Chương 92: End of Book 2

Days later, in the Richters' home, Astrid quietly stroked the hair of two sleeping twins, their faces peaceful where they lay tightly together under the same quilt. Whiskey, the cat, lay by their heads, purring like a water boiler. The feline's eyes followed as Astrid stood up quietly. She walked softly over the creaking floor, shutting the door gently. The living room was stacked with cardboard boxes. Most of the furniture was missing entirely, and on the table lay a neat stack of letters.

On the uppermost one, a line of printed letters was clearly visible. Astrid the Tender, order of deployment For a while, she just stood there in the glow of dusk, the last rays of the suns casting their light through the glass of the balcony, now free of pots and life alike. Then she moved to the other doors, opening each to gaze at the empty spaces beyond, each devoid of any signs of the people who had once called it their home. Three doors she opened, three times she stared at the emptiness.

Not once did her face crack. Finally, she moved down the stairs to the training room. Shattered wooden weapons were brushed into a pile. The stone floor was chipped and damaged from some violent outburst her frame could never produce, and the strange tree she had cared for, the mist-producing sapling from beyond the wall, had withered and died in its container. She cleaned it all up, throwing the remains into yet another cardboard box. Then it was all done.

There was nothing left that could be prepared, soothed, or cared for. She fell to her knees then, her frame shivering from deep within. The brittle spectacles chimed against the swept stone floor. Soon, tears followed. Her expression bloomed. The face of the girl who was always unmoved contorted in pain. Tender hands were placed over her mouth to quiet even the weeping sobs that reverberated in what was left of a Blessed's home.

The shattered pieces she had cared for and soothed, rebuilding and binding them together with a lacquer of gold despite what was missing. And not even once, not even for a moment, had she faltered. Never a frown on her lips, a crack of her voice, or a sob left unattended in her presence. Until now, when it was done. As she cried, flames burst from her skin, tongues of fire rolling over the empty floor while two children slept above. Her eyes filled with tears and fire as she ascended.

In another part of the city, a doorbell rang as a man in a suit walked in. The bar was dimly lit, and several heads turned to the figure as he nervously looked around, adjusting the tie around his neck. A bartender stood behind a counter with crossed arms, and a circle was drawn on the floor with white crayon. The ring had been washed, but remnants of dark blood could still be seen in the grooves between the floorboards. The man walked up to the bartender, placing his hat against his chest.

"I am looking for a hunter named Elenya Rrezik." The bartender, a large man with a bald head and a mustache, did not stop cleaning the glass between his hands, but gave a nod toward a corner of the bar.

"Thank you," the man said, and quickly turned, taking large strides toward the gloomy space. Tucked under his arm was a weapon wrapped in cloth. Under a dim gas-lamp sat Elenya in a shirt stained with specks of red. Her bandaged hands wrapped around a large glass filled with a foaming amber liquid while a dozen empty glasses stood witness on the table. She gulped ale but otherwise did not react to the man's presence. The man cleared his throat and steadied his voice.

"Are you Elenya, by any chance?"

"What do you want?" she said in a tone dripping with poison.

"Bureaucrat…" The man swallowed hard as she continued.

"First you kill my Cap," she said.

"Then when my scrawny scout manages to kill a paper-lifter, you suddenly make a big deal out of it."

"Ma'am," the man tried to interject. Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

"I've been cracking skulls down here for two weeks," she hissed through gritted teeth.

"Just to stop me from going over there and tearing your heart out." She shot him a glance, muscles rippling under the white shirt.

"Maybe I'll just start with you?"

"An order to all the Blessed in the city and the weapons belonging to your company," the man said quickly, pushing the words out of his mouth. He threw the envelope and the bundle on the table and quickly turned to scramble for the exit. Elenya blew air out of her nose as the doorbell signaled his escape.

"In a year I'll be a Blaze. I will force you to release him," she said as she looked at the envelope and the outline of the weapon. Too large for a dagger yet too small for a proper sword. With a sigh, she tore the envelope open. Slowly, she read the upper title, and a grim smile spread on her lips. Elenya, Butcher of Hordes, order of deployment. Wretch didn't know where he was. It was some kind of dark space.

