Always took

[Talia's POV]

I walked near the front, just a step behind Rowan and Valerie. Behind us, nearly a hundred fighters moved as one, boots striking the dirt in a steady rhythm.

The weight of it pressed down on me—the sheer scale of what we were about to do. And we hadn't even seen the Angels yet.

My gaze flicked to Tobias. He walked like a man already dead, shoulders stiff, face hollow. I could only pray we all made it through.

Then Handy—expressionless as ever, his single arm swinging at his side. But even he looked rattled. This wasn't just another street fight. Nothing we had faced before even came close.

The finality of it hit me like a punch to the gut. What started as back-alley scuffles had turned into an all-out war.

This was insane.

Even mana might not be enough to save me this time.

Then we arrived.

The half-broken walls of the camp loomed over us, jagged ruins of a battlefield long since abandoned. Could it even hold us all?

We crossed the threshold, and then I saw them.

An army. Larger than ours. A sea of bodies, shifting, waiting. My stomach twisted, my breath hitched. What was this madness?

Rowan glanced back at me, his expression unreadable—but I knew what he was thinking. This might be the last time we saw each other. And we never even settled that night. Fuck me.

My hands clenched as the adrenaline hit, sharp and burning. The kind that made you feel alive, right before it killed you.

We lined up, face-to-face with them. Rowan at the front. Valerie hanging back, already choosing survival over battle.

I exhaled slowly. Shit. This is going to be insane.

Then Rowan's voice cut through the air, dark, commanding.

"Where is he?"

The ten Angels at the front didn't answer at first. Just stood there, smirking, like they knew something we didn't.

Then, finally, a lanky man stepped forward.

"He's waiting at the center."

I let my gaze drift, scanning the broken tents and shattered shacks—memories of a night when blood soaked the dirt.

And it was about to happen again.

But this time, Rowan wasn't the victim. He was the executioner.

I let out a dry, humorless chuckle. The same kids who had once clawed their way out of this hell were now the ones dragging others into it. Fate's a bitch, I guess.

"Well then," Rowan said, his voice a blade against the tense air, sharp and final. "I guess there's nothing left to discuss."

The last breath before war.

Then he moved. A slow, deliberate step forward.

We followed.

Then came the sprint. The clash of boots against dirt. The ragged shouts of men stepping into their graves.

And then—

Chaos.

Bodies slammed together in a brutal collision, steel scraping against steel, the sharp ring of blades cutting through the thick, acrid air.

Shadows lunged, figures blurred—I barely registered the glint of a sword swinging at the edge of my vision before I moved.

I surged forward, mana flooding my limbs like wildfire. The first man I hit flew back as if a carriage had rammed into him, bones snapping on impact.

No time to think—I twisted, aimed for another, but pain exploded in my spine. A well-placed kick sent me sprawling.

The world tilted. The ground slammed against me, knocking the air from my lungs. A heartbeat later, I rolled, instincts forcing me back to my feet.

My breath came fast, sharp. Around me, the world was a nightmare of sound—screams tore through the air, metal crunched against flesh, the wet, sickening gurgle of someone's last breath.

Right in front of me, a blade sank deep into a man's gut. His mouth opened, but no sound came. Was he one of ours? Or one of theirs? Did it even matter anymore?

No time.

I drove mana into my legs and lunged. A dagger flashed—I caught it on my forearm, pivoted, and slammed my shoulder into the nearest enemy.

He barely had time to grunt before I grabbed him and hurled him over my shoulder. He hit the ground hard, a limp sack of meat and shattered bone.

And then I turned, ready for the next.

A voice ripped through the battlefield, raw with fury.

"Marcus! You fucking rat! I'll fucking kill you!"

For a heartbeat, everything froze. The clash of weapons, the screams, even the ragged breathing of men locked in battle—it all seemed to suspend in the thick, blood-scented air.

Then, as if a dam had burst, chaos surged again.

Some of the Angels turned, slamming into their own like rabid dogs, snarling, tearing into their former allies without hesitation.

Their betrayal wasn't silent—it came with howls, with the crunch of bone and steel.

I didn't waste the moment. My fist crashed into the jaw of a distracted fighter, his head snapping back before he crumpled, face-first into the dirt.

No time to gloat. No time to breathe.

I was already moving. A hulking Angel came at me, but before my kick connected, instinct screamed. I twisted—just in time.

A steel pipe whooshed past where my skull had been, missing by inches.

I flicked my gaze to the attacker. Small, nervous. Wide, panicked eyes. The fucker wasn't even built for this fight.

My muscles coiled, and I launched.

The next moment, I was on him. Fists rained down, relentless as a storm, each hit a crack of thunder against his flesh.

He dropped.

I exhaled, ready to move again—

Then the air shifted. A whisper of violence.

