Slaughter

The chamber pulsed with restless energy, a storm of unchained fury barely contained beneath thin skin and clenched fists. They were starved—not for food, but for vengeance, for the right to reclaim their stolen fate. And I had been the one to set them free.

Because of me, their despair had turned into rage. Because of me, they had finally found their teeth.

Then, like the tolling of a funeral bell, we heard it.

The metallic screech of the iron gate being dragged open.

Every head snapped toward the entrance, the tension so thick it could be carved with a blade. A single breath of silence stretched before the storm.

This was it. The moment we would decide whether we remained prey or became the hunters.

Still standing atop the altar, my blood burning with the same fire I had sparked in them, I bared my teeth and roared, "Show these fuckers what the so-called cattle can do! Slaughter them!"

The mob didn't wait.

Like a dam bursting, they surged forward, feet pounding, voices howling, bodies colliding. The Watchers had barely set foot inside before the first of them was dragged down, swallowed whole by the tide of furious hands and sharpened desperation.

Screams filled the air—some theirs, some ours, all blending into a symphony of rebellion.

And for the first time, the prey had become the hunters.

I leapt down from the altar, landing in the thick of the chaos. The air reeked of sweat, rust, and something primal—something electric. I shoved through the surging crowd, dodging flailing limbs and the violent frenzy I had unleashed. Every step felt like running through a wildfire, heat and motion pressing in from all sides.

Then, at last, I reached them. Tobias, Talia, and Elias stood amidst the storm, their faces painted with shock. Tobias was the first to recover, flashing me his signature, lopsided grin. "Quite cool, Captain," he said, amusement laced in his voice.

I huffed out a breath, not even bothering to hide the smirk tugging at my lips. "We can't fall behind," I said, rolling my shoulders like I hadn't just rallied an entire chamber into a bloodthirsty riot. "Let's move—but watch your step unless you wanna be trampled."

Something flickered in Tobias's eyes as I took command. A shadow of something deeper than admiration—something tangled in his own unspoken frustrations. But there was no time to dwell on it.

We pushed forward, swallowed by the stampede, our voices lost in the war cries of the mob. The tunnels trembled beneath the force of hundreds charging toward their stolen freedom. The catacombs, once a tomb of quiet suffering, now howled with the rage of the forsaken.

And yet, beneath the pounding feet and the thirst for vengeance, unease coiled in my gut.

Father Gideon.

For all the power we had in numbers, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were running straight into the hands of a man who had been expecting this. A man who called himself a servant of a god. A man who could wield something beyond the reach of mere mortals.

I swallowed hard, gripping the hilt of the rusted dagger I had stolen from the corpse of a Watcher earlier. Magician or not, I thought, he bleeds like the rest of us.

At least, I hoped he did.

We climbed the stairs in a frantic rush, each step trembling beneath the weight of the chaos above. Tobias still carried Elias, his grip firm, protective. I trusted him—trusted that no matter what, he wouldn't let anything happen to my little brother.

But as soon as we emerged onto the surface, I felt my breath hitch. The world had become a battlefield.

The slum rats had turned into a storm of vengeance, tearing through the camp like fire through dry wood. Some searched for weapons, for anything that could sharpen their wrath. Others simply fought with their bare hands, fists flying, teeth bared, voices raw from screaming. The Watchers, trained and armed, tried to hold them back—but they were outnumbered, overwhelmed, dragged down by the very people they once towered over.

And then it happened.

The shift.

The air thickened, pressing down on my skin like the weight of an unseen hand. It was suffocating, unnatural—like the world itself was holding its breath.

Then the door to Father Gideon's shack creaked open.

And what stepped out was no longer just a man.

He had the same face, the same frame cloaked in those wretched robes. But the thing before us was something far greater, far worse. Power coiled around him, thick and oppressive, warping the very air in crimson tendrils. It slithered around his form like a living thing, a serpent poised to strike, fangs dripping with unseen venom.

The battlefield stilled. Even the most furious slum rat hesitated, their rage momentarily dimmed by something far more primal—fear.

My hands curled into fists. My pulse pounded in my ears.

This wasn't just a fight anymore.

This was survival.

"Oh, bloody hell," Tobias muttered beside me, his voice tight with unease. I didn't need to look at him to know what he was feeling—it was the same thing clawing at my gut. Dread. The kind that made your breath shallow and your hands shake before a fight you weren't sure you could win.

I glanced at my two companions, my mind racing. We had to act. We had to win.

