Azvalath’s head throbbed, both from his commands and from running, but he managed to lead the Ferash Therall out of the woods. He skidded to a stop and turned to face his enemy. The boy was panting and sweating despite the bitter cold. Azvalath held up his sword.
“You have an ichor blade,” the Ferash Therall observed. “How strange.”
“I can’t remember which one of you roaches I took it off of,” said Azvalath.
The boy produced his own weapon, a battle axe that looked strong enough to split a man’s skull. Even with the weapon in his hands, he looked terrified. “My name is Sotka. Just so you know.”
Azvalath growled. He knew the Ferash Therall was trying to make him feel empathetic, and empathy for a monster was weakness. He waited for Sotka to make his move. The axe swung at his head. He ducked at the last possible second. Sotka tried again. Azvalath ducked again, then slashed his enemy’s abdomen.
Sotka grunted, but did not fall. Azvalath’s head pounded. He dodged another swing with inhuman speed. Then another. “Now drop the axe!” he commanded.
The axe fell from the Ferash Therall’s hands. At the same time, pain exploded behind Azvalath’s eyes. He screamed, then grabbed Sotka and rammed the sword through his chest with a wet crunch.
Sotka crumpled into Azvalath’s arms. Azvalath pulled the sword out. The blade was drenched to the hilt in bright red, frothy blood, which he wiped off on his enemy’s cloak. Sotka thrashed and cried out in agony, but his scream was silenced as he choked on his own blood. Azvalath sank to his knees, holding the boy tighter. He seemed even smaller than before.
Then Azvalath heard Zoromon run toward him. “There was no partner. Seems like he was alone,” said Zoromon. He crouched next to Azvalath and looked at the dying Ferash Therall. “You shouldn’t let him suffer, Azvalath.”
“There's nothing humane about killing someone," said Azvalath. "Not a damn thing."
They sat there in silence until Sotka choked out his last breath. Gingerly, Zoromon reached out to shut the Ferash Therall’s eyes. Azvalath took a deep breath. His head hurt like he had cracked his skull. Auras blurred his vision. Was it sadness? Pity? He did not know. All he knew was that the blood on his hands would never truly wash away.
Azvalath looked up. The auras nearly blinded him. All he saw was Zoromon’s blurry outline.
“Are you all right, Azvalath?” Zoromon asked.
“Migraine, I think,” said Azvalath.
Another moment of silence passed. Finally, Zoromon said, “Why don’t we take him back and bury him tomorrow morning? You can rest until then.”
Azvalath nodded. He lifted the corpse and followed Zoromon back to their hut. He took each step tentatively. Sotka’s body seemed heavier than before.
Zoromon huffed. “Look, I understand that you just fought, but why the moping? You won. You’re alive. What’s so horrible about that?”
Azvalath gave Zoromon the ugliest glare he could muster. “I’ll always love you, Zoromon, but I really don’t like you right now.”
Neither of them said anything the rest of the way back. When they arrived, Azvalath laid the body down by the firewood pile. The white wolf growled at him from behind the woodpile. It had not moved from there since Azvalath had pulled it away from Machli.
“I suppose you can have him if you’re really hungry,” said Azvalath. “Look. I’m only trying to protect you.”
The wolf didn’t move.
Azvalath sighed and went inside. He collapsed onto his bedroll and pulled the blanket over himself. Zoromon looked down at him. “You’ll be all right if I go and bring the horses in, right?”
Azvalath thought about it for a moment. “Goodness. It’s almost dark, isn’t it? Yes. Go do that. If it’s dark by the time you’re done, stay in the stable for the night, or at least don’t make yourself obvious to the Ferash Therall.”
“Will do.” Zoromon waved goodbye and left.
Azvalath regretted sending him off almost immediately. It was colder without Zoromon beside him, and he had no one to talk to. He chewed his cuticle until it bled. The pain in his head finally started to subside in the dark and quiet. It was then that he realized the sudden lack of pain in his burned hand and scored back.
He unwrapped his hand. It was scarred, but no longer scorched. It must have been the bluehole water. He had heard about it having restorative properties. Then he remembered the wolf. Zoromon was right. It wasn’t normal to recover that fast. The woman Tevorac must have given the wolf bluehole water.
As the pieces fell into place, Azvalath only had more questions. But there was no one to ask, and he doubted anyone had answers.
He closed his eyes. It seemed only a few minutes later that he opened them again. The wolf had started howling outside. “Quiet!” Azvalath shouted, and then it stopped.
When he woke up again, it was to the sound of someone coughing. He opened his eyes, expecting to see Zoromon, but no one was there. Then he heard a horrible wheezing sound. Then a voice just outside the hut. “I’m terribly sorry to wake you, but could you spare me a blanket? It’s so cold out here.”
He didn’t believe it. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. How could it be real? The person stepped inside. Azvalath stared at him with dawning horror.
It was Sotka.
He was deathly pale and drenched in his own blood, but he was breathing. At least, he was trying to. Azvalath’s stab had punctured his lung. Not only that, Azvalath told himself. It had killed him. Had it not?
He tried to rationalize what was happening. Maybe Sotka had only been unconscious. But that didn’t make sense either. The wound had been lethal. He had stopped breathing. Azvalath narrowed his eyes. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“You gave me this.” Sotka pointed to the ragged hole in his chest. “Would it kill you to give me a blanket?”
Azvalath didn’t say anything.
Sotka sucked in another rattling breath. “Shouldn’t you be happy, Azvalath? Death stole something precious from you. And now…now it’s not so certain.”
Azvalath growled. “You don’t know anything about me. So quit being philosophical.”
“You lost someone. A dear friend. A sister, one might say.” Sotka’s left arm flailed like it had a mind of its own. “But you know what’s strange? The Reverse…the other side…she isn’t there.”
Azvalath blinked. Whatever was going on, nothing had ever confused him more. “I don’t know what nonsense got into your head between now and what should’ve been the end of this, but the Reverse is where you should be, not me or anyone close to me. Understand?”
Sotka stepped closer. He twitched his head and made a clicking sound. Azvalath swung his sword. It slashed the Ferash Therall’s pallid face, but he didn’t even flinch. It was like hitting a piece of meat. Azvalath gagged and recoiled. Sotka’s blood dripped on the floor. The stench of it flooded his nostrils, sharp and metallic.
Azvalath darted out of the hut, only to find the white wolf standing outside. Sotka followed him out. His head lolled from side to side. “This is Akyvak,” said Sotka. “That’s his name. Your leader killed his mother. This is his blessing.”
Azvalath took a deep breath and focused on Sotka. “Now kneel.”
Sotka stayed on his feet and laughed bitterly. “Your power is void, Azvalath. I answer to him, not you. And you have no command over him. Now tell me where she is. And don’t follow me.”
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