Before I could react, something slammed into the back of my skull like a battering ram. A white-hot explosion of pain swallowed my vision, and suddenly, the world was gone.

Darkness.

Then—impact. My body hit the ground, the taste of blood flooding my mouth. My ears rang, the war around me muffled, distant, like I was underwater.

My eyes snapped open, but the world blurred into shifting shapes, nothing distinct, nothing real. Just silhouettes moving, twisting, clashing.

Where was I? What was happening?

A weight crashed against my leg. Someone tripped—over me? A strangled grunt, then they were gone, leaving behind a fresh wave of pain radiating up my thigh.

My nerves screamed, but my brain felt sluggish, stuck in a haze.

I tried to shake it off, to move, to think—

A shout. A shadow above me.

Then a boot filled my vision.

Bang.

My skull cracked against the gravel, sharp edges biting into my scalp. Warmth pooled at the back of my head, trickling down my neck. Blood. My blood.

Why was I bleeding?

A second stomp drove into my ribs, fire tearing through my side. My breath hitched. My lungs refused to expand.

Every nerve in my body shrieked in protest as the pressure bore down on me.

Then—a shift.

Warmth coiled in my gut, sluggish at first, like thick liquid moving through my veins. Was I bleeding inside? Dying?

No.

The warmth spread, creeping up my spine, curling into my arms, my legs, my fingers—

Then something snapped.

And suddenly—clarity. Cold. Sharp.

And alive.

The air shifted. The mana in the battlefield surged toward me, rushing like a desperate child to a parent's arms. My body drank it in, filling, stretching, breaking through.

A surge of raw strength ignited in my core, spreading to every limb like wildfire. Power crackled under my skin. I sprang to my feet, laughter ripping from my throat—wild, unhinged, alive.

Early-Novice. I made it.

My gaze snapped to the bastard who had stomped me into the dirt moments ago. He froze, his body stiff, his instincts screaming at him—he knew. He felt the shift.

"You're dead, fucker."

My foot dug into the blood-soaked ground. Then I exploded forward. Faster. Stronger. The world blurred around me, the rush intoxicating, uncontrollable. This power—it was mine.

Before he could react, I was there. My fist cocked back, the force behind it barely restrained. Then I swung.

A brutal, bone-crushing impact.

He flew backward like a ragdoll, crashing into the dirt. I barely stopped to watch. My body moved on its own, drunk on the overwhelming surge, thrumming with it. I leaped toward him, my boot coming down hard—

Once.

Again.

Again.

And again.

Ribs cracked. Flesh gave way. The sickening squelch beneath my foot barely registered over the pounding in my ears. I was unstoppable, untouchable—

Then—

A sharp crack.

The sound jolted through me like a slap to the face. My breathing hitched. My vision swam back into focus.

I looked down.

A ruin of flesh and bone. A pulped mess where his ribcage used to be.

I staggered back, my stomach twisting. My heartbeat pounded against my ribs, erratic, panicked. He let out a final, gurgling wheeze—then nothing.

His eyes, wide and dark, stared up at me. Lifeless. Empty.

Dead.

By my hands.

I took a step back. My breath shuddered.

What the fuck did I just do?

This wasn't me. This wasn't who I was.

What is this war turning me into?

I turned and wretched onto the blood-soaked dirt, my stomach twisting, rebelling. The acid burned my throat, but I barely noticed.

The air was thick—wrong. The stench of blood and rot clung to me, clogging my nose, seeping into my skin.

The screams had dulled to distant echoes, but the weight of it all pressed down, suffocating.

I wiped my mouth, blinking hard. My vision blurred, my head spun.

What the fuck is this?

Something slammed into my back, a weak weight collapsing against me. My body tensed, instinct screaming at me to react. I spun—

A kid.

Fifteen, maybe. Too young. An Angel.

But not the kind Rowan had warned us about. Not a monster. Not some bloodthirsty demon. Just a boy, trembling, barely standing, his breath hitching in short, ragged gasps.

And then I saw the knife.

It was buried in his stomach, slick with blood. His hands clutched at the wound, shaking. His lips trembled, forming silent words before he finally forced them out.

"P-please… help."

Then he fell.

I didn't catch him. I couldn't. My feet were cemented to the ground, my hands frozen at my sides.

His body hit the dirt with a soft thud.

Something cracked open in my mind.

Count Veyra's face flashed before me—the day he stood tall, smug and righteous, above my parents, declaring their deaths as justice.

Traitors, he called them. I had been a child too, small, helpless.

I had survived by clinging to the fire in my chest, the hate that had burned away my fear, that had kept me moving when I should have crumbled.

But what was it now? That fire, that rage—what had it turned into? Revenge?

No. Fuck that.

It always ended the same.

It always took.

And I wasn't going to let it devour me.