Page 37 of They Call Me Blue

“Killing is supposed to be hard, but I consider it one of the most freeing experiences in the world. I like watching the life leave their eyes, knowing that their bastard children might starve without them, that their friends and family will suffer as I have. Maybe that makes me a dick, but it also makes me a damn good soldier.”

— Arden of Ashwood

Personal Journal

“ S tep where I step,” I whisper, ignoring the blur of color that darts between the sawgrass reeds. “There are traps everywhere. Don’t wander off.”

Behind me, Cheevy and Chest Wound glance over their shoulders, their muscles already tensed to flee or fight. And to think, they haven’t even spotted the elgrew yet.

Mouth shut, I keep my sights on the path ahead, my bare feet shlooping and splashing through the warm water and slick mud.

The Lycean Swamp looks exactly as it did when I last came here three months ago.

Like Giara, I’m the only scout Starra’lee sends this far, mostly because I’m the only one willing to brave the swamp dogs and mudsnakes alone.

My path is as familiar to me as the back of my hand. It’s with ease that I zigzag through the sunlit reeds and blueleaf trees, angling ever closer to my cave and to the stockpile of equipment and weapons I’ve collected over the years.

Gnats and mosquitos swarm us. My tagalongs swat them aside, flapping their hands in the humid air, smacking at their slick, sweaty skin. I don’t give myself the same distraction. As the buzzing insects bite my flesh, I watch in my periphery a wall of blue reeds to the east.

More colors dart in and out of focus. Orange verncat fur. Dark leathers. Gray skin.

I could warn Chest Wound and Cheevy that Hunters are following us—that they’ve been following us all afternoon—but then they might do something stupid, like tip the elgrew off by fleeing deeper into the wilderness.

Their jittery nerves are just as likely to get them eaten by Hunters as they are to get them maimed by my own traps.

No, it’s infinitely safer to keep my squadmates oblivious.

Besides, Chest Wound and I are the perfect bait.

If we play our cards right, Starra’lee can slaughter more elgrew today than we have in months.

As we near Shoulder Squish Cave, I take a detour west, where the trees disappear and the sawgrass reeds fade into short blue sedges and irises paler than moonlight.

At the surface, it looks like an exposed field that extends forever, but I know something my companions don’t.

It’s not a field. Not a swamp. It’s a floating bog—the sedges and flowers and mud are suspended at the water’s surface, creating the illusion of stability.

Goosebumps prick my neck, this tight panic constricting my chest—in all these years, I still haven’t learned how to swim.

There’s no place for it in the underground, and only a fool would put themselves in such a vulnerable position topside.

Giara taught me to map this place, to look for soft spots, but it’s all too easy to fuck up and fall in.

Still, it’s the best option—the only option—we have to dispense of the elgrew chasing us.

Heart racing, I push onward, taking the first step onto unsteady ground.

It holds firm just like I knew it would, just like Giara taught me.

To Chest Wound and Cheevy, they probably won’t notice the difference.

I didn’t either the first time I came here.

“The cave’s up ahead,” I lie. “Cross the field and it’s on the other side. ”

“Wouldn’t it be safer to go the long way around? It’s too exposed without the reeds and trees. If there are any elgrew nearby, we’ll be sitting korkuran.”

Gods, they’re so fucking oblivious.

A quick glance over my shoulder shows the elgrew haven’t caught up yet. Thankfully, my traps have slowed them down, made them take their time to not get scooped up in nets or snared by foot traps. We have plenty of time to position ourselves for their inevitable ambush.

“No,” I tell Cheevy. “The direct route is faster. We need to get to Kariss as soon as possible.”

My palm prickles in a way it hasn’t for days, but I ignore it, the ground squishing and sagging beneath my feet.

Chest Wound and Cheevy exchange looks, scanning the tree line for predators they’re too fucking stupid to find, before following slowly behind me, their footfalls clumsy and loud and all over the fucking place.

“I told you to step where I step,” I hiss, gritting my teeth. “No wandering.”

It’s like babysitting Nirissa.

“Someone’s cranky today,” Cheevy jokes.

