Chapter 62 The Harvest of Broken Souls #2
But I don’t feel the pain.
Anger surges through me, drowning everything else out, sharpening my focus. The monster tries to strike again, but then, it stops. It stares at its hands. At my blood staining its rotting skin. And then it screams.
A piercing, earsplitting wail of agony.
Its body convulses, its veins bubble as if something is boiling beneath its flesh.
Its movements turn even more unnatural than before, its hollow eyes bulge.
And then it melts. Skin sloughs off in blackened chunks, muscle disintegrating into steaming, frothing rot.
It collapses into the dirt, then shrivels into nothing.
I freeze. My heart pounds so hard it hurts. What the—
Another monster lunges, but before it can touch me, Theron slams into it, tearing into its chest and ripping it apart limb by limb. And it still doesn’t die. Enough.
I snarl and slam the blade of my sword straight through its skull, twisting it with a wet crunch.
It stops moving. Huh?
Not because of my sword. Because of the blood. A single drop from my shoulder drips onto its face. It twitches once, then collapses, shriveling into the same melted, rotting nothingness. I can barely breathe.
My blood. My blood kills them.
I don’t know how. I don’t care. I meet Theron’s wide, shocked gaze. His chest heaves, his face covered in the blood of our enemies. I lift my injured arm, letting more blood drip from my fingertips.
And then I grin. “Theron,” I breathe. My shoulder burns, but I don’t care.
He grabs two creatures by their skulls and smashes them together with a loud crack. Their hollow eyes still stare as their bodies twitch. He turns to me, fur matted with blood. His blood. Their blood. “Yes, my dove?” His voice is rough, but his eyes are locked on me.
I lift my blade and drag my wounded arm across the steel. Theron’s entire body tenses. His ears flick back, his tail lashes, his stance shifts as if he’s about to lunge and stop me. But he doesn’t. Because he understands.
This is the only way. If my blood kills them, so be it.
I take my good arm and slice my palm, then the other. The sting is uncomfortable, fire races through my skin, but I don’t stop.
I raise my hands, coated in my own blood.
It drips from my fingers, splatters against the dirt.
My heart pounds. “LISTEN ALL!” My voice shakes the battlefield.
Every single warrior—orc, vólkin, nymphá, wolf—and every single twisted, grotesque monster turns their head toward me. They feel it. They hear it.
They know.
“EACH OF YOU, TAKE MY BLOOD. IT KILLS THEM.”
Theron’s gaze locks onto mine, understanding written in every part of his face. He knows what I need. He doesn’t hesitate. Neither do I.
We move.
He smears his paws with my blood, and we run in opposite directions. Theron surges through the chaos, his massive paws crushing bones beneath him, claws raking through the flesh of those in his path. With every step, he grabs a monster, smearing my blood across their skin. And I do the same.
And just like that, they wither.
They scream and melt.
I dodge a monster near me, twist my body, and shove my bloody hand against its throat. The monster seizes, its body convulses, its veins bulge. Then, with a wet, gurgling shriek, it collapses. It rots before it even hits the ground.
Another lunges, swinging a rusted blade, but I duck, pivot, and slam my palm against its ribs. One single touch, and it crumbles.
Everywhere, the battlefield is shifting.
The nymphí move like shadows, slipping between bodies, nails slicing tendons and throats, dipping their hands in the blood I left behind. They cut, stain, let them rot.
They are losing.
They scream and wail, clawing at their melting flesh, writhing as their own bodies betray them. But it takes time. So much time, and my blood is limited. I can only give so much before I collapse.
The ground is slick with blood and corpses, with monsters half-dead, twitching, melting into the dirt. I don’t know how long we fight. I just keep moving. Slash. Strike. Smear. Kill.
The battlefield becomes a slaughterhouse. Pain claws at my shoulder, my muscles ache, my breath is ragged, but I do not stop. The creatures fall, one by one, until only silence remains.
The last monster before my eyes looks familiar. Commander Barric. The tsar is the true monster.
He murmurs, “Blood of creator—”
I slash his throat. A silence thick with the stench of rot. A silence that rings louder than screams. The battle is over. Barric was the last one.
We have won.
“Theron!” My voice rips through the silence, my heart hammering against my ribs. I turn. Where is he? The battlefield is a graveyard, heavy with blood and decay, but my eyes see only one thing. Him. Theron.
He runs toward me, stepping over the broken corpses. He’s drenched in blood, so much blood. His fur is soaked, matted, dark, but he is still running, still breathing.
We did it. We won.
I don’t think. I just run.
Fisting my ruined gown, I sprint to meet him. My vision blurs with exhaustion, with relief, with everything. Just a few more steps.
Just a little closer.
“My mate,” Theron breathes, his voice raw, his hazel eyes burning into mine. Just a little—
A shrill whistle cuts through the air. An arrow. My head jerks up, my instincts screaming. Too fast, too close—
A flash of light erupts from my crystals. My fingers snap up, but too late. For a moment, I don’t move. The battlefield spins. The world goes still.
The arrow broke my crystals. No . . .
But, we won. I don’t understand.
My breath shudders. My legs weaken. My head sways. Just out of reach, Theron stumbles. No—
He sways, then falls to his knees.
No.
No.
This can’t be happening. I haven’t restored the balance. I haven’t spent enough time with Theron.
I haven’t had a child.
Is this how it en—