Heylel heard it crack—he could've sworn it snapped. His right arm gave way, even as he tasted dirt.
Davain kicked him in the chest. It didn't hurt much; legs with snapped tendons couldn't. Still, Davain yelled, "Get up, rat!"
He tried. His body screamed—but not loud enough to drown out the voice in his head. Move. Or die.
Davain bent down and gripped Heylel's uninjured arm. "I said—get. The. Fuck. Up!"
Heylel's arm burned—an unbearable heat igniting. Not fury, but a searing inferno all the same. The kind that melted skin, that charred bone. And all of it concentrated in his left arm, crushed in Davain's vice-like grip.
"You thought you'd get away?"
Heylel forced his eyes open. Ignoring the pain—all of it—he shifted his broken arm to his waist and parted his lips.
Then he spat. Blood, straight into Davain's eyes.
Davain flinched, his grip loosening just enough.
Heylel's fingers closed around the rusty nail sewn into his tunic. With a sharp thrust, he rammed it into Davain's arm.
Davain let go.
That moment was enough.
Heylel grabbed the dagger at Davain's waist and, in a single motion, drove it into his neck.
Davain froze.
For a second, he seemed to register what had happened. His eyes—still stinging with blood—met Heylel's. Red against black.
Then he collapsed—forward, onto Heylel.
Heylel didn't have the strength to move—let alone dodge. Davain, bastard that he was, had managed to jump him. And of course, the dumb fuck just had to die on top of him—bleeding out all over his rags like it was a personal insult.
All he did was sell a few empty gems as mana cores. And somehow, that earned him this.
Staring up at the stars from under the corpse, Heylel cursed.
"Fuck."
---
Soon enough, Heylel dragged himself to the house of Priest Atny. As the second bell rang through the town, he knocked—three times, then three more.
A pause. Then a scrape. The peephole slid open, revealing a dull brown eye. It stared—at his bloodied rags, his black hair, his scarred face. Just for a moment.
Then it vanished.
He heard the deadbolts unlatch. One. Two. Three. Metal clinks in the night as he slumped against the doorframe.
Atny, bless her heart, was barely dressed. Still, she stood there, frowning deep, brows furrowed.
Then she pulled him in.
He didn't protest. Couldn't, really.
For an hour, Atny moved like a storm. Not a word—not a reprimand, not a sigh. She stitched, cleaned, healed. Her touch burned the pain away.
Only when the last cut could no longer be seen did she speak.
"What happened?"
"Davain," he answered, lying down on his bed of hay and dried straw.
She sat by his side, arms stirring a pot of soup. "Why?"
He sighed, dragging himself upright. "Far as I know, I just sold him some empties mixed with mana crystals."
Her eyes widened—then dimmed with understanding.
Cheating wasn't honest—but this was Nicia's slums. People bought from him because out of ten gems, only one was fake. That was considered generous.
"Lord almighty," she muttered. "You don't know?"
Heylel shrugged, as much as his body allowed. Right then, even the hay felt better than the finest silk.
"He got kicked out of Dogs. Word is, he was preparing something to show Wolf. It didn't work."
That? That Heylel knew. That was why killing him felt fair. It wouldn't put the Dogs on his scent, after all.
Still, he nodded, reaching out with his good hand to her head, running it through her hair.
"What does that have to do with me?"
She didn't resist his touch—never did—but today she pushed it away, gentle but firm. Sullen, huh?
She sighed, setting the soup aside.
"The last time you bled like this, I thought you were gone. I prayed, Heylel. I begged."
Her voice cracked. She was scolding him, yes—but all he could focus on was her warm breath tickling his skin.
"Why must you do this, Heylel? Must you drive me mad for caring?" Her voice trailed off. She sank back down, all her fire drained. "You've come back like this three times this month."
He forced himself up, wrapping the woman of God in his arms. He lied. "Calm down. You know I can't quit. I have to keep you safe, Atny. Both of you."
"I know—"
He sealed her lips with his.
This time, she didn't stop him.
It was her favorite thing in the world, after all.
And Heylel knew it.
He didn't know how long had passed when he finally pulled away. Atny lay asleep beside him—naked, curled into his arms.
The soup she'd prepared had gone cold by now. Like it always did, after. Not that it mattered to Heylel. Not when her body was so warm.
It was only in moments like this—her skin against his, the world kept at bay by a threadbare blanket—that he found peace.
Because while she was his… he couldn't deny it: he was hers, too.
But peace didn't last.
He got up.
There was work to do.
Work. Always work. Heylel pulled his leather over his bare skin and a pair of pants laundried by Atny.
They'd do. He was only going down to the basement. Basements were rare as gold talons in the slums. It was the reason he'd picked this place. That, and the stone-cut walls with iron doors. They were a security measure. One that worked.
He considered her, then. Was that enough?
The answer was obvious.
Atny wasn't a beautiful woman—but in the slums? She was a jewel. More than that, she was a healer. The kind of woman you killed to keep.
Fuck, he thought, teeth dragging across his lip.
A breath later, he opened the door.
And beyond it was madness.
"Heylel?" the chained man looked up, voice strangely calm. He rubbed the cuffs like they were a nuisance—not iron. "Thank the heavens. Let me out of these, and we'll deal with the scoundrel who put me here."
Heylel's ruby eyes reflected the figure: pale, thinner than sticks, eyes sunken, teeth loose. A pitiful man.
But he didn't see the man.
He saw a spider—black as pitch, with a silver gleam to its slick contours. Its body moved like flowing metal. It sat enthroned on its silk web, woven atop the skeleton of a man.
A man he had once called father.
Once. And if only to end it—again.
It had worn his father's bones for years. Feeding on his regrets, mimicking his voice. It knew every word to say.
Heylel didn't stare a second longer.
From his jacket, he pulled a golden rosary—freshly bought that very day.
Holding it high, he stepped forward.
One.
The spider didn't react.
Two.
Still motionless.
Three.
A twitch. Barely a flicker in one leg.
Four.
It recoiled—not to pounce, but to hide.
Five.
It melted into the wall like shadow and oil.
Six.
The rosary pulsed—then blazed, brighter than flame.
Seven.
The spider screeched, its voice a broken flute.
Eight.
It burned—twisting, shriveling.
Nine.
Ash. Nothing more.
The skeleton collapsed—bone hitting stone with a hollow thud.
Reflected in his eyes was the man: pale, pitiful, mouth still parted in pleading.
But that was just the afterimage.
What Heylel saw was bone. Hollowed. Picked clean. Nothing left.
And the golden rosary?
Now, just dull iron.
He pocketed it. He would have it sainted again. It would cost him—cost them. He would burn more horrors. She would bind more flesh.
Together, they'd pay the price.
——————————————————
[A/N: New chapters will be out when ready. Slum Spider is hard to write.]