcher of the fourth circle of Sylvarune's laboratories. Too poor for the great patrons. Too brilliant to give up. Too proud to admit that no elven council would ever fund his work on the residual memory of spirit contracts. So when an offer came from a foreign mouth, he listened. Not at once. At first, he still had morals. Tired morals, yes. Indebted morals.

Morals that counted every mana crystal left on his table and every letter of refusal sent by the noble houses. But morals nonetheless. The offer was simple. Bodies. Not the living. Not children. Not nobles. Only the bodies of elves who had died far from the great bloodlines. Convicts. Victims with no family. Laboratory corpses. Remains the forest clans would never have claimed. In exchange, a sum great enough to fund ten years of research. Elvarin asked:"Why?" The woman across from him smiled.

She did not look demonic. That was the detail that should have frightened him.

"Because the dead carry messages better than the living," she replied. Elvarin should have refused. He thought of his research. Of the lost years. Of the closed doors. Of the masters who had laughed and called him "promising, but unstable." Of the way the great houses bought genius, then called it tradition. So he signed. With his name. With his blood. With whatever shame was left in his hand. Three weeks later, the bodies vanished. Fourteen dead elves. Seven broken spirit-contract bracelets.

Two hands still bound to elemental traces. One heart preserved in silver glass. And in a forest far to the west, beastmen began finding evidence too white to ignore. Elvarin understood too late that the money had never been the price of the dead. It was the price of what the living would do once they saw them. The last warm evening of the Mist-Fangs began without knowing it was the last. That was always how important things died. Not with an announcement. Not with a bell. Not with a system window.

They died while a child stole a piece of meat, while an elder corrected a story, while a healer insulted an injured man, and while a boy who should have stayed lying down sat a little too close to the fire pretending he was perfectly fine. Narek was wrapped in a thick blanket, his shoulder bandaged, his face still pale. Brakka had placed him herself against a stone near the central fire. Then she had said:"If you stand up, I'll knock you out." Narek had replied:"Yes." Brakka had stared at him.

"You're lying."

"Yes." She had given him a thicker soup than everyone else's as punishment. Zayn sat beside him. Not in the open cage. Not since Narek had thrown away the rope. The half-mask rested on his head, raised just enough for him to eat. The little black shard of White-Mist Hornwood hung against his temple. Narek watched it with irritating satisfaction.

"You're better without the rope."

"Profound revelation."

"You should thank me."

"I kept a bolt out of your throat. We're still far from a balanced ledger." Narek smiled.

"Crooked brother." Zayn chewed slowly.

"Suicidal little brother."

"That's worse."

"That's more accurate." From the other side of the fire, Brakka called out:"Both are accurate." A few laughs rose. Even Saeva smiled while cleaning her spear. Even Odran, silent near a post, gave that slight ear twitch Zayn had learned to interpret as amusement. Korr sat at the edge of the fire farther away, with the elder. He was not laughing. But he was listening. In the past two months, Zayn had learned that this was his heaviest way of being present. The observers from the other clans were still there.

Varok of the Red-Claws kept his distance, less provocative since the attack. Mara-Kharn was eating slowly near Brakka, as if the two bear-women had silently agreed to respect each other through the amount of food they could criticize. Ishen, the hawk-man, was watching the trees. The tension had not vanished. But it was breathing. That night, despite the evidence, despite the attacks, despite the deaths already too close, the Mist-Fangs had chosen to eat together. Not because they were reassured.

Because fear was not supposed to decide alone what the fire was for. Zayn understood that now. That was terrible. Understanding made losses more precise. Narek discreetly nudged a piece of meat toward him. Zayn looked at it.

"Are you trying to poison me with generosity?"

"You think too much. Eat."

"You're becoming more and more like Brakka. It's tragic."

"Thanks."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"I'm taking it." Zayn took the piece. He ate it. Normally. Without waiting for his stomach to revolt. Without checking the smell three times. Without thinking of forbidden flesh. Just because it had been given to him. That was when the first child began to sing. A little Mist-Fang girl, Kima, whom Zayn had saved two months earlier during the attack of the tainted beast. She sang badly. In a voice too clear and too high. A hunting song. Then another child joined in.

Then Narek, very softly, because breathing hard still hurt him. Then others. The song was not sad. Not joyful either. It said that the living eat because the dead ran before them. That the forest keeps the tracks of those who fall. That the fire does not lie to the names it lights. Zayn did not know all the words. But he recognized some. Fangs. The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. Mist. Return. Debt. Brother. He did not sing. No one asked him to.

