Pacts's Price

**Chapter 13: The Pact's Price**

The air in Pripyat tasted like rust and decay. Ashley paced the rooftop of the sanctuary, Anya's feverish whimpers still echoing in her bones. Viktor stood at the edge, watching the horizon where the cult's black vans had vanished. His silence was a blade between them—sharp, unyielding.

"You knew," she said finally. "About Dmitri's pact. What aren't you telling me?"

He didn't turn. "Some vows are chains, Ashley. Better left buried."

Before she could press, Sasha staggered up the stairs, her face ashen. "We've got a problem. Bigger than the cult."

**The Warlord's Mark**

Beneath the sanctuary, the survivors huddled around a makeshift altar. A boy no older than ten lay convulsing, his skin etched with glowing runes. *The warlord's mark.*

"He's the third this week," Ilya said, his golden eyes dim. "The Zone's anger grows. It demands balance… or a sacrifice."

Anya reached for the boy, her fingers brushing his forehead. The runes flared violet, and he stilled, breathing steady. The survivors murmured, half in awe, half in terror.

*"Dyavol,"* someone hissed. *Devil.*

Ashley pulled Anya back. "She's a child. Not a savior."

"Or a weapon," Viktor muttered, his gaze on Sasha, who lingered in the shadows.

**Sasha's Debt**

The mercenary cornered Ashley in the armory, her bravado thin as rice paper. "I need the kid. Just once. To fix this." She rolled up her sleeve—black veins snaked up her arm, pulsing with the same poison as the Zone.

"You're dying," Ashley said flatly.

"We're *all* dying," Sasha snapped. "But I can't protect her like this. Let Anya siphon the rot. She's strong enough."

"And if it kills her?"

Sasha's laugh was hollow. "Then I'll die knowing I tried."

**Viktor's Shadow**

That night, Viktor found Dmitri's journal in the ruins—hidden beneath a floorboard, its pages stained with blood and vodka. The truth seared him:

*"If the bloodline awakens, end it. Even her."*

Dmitri's handwriting, desperate. A pact Viktor had sworn to honor.

He stared at Anya, asleep in Ashley's arms, her curls glowing faintly. *His* child. *His* failure.

**The Offering**

The cult returned at midnight, their chants shaking the ground. Alexei led them, his wounds bandaged, eyes now voids of starlight. "The warlord hungers, sister. Give him the girl, or watch this city *burn*."

Ashley stepped forward, Anya clutched to her chest. "You want her? Come take her."

The cult surged. Viktor and Sasha fired in tandem, but the horde was endless. Anya's scream split the air—a shockwave of violet light erupted, throwing bodies like ragdolls.

In the chaos, Ilya seized Anya's hand. "It's time, little one. Break the bridg

**The Sacrifice**

The chamber of mirrors trembled as Ilya guided Anya's palm to the largest shard. "Focus on the light," he urged. "Forget the shadow."

But the warlord's laughter boomed through the void. *"You cannot kill what is already dead, child."*

Anya's power surged, the mirrors reflecting not the past, but a future—Viktor's blade at her throat, Ashley weeping, the sanctuary in flames.

"No!" Ashley lunged, but the vision shifted: Sasha, rotting from the inside, firing a bullet into her own skull. Ilya, golden veins bursting, dissolving into ash.

Anya collapsed, the mirrors shattering. The warlord's roar faded… but not his presence.

**The Aftermath**

Dawn found them battered, not broken. Alexei and the cult retreated, but the survivors eyed Anya with wary distrust. Sasha's poison had receded, her arm now marked with Anya's violet glow.

"Temporary fix," she grunted, flexing her fingers. "Kid's got style, though."

Viktr pressed Dmitri's journal into Ashley's hands. "Read it. Then decide."

She read the pact. Ripped out the page. Burned it.

"We write our own vows now," she said, ashes swirling in her fist.

**The Storm Approaches**

Ilya stood at the sanctuary's edge, watching the horizon darken. "The warlord is patient. He'll return."

Ashley joined him, Anya asleep on her shoulder. "Let him. We'll be ready."

But as the first raindrops fell, the ground trembled—not from bombs or chants, but something older. Hungrier.

The Zone was waking.