Chapter 28 Lyssa
LYSSA
The sound of iron spikes driving through flesh makes me vomit. I can't help it—watching Kaerith nail Malakor's severed hands to the cathedral wall while humming under his breath breaks something inside me that was already cracking.
"There," he says, stepping back to admire his work. Blood spatters his face like war paint.
Elira kneels beside Saulo's mutilated corpse, using her claws to carve symbols into his exposed ribcage. Her tongue flicks out to taste the blood on her fingers, and she moans softly—actually moans—like she's sampling fine wine.
"The marrow's still warm," she purrs. "Should we save some for later?"
This isn't victory celebration. This is feeding frenzy. They're drunk on blood and power, every movement carrying sexual satisfaction at having eliminated their enemies through systematic butchery.
Thorrin stands rigid beside me, his amber heart-light flickering between rage and revulsion. His hands shake with the effort of not attacking them.
Elira begins dragging Malakor's headless corpse toward the throne, leaving bloody streaks across stone floor. Dinner arrangement, positioning meat for communal consumption that will bond them through shared feast.
I watch in mounting horror as they begin systematic butchery, discussing optimal cuts with the enthusiasm of gourmets. They're going to eat them.
"The heart should be shared," Elira explains, extracting Malakor's organ with surgical precision.
Thorrin's breathing becomes labored beside me, his massive frame trembling with suppressed rage as we witness creatures we once loved transform victory into cannibalistic communion.
"Stop," he whispers. Then louder: "Stop this."
But they don't hear him. Too intoxicated by blood and triumph to notice moral objections from witnesses. They continue their feast preparation while discussing the taste of enemy flesh.
"STOP!" Thorrin's roar echoes through the cathedral, his voice carrying centuries of accumulated horror at watching friends transform into monsters.
The feeding stops. Kaerith looks up from his meal with mild irritation, blood running down his chin. But then his expression shifts to something worse—amusement.
Elira laughs, the sound bright with cruel delight.
"You're eating them!" Thorrin's voice cracks with revulsion.
"And?" Kaerith replies, rising from the bone throne. The casual cruelty in his voice makes my blood freeze.
“Look at what you have become,” Thorrin says, “We did end this to become like them.”
“You think I am like them?” Kaerith replies. “No, I am more than them.”
Elira settles back to watch, her eyes bright with anticipation.
"You're weak," Kaerith continues, his voice carrying casual certainty. "Clinging to your little pet because you're too pathetic to function alone. You are a monster, a beast of the night. Not some wood cutter that comes home to fuck his fat wife.”
Thorrin lurches forward but Kaerith’s strike comes quick.
Kaerith's claws rake across Thorrin's face, sending him crashing into the wall with contemptuous ease.
Thorrin struggles to rise, blood streaming from facial wounds. Kaerith watches with the same expression someone might use to observe a dying animal.
"Leave, before I kill you both" Kaerith says flatly.
Thorrin hesitates, looking between us and the blood-soaked throne room.
"NOW."
I help Thorrin to his feet, his weight heavy against me as we stumble toward the entrance. Behind us, they resume their feast with wet sounds of consumption, already forgetting we exist.
We step outside and I am thankful for the fresh air. The moon is rising and the forest stirs. The mountains watch us with pity.
“Where will we go?” I ask.
“Toward the last light. To Fenris,” he replies. “While it still shines, we have hope.”