Then, on the third refrain, Narek gave him a very weak elbow to the ribs.

"You know this one." Zayn stared at him.

"I know three words."

"Then sing three words."

"I'd rather die." Brakka looked up.

"Not tonight. I have enough work." The children laughed. Narek too. Zayn lowered his eyes to his bowl. Then he murmured three words. Not loudly enough for the camp. Just enough for Narek to hear. The boy smiled. A huge smile, tired, wounded, alive. It was the last normal image Zayn would keep of him. The catastrophe began when the wolf-hounds started to cry. Not howl. Cry. A low, strangled sound, as if something in the forest had just shown them a death they had not yet smelled. Odran was on his feet first.

Saeva followed. Ishen opened his dark wings on the platform. Korr rose without a word. Zayn felt the mark on his tongue turn cold. Very cold. Then every torch in the camp went out at once. Blackness. One second. Two. In that absolute darkness, a voice spoke. Not from the forest. From every white arrow already planted in the camp. From the dead filaments kept in bowls. From healed wounds. From the memory planted in Narek.

"The White Woods claim the taint." Then the sky fell. Arrows descended without a sound. Not a volley. A rain. White. Green. Black. The first struck the lookouts. Ishen screamed from the platform. One arrow pierced his wing. Another buried itself in his throat. He fell before finishing the cry. The next ones hit the huts. Not the palisades. The huts. The fires came back, but not theirs. Green flames erupted through canvas, wood, and stored hides. White roots burst from the ground and coiled around the posts.

The wolf-hounds leapt at them and were impaled by pale thorns. The camp exploded. Korr roared. This time, his aura was not calm pressure. It was a mountain rising.

"Children to the center!" The Mist-Fangs moved. Even in terror. Even under the arrows. Because they had rehearsed. Because they knew. Because the clan was not only a fire and hides, but a way of running when the world breaks. Brakka seized two children and nearly hurled them toward the central shelter. Mara-Kharn planted herself in front of a burning hut, her bone hammer crushing a masked creature in a single blow.

Varok of the Red-Claws barked an order to his own warriors, then fought back-to-back with Saeva without argument. Odran split the palisade with one axe blow to reach the shooters. Zayn searched for Narek. He was there. Standing. Of course. Too pale, knife in hand, shoulder already bleeding through the bandages. Zayn ran toward him.

"I am actually going to kill you if you don't stay behind!" Narek smiled. He smiled in hell.

"Promise?" A white arrow sliced through the space between them. Zayn activated a plate on his arm and knocked it aside. One beat. Two. He grabbed Narek by the collar.

"You stay with Brakka!"

"I can help!"

"You can breathe! That's your achievement for the day!" A green explosion cut their argument short. The medical hut collapsed. Brakka vanished beneath a wave of fire. Narek screamed.

"Brakka!" Zayn held him back with all his strength. The bear-woman burst out a second later, shoulder aflame, carrying an injured hunter on her back and a child under one arm. She was alive. Furious. Terrifying.

"Shelter!" she shouted. Then a white spear drove through her stomach. The world slowed. Not enough to stop. Brakka looked down at the spear. As if the thing had personally insulted her. She set the child down first. Gently. Then the wounded hunter. Then she grabbed the spear embedded in her body and yanked the attacker toward her. A masked creature came out of the shadows, surprised. Brakka crushed its skull with her own forehead. The creature dropped. Brakka remained standing for one second.

Then a second spear struck her in the back. Korr roared her name. Zayn felt something crack. Not yet. Not fully. Brakka dropped to her knees. Narek struggled wildly.

"Let me go!"

"No!"

"Let me go!" This time, Zayn could not hold him. The boy hurled himself toward her. Zayn ran after him. The night became a mixture of fire, blood, screams, and arrows. A masked creature sprang in front of Narek. Zayn slammed into it. He triggered the claws without counting. His right hand tore itself open becoming something else. He ripped open the sewn throat, tore the filaments out before they could emerge, and felt useless warmth enter him. [Soul Strength absorbed: +0] Nothing. Still nothing. He rose.

Narek was already beside Brakka. The boy placed his hands on the healer's body.