I flip him off. “If you want to die, by all means, do whatever you want.”

He narrows his eyes at me, his deformed, half-missing nostrils flaring, but does as he’s told, taking more careful, measured steps.

The ground wiggles beneath my feet, a bit like gelatin, but I press on, stepping only where the irises have been planted, where I know the “ground” is most stable.

Once we’re halfway through the bog, I wipe the sweat from my forehead and lower myself to the grass.

“We’ll rest here,” I say.

“In the open?” Cheevy asks.

“In the open.” I unhook an animal skin flask from my belt and bring it to my salty lips.

Cool, fresh water soothes my aching throat and I hiss in relief.

Only then do I let my gaze drop to the thirty-eight pin pricks on my hand.

“Thank you for warning me,” I tell Lyrick.

“You’ve made it so much easier to eliminate them. ”

He doesn’t answer. I haven’t heard from him in more than a day, and the connection doesn’t seem to go both ways, where I can summon him at will. If it does, I haven’t learned how to utilize it yet.

Patting the ground beside me, I gesture at Cheevy and Chest Wound to join me. They stare at me like I’ve grown three heads.

“I don’t think—” Chest Wound starts.

“I didn’t bring you to think. Just trust me.” I pat the ground again.

The two of them fixate on the tree and reed line, scanning the shaded blue spots for any hints of danger.

When they find none, they kneel amongst the flowers and sedges.

The plants are softer here, the sweet floral smell masking the sulfurous one from the water below.

Songbirds chirp somewhere in the distance, and the sun warms the top of my head.

In another situation, it would almost be peaceful.

I take another gulp of water and stretch my aching muscles, spreading my arms and legs as I stare at the clear green sky. No clouds. No storms. It’s a beautiful day to murder someone—or in my case, many someones.

Setting the flask aside, I reach for my favorite rusty dagger strapped to my thigh and unsheathe it.

When the others aren’t looking, I slice a line through my palm, ignoring the biting pain as my blue blood beads to the surface.

Fingernails extended, I claw through grass and muck, then shove my bleeding hand into the frigid water below.

A moment later, something slimy and hard brushes against my wound and a grin spreads across my cheeks.

Slowly, I stroke the mudsnake I nearly killed all those years ago—not a baby anymore but as large and as formidable as its mother who nearly ended me.

Healing it, feeding it, and training it is arguably one of the smartest things I’ve ever done.

I wish I could say I did it because I felt pity for the poor thing, but the truth is, I always knew it would pay off.

Near the edges of the swamp, a mass of orange fur emerges—several verncats breaking through the blueleaf trees, their long, slinking bodies padding onto the unstable ground.

More than a dozen Hunters follow, armed and armored, their skin a patchwork of our stolen gray flesh.

Across the distance, I stare into two sets of familiar purple eyes— Lyrick’s friends.

Sarvenna is just as hideous as when I’ve seen her through Lyrick’s eyes.

Her skin is a mishmash of various elf corpses that makes her look every bit the monster she truly is.

Eleesy’s hair has been cut short and spikes into the air.

Teeth bared, she grins at me and points to her chest, then to mine.

I resist a shudder.

“Arden—” Chest Wound’s voice trembles.

Finally, they’ve seen them. It took long enough.

“Stay where you are,” I tell him. “Trust me. If you move, you’re dead.”

The Hunters charge forward, wielding daggers and swords made of glistening blue metal— cold iron . My head pounds. My vision blurs. Eyes weeping, I force myself not to look at it, not to run away. The chilly water cramps my aching fingers as I stroke along the mudsnake’s mucousy body, waiting.

And then a verncat steps in the wrong spot.

Water splashes. A tangled mat of plants and mud gives way as the verncat slips beneath the bog and thrashes at the surface. My fingers fall away from the mudsnake and I snap. Dinnertime.

It slithers away from me at breakneck speed, and then the verncat slips under. It doesn’t resurface.

Another splash. Clumps of mud and dirty water spray the air as one of the Hunters falls through, then a second, then a third.

Their screams of surprise rend the air. They grasp and claw at the ground, trying to pull themselves back up, failing as my snake slithers beneath the bog and knocks them back in.

