The man clicks his tongue, twisting the knife handle once more, smiling at the weak, pitiful moan.

Then, roughly, he knees Asorotany back.

Asorotany stumbles backward, hand slowly touch the wound. His heels scrape the asphalt, hitting onto each other. He loses his balance, falling, his head hit the edge of the ground. Numb pain rattles his skull from the impact.

His conscious starts slipping. Black spots colour his vision. His chest squeezes tight as his heart exploding against the rib cages, finally register the pain. Wind envelopes him, frostbites the opening.

Blood from the gash on his head oozing down, bleed into his shirt, warm, sticky against his skin. Asorotany breathes through his nose. His bang flops down from his forehead. His stomach churns and coils.

He can feel the motion of blood draining out and pooling around him—feel it in every cell of his body, feel his life curling away.

Out of his peripheral field, Emi glowers. Her eyes shine, two orbs of light twirling like tornado. A face-paint design scars across her thin, edgy face. Her lips part, but no audible sound comes out.

Yet he can hears it resonating in his head. Sounding far-away, but clear. Echoing like waves offshore.

Are, Are, Are, I call for you. Come, aid me at the brink of death. Are, Are, Are, I shall give you the most precious object in my life in return.

The man spits on Asorotany’s face, wiping the bloody knife on his hairy forearm. “Get what you get, eh?”

“Carion, you’ll pay for this,” Emi jerks, screaming blue-murder at Kozorog’s face. “You’ve ruined my storyline.”

“Boo-boo,” Kozorog says. “Sorry you can’t kiss your Knight, Damsel.”

The stream of voice flood into his head, words swim around his vision. Are, Are, Are, I call for you. Come, aid me at the brink of death. Are, Are, Are, I shall give you the most precious object in my life in return. Emi bows her head and chants, frantic, the sound slurs as one jumbled mess. Repeat it, mortal.

The older man shifts his weight on one leg, raising the weapon. One side of it catches the light, gleaming like Kozorog’s wicked grin. A thin, long, spider-web thread of blood spins down from the edge. It dangles in the air, swinging to the wind, before drips on his nose, barely missing his eyes. The droplets remains there, then slowly, slowly, slowly rolls off his cheekbones, leaving a red, wet trail on his dry skin.

“Oh, my Highest Lord Carion, God of Crime and Mischief, I sacrifice you the life of this young man.”

He brackets his head as the screech amplifies into something like nails dragging on chalkboard, tears burns their way out the his eyes, his eardrums and head ringing to the shrill wailing. Repeat it the sentence, Emi commands, Repeat it.

He opens his mouth. The scream, the fear, the panic rush out of his lungs at once. His voice, Emi’s voice, merge as one. He stares up at the man, his eyes widen as the pitch intensifies and shreds his head into a million pieces.

The man freezes above him. His smug expression shifts into uncertainty. The knife in his hands lowers a fraction.

Kozorog grits out something inaudible from afar, wiping his arm. Emi, like a puppet being yank on the string, flies across the street, smashing hard into the dilapidated brick wall. She yelps, the chanting in his head cuts out abruptly. An unseen force hits him the same time Emi hits the wall. Asorotany gags, his back feeling as if to snap. An invisible fists close around his neck, talons digging into the skin. He coughs, eyes water again as he gasping for air.

On the wall, Emi arch, legs kicking wildly, fingers prying at her neck.

“Always making up more shit instead of let things end without drama, huh, Goddess of Story-maker.” Kozorog snarls. His hand is out. “You want drama? I’ll give you a fucking spectacle. The boy was going to be my next priest, but guess not.” Kozorog’s fingers curl into a fist. With each of his word, the pressure tighten. Asorotany’s saliva drooling out, eyes popping out of their sockets, mouth wide, tongue reaching.

Emi whimpers.

He can’t breath.

Can’t breath.

Can’t. Breath.

Can’t.

Breath.

“Kill the boy,” Kozorog says without turning his head. The rapist jolts. “How about that, Gei? Aren’t that a tragic story? Watching your lover die because of you, in front of you. Isn’t this golden for your so-called storytelling art?”

The man blinks, looking at Kozorog and Emi, before shaking his head.

He rolls his shoulders back. Bending, he hauls Asorotany up by his collar. The hold on Asorotany’s neck relaxing a bit, just enough for him to takes a last hasty long drag of oxygen.

They lock eyes for a brief second, and the man swings his arm.

Asorotany watches as the blade cuts across the space in slow motion. Blackness closing in from either side.

He thinks of her. Are. What lays underneath that skull? Is she a beauty like the gossip claimed to be? What was Fische thinking when he looked at her? Did she smile as she pursuing Fische into killing himself?

He remembers the ram. The fast, springy way it moves. The odd way it studied him, as if it was unraveling him, picking out his secrets, his darkest desires, his dreams, his past, his future. He wonders did it also use that look on the dead as it escorts the soul to Are.

Will it appear in front of him once he’s dead? Will it nudge him toward the magical circle? Will she offer him a ride to heaven, like the old man?

Did the old man reach the happily-ever-after, he wonder.

Maybe he should have listen to Uncle Tarrow.

It’s too late now.

He heard Emi shrieks in the distance, heard Kozorog’s laugh, heard the rapist’s exhaling as he brings the weapon down. He heard the twinkle of the stars and engines revving and cigarette smoke clouding the night sky.

He watches as the tip of the knife comes straight for his heart, eyes widen.

Wonders if his blood will come bubbling out of his chest like lava as the veins and arteries burst.

Ting-a-ling.

Time freezes.

Asorotany doesn’t dare to breath. Or to move. Or to do anything that would disrupt this delicate balance. His world constrists to that single point. That tip. Hovering just right above his chest, an inch before it drives right into his heart.

“Enough.”

The man releases Asorotany. He cries out upon landing. His wounds split bigger, the skin tissues ripping at the seams. Dizziness bursts in his sight. He tries to breath normally through his gritted teeth, hands pressing on his injuries. Blood gushes out of between his fingers, lukewarm against the chilled skin.

“Are,” Emi gasps. “Are you Highness.”

A hulking shadow stands towering over the imposter. A large hand presses on the rapist’s shoulder. The horns and jagged outline of the skull rise in the dark, malignant, unyielding and powerful.

The rapist falls to his knees in a painful thud, mouth gaping, forehead stretches thin. His face distorts into something of terror—pure terror—of someone who will be kick down a rift. He bellows as his shoulders contorts at acute angles, his eyes rolls backward. His neck snaps to the side, then impossibly straighten, the spine lengthening with loud cracks. The woman remains above him, cold as stone. The man sucks in a curt gulp. She gives him a harsh shove and he collapses like a sack of potato. Asorotany gasps, pulling his legs back. The man’s head lands on his knees, pinning him from squirreling away.

The knife falls on the ground. Metal against cement. The echo shrieks sharp against his skin, sending a shiver down his back.