Page 10

A door snaps open behind me, and a soft voice carries itself over the silence. "Eden, there you are!"

I glance over my shoulder at the voice, as two women stroll inside. One is a pretty brunette whose steps seem to be more frantic than the other woman’s. A blonde, who giggles softly behind her hand, says, "I told you you'd find him, Reece."

"The castle was going crazy, Leila," Reece murmurs, her cheeks tinting red, "I was just worried."

They don't seem to have noticed me—not until I speak and ask Eden, "And who are these people?"

Eden’s eyes widen, the fear in them so clear I can almost taste it. He tries to lie, but it comes out panicked and broken. "N-No one."

I smile; he didn't need to tell me. The moment I asked the question, I knew who they were from reading his thoughts. Leila Thorne—a vampire. And the brunette, the person he's trying—and failing—to protect...

... is his mother —Reece Adams.

A human who gave birth to him. Interesting.

The first woman capable of bearing a Nightwalker's child. If Ricci were alive, I'm sure he would perform all kinds of experiments on her womb to figure out how she did it. It's the one thing he failed to achieve.

And this woman—this normal, unimportant human managed to achieve what he never could. I guess she should be thankful he isn't alive, and the only threat she needs to watch out for is Damien.

Reece and Leila turn to me, their eyes widening—more specifically, to my hand wrapped around Eden's throat.

"No, no." I chuckle, rising to my full height as I tug Eden closer, his back pressed into my legs as I move my hand from his neck to his shoulder. "Don't do that."

I didn't need to read their minds. I see it in Reece's eyes; the instinct to grab her son, to hold him in her arms while the vampire is preparing to attack me. But the gold in my eyes makes them stiffen, their bodies shaking as they take the slightest step back.

"Y-You’re a Nightwalker," says the blonde— Leila. Her eyes are wide for only a moment, before sharpening into something close to mock bravery. And she seethes, "Let the boy go, he's done nothing."

"Yet," I add, a smirk lifting at the corner of my lips. Eden stiffens, as I bend low and whisper in his ear, all the while staring at Leila and Reece, "We're the exception, aren't we? The first beings of creation that are truly born as monsters."

"That's not true!" Reece grits, taking a step forward, hands fisted at her sides. "My son is kind, and strong, and good."

I tilt my head at Eden, and ask, "Are you good?" Eden only glares, and my smile only widens. "Answer, and I'll let you go."

Eden clenches his teeth, and finally answers, "Yes."

Liar. He doesn't believe that. Not for a second. But I let him go anyway since I'm feeling merciful.

He runs into Reece's arms, and she catches him, pulling him back. The two of them stand behind Leila as if she can protect them.

"You know," Leila says, her voice dripping with venom, "my father hunts your kind for sport."

"Oh? And what's his name?" I wonder, pretending to care. I've had these conversations before; they're no fun. I don't know why I keep entertaining them.

She smirks, her chin raised a little higher, shoulders back as though proud of him. "The Blood General of District 1—General Dame Thorne."

I've heard of him. He's famous; not for killing Nightwalkers, but for killing the monsters that would make it over the wall and cause terror and destruction in the Districts.

But, when I heard he was powerful, of course I wanted to pick a fight with him.

"The Blood General," I muse, remembering our fight five years ago. It wasn't anything special; he barely lasted a minute. "I remember him. He was such a disappointment, I couldn't bring myself to kill him. Does he still remember me?"

Leila narrows her gaze, but I see she’s confused from the furrow in her brows.

I frown, feigning confusion as I wonder loudly, "Surely, when I carved the word 'pathetic' into his chest it had scarred?"

It would be a shame if it hadn't—for him. I'd have to hunt him down and do it all over again. It doesn't seem fair the world thinks of him as this big, tough General when he cried less than a minute after meeting me.

"What?"

Leila's words are low, brimming with unrestrained anger.

She stands before me; a vision of pale, otherworldly beauty.

Her skin glows faintly, shimmering like moonlight on water, yet her expression is anything but serene.

Fangs glint from between parted lips, pressed into the curve of her bottom lip, her breath quick and ragged.

A streak of motion, her wrist splits open, dark crimson spilling forth. But the blood doesn't fall—it obeys. It slithers, writhes, forging itself into something lethal. In her palm, it hardens, twists, sharpens—until a dagger rests there, pulsing with life, its edge gleaming with violent intent.

Leila screams.

"You bitch!"

