Twenty Four #2
He stands, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeves. He scans the cracks in the floor, then looks at me with a new expression.
Not respect. Not quite. But a sort of fascination laced with predation, like a man who has just seen something he thought extinct.
He doesn’t say another word. He turns and walks away, whistling.
I stand in the corridor, hands still lit, chest heaving.
I don’t just want to survive anymore.
I’m going to choose.
The heat of the blast lingers on my skin, a phantom memory of Atheron’s grip and the way my own power felt—impossible, like staring into the sun and daring it to blink first.
The air in the corridor is filled with the stink of ozone and burnt stone.
The golden cracks in the floor don’t disappear.
If anything they spread further, spidering out in all directions.
I flex my fingers, watching the light flicker and fade, then drop my hands to my sides.
The adrenaline drains slowly, my body shivering with fear and anticipation.
That’s when the Overseer arrives. Not through a door or around the corner, but straight down from the ceiling.
Its body slides through the surface as though solid matter is only a suggestion.
It lands silently, robes settling with a surreal weightlessness.
Its face is smooth glass, refracting the light so that my own image stares back at me, warped and doubled.
The body is wrong in small ways: joints bending too far, head tilting more than it should, arms folding and unfolding without purpose. I know immediately who is watching.
It stands a breath from me, head cocked. There is no malice, not even curiosity. Only cold, detached observation.
“The Rites require sacrifice.”
The voice is monotone, the usual unyielding resonance of the Overseers.
But midway through the sentence, the tone slips. A second voice runs beneath the first—ancient and mournful, blurred with centuries of fatigue. The next words echo, layered and vibrant, as though the walls themselves are speaking.
“You are so close, my child.”
The words are the Mother Shard’s, but she sounds tired. Desperate, even.
I brace for pain, for violence, but nothing happens. The Overseer just stands there, waiting, as if I’m meant to answer.
I swallow, my throat dry. “What does it matter who wins or dies?” I ask, and my voice is steadier than I feel.
The glass face splits for a second, showing a thousand versions of my own features, each contorted with a different emotion.
“The Light has never made it this far,” she says. “I feared you were all broken.”
That isn’t an answer.
The Overseer’s form flickers out of existence for a moment, like the world can’t hold it.
“The Light Dominion is blinded by its own sun. The Shadow is lost in eternal night. The others rot from within. The world survives because of what you give it.”
The Overseer’s body vibrates slightly, as if containing the voice costs it something.
I take a shaky step forward.
“You could stop this,” I say. “You have the power. I feel it everywhere.”
The hum in the walls grows louder, so deep it rattles my ribs.
“This is not punishment,” she says, her voice softening into a tragic lull. “This is devotion. This is how we heal. You must finish it, my child.”
Her child. The word makes my stomach turn. It hurts to hear it.
I shake my head. “I don’t want to become a monster for you.”
She laughs, so soft I barely register it. “You already have, my Light. But it is not your fault. All my children fight for me.”
She says it like it’s fate. Like I don’t have a choice.
The Overseer lifts one hand and gestures down the hall. “Tomorrow, the count is completed.”
I want to scream. To shatter the Overseer with my bare hands. To make her see that I will not be her weapon. But I’ve seen how that ends. All I can do is plant my feet and meet the gaze of my own fractured reflection.
“I do hope it’s you, my Light. Don’t ruin this now.”
Her voice is so intimate it feels like she is whispering right behind my ear.
It makes no sense. She’s interfering, choosing favourites. This can’t be right.
The Overseer’s body trembles, the glass face flickering with images—Marissa’s smile, Nyxen’s shadowed face, Morwen’s tears—all gone, all feeding the world.
The light in the walls dims, the pink hue fading to warm white.
As the Overseer begins to sink into the floor, the Mother Shard’s voice loses its mask of authority, softening into something private, almost confessional.
“You remind me of someone.”
Then the Overseer is gone.
Just me, the corridor, and a silence no one is left to break.
I return to my room without thinking about it, the way a wounded animal finds the dark corner it knows best. Kael is sitting on the edge of my bed, shirt gone, head down, picking at the knot in his bootlace with determined irritation.
The dark tattoos across his shoulders and arms seem to swirl in the dim light, tracing down his ribs and weaving around places where old injuries have warped the flesh. The scars don’t ruin the tattoos—they fold them into something more beautiful, more honest.
I stop in the doorway and watch him. The golden cracks on the ceiling cast thin stripes of light across his body, so every movement flickers with life and shadow. He doesn’t notice me right away. When he does, he startles, then covers it by rolling his eyes and smirking.
“You know, it’s polite to knock.”
I scoff. “This is my room.”
He grins, but it’s not the predatory look he gives to others. It’s smaller somehow. Real. I sit down next to him, close but not touching.
He looks at me, then looks away. The silence is thick.
“Where did you go?” he asks.
I let out a sigh. “I just—”
Needed a moment alone. But I can’t say that.
He raises an eyebrow at my hesitance.
“Anything interesting out there?” he asks, saving me the awkwardness.