The braided man's smiled a thin, satisfied curve. He lowered the blade from my throat but kept a vice-like grip on my upper arm, shoving me forward towards Roan.
I walked slowly, each step heavy. Behind me, Zale made a choked, broken sound, trying to surge forward only to collapse back onto his knee with a gasp of pain.
Roan's eyes met mine. No plea. No reproach. Just a weary, grim understanding.
I stopped beside him. Bent down. My fingers closed around the worn haft of his heavy axe. I lifted it, the weight unfamiliar and brutal in my hands.
The braided man shifted behind me, a subtle intake of breath betraying his anticipation. "There you go," he murmured, in what he probably thought was encouragement. "Make it clean."
I took one deliberate step, positioning myself.
Then—
I spun.
The axe left my hands in a brutal, whirling arc, hissing through the air like vengeance given form.
The braided man's eyes widened in pure, stunned disbelief. He had no time to raise a hand, no time to dodge. The heavy blade struck him square in the chest with a sickening, wet crunch that echoed off the surrounding rocks.
He staggered backwards, mouth working soundlessly, eyes wide with shock. He took two faltering steps, looked down in utter disbelief at the axe buried deep in his collar bone, then crumpled to the earth like a felled tree.
Silence descended, thick and absolute.
His remaining two hunters froze, their weapons half-raised. One took a hesitant step towards his fallen leader, then snapped his head towards me, his face full of shock and disbelief mirroring his leader's. Without a word, he turned and sprinted into the darkness. The other, after a single, terrified glance at me and the axe protruding from his commander's chest, bolted after his companion, vanishing into the brush.
I stood rooted, chest heaving, the coppery tang of blood heavy in the air.
Behind me, Roan blinked slowly, his breath a ragged whisper. "I thought... Nice throw."
"I know," I said, the words rough.
Zale let out a shaky, explosive breath, sinking fully to the ground, clutching his wounds. "Gods, Iris... For a second there…"
Marco didn't speak. He was already scrambling down the slope, his bow abandoned on the rocks above, his face pale.
I turned away from the body of the braided man, my gaze sweeping the darkness where the hunters had fled. I hadn't needed to voice my choice. The axe embedded in the hunter's chest spoke louder than any words.
My gaze stayed fixed on the body. On the dark stain spreading beneath it, blooming in the dust like some terrible, inverted flower. My knees gave way before I could lock them, the strength flooding out of me like water draining from a shattered vessel. I sank slowly to the hard ground, the fierce rush of battle adrenaline receding, leaving a hollow, shaking void in its wake.
My fingers trembled uncontrollably. The taste in my mouth was foul – ash and the thick, metallic tang of blood, real or imagined, I couldn't tell. It coated my tongue, my throat.
He was dead.
I killed him.
The realization slammed into me with physical force. Not just stopped. Not merely disabled like the others I'd left groaning. Not spared or delayed.
Dead. Ended. By my hand. My throw.
The world lurched sideways. A hot, sour wave surged up my throat, burning. I barely managed to turn my head before I retched violently into the dry earth beside me, my stomach clenching painfully, my whole body convulsing with the force of it. The awful taste intensified.
The image wouldn't fade – the axe striking home, the shock on his face, the crumpling fall. It was etched behind my eyelids.
"Iris." Strong hands caught my shoulders just as I started to pitch forward. Marco's voice cut through the ringing in my ears, low, thick with panic, yet trying desperately for softness. "Hey… I got you. Breathe. Just breathe, okay? In and out."
I curled forward, arms wrapped around my middle as another wave of nausea shuddered through me. My breaths hitched, ragged and broken. His hand slid up to cradle the back of my head, holding me steady against the tremors wracking my frame.
"I didn't—" I gasped, the words scraping out. "I didn't think… Marco, I didn't think it would feel like this." My eyes stung, blurring the awful sight only slightly. "He gave me no choice. He was going to kill Roan. He had a blade on me, he threatened Zale. He said he'd kill us all. He made me choose—"
"I know," Marco murmured, his voice rough but steady. He pulled me closer, tucking my head against his chest, anchoring me in the solid warmth of him, the familiar scents of woodsmoke, sweat, and earth cutting through the pervasive stench of blood and death. "I know, Iris."
