I keep walking, falling back into the rhythm of the group, boots squelching through moss and leaf-litter, the occasional root snagging at my toes. The others take my excuse of "just tripped" at face value. The tension in their shoulders slackens, and their attention slides back to the woods, to the ever-present threat of something watching us from the shadows. Only Elijah lingers near me, his concern plain in the set of his jaw, the way his eyes flick over me. I give him a quick, dismissive nod. I'd rather deal with monsters than his pity.
Zaria's another story. She throws me a glance—measured, knowing, a spark of curiosity burning in those gold eyes that I don't like one bit. I meet her gaze, flat and cold, until she looks away. I am more certain the ever that she knows who and what I am. But what her angle is I haven't figured out. To be honest I'm surprised no one else has connected my name to the three mark bearer but Ill take the wins. I can't afford to care right now anyways. There's too much else gnawing at my insides.
As we move, I turn inward, dissecting what the voices showed me. The vision of power thousands kneeling, my will a hammer that shatters armies, a world bent beneath my shadow it should thrill me. Maybe it does, in some dark corner of my heart. But mostly, it fills me with a sick, crawling dread.
What do they want from me? The voices, what even are they? Are they gods or some ancient evil, thing that rides shotgun in my head they urge me toward conquest, toward divinity, toward becoming more than human. They promise I could have everything I want if I just stop resisting, if I accept the monster they say I am. But can I trust them? Doubtful. Or are they just echoes of my own flaws and fears, a side effect of being marked three times, of having fearmonger stitched into the fabric of my soul?
I scan the faces around me everyone marching, shoulders hunched, eyes darting. I wonder: does anyone else struggle when using their powers? Do the others struggle with voices or visions or literally anything? Or is this just me Ayato Daath, the freak, the outlier, the first tripled marked human in known history.
I remember my Rite of Manifestation. The Inquisitors, robed in black, their eyes burning with zeal. The gods at least, that's what the Inquisitors say whispering from the corners of the my being into my soul, their voices like thunder and honey, their words curling around me. "With extreme power comes extreme suffering." They said as if it was a fact of life and not them cursing me. At the time, I thought they meant sacrifice, discipline, the price of greatness. But now… now I wonder if they meant this. The gnawing voices. The visions of ruin and empire. The sense that my mind is less my own with every day that passes.
Is this what they wanted? Is this what it means to be marked three times to be driven mad by the very thing that makes you strong? Is the suffering supposed to grind me down, hollow me out, until I finally break and become whatever god or monster the voices want me to be? Or is the suffering the point a test, a crucible, to see if I can hold on to my humanity through it all? Either way to hell with them.
Like what does it even mean to "become a god"? The words echo, meaningless and vast, in the hollow of my skull. Am I supposed to rule, to conquer, to make slaves of the world? Is that divinity power for its own sake, untempered by mercy or restraint? Or is it something deeper, something the voices can't explain or don't care? I don't know. I hate not knowing.
My anger simmers, a slow, red heat in my chest. I don't want to be a god. I want to be strong, yes. I want to be untouchable, unbreakable, so no one can ever hurt me again. I want control over my fate, over my power, over the monsters both outside and within. But I don't want to lose myself. I don't want to become a tyrant, a thing that rules by fear alone why would I want to perpetuate a system that took my parents. What's the point of surviving if I'm not myself when I do?
The voices rejoice at my anger, shrinking to the edges of my mind as I subdue them back under my control, coiling like snakes in the dark. Their presence is still there waiting, patient, hungry but for now, they are silent.
I focus on the woods, the endless green gloom, the shapes moving just out of sight. I keep my hand on my hilt, my senses sharp. The others talk in low voices Elijah muttering jokes to no one in particular trying calm the tension, Arya humming a Verionese lullaby, Lucian and Vihaan speaking in clipped, quiet tones about routes and what to do about food and water. Marek hums to himself, a low, wordless tune, while Lysa darts glances back and forth, never still.
The silence falls like a hammer. One moment, the forest is full of the soft shuffle of boots, the hush of nervous voices, the distant snap of a twig. The next, it is utterly, impossibly still. Every bird, every insect, every breath seems to die at once. Even the air feels thick and unmoving, pressing on my chest so that it's hard to draw breath.