"Brakka… Brakka, get up." The woman did not answer. She did not hit him with a cushion. She did not insult him. She did not order him to drink a decoction. She remained silent. And that silence made more noise than the whole attack. Zayn grabbed Narek by the shoulder.

"We have to move." Narek did not hear him.

"She has to get up."

"Narek."

"She has to—" A shadow passed above the fire. A hawk-man fell from the sky. Not Ishen. Another one. His wings were black and red, his eyes mad with pain, half his face burned away. A hawk-warrior from a neighboring clan, most likely captured, hollowed out, then released as a weapon. Pale filaments ran out of his back, fixed to white points. In his talons he carried a Mist-Fang child. Alive. The child was screaming. The possessed hawk rose higher. Zayn looked up. His body understood before he did.

He was going to drop the child into the fire. Narek screamed. Korr was too far away. Saeva was holding off three attackers. Odran was at the palisade. Mara-Kharn had a broken arm. Varok was bleeding on the ground. No one. Zayn opened his mouth. Gluttony answered. He had never tried that. Not yet. Not without flesh. Not without preparation. But the hawk was there. His blood was falling. A drop splashed onto Zayn's tongue. The mark burned. He felt the structure. Wings. Hollow bones. Tendons. Lift. Refused fall.

Zayn leapt onto a masked body and bit into the flesh of the possessed hawk as it dived to avoid one of Saeva's spears. Not enough to eat. Enough to steal information. The Fall screamed across his tongue. His back split open. Not beautifully. Not like a blessing. Two black, bloody excrescences burst from beneath his shoulder blades, shapeless, trembling, covered in torn dark feathers and membrane. Zayn screamed. Not in rage. In pure pain. Then the wings beat. Once. Badly. They hurled him forward rather than upward.

He slammed into a post, staggered upright, beat again. This time, he rose. Not flying. Leaping with the help of an abomination. He struck the possessed hawk in midair. The child fell. Narek threw himself underneath. He caught the child. They rolled together in the mud. Zayn, meanwhile, crashed into the hawk. His monstrous wings tore on impact. His claws drove into the bird-man's chest. The possessed hawk looked at him. For one second, his eyes turned clear again. Not for long.

Just long enough for Zayn to see he was still there, trapped beneath the filaments. He whispered:"Kill." Zayn did. He bit his throat out. This time, he swallowed. The flesh entered him with the burn of the sky. [Soul Strength absorbed: +3] Current Soul Strength: 60 His back twisted. The wings opened for one second, larger, blacker, more horrible. Then they tore almost completely apart. He fell. Saeva caught him halfway before his skull smashed against a stone.

"What did you do?" Zayn spat blood and feathers.

"Improvisation."

"Never do it again."

"Note… taken." Then the third wave came. Not arrows. Voices. Dozens of elven voices, projected from the woods, from stolen bracelets, from the dead used as conduits. They spoke a single name.

"Zayn." The whole camp heard it. The Mist-Fangs. The Red-Claws. The children. The wounded. Korr. Narek. The voices continued:"The tainted one must be cut away. Those who keep him will be cut away with him." Then the trees opened. Real elven bodies advanced. Not alive. Not entirely dead. Pale corpses, noble, elegant, wearing broken spirit bracelets, guided by black filaments around their necks. They carried white bows and silver blades. Behind them, masked creatures. Behind the masks, more bodies. Captured beastmen.

Dead elves. Hollowed humans. Tools. Not an army. A theater of slaughter. Zayn finally understood that this night was not meant to win a battle. It was meant to leave behind a single conclusion in the ruins. The elves had come. The elves had spoken. The elves had claimed. The elves had killed. Even if it was not true, there would soon be almost no one left to carry the doubt. Korr raised his axe.

"Mist-Fangs!" The clan answered. Not enough. Not ready enough. Not enough to survive. But they answered. Saeva moved beside Zayn.

"Take the children."

"What?"

"Take Narek. Take whoever you can. Run for the low river."

"No." She turned a hard gaze on him.

"That is not a request."

"I'm not fleeing."

"Then you'll die here with a beautiful useless line." Odran arrived, covered in blood. He spoke. Saeva did not translate. She did not need to. Odran put a wounded child into Zayn's arms. Then a second. Then he shoved Narek toward him.

"No!" Narek shouted.

"I stay!" Korr, farther away, heard. The chief turned his head. His eyes found Zayn. He did not shout an order. He did not need to. His eyes said only: Keep what remains. Zayn felt the sentence crush his chest.