Arms flailing, feet kicking, they each disappear beneath bubbling brown liquid that's more sludge than water. A few Hunters flee toward the tree line, but they don’t know where to step and they sink too, unable to return to safety.

Eleesy flashes her teeth at me, growling when she sees the trap I’ve laid.

Outmatched, she charges forward anyway, her cold-iron dagger glinting in the sunlight.

But Sarvenna hangs back—glancing between her friend and the tree line—before retreating with the others, avoiding all the places they’ve sunk, her verncat’s paws smashing into the ground as it takes the lead.

The songbirds stop chirping. Hunters bark confused orders between one another.

“Kill the snake.”

“Capture the elves.”

“Don’t let anything happen to Blue!”

Another plot of land gives way beneath the lead Hunter—a male elgrew clad in sleek red leathers stands out amongst the crowd.

He sinks through and wails, his black blood pooling in the light blue grasses.

The tip of a sharpened bone stake pokes through the shrubbery—one of Giara’s old spike traps dug into the shallows, where the water isn’t deep enough to be fatal on its own.

The elgrew pulls himself onto the grasses, blood gushing from his ruined foot and shredded calf.

A fatal injury without immediate treatment.

Grunting, he crawls forward on hands and knees and attempts to retreat. Then sinks into another crevice. I’m too far away to see the air bubbles—if there are any—but he’s dead regardless.

“What the fuck, Arden?” Cheevy spits. For being an idiot, the man is smart enough to stay put.

He’s practically trembling in his seat, staring at the massacre slack-jawed like Chest Wound.

I rise and pat the dirt from my pants. Dagger in hand, I wait for the bog traps and mudsnakes to do their job—bored at how fucking easy it is. Honestly, I expected better.

I hope it won’t be so anticlimactic when Lyrick and I—

Cheevy grabs my leg and yanks, sweeping me to the ground as a blur of metallic blue swipes the air above me. The plants sag beneath my weight and cold water soaks into my civilian clothes—a simple pair of hide breeches and a thin elgrew top made from soft bamboo.

“Are you insane?” I hiss. “You’ll risk the structural integrity—”

“Move!” Lyrick’s voice bursts through my skull, and for a moment, my body isn’t my own. My muscles move of their own accord—no, of his accord—and I roll left, dodging Eleesy’s dagger as she swipes at me again, trying to pin me on the ground.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Woozy, I try to get my bearings, but there’s no need.

Like a puppet on a string, Lyrick takes command of my body and I jump to my feet, head rushing Eleesy’s chest. She stumbles back and swipes again, but Lyrick knows her technique.

He’s sparred with her hundreds of times, maybe thousands.

Duck, punch, kick, punch, kick again. She falls to the mud like she has in so many of our— his —practice sessions.

And then we’re towering over her, prying the dagger from her closed fist, uncurling each bony finger one digit at a time.

Her violet eyes widen and for half a second, I wonder if she realizes what’s happening.

But then the smooth hilt is in my palm, and my eyes roll to the back of my skull at the contact.

The Marr-damn cold iron sears every part of me, vibrating my bones.

Lyrick growls, and we fling the dagger as far away as possible.

The mud and sedges jiggle beneath us as Lyrick and I straddle her.

Our thumbs wrap around her neck and her body tenses, kicking and slapping, then jerking and twitching.

Eyes cloudy, she finally goes slack. There’s this twinge of remorse.

Of deep sorrow. Of horror at what we’ve done—what he’s done to one of his best friends.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. And I know I shouldn’t be, but I am.

Something warm and wet runs down my cheek and I realize I’m crying, his emotions a physical thing inside me.

I’m quick to swipe them away, my body suddenly my own again.

For a breathless, exhausted moment, Lyrick says nothing.

Then his words are a low timbre in my ears.

“Not sorry enough, but you will be.”

The tingling in my palm fades to nothing, the connection going dark.

As I glance around me, I see the consequences of my actions. No more verncats. No more elgrew. Only the guilt of what I’ve done and Lyrick’s promise of retribution.