My nerves jolt. I force the lingering haze of my thoughts away, adrenaline slicing through the fog, training kicking in with cruel efficiency. My hand is on my sword before I even know it, blade whispering free of the scabbard, every sense straining for a threat. I scan the trees, the shadows, the moss-choked roots. I feel, rather than see, the rest of House Apophis do the same bodies tensing, weapons drawn.
And then, before any of us can move or speak or even blink, the world explodes.
It happens so fast I almost can't register it. At the very front of our formation, Ayil cute and stubborn, the one with the force field mark just… ceases to exist. There's no warning, no struggle, no time to react. One second she's there, tense but alive, her hand twitching as she scans the path ahead; the next, she's gone in a spray of red, a grotesque blossom of blood and bone and shreds of uniform that paints the air and the ground and the people closest to her. Bragg, who was just to her right, is spattered in gore, wide-eyed and trembling, his mouth opening and closing but no sound coming out. The giant of a boy reduced to a statue, locked in shock.
Someone screams high, shrill, panicked the cry echoing through the trees like the wail of a dying animal. My own heart slams against my ribs, my breath coming in sharp, hot gasps. "What the fuck!" I shout, but my voice is lost in the chaos, the sudden, wild panic that ripples through the group like fire through dry grass.
Our tentative Formation shatters. All of our bravado and weak willed unity, gone in a heartbeat. A few students spin and run, scrambling over roots and each other in their desperate rush to get away from whatever just happened back down the path we came from. That's a Mistake. I lunge forward, trying to get between the panicking herd and the woods, trying to shout them down, to call them back, but I'm too slow.
Six more bodies burst apart in quick succession, the sound like wet fruit hitting stone, blood and viscera spraying in bright, terrible arcs. One moment, they're there faces twisted in terror, eyes wide then they're nothing but ruin. The rest of the house freezes, those still standing staring in shock and horror, some sobbing, some hyperventilating, others silent and locked in place.
The forest is streaked with red, the smell of iron and death thick in the suddenly stifling air. I stagger, sword up, spinning to try and see, to understand, but there's nothing no movement, no sign of the attacker, no warning.
And then a voice, vaguely female, echoes through the gloom. It's everywhere and nowhere, above us, below us, behind my eyes.
"Cur currere?" it asks, almost curious, almost amused. The words slide through the air like oil, smooth and cold and utterly wrong. It takes me a second to translate. "Why run?"
I whirl, trying to pinpoint the source, but the voice is everywhere at once. My skin crawls, my heart thunders, but I force myself to speak, to snarl out a challenge. "Who are you? What do you want?"
A laugh, soft and low, snakes through the trees. "Tam diu est ex quo canes deorum ausi sunt in regnum meum ingredi!" ["It has been so long since the dogs of the gods have dared to enter my domain."]
The words send a cold spike of terror through me. I scan the shadows, every nerve on fire, the voices in my head gone silent for the first time in years. I see the others, what's left of us, huddled together Bragg still trembling, blood dripping from his hair and hands; Elijah pale and wide-eyed
Lucian kneeling over the remains of one of our classmates, hands slick with blood, eyes wild and angry. Zaria stands near the center, her gold eyes narrowed, lips moving in a silent curse. Vihaan is frozen, jaw clenched, his knuckles white on the hilt of his blade.
I try to count, to see who's left, but my thoughts keep slipping, my mind refusing to accept what just happened. Seven dead in seconds. Seven gone, with no warning, no chance to fight. I grip my sword tighter, forcing myself to breathe, to focus.
The voice laughs again, richer this time, tinged with hunger. "Cum signis deorum venistis, vos ipsos tutos putantes. Sed hic non estis in domo vestra. In silvis meis estis, et hic nulli dei sunt. Solum praeda." ["You come bearing the marks of the gods, thinking yourselves safe. But you are not home. You are in my woods, and here, there are no gods. Only prey."
With those words I realize most of us wont live to see tomorrow. I hate being right. Because despite what I've thought I've known my entire life here was undeniable proof. Here Be Monsters.