To Bleed a Crystal Bloom by Sarah A. Parker

 

The full-bellied moon casts a silver sheen across Vateshram Forest, the shadows stark against their illuminated backdrop.

My horse gallops around the deeper pockets of black, weaving a path between ancient trees, breaths labored, ears pinned back. Every now and again, he tosses his head in defiance.

I steal a look behind, making sure I’m not being followed.

Seven years ago. That’s the last time I dared to make this trip.

I held off for as long as I could.

Wind whistles through the trees, an icy, Northern-borne breeze that carries a sharp scent and makes my hands tighten around the reins. Everything from the North comes with a taint these days: the wind, the food pulled off trade ships that have traveled down the River Norse, even the water that spills off its mountain border and fills our streams.

Eyzar slows, then stops of his own accord, snorting and pawing the ground.

“Steady, boy,” I soothe, running my hand along his thick, muscled neck.

A deathly hush blankets the forest, and I cast my gaze around, listening, watching ...

A gust of wind breaks the silence, wailing like an agonized beast, teasing an acrid stench past my nose.

My brow buckles, breath catching.

Death. Burning death—coming from the direction of the safe house.

Aravyn.

“Ya!” I growl, digging my heels in.

Eyzar squeals, then charges forward, and every galloping thud lands with a dire echo in my head.

Too late.

Too late.

Too late.

“Faster!”

The trees finally thin, revealing two jagged slopes framing the smoldering remains of a once-grand home.

Eyzar rears to a stop, turning on his haunches. It’s all I can do to keep him from bolting back the way he came as I stare at the devastating scene while ash rains from the sky.

Not fast enough ...

A roaring inferno engulfs the house that’s lost all its shape, now nothing but crumbled stone walls, piles of charred rocks, and flaming wooden beams scattered across the ground like matchsticks. Shaded creatures are collecting in pockets of shadow, maneuvering toward lumps of fried flesh strewn throughout the clearing.

Toomany bodies for a fucking safe house.

Someone screwed up. For their sake, I hope they’re already dead.

Rabid howls preface a strange, sickening sound not unlike the squeal of metal on metal, and a low rumble scours the back of my throat.

I leap off Eyzar, speaking to him in hushed tones as I tie him to a tree that’s lit by firelight. Approaching the ruin in slow strides, I grip the pommel poking over my shoulder, tugging my weapon free; a virulent black blade that blends with the gloom.

The advancing shadows rear back.

I step over a severed hand missing three fingers, the nub dribbling bold, red blood that shouldn’t bring me a sense of relief ... but does.

It’s not part of her.

Them.

I keep going, passing limb after limb, head after head—the bubbled, blistering skin distorting features, but failing to hide the upside down v’s carved into some of their foreheads.

What are the fucking Shulák doing here?

The thought is discarded when my eye catches on a charred leg heaped against a boulder ...

Blood roars in my ears, and a wild, thrashing anger threatens to shred the carefully laid fibers of my constraints.

Not only is the torn flesh seeping an opalescent liquid I’m too familiar with, but the limb is small.

Too small.

I sit on my heels, close my eyes, bite down on my fist ...

Too fucking small.

That anger builds and builds and—

The ground trembles, followed by another strident screech, the commotion spawning from behind the collapsed and burning dwelling.

Murderous mutts.

They’re still here. Still feasting.

Again, that keen, scraping sound dissects the air, followed by a feral howl that carves up the length of my spine like a blade.

My upper lip peels back, and I shove to my feet, cracking my neck from side to side. I set off in the direction of the noise, but a gurgling whimper has my gaze darting to a willow tree; to the figure slumped at its base, her long, pale hair pooled beneath her head ...

Aravyn.

I rush to her side, landing on my knees, sword discarded on the ground. Carefully, I roll her toward me, heart dropping when my hands connect with the warm wetness of her half-spilled entrails.

“Fuck.”

She releases an agonized moan while I inspect the damage.

The edges of her wounds have already begun to gray and fester, emitting a rancid, throat-clogging stench ...

Too. Fucking. Late.

Her frail hand settles atop the clear, heavy jewel she’s always worn around her neck. “T-take it,” she begs, looking at me with eyes wide and luminous, like crystals caught in the sunlight. So different from the others staring blankly from the ground out there.

I swallow thickly, tuck her hair behind her thorny ear, and loosen the latch, catching the jewel. The silver chain falls into my palm, almost blending with the color of her treasured blood on my hands.

“For h-her,” she whispers, folding my fingers over the gift.

Folding my fucking heart just as much.

Last time I came, her belly was round and full, and I don’t have it in me to tell her there’s a small, severed leg lying in the dirt nearby.

A fatal injury.

That Col—her partner—is probably out there, too.

In pieces.

A wet hack spills more of her onto the soil, and her hand lands on the hilt of my blade. “Please ...”

