I shot the spine of the last skull I needed.
The crack was sharp—clean. The body folded in on itself like it knew what ca next. The skin peeled as I touched it, pulling back in strips, reluctant and rotten. I stripped it off the skull, piece by piece, until all that was left was bone slick with blood and a faint, unnatural warmth.
The blood didn’t hesitate.
It crawled up my wrist, slow and deliberate, burrowing beneath my skin like it had been waiting. I didn’t flinch. Not anymore. I let it in. Let it thread through my veins until my arm pulsed with sothing far beyond heat. A rhythm older than my heartbeat. Deeper.
Then I placed the skull down—right where it belonged. The last one.
The circle was complete.
Seven skulls. Seven girls. Seven silent hearts thudding in unison. Seven blood eagles of despair that faced them.
This one beat loudest. I could hear it—no, feel it. The way the pulse carried through the deck. It was lodic. Not a song, not a hum. Sothing different. Like music only the dead could understand.
It was beautiful. And I hated how beautiful it was.
Because it happened after their death.
But I had done it.
The ritual was complete.
All that was left now was to begin it.
And finish what I started.
I raised my head and looked across the deck.
The demon hadn’t moved much.
Still hovering near the raft. Still dragging his nails across the wood, slow and curious. Giggling at odd intervals, like this was his birthday and the raft was a candlelit cake. His eyes flicked down to the planks every few seconds, avoiding the blood pooled near his feet like it might bite him.
I should’ve been watching his hands. His stance. His posture.
Instead, I was watching his eyes.
Because they weren’t on the raft the whole ti.
They flicked up every so often. Quick glances. Not long, not deep. Just enough.
At .
At the ritual.
At the skulls.
Like he knew.
Like he recognized what was coming.
Maybe it was the way they were arranged. Maybe it was the sll in the air. Or maybe it was because the girls were from his own cabin. He had heard them. Seen them. Owned them.
And now, he could feel them slipping out of his grasp.
Piece by piece.
Skull by skull.
That’s what this was. That’s what this had to be.
Not just blood and bone and fire.
Reclamation.
They were being reclaid from the demon. They were reclaiming their freedom.
I didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stood there, hand still warm from the blood, shoulder twitching from the last shot.
He was watching now.
Not the raft.
.
Watching what I would do next. Trying to figure it out.
Trying to decide if he should laugh again or finally act.
Didn’t matter.
He was greedy. But I was patient.
Let him giggle. Let him twitch.
He didn’t know what I had made.
Not really.
But he would.
I poured the gunpowder.
Slow. asured. No sudden movents. I didn’t want to spill even a grain.
Every pinch that slid into the barrel felt like a prayer. Not to gods—I was past that—but to cause. To revenge. To purpose. This wasn’t prepping for a firefight. This was loading resolve into steel and iron. I ramd it in with the kind of force you use to bury the dead.
This demon—this thing—wasn’t going to drop easy.
It was big. Too big.
He moved like a beast but smiled like a man. That was the part that got to . The weight of four n, the size of a nightmare, and a face that laughed like he knew the punchline to a joke I hadn’t even told yet.
And he was watching load my guns like it was entertainnt.
I had four pistols on , strapped and buckled to my belt like bones. Each one prid. Each one ready. A rifle slung across my back like a burden I hadn’t earned. I didn’t have the training to use it proper—no long-range finesse, no clean kill from a distance.
So I had to get close. Real close.
Personal.
To slay sothing like him, I needed to be in his breath. In his reach.
And I’d do it.
Not for glory. Not for spectacle. Just for the kill. For the girls. For the promise.
He giggled again.
Not a laugh—sothing smaller. aner. The sound of a rusted hinge on a trapdoor. It scraped under the skin.
He was still circling the raft. Fingers dragging along its edge like he was trying to seduce it. But it wasn’t working.
The blood didn’t like him.
It recoiled when he touched it. Pulled away like it recognized sothing old and foul. Sothing that didn’t belong.
And that pissed him off.
Good.
He tried again—pressed his whole palm to the wood this ti. I could see the twitch in his shoulders when the blood curled up and reached for him. Like smoke. Like mory. Like revenge.
He tore his hand away with a hiss and a half-laugh, the sound crackling like dried leaves in fire.
Then ca the shift.
The mask cracked just a little.
His amusent didn’t vanish—but it twisted. Warped. Like soone sared grease over a smile.
He was frustrated now.
Impatience leaked out from under that cocky posture. He started moving faster—less saunter, more stomp. His boots thudded against the deck with more weight than rhythm.
He picked up a hook. Thick. Rusted. Too blunt to be a tool, too crude to be a weapon.
And he sank it into the raft.
No hesitation. Just tal into wood. Teeth into flesh.
The wood cracked like it scread. The blood writhed, recoiled, throbbed.
He laughed louder now—giddy, delighted, childish. His eyes wide and mad, like soone who just found out the walls were made of candy.
He didn’t care what it was.
He just wanted it to be his.
So he dragged it. That hook clenched tight in his monstrous grip, he _hauled_ the raft toward his cabin. One step at a ti. No struggle. Just weight and will. His other hand waved in the air like he was pulling in a prize bull.
And then—right before he vanished behind the threshold—he turned.
He faced .
And pointed.
Right at .
Still giggling.
Still laughing.
That damned sound again. Dripping with mockery. Like he was daring to stop him. Like he already saw the ending and knew it wasn’t standing.
I didn’t flinch.
Not because I wasn’t scared.
But I was past the point of backing down.
Let him point. Let him drag his treasure into the mouth of hell. Let him laugh like I was a joke wrapped in flesh.
He didn’t know .
Not really.
He didn’t know what I’d done to build this ritual. What I’d sacrificed. What I’d beco.
He was a demon with size.
I was a man with purpose.
He’d made his move.
Now it was my turn.
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