THE FORSAKEN LAND OF GENèSE | LOST KINGDOM | TOWER | BASEMENT

  600

  "It's back!"

  ZOOM!

  Saint and another escapee hit the ground just as a blur screamed past above their heads, skewering the space where she had been standing.

  “Duck!"

  The ongoing commotion stirred the escapees one by one, their flames flickering awake in confusion as they found themselves thrust into the heart of a sudden attack.

  “What is that thing?”

  A hand wrapped around his ankle and yanked him down. The attacker passed through the man’s afterimage and spun in place. The escapees stilled in fear as it turned toward the one person who could sleep through the noise.

  ZOOM!

  Saint shot across the room and picked up a broken spear tip. "There!"

  Dust scattered under his feet as he pivoted, driving the improvised blade forward with all the strength that panic could lend him.

  Sparks burst across the walls as the spear tip clashed with the flying blade.

  The deflected weapon spun away, slipping through a hole in the roof with a mournful buzz that lingered long after it vanished.

  Solvanel entered a second later, his once-white robes soaked through with fresh blood, dripping around his steady footsteps.

  His shadow stretched long across the trembling escapees, and the crook at his back pulsed faintly.

  The room quieted around him, even the dust holding its breath.

  Saint blinked hard, the fight slipping from his hands as he took in Solvanel’s state.

  He stepped closer, eyes darting over the bruises and the dried streaks of red.

  “Where are they?” he asked.

  A beat of silence—Saint waiting, breath held, worry plain across his face.

  Solvanel shook his head.

  Saint froze just long enough for dread to settle in his gut before he suddenly bolted down the hall, vanishing into the shadows with the frantic speed of a man who was already too late.

  Albane’s flame had grown smaller since he left. The giant shivered in slumber with a hand on his wound, like a child without a blanket.

  “Wake up, brother.” He rested a hand against Albane’s shoulder, feeling the cold sweat and tremor beneath the skin.

  The giant flinched at the touch. “Noooo… I watch all night for you and me…”

  He then shot upright while guarding his face. “Up! Up! I mean not up! Not asleep! I’m not asleep!”

  “It’s okay, brother.” Solvanel brushed the dust out of Albane’s red hair. “Sleep is good.”

  “Sleep is… good?” The oaf mimicked slowly.

  His heavy hand slammed into the shepherd’s shoulder. “Ahaha! Silly! You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Monsters come when I sleep. Have to stay awake all night or else they bite me!”

  Thinking about it for a second, he asked, “You mean standing guard. Is it not commonplace for mercenaries to sleep in shifts?”

  “No. Absolutely not! Brothers help if they could, but monster only come when I sleep! Never else!”

  Solvanel frowned.

  Did Jonah know about this?

  Of course he did.

  The lazy bastards—Jonah and the others had clearly fed him some ridiculous story so they wouldn’t have to pick up their shift.

  “I see…” he responded, feigning deep thought, “So that’s why they were attacked.”

  Albane gasped. “You was?”

  “Yes, but our friends fought their hardest kept you safe. That means you’ll have to fight twice as hard in the next battle.”

  He sniffled, teary-eyed. “You guys did this for me?”

  The escapees nodded as one—a plainly false affirmation that somehow took effect.

  “Raaaaaah!” Albane grabbed his brother by the collar and sat him atop his shoulder. “Then I fight ten times than before, those dirty muksetos! Nobody get away with touching my friends!”

  Yep. If there were a heaven, he was surely going to hell.

  Saint’s heavy footsteps came echoing down the hallway.

  Solvanel readied the explanation he believed the man was owed. “I am terribly sorry for what happened to your brothers. I-”

  “There is no need.” He emerged from the shadows clenching his fist. “Those were not the men I’ve come to know and call my kin. I will find a way to redeem their memory to you, should we survive this ordeal.”

  Inspecting the pattern of his flame, he saw no indication of conscious deception.

  Furthermore, he was far more interested in the weapon he’d taken from the treasury.

  Instrument Integration — Tears of Regret

  [90% compatibility]

  This weapon has decided to follow its master to the end.

  Lame éveillée

  Rank: S

  Clarity of Thought

  Think before you shoot.

  Nurtures thought.

  Different Perspective

  Know your enemies.

  This character can see through the eyes of their weapon.

  Clarity of Purpose

  ???

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  He hadn’t remotely considered the possibility.

  One of those legendary weapons which were gathering dust inside the treasury had accepted one of the escapees as its master. And now. Saint’s breath had been modified in a similar fashion to his own.