“I have liquid bane in my saddle pac—”

“No,” she gasps. “W-with your sword. Please.”

I pause, feeling her request stack upon my shoulders like a brick.

Giving her a terse nod that carves me up on the inside, I pocket the necklace and take the weight of the weapon, lowering its tip to the left side of her chest.

I hold her stare, a million words trapped behind the clamp of my lips.

Words won’t ease her pain or stop her flesh from rotting—won’t restart the night and bring her family back—so I hold them in, letting them scour my insides and fuel that pit of venomous rage waiting to unleash.

“Prom-m-mise. S-save her,Rhordyn. P-please.”

She’s already gone.

“I promise,” I say, holding her gaze.

The lie does its job, relieving the tightness from around her eyes, but the cost is a phantom skewer through my chest.

I promised her a safe house, too ... and now her family’s dead.

She offers a sad smile, and an iridescent tear paves a path through the filth and blistering flesh on her cheek. “D-do it.”

“I’m sorry ...”

For everything.

She opens her mouth to speak, but I don’t give her a chance to feed me the lie I can see brewing in her eyes. I plant lethal pressure down the sword and draw a gasp from her split lips.

Wide, glassy eyes darken with the shadow of death, taking on a depthless serenity I can’t look away from fast enough.

She would have dished me placating words—told me it’s okay.

It’s not okay.

I hang my head and pretend the stars aren’t staring holes through my back.

But they are.

They always are. And they always fucking will.

Letting my rage bubble to the surface, I pull the sword free and push to a stand.

Smooth. Cold.

Detached.

Without a backward glance, I charge toward a billowy flame devouring the fallen remnants of the thatched roof, then round a mound of blackened bricks and pause in a slab of shadow ...

Vruks. Three of them—eyes black bulbs, bodies much larger than my stallion and heaped with bulging pockets of muscle that shift beneath slick, gray fur.

Neither canine nor feline, but somewhere trapped in the middle.

Huge.

Mighty.

Merciless.

A heinous fucking plague.

Their stubby snouts are splashed red, an arsenal of fangs dripping their plunder. They’re prowling in a tight, snarling circle around a muddy dome—a perfect half-sphere dumped in the rubble.

I tilt my head to the side, nostrils flaring.

One of them rears up, long, lethal talons punching from his paws before he shifts his weight and slashes at the dome. Sparks burst and that shrill etching makes me want to gouge my ears.

More ferocious snarls and howls score the air. The largest of the three dips his head, stamps his nose to the surface of the peculiar object, and roars.

Chaotic, feral frustration ...

And well distracted targets.

I untether the remaining threads of my wrath and stalk forward on feet that barely seem to touch the ground, whipping my blade through the smoke. The first head slides off bulky shoulders, but I don’t wait for the beast to fall. I’ve already dropped and spun—the second Vruk yowling as I drag my sword through his stomach, releasing a spill of innards that steam the icy air.

Quick, clean deaths.

If only they’d given Aravyn the same consideration.

I seize the alpha’s attention, his savage gaze charging into me. The air between us stiffens, and I lift my chin slightly.

The mutt leaps forward, teeth bared and talons spread, a fetid roar staining the air. His head rolls before he has the chance to blink again; the thick, muscular neck yielding to the same metallic kiss that took his fated brethren.

He drops like a boulder, liquid death squirting in rhythm with his failing heart as I release a sharp breath ...

“Shit.”

Killing has a taint, and I reek of it. Doubt I’ll ever be able to wash off the stench. But this world is not merciful, and neither am I.

Not anymore.

Weapon swiped on my coat, I resheathe it down my spine and shift my attention to the dome now greased in a layer of steaming Vruk gore. I crouch to study the strange object, sweeping a hand through the mess, revealing a crystal-like veneer that seems to shimmer with its own light source.

But that’s not what turns my lungs to stone.

Through the reflection of writhing flames and my pinched expression, I can see a child no older than two, clothed in mud and ash and scraps of burnt linen. Her eyes are squeezed shut, hands bracketing her ears as she rocks, face twisted in a silent scream.

I spot her ear poking out through that mess of filthy, soot-stained curls, my eyes widening at the streak of fine, incandescent thorns lining the shell ...

Aravyn had a second child.

The weight in my pocket grows heavy, forcing my knees to the dirt.

S-save her. P-please.

I drag my hand down my face.

Those words are just as hungry as my curiosity. This tiny Aeshlian ... she’s fossilizing her light, using it as a defense mechanism.

An impossibility.

Is she a crossbreed? Did Aravyn seek warmth in someone else’s bed?

I scour the clearing of wide-eyed corpses for any witnesses. Only the shadows watch, collecting along the tree line that circles the devastation like a noose.

Irilak. Hundreds of them. Some bigger than the Vruk I just slayed, others less than half that size.