The shriek cuts through the air like a blade, sharp and sudden, sending a ripple of shock through the room. Her voice is laced with something between fury and fear.

Then she moves.

The moment stretches, thick with unspoken violence. I feel her purpose as if it were my own, the weight of her intent crashing into me like a tidal wave. Instinct takes over.

Before my mind can catch up, my body shifts, ready to defend.

And before anyone can move to stop us, my hand is inside her chest, punching through flesh and bone, fingers curling around the beating heart beneath her ribs.

It flutters like a trapped bird. Warm. Trembling. Alive.

The golden door bursts open, and my gaze connects with deep, crimson eyes. The Saviour barges into the room but stops short when he takes in the scene before him.

My gaze drifts back to Leila, a line of crimson blood rolling down the corner of her lip, down her chin and dripping onto my hand.

Her skin returns to its usual ivory tone, and her fangs retreat into her gums. The room is still, and the air is stifling.

Her weapon clatters to the ground, returning to its natural liquid form, pooling at our feet—crimson and warm.

No one moves. Not a single breath interrupts the silence.

Then, someone yells, "Don't!"

It's too late.

She stares at me; a body without a heart that still manages to breathe a few seconds longer.

"I-I don't… I don't…" Her words come out broken, her body swaying, but I hear her thoughts and see her fear when she whispers her last word, "Papa."

The word is followed by a single tear as she collapses to her knees while her heart weighs in my hand. She lays motionless in a pool of her own blood.

Everyone watches, and everyone is silent as I angle my head, my eyes bleeding gold as I stare around the room.

"I told you, didn't I?" I drawl, licking the excess blood of my fingers. I glance at all the angry eyes boring into mine before finding the Saviour's; a cruel smirk twists my face.

"You'll regret that."

I blink, and suddenly he's standing toe-to-toe with me. His eyes burn, but it isn’t anger. There is something else beneath the surface, hiding. It’s pain. It swirls in his eyes with something else, something I promised would happen— regret.

I'm far too pleased by the sight that when his large hands slam into my chest, I don't even try to defend myself.

My body flies back, and as I’m airborne, a door opens behind me. It sounds familiar; a daunting echo that makes me wince for a brief, almost non-existent second. I know that sound too well—the groans only a heavy, industrial door can make.

I glance over my shoulder. The once-wooden door is now replaced by thick steel. It’s wide open, and staring back at me is a mouth of darkness that seems endless, deep, and infinite.

It's home.

I turn back to Riot as darkness engulfs me. Cold wraps around me, pricking into my skin, slithering into my soul, and embraces me. My back hits something rough, hard, and unbreakable.

As I stare into this all-encompassing darkness, I don't make a sound, not even a whisper, as my bare feet touch the ground, only to hiss when something pierces my skin. The shock almost brings me to my knees, but I catch myself on my hands only to endure the same pricking sensation in my palms.

I glance down, watching vines slither across the floor like a nest of snakes. They curl and twist and crack loudly while wrapping themselves around my hands and feet and further up my arms and legs.

The thorns, dripping red, pierce my skin, feeding me their poison as if it knows I don't belong.

I stand up, ignoring the pain as the vines scramble to taste my blood. My eyes bleed gold in the abyss, like two spotlights, as I stare at the figures gathering beyond the door.

Riot saunters to the centre, standing before the rest. Deep, red eyes boring into mine. I tilt my head as something occurs to me, and I wonder, "You know, you never asked for my name."

"I don't care enough to know it."

I smile, and there is nothing warm or amusing about it.

"You should. I'm starting to understand that you and I are inevitable, Saviour.

" He clenches his jaw, my words angering him.

"You should learn my name; I'm going to burn your kingdom to the ground, after all… and you'll be powerless to stop it."

The Saviour cocks a brow, not the least bit bothered by my warning. "And if I kill you before then?"

My smile widens as the vines curl around my throat, the chill of my blood slithering down my arms, legs, and neck, but I don't care. "Now you're just teasing me."

Silence passes over us, and the Saviour watches me blankly. His eyes never leave mine, like he's trying to see deeper than what's in front of him. I wonder what he’s searching for that he’s looking at me so closely, and I also wonder if he's found it.

From the way he looks at me, it seems like he has, and I'm not sure how to feel about that. Before I can ponder too deeply, he finally asks, "What's your name?"

The door screeches closed, but I answer him as the last bit of light bleeds into the dungeon before it's completely snuffed out.

"Haze. My name is Haze."