A perfectly spherical chamber like that of a hollow ball, with only a single inch-wide hole at the top, letting in a lonely ray of cold light. There were no grooves in the stone, though it felt somewhat like metal. He threw himself toward the top to try and find some kind of hatch. None existed, his hands meeting nothing but the same smooth, hard surface. When that didn't work, he tried to cut the walls with every fang and claw at his disposal, slamming into the material with all his abominable strength.

The material shuddered somewhat, as if the walls were alive, recoiling a millimeter before returning to their original position. With nothing else to do, he screamed, a raspy and mournful call through the vocal cords of a young man, though he was no such thing anymore. After hours, his voice cracked, then he regenerated the damage, continuing without pause. The walls reverberated his voice but otherwise were silent.

The living metal disposed of his waste and ejected tiny packages of food from the top, as if they had sunk through water. It didn't matter to him. After some time, days perhaps, he raged, slamming himself against the walls with every ounce of Blessed power he possessed. When it ran out, he ground down his claws until they bled, then pounded his fists into the walls until the strengthened bones broke.

He would fall asleep from exhaustion, then start over whenever he awoke, kept company only by the maddening whispers of the flame nestled in his chest. Slowly, ever so slowly, the blinding anger and frustration faded into a cold, searing pain that he couldn't heal. The anger was warm and soothing. All he had to do to ease his suffering was lash out. But the cold melancholy of what had happened was close to unbearable.

The seed of hate, the madness in the mirror, the whispers he had struggled to smother grew into a bloom, shedding autumn leaves of love and home. Never again would he aspire to hold something dear, never let someone lovely and kind crawl under his skin, to become so precious. And if that meant becoming something horrid, so be it. He threw all his aspirations to the wind, the longing for acceptance, the will to meet his father, the will to climb the summit, and embraced a new form. One befitting of his name.

In the low light from above, he changed. Bones cracked in symphony, and the claws grabbed onto the human skin clinging to his temple. With fiery eyes, he ripped it all free, discarding both humanity and molted skin. His back curved, his legs extended, feet grew fur and claws, muscles bulged. He screamed into the dark, but this time it was not the scream of a man, but the shriek of something inhuman. Weeks, maybe months later, the walls suddenly gave a shudder, and the surfaces shifted and spun.

The surface of the sphere turned like malleable clay, and the beam of light expanded to shed the dark. The top of the spherical space turned into layers of metal mesh. Beyond, a man with backward-combed hair streaked with gray and a uniform adorned with a dozen medals stood on a pair of stairs that circled upward. Frederic of Many Oaths, or as he was better known, General Frederic, highest commander of the third outrunner regiment, looked down with his hands behind his back.

The chamber seemed to be empty from his view, but with a flash of movement, a large claw gripped the mesh as another slammed into it. The netting gave a soundless wobble but did not break.

"I'm glad to see you again, Wretch, Collector of Wounds," the General said with a face that hid even the faintest emotion. Wretch came into view, his previous boyish features lost forever, now twisted into a gruesome mix between human skin and a houndlike snout. Bestial limbs, rippling muscles, and curved back, all clad in long flowing fur.

"General…" Wretch growled through the mesh in a voice that was deep and uncanny. Frederic shook his head.

"The Saint smiles upon you despite your transgressions. She has plans for you yet."

"What plans?" Wretch snarled.

"The others said you are too difficult to control, erratic, unstable, dangerous," he said while looking into Wretch's eyes.

"But I have use for dangerous dogs." The General continued, "You will fight for the city once more, and perhaps you will have the opportunity to avenge your captain." Wretch blinked in the light from above, his red pupiled eyes watering in the stark light.

"Grendel…" he said through sharp teeth.

"How?" The General's expression became all the more serious.

"The Gulschaks are attacking… w ar is coming." END OF BOOK 2