  Solvanel nodded apologetically. “I will hold you to that vow once our safety is guaranteed. For now, we must consider a way to be rid of the locusts.”

  The captives exchanged uneasy glances, Albane’s weakened flame flickering at the mention of the creatures. A faint skittering echoed somewhere deeper in the hall to send panic into their hearts.

  Wait…

  The pace of their hearts was astonishing in its own right, but it could never match the beating of those gigantic blade-like wings. And yet…

  “How come we can’t hear them anymore?”

  Saint picked up a stone while approaching the only exit. “What about it, dreamer? I assume our plan remains the same?”

  “Of course.”

  A captive with a missing ear threw up his hands. “Wait… those things could be doing this on purpose! They’re probably waiting on the outside as we speak!”

  “Doesn’t matter. The second we open this door, I want everybody sprinting across the sands. Go through tight alleyways, but watch out for falling rubble or dead ends. Most of us will die out there, but it’s better than waiting for them to find a way in. Agreed?”

  The others trembled like prey, afraid a response would bring the inevitable closer.

  “Good. That’s one-all. Come help me with this door, big guy.”

  Albane sauntered over to the stone disc and prepared to push.

  Sitting on his shoulder, Solvanel was able to get a good look at the man who was chosen by a weapon deemed worthy of a demoness’ collection.

  Saint Myles

  Flower of The Valley

  Rank: S

  Born in the feeding grounds of a peculiar kind of shadespawn, he was exposed to the harshest realities at a very young age. However, this man was the first Saint who held on to hope. And brought freedom to the bodies of his fallen kin.

  The staff hummed with approval in his right hand.

  Judging by the weapon, that rank was clearly reserved for the elite. Not a bad choice for the first of his dogs. Still—without the necessary information, it was all speculation.

  Solvanel reined himself in.

  Premature ambition had devoured greater men than him.

  Better not to get ahead of himself when his journey was only just beginning.

  “On three.”

  “Okay! 3… 2… oh… 3!”

  Albane pushed the stone aside effortlessly.

  “No, you- Nevermind. Go! Go! Go!”

  The captives burst into the open, Saint at the front, sprinting as though the sands themselves were on fire. Albane and Solvanel remained at the rear, the unspoken designated wall between the fleeing and the swarm.

  Energy thrummed through Solvanel’s limbs—enough that he estimated he could take five locusts alone, maybe more if they were foolish.

  The frantic sprint dwindled into a hesitant jog… then into stillness.

  One by one, the captives slowed, confusion overtaking fear.

  Bodies littered the sands.

  A ring of carnage surrounded them.

  Saint’s voice cracked into the quiet. “…What… happened here?”

  The swarm had been exterminated.

  Completely.

  “Let me down.”

  Solvanel knelt beside the nearest locust and inspected the wound.

  He ran his hand over the corpse with surgical precision, fingers tracing the torn chitin, the collapsed ribs, the strange cleanliness of the kill.

  Quickly, he ruled out the possibility that this was one of the mercenaries.

  Something about it wasn’t natural.

  It was far too clean to be the work of a human—a perfect puncture, smooth around the edges, as if something had burrowed straight through the creature and left without hesitation.

  Solvanel narrowed his eyes, the grainy black sand clinging to his fingertips as he traced the wound again. Just then, truth came in the form of a high-pitched whine. It shot out from an alleyway and halted an inch away from his face.

  The needle hovered in the blind spot right between the eyes, invisible to him if not for its triumphant buzz. Wanting him to know it could do the same to him at any time.

  However, instead of begging on his hands and knees like he ought to, the golden bastard scoffed.

  “Idiot.”

  All around them, the locusts it had skewered were rising again.

  The needle’s tip swerved from side to side in disbelief—a gesture so human it bordered on comical, if not for the horror it implied. By the time it understood what was happening, the bitch and his bitches were kicking up dust around the nearest corner.

  The needle spun in rage and then darted forward, carving through the nearest locust in a blur of blue light.

  One by one, the creatures dropped as the weapon zipped between them, punching perfect holes through skulls, abdomens, joints—anything that looked like it would hurt the most.

  The locusts matched its rage, hissing and chittering violently, their wings thrashing in a frenzy as they lunged blindly at the blur tormenting them.

  Some tried to take flight, only to be skewered mid-air; others flailed across the sand in spasms, snapping their mandibles at space as if they could bite the fury out of the air itself.

  A few even turned on each other in confusion, ripping and clawing in desperation as the needle carved through their ranks faster than their instincts could comprehend.

  They were furious, but far, far too slow.

  It slaughtered them with the precision of a surgeon

  —and the temper of a spoiled child.