An attack came without warning—a flash of steel cutting through the clammy air like a silver shard of moonlight. The dagger with its narrow blade spun through the air. If it were me, I'd literally have the blade penetrate my skull. But the man with the scythe remained unmoved by the death that sought him. His hand rose with deliberate grace, quicker than my pulse. Between his fingers, the dagger found its rest, caught by the blade like a falling leaf.
A blonde boy burst past us. So young, so foolishly brave. This cursed place was no sanctuary for an urchin like him, yet here he was. Hunger? Maybe abandonment? I didn't know why someone his age would be drawn to such a dangerous place. Why was he rushing?
At the next moment, I found the answer.
A man, more like a disfigured creature, was dashing towards us. The menace had two slits as mouths lined with sharp teeth protruding from them in irregular patterns. He lacked a nose. However, a quartet of hollow sockets replaced them. The bloodshot eyes lusted for something that even blood wouldn't satisfy.
The growl that rumbled from its throat seemed to shake the walls of the chamber. It launched itself forward, but the scythe bearer stepped back and summoned his faithful blade. The wooden snath of his weapon whistled through the air. The impact sent the creature reeling backward, a choked sound of surprise escaping its distorted throat.
Recovering its balance, the creature's chest heaved with ragged breaths, claws flexing. As it gathered itself for another assault, I watched the scythe-bearer adjust his stance, his fingers finding their familiar places along the snath's length. Every movement spoke of experience.
The second clash was brutal in its simplicity but slightly confusing. The creature lunged with murderous intent, but not at the scythe bearer but rather the boy who fled.
The snath became a blur of motion and slammed onto the assailant. The sound of impact was visceral—a wet crack that seemed to echo in the confined space. The force of the blow sent the creature hurtling backward until it met the cracked brick walls. The beast slid downward, its breaths coming in ragged gasps.
Before the creature could gather its wits, a woman, her face obscured by an intricately laced mask, strangled it. Her movements were sleek and synchronized with her agility as she landed on the maimed creature. In her hand gleamed a syringe, its contents swirling with an ethereal luminescence. With practiced efficiency, she drove the needle, plunging it deep into the creature's neck bulging with veins. The beast's reaction was immediate and violent—its body convulsing beneath her as the serum burned through its blood.
The transformation that followed was both fascinating and horrifying to witness. The creature's form began to shift and flow like wax beneath a flame. Its savage features melted away to reveal something more recognizable, more human. Bones cracked and reformed, and muscle and sinew wove themselves into familiar patterns. In seconds, there lay a young man, his eyes wide and unseeing as consciousness fled. The woman stepped back. Sweat glistened on what little of her face was visible beneath her mask. Her breathing was heavy as she watched the last vestiges of monstrosity fade from her victim.
Throughout it all, the man with the scythe remained motionless, observing the scene with an air of detached concern. The boy, whose reckless entrance had preceded this violent display, had retreated to a corner of the chamber. He stood there now, casually gnawing on a roasted leg of meat, his sapphire eyes caught between amusement and defiance as he watched events unfold. The contrast between his youth and the casual way he regarded such violence was jarring, a reminder of how this world had corrupted even its youngest inhabitants.
When the scythe-bearer finally turned his attention to them, the very air seemed to grow heavier and colder. His red eyes carried within them a weight of judgment that seemed to press down on all present. A silent condemnation that needed no words to make itself prominent. He took a single, measured step forward.
"Explain yourself."
The woman shifted uncomfortably, her black masked face turning first toward the fallen young man, then to the boy who continued his meal with deliberate indifference. Her hesitation was palpable, a physical thing that seemed to thicken the air between them. When no answer echoed, the scythe bearer's voice cracked through the silence like a whip.
"Speak up!"
The woman's voice came muffled, trembled with exhaustion, and suppressed fear.
"It... it began as a game, Sein," she said, pointing weakly toward the unconscious