Then, like a thunderclap, a voice rang out, stretching across the camp like a curse.

"You fucking mongrels!" Father Gideon's words dripped with venom, his voice no longer the smooth, deceitful calm we had always known. It was raw, frenzied, burning with unchecked rage. "You dare to reject our great god's favor?! You dare to resist?! You—" he spat the word like it disgusted him, "a fucking cattle, raised to be offered to him! I'll show you what it means to reject the grace of a god!"

His screams shattered the night, echoing through the camp like the wails of the damned.

Then, all at once, the Watchers moved. They stepped toward him in eerie unison, their gazes vacant, their devotion absolute.

One by one, they lifted their arms.

One by one, they slit their wrists.

A sickening gasp rippled through the slum rats as crimson spilled from the Watchers' veins—but not a single drop touched the ground.

The blood hovered, defying nature itself, thick and glistening in the air like molten rubies. It swirled, drawn toward an unseen force, twisting, stretching—melding into something grotesque.

And then, before our eyes, it took form.

A weapon. A spear of blood, pulsing, writhing, its surface shifting between liquid and solid like it couldn't decide what it was. It pulsed with power, alive in a way no weapon should be.

I swallowed hard, my mouth dry as ash.

This was no ordinary fight.

This was something else entirely.

"I'll slaughter you like the animals you are! Feel the presence of a superior being!"

That was the last voice I heard before the world shattered.

the blood lance tore through the air, a crimson blur in the dim light, and before we could even blink—before a single breath could be drawn—it struck.

The bodies crumpled like marionettes with their strings cut. Ten lives. Gone. Snuffed out before fear could even widen their eyes. A heartbeat ago, they had stood among us. Now, the ground drank their blood.

What had we just provoked? Was this the end?

Something inside me cracked apart, but I had no time to think. My body moved before my mind could catch up. My hand closed around a jagged piece of firewood, splinters biting into my palm, and before I knew it, I was running—sprinting—straight toward the fire at the center of the camp.

I could barely hear my own breathing over the chaos, but my mind screamed one thing, over and over—I can do this. I have to.

A chorus of voices rang out behind me, desperate, furious—"Rowan! Where the fuck are you going?!"

I didn't stop. I couldn't.

I would make the city notice us.

I had to.

Because if we remained unseen, we were already dead.

I rammed the firewood into the flames, praying—begging—for it to catch before I became another corpse sprawled across the dirt. Come on, come on—

The fire took. Embers licked hungrily at the wood, curling around it like living things. But before I could even process my small victory, the world twisted into something far worse.

To my left, a corpse twitched. A grotesque spasm, unnatural and wrong. My breath caught in my throat. Then—it happened.

From the gaping wound in its chest, blood slithered upward, tendrils writhing like living veins, twisting, shaping—forming.

An arrow.

My pulse slammed against my ribs. My muscles locked. The world slowed. The crimson weapon hovered for only a second, gleaming under the fire's glow. But that second stretched, thick with the weight of death.

Then—whoosh.

A gust of wind kissed my cheek. My ears rang with the sound of something slicing through the air. I didn't move. I couldn't. Not until I realized—

It missed.

By a breath. By an inch.

A shuddering sigh escaped me, my chest tight with the sheer relief of still being alive. But there was no time to dwell. I forced my legs into motion, pushing forward, still dizzy, still disoriented, still caught in the lingering shock of what had just happened.

I had almost died.

I stumbled toward the nearest shack, gripping the burning firewood so tightly that my knuckles ached. It had to catch. It had to.

The flame licked at the rotted wood, hesitant at first, as if testing its strength. The rain from a few nights ago had left the planks damp, but fire is a stubborn thing. It took hold—slow, then ravenous, devouring the shack in flickering tongues of orange and gold.

Hope sparked in my chest.

Please. Someone. Anyone with the power to stop this monster.

But no savior came. The sky remained indifferent, the city walls looming in the distance like silent gods.

Behind me, destruction reigned. The rebels screamed. The world cracked and burned. And through it all, the monster stood—laughing. Not with sound, but in the way he moved, in the ease with which he tore through flesh and bone.

I understood then—this wasn't a battle. This was a hunt. And we were already dying.

Thirty seconds. That's all it would take for him to end us. Maybe less.

A cold realization settled over me, but I shoved it aside. I couldn't stop.

I sprinted to the next shack, then the next, setting fire to everything in my path, feeding the night with smoke and flame. If no one could hear our screams, then maybe—just maybe—they'd see the fire.