"He forced it," I choked out, the words tumbling over each other. "He made me pick up the axe. He thought… he thought I'd kill Roan. He wanted me to. But I couldn't. I couldn't do that. I had to stop him. There was no other way, was there? Was there?" My voice cracked on the plea.
"I know," he repeated, his arms tightening around me, a firm pressure against the shaking. But I had killed him. And whether the act was necessary or justified didn't erase the raw, burning reality of it. But I'd rather be the killer of an enemy than a killer of a friend.
It burned. Like acid in my throat. Like a brand searing my chest from the inside. Behind my eyes, a relentless pressure built, hot and stinging.
"It feels like… like something broke," I whispered against the rough fabric of his tunic, the fight draining out of me, leaving only the awful weight. "Inside."
"I know," Marco breathed, the words a soft rumble against my ear.
I buried my face deeper into the hollow of his shoulder, seeking the grounding scent of smoke, sweat, soil, life – anything to push back the phantom smell of blood, the crushing guilt, the echoing silence that now surrounded the cooling body. The silence I had made.
And he held me. Tight. Through the tremors that wracked my body. Through the harsh, silent sobs that finally tore loose, shuddering through me. Through the hot tears that soaked into his shirt, tears of shock, horror, and the terrifying loss of something irreplaceable within myself. He held me as the night deepened around us, and the heavy axe lay where it had fallen, its blade cold now, soaked not just in blood, but in the irrevocable weight of what I had done, and what I had become.
The low, steady timbre of Marco's voice cut through the chaos swirling inside me, an anchor in the suffocating storm. "Iris…" It was meant to ground me, to pull me back from the precipice.
But it wasn't Marco's voice that shattered the fog choking my mind.
It was a groan. Raw. Guttural. Agony ripped from the core.
Zale.
My eyelids flew open, sticky and heavy. Blinking against the dim, flickering light, I found him. He was still standing. Somehow. A miracle woven from sheer defiance. His silhouette wavered dangerously, a sapling in a gale. One arm was locked across his ribs, fingers digging into his side where the dark stain of blood spread relentlessly, soaking through fabric and leather. His sword, a dead weight, hung loosely in his other hand, its tip scraping a faint, discordant whine against the unforgiving stone floor as he shifted his weight.
Another groan escaped him, sharper this time, laced with a gasp he couldn't suppress.
He was hurting. Badly. Bleeding out right in front of me.
The sight jolted me like lightning. I wrenched my head up from the solid warmth of Marco's shoulder. The world tilted violently, the walls swimming. My limbs felt like hollow reeds, drained of all substance, carved out and filled with nothing but leaden dread and the sickening echo of the axe's impact.
Move. Help him. The command screamed through the numbness.
But my body – my treacherous, trembling prison of flesh and bone – refused. It wasn't just weakness; it was a total, humiliating betrayal.
I tried to push myself up. My knees buckled instantly, muscles screaming in protest, locking rigid with the brutal aftershocks of the throw, the desperate struggle, the… the kill. The image flashed again, unwanted, viciously clear: the brutal arc of the axe, the sickening thud-chunk as it split flesh and bone. The sound reverberated in my skull.
My stomach heaved violently.
"I—I need to get to him," the words scraped out of my throat, a raw whisper aimed half at Marco, half into the void of my own helplessness.
But my legs remained rooted. My arms useless weights.
My fingers, slick with cold sweat, clawed into Marco's arm with white-knuckled desperation. "Why?" The plea was ragged. "Why can't I move?"
His voice, close to my ear, was gentle yet unyielding, the voice of hard-won experience. "Because you're still in it, Iris. That line you just crossed… you just cannot uncross it. Your body knows it. It feels the chasm before your mind's even looked down." His grip tightened slightly, supporting my sagging weight. "You have to stop his bleeding. We will. But not like this. Not while you're still halfway across that line. You need to come back. All the way back to yourself."
My gaze snapped back to Zale. He'd been watching us, his eyes finding mine through the haze of his own pain. Another wave hit him; I saw the tendons in his neck stand out like cables as he clenched his jaw, swallowing a cry. Then, slowly, deliberately, he gave the smallest nod. Not permission. Not a demand. A silent affirmation: I'm still here. I'm standing. I'll hold on. Just… breathe.
That tiny gesture, that unwavering faith placed in my frozen, bloodstained hands, shattered something else inside me.