The scent of spilled blood must have drawn them in. It’s been a while since I’ve seen so many gather in one spot.

I scan each writhing lump of black. Though I can’t see their faces, their combined attention bores into me, no doubt waiting for the flames to ease so they can dart forward and feast.

They can’t have her.

I sit on my heels, prepared to wait forever for her to drop the impenetrable barrier. I may not know this child, but it took years for her mother to agree to move into this safe house, and now she’s dead.

This child deserves better.

Her mother deserved better.

I swallow my guilt and wait.

Hours pass, and I avoid looking at the willow tree, hating that it’s the only tombstone Aravyn will have. That her body will be a feast for the wreath of hungry shadows just as soon as they get the opportunity to pounce.

The sky is burnt from the rising sun by the time the child’s face smooths out, and her lashes sweep up.

I go very, very still.

Her wide eyes are aglitter with thousands of facets, as if she’s staring out from a sky full of stars that hatched in her soul.

Her chin wobbles.

Patches of that crystal dome begin to melt, dripping to the ground as the overwhelming scent of her anguish strikes the back of my throat like a blade.

She doesn’t move—just continues to sit there, tucked in a ball, looking at me with destitute eyes.

Studying me.

The wind howls and her teeth chatter.

I grind my molars.

She’s going to fucking freeze if I don’t get her wrapped up soon, but I refuse to snatch her from the soil. I need her trust.

Her permission.

“I promise I won’t hurt you,” I say, keeping my bold voice low, fearful of scaring her back into that shell where I can’t help her.

She blinks once ... twice ... then finally unravels, bits of mud and ash falling off her as she pushes to her feet and takes an unsteady step toward me, then buckles.

I catch her before she hits the ground, and even through layers of leather and wool, I can feel how cold and fragile she is.

I pull her close and stand. “I’ll keep you safe. Everything’s going to be okay.”

Charging toward Eyzar, I sweep my cloak around her back to shield her from the wind and the sight of so much death; the motion clearing a patch of thick mud from her right shoulder.

My arm stills. Stride stills.

The blood in my fucking veins stills.

Strange markings tarnish her exposed skin, like vines crept across it and left an inky stamp ...

Something inside me blackens and curls as words canter through my thoughts—words that were chipped into stone by a vile, grisly hand years ago.

Words that settle in my stomach like a rock.

Light will bloom from sky and soil,

Skin tarnished by the brand of death …

I almost touch the birthmark cresting the blade of her trembling shoulder, then snatch my hand back and curse.

I promised I wouldn’t hurt her.

I lied.

None of this made sense before, and now it makes too much fucking sense.

No wonder Aravyn kept her hidden. No wonder the fucking Shulák were here. No wonder this necklace is so heavy in my pocket ...

But she was wrong to pull such a pledge from me. Her hope was blind, set on the shoulders of the wrong person.

The child tips her head and tries to speak, but all that comes out is a rasp.

Nausea spikes up my throat.

She saved herself from three ferocious Vruks who tore her life to shreds, only to crawl into the arms of a fiercer threat.

There will be no glory in this death. No shade of honor. Only the blood of a frightened child on my hands.

Smother her while she sleeps or catch the lethal grace.

She looks up at me, trying to speak through a throat that’s been scraped raw.

“It’s okay,” I lie, cupping the back of her head and easing her close. Her cheek settles on my chest again; a comfort that can only be temporary.

Make it quick.

I press my fingertips between her ribs, feeling the beat of her galloping target. That noose of shadows thickens, like the Irilak are anticipating the warm meal to garnish their banquet.

Fuck.

My neck buckles, face dropping into her soot-stained hair. Floral spice whips up and snatches me, dragging my nose deeper until my mouth is pressed against a fresh wound sliced into her scalp.

Liquid warms my lips, and I jerk back, but carnal instinct has my tongue darting out ...

The taste of her blood is a bolt to my brain.

My heart.

My fucking soul.

My legs give way, and I fall to my knees, pulling sharp slices of air through a constricting throat. Every muscle in my body hardens, veins pushing to the surface, my very matter trying to take up more space in the world that suddenly seems too small. Too cruel.

Too fucking dangerous.

I tip my head, seeking the fading stars through twisted ropes of smoke, teeth bared as if I could leap up and chew the prickles of light until their luster no longer sits in the sky. “You bastards …”

I snarl, grip tightening.

No.

Pushing to my feet, I make for my horse in long, determined strides. I climb atop the saddle, bundle the child in my lap, and kick the beast forward—scattering the noose of shadows and my dwindling self-respect in the same ugly motion.

“Go fuck yourselves,” I mutter, severing my sight of the stars by charging beneath the ancient canopy of trees.

The child will not die tonight, but not for the right reasons ...

This act is purely selfish.