He didn’t act.
Not yet.
This wasn’t the ti for him to act, or for to stop him.
I could feel his gaze heavy on my back. A pressure, not a presence—like heat from a fla you’re trying to ignore. His eyes crawled along my spine, dissecting in silence. Calculating. Maybe admiring. Maybe just amused.
Then, finally, he moved.
Not toward .
Toward the raft.
Sa steps. Sa pace.
I didn’t need to look to know what he did.
The sa thing the false tyrant had done.
He reached for it—fingertips outstretched, slow, hesitant, testing the edge like a man deciding whether to pet a starving dog.
And just like the last, he jerked back the mont the blood stirred.
Even he flinched. Even the demon can flinch.
The blood had that effect. Ancient. Aware. It wasn’t just a sar of violence anymore—it was a thing now. A watching thing. Breathing in pulses only I could feel. It didn’t want him. Not yet. But it noticed him.
And that was enough to send a ripple of doubt through his towering fra.
He circled the raft, now careful, now wary. A predator studying a rival predator. I couldn’t tell if he was marveling at the raft itself or the blood it cradled.
Didn’t matter.
In the end, the one who survived between us would get to keep everything—
The raft.
The blood.
The ritual.
The silence.
All of it.
I left him to his fascination. His awe. His scheming.
I had work to finish.
I turned from him and made my way toward the one who was done. The fifth. The one the blood had finished chewing.
He didn’t move.
No more twitching. No more spasms.
Just stillness.
The kind that didn’t feel peaceful.
The kind that felt... hollowed out.
I crouched beside him.
The wood beneath my knees groaned under the weight of exhaustion and mory. I reached forward and placed my hand on his chest—not gently, not cruelly. Just enough to feel the lingering heat under his flesh. Like a fire that had burned everything it could and was now waiting to die.
His skin was warm, but wrong. Stretched too tight. Like sothing had worn it from the inside out.
I pressed my fingers into the base of his skull and did what I had done three tis before.
I raised him.
Slowly.
His spine ca with it—long, slick, clinging to the skull like a child refusing to let go. The skin followed too, wrapping around both like a morbid gift.
And for a second, I stared at it.
At the grotesque beauty of it.
There was sothing almost reverent about the way the blood folded his body into this shape—as if it knew what I needed. As if it was offering this to , like a dog offering a kill to its master.
And like a dog that had seen its owner the blood waged its tail as it entered my skin.
I could hack a sword to cut the spine of from it. I could tear apart the skin with my bare hands.
But this ti, I did it differently.
I took one of the pistol I’d scavenged earlier, aid carefully, and pulled the trigger—just once. The shot rang out, sharp and close, and punched clean through the base of the spine. Not enough to damage the skull.
Just enough to sever the anchor.
The spine dropped, twitching. The skin sloughed off like old bark.
I tossed both aside without ceremony.
They had no use to now. Not for the ritual. Not for anything.
What mattered was the skull and the beating heart within.
It was light in my hands, but it felt heavier than iron. Not from weight—but from aning.
It wasn’t just bone anymore. It was proof.
Proof of what the blood could do.
Proof that my path was working.
Proof that I was too far gone to turn back now.
I held it up to the lightless sky and let the wind roll past , as if the ship itself was taking note.
Then, I lowered it.
And I waited for the others to be done.
The demon was still watching the raft like it was a lover coming ho.
Unblinking. Possessive.
There was a kind of hunger in his eyes that went deeper than want—deeper than even greed. It was reverence. Worship. Like that raft wasn’t just four pieces of log stacked next to next soaked in sentient blood, but a promise whispered to him by sothing older. Sothing darker. Sothing he thought only he had the right to answer.
And yet, I could feel it.
That shift in his focus—barely there, but enough.
His gaze lifted.
Not by much. Just a fraction. Just enough to catch in the edge of his vision.
As if he needed to confirm I was still there.
Still moving.
Still breathing.
Still breaking.
Was it the sound of the gunshot?
The sight of the skull, now beating softly in my hands?
Or was it just... ?
Was I the itch beneath his skin now? The flicker in the corner of his eye? The one thing in this ruined place that refused to die quietly?
Hard to say.
His face gave away nothing.
Not surprise. Not annoyance. Not fear.
Just that sa crooked grin, stitched to his mouth like it had been carved there centuries ago.
But whatever made him shift—whatever pulled his gaze from the raft to —it didn’t matter.
Not yet.
Because this wasn’t the mont.
This wasn’t the ti for him to act, or for to stop him.
We both knew it.
There was still ti before the finale. Still pieces left on the board. Still a ritual unfinished, with one skull yet to be claid, one final offering not yet ripped from flesh and fed to the blood.
So I didn’t flinch.
I didn’t blink.
I just returned his gaze from the corner of my eye, silent and still, letting him feel the weight of my calm.
Because calm was all I had left.
Just a calm that hid anger, rage, a destructive mind and a promise that was made.
Reviews
All reviews (0)