Wait… what the hell just happened? I was there, standing, ready to savor the moment, ready to taste that little girl with my companions like you'd open an overripe fruit, saliva already pooling in our mouths — and then suddenly, without warning, a creature appeared.
I don't know where it came from, that thing, but I remember the feeling — that icy sensation crawling down my spine when Merya, who barely had time to turn her head, got her throat slit like her flesh wasn't worth more than an overstretched curtain.
Her blood burst into the air and she collapsed with a wet sound — almost comical, if my mind hadn't realized at that exact moment that something fundamental had just shifted.
I stood there, frozen, unable to move, paralyzed by a fear of death that flooded my body, while my companions screamed, drew their weapons in pathetic reflex, and she walked forward without haste — as if the world around her no longer existed, as if we were just poorly drawn shadows she was erasing with a fingertip.
And me, in that theater of carnage, I couldn't act, couldn't look away as Den was impaled like a pig, as Roj slid down the wall leaving a trail of shattered flesh. And it was only when her eyes briefly brushed mine — without hatred, without interest, like a god glancing at a meaningless ant — that my body finally reacted.
I turned and ran, even knowing I had no chance, but ran anyway — because it was that or die. And in that moment of total panic, of absolute dishonor, I dared look back — just once — and saw she wasn't following me.
As if I was already dead in her mind, as if my flight didn't even deserve attention, as if my life wasn't worth enough to justify the slightest effort.
"Goddamn… what a horrible creature!"
I stop dead in the alley, legs weak and breath still stuck in my throat, when I recognize three faces — three brothers in grime and beatings — leaning against a wall like they own the world, one with half-chewed meat between his teeth, the others passing around a bottle, and me showing up, panting, sweating, covered in blood and fear.
They look at me — first confused, then with that squint you get when you know something's wrong. Not the kind of wrong you joke about. The kind that reeks of real trouble. The kind that brings questions — and blades.
"What the hell did you do?" says Maren, the tallest — the one who hits first and asks later — and I don't even have time to answer before a metallic clang rings out in the distance, at the end of the street.
I turn stiffly, and feel the tension spike — not just in me, but in the other three too — because when the guard comes near our turf without warning, it's never good. And when one of us returns covered in blood, running like a madman… those two facts don't mix well.
"Man, did you lead the dogs here?" hisses one of them, already looking pale. I shake my head, but I don't have time to lie or explain — I can already feel the torches at the end of the street.
Did soldiers find the bodies?
"It wasn't me… it was a girl we wanted to have some fun with… and then this kind of creature showed up… she sliced us up like pigs…"
Silence.
No one laughs.
And that's when we see them — helmets rising, slowing figures, black cloaks floating — the guard hesitating to enter the den, because they know damn well this isn't their turf.
Then Maren grabs my shoulder, shoves me against the wall, and growls through his teeth:
"Don't move. If you don't want us all in a cell, shut up and tell me what really happened."
I try to speak, to explain, to put words to this nightmare, but I barely get three syllables out before the torches are already here, the black cloaks too, and in the tense silence of the alley, their boots echo like hammers against my skull.
Their leader steps forward, hand on the hilt of his weapon, eyes hard — not the joking type, not the bargaining type — and when he stops a few steps away, he doesn't even look at me. He's staring at Maren, with that cold, jaded look of someone who's seen worse.
"We received a report of a bloody attack. A child, multiple corpses, one survivor — in this sector."
No one moves.
The silence clings to the skin.
"Does this have anything to do with you?"
And then Maren looks at me.
Not for long.
Just a second.
But I get it.
I get, in that look, that I've lost my place.
That I've gone from brother to liability.
"This guy showed up in a panic not even two minutes ago. Came to hide here, that's all. He's not one of ours."
I feel a weight drop in my gut.
Like I was gutted without a blade.
The other two nod, backing up the lie with convincing faces — no trembling, no pity, no hesitation.
I stammer a "what?", a pathetic protest, but already two guards grab my arms, tighten their grip, and the chill of metal crawls up the back of my neck.
And as they drag me off, I hear Maren mutter behind me:
"Should've thought twice before dragging us into your shit, idiot."
The cobblestones blur under my feet as they haul me off without care. The chains on my wrists bite into my skin, and the stench of sweat, piss, and smoke already clings to my nose as we approach the city's underground — that damn black belly where they dump what no one wants to see on the surface.
The torches barely light the stairs, each step sounding like a funeral drum. I try to say I'm not guilty, that it was madness, that some horned monster slaughtered my friends — laughing maybe, I don't even know if she laughed, I just ran — but no one listens. The two guards drag me like a wet dog, and the third is taking notes like he's writing my death in black ink.
We pass a large gate of rusted iron — it groans like a ghost's wail — and inside… it's hell.
Cells lined up, packed tight, full of shadows and whispers, eyes glinting in the dark, hands reaching out for scraps of bread — or flesh — groans, curses, and the stench of mold, skin, shit, and dead ends.
They throw me into a cage without a word.
The gate slams shut.
Clack.
And then, I'm alone.
Well… almost.
In the darkness, a voice rasps, calm:
"You saw it too, huh? The monster?"
I raise my head, heart still pounding, and my eyes slowly adjust to the gloom. He's there, sitting in the corner's shadow, hunched over a ratty blanket, knees tucked to his chest, dirty beard, tangled hair — looks like total human garbage… but his eyes don't lie.
I say nothing, try to ignore him, but he goes on, voice slow, almost amused.
"She's beautiful, isn't she? With those horns, eyes like blades… Moved like she floated. Rare to see a predator smiling like a child."
A shiver climbs my spine.
I sit up straighter, tense.
"You were there?"
He nods slowly, not even looking at me.
"In the street, yeah. Lying between two crates. No one sees me, you know. It's convenient. You can watch everything you want without being noticed."
I narrow my eyes. He talks too calmly, uses words too carefully for a simple vagrant.
"The guards caught you too?"
"Mmm. Found me nearby. Thought I touched the kid, or the blood. Or just that I knew too much." He smiles — yellow teeth in the dark. "You know how they are. When they don't know who to punish, they grab whoever's close."
I half-stand, heart pounding again. I don't know this guy — but he creeps me out, like I'm not the one trapped with him… but he's the one locked in with me.
"Who are you, really?"
He finally turns his eyes toward me — and I instantly regret asking. His gaze is fixed, like two nails driven into my skull, and his smile widens — but not with joy.
"I'm just someone who watches. Who understands fast. And who knows how to wait."