"Korr…" The chief of the Mist-Fangs turned away. Then charged at the elven corpses. His aura exploded like an entire forest falling onto dead kings. Saeva shoved Zayn.

"Go!" He grabbed Narek. The boy fought him.

"Let me go! Let me go! It's my clan!" Zayn held tighter.

"I know."

"It's my clan!"

"I know!"

"Then let me go!" Zayn looked at him. And for the first time, he had no line. He lifted Narek anyway, took a child under his other arm, and ran. Not toward freedom. Toward Korr's order. Behind them, the camp of the Mist-Fangs was burning. Saeva remained at the mouth of the escape path. So did Odran. Brakka did not rise again. Korr was still fighting. The elven voices kept speaking Zayn's name. Narek screamed in his arms until he tore his throat raw. Then a white light fell onto the path ahead of them.

An elven corpse appeared between the trees. Bow raised. Zayn set the children behind him. His torn wings trembled on his back, useless, bloody. He did not have enough strength anymore. He did not have enough breath. But he still had the claws. He stepped forward. The corpse aimed at Narek. Zayn saw the trajectory. He threw himself in front of it. The arrow pierced his shoulder. The filaments burst into his flesh. He dropped to his knees. Narek screamed his name. The elven corpse lifted a second arrow.

Then Saeva burst out behind it and drove her spear into the back of its neck.

"Keep going!" She was wounded. Badly wounded. An arrow jutted out of her side. Zayn rose.

"Come with us!" Saeva smiled. A real smile. Sad. Almost gentle.

"Crooked brother… you still talk too much." She cut the corpse's second arrow in half, then shoved Zayn back toward the path.

"Go." Behind her, more figures were arriving. Zayn took the children. Narek was no longer shouting. He was trembling. They ran. Through the trees. Through the screams. Through the smoke. Then the ground opened. Not naturally. A trap. A white root burst beneath Zayn's feet and sent him crashing into a trunk. The children rolled into the mud. Narek fell farther off. A figure in a white cloak stepped out of the shadows. Not a masked creature. Not a corpse. A demon wearing a human face. Calm. Smiling.

He held a thin blade.

"Not yet," he murmured as he looked at Zayn.

"He has to see enough." Zayn tried to rise. His body refused. The arrow in his shoulder pulsed. The filaments sought his throat. His ruined wings were retracting, tearing flesh from his back. The demon stepped toward Narek. Zayn could not move.

"No…" Narek raised his knife. Small. Ridiculous. Courageous. The demon crouched before him.

"Do you want to save your clan?" Narek spat in the demon's face. The smile vanished.

"Good." He drove his blade into the boy's stomach. Zayn stopped breathing. Narek opened his mouth. No sound came out. The demon bent to his ear and whispered something Zayn could not hear. Then he shoved Narek into the ravine behind him. The boy's body vanished into the darkness. Zayn stared. He stared at the place where Narek had just fallen. No scream. No sound of a body. Only the fire behind. The forest ahead. And the void. Something in the world went very quiet. The demon turned back toward him.

"The White Woods take everything, don't they?" Zayn crawled. One movement. Then another. His fingers clawed into the earth.

"I'm going to…" The demon smiled again.

"Yes. That's the idea." A white arrow struck the tree beside Zayn's head. When he blinked, the demon was gone. The children were crying behind him. The camp was still burning. Korr was no longer roaring. Saeva was no longer shouting. Brakka was no longer insulting him. Odran was no longer speaking. Narek was no longer breathing within earshot. Zayn pressed his forehead to the earth. For a long time, he did not move. Then the mark on his tongue burned. Not hunger. Not envy. Something else. Lower. Older. Simpler.

A black heat rose into his left forearm. Where no Fall had yet marked him. The skin split. One dark line appeared. Then a second. They wrapped around his forearm like a burned chain. The system opened. Slowly. As if it had been waiting for this moment from the beginning. [Extreme emotional condition detected.] [Loss recognized.] [Debt broken.] [Real hatred confirmed.] Zayn raised his head. His eyes were no longer empty. They were worse. [Fall recognized.] [WRATH.] Beneath his skin, something laughed. Not him.

Not yet. In the darkness between his fingers, a long shadow began to take the shape of a scythe. And, for the first time since his summoning, Zayn did not want to survive. He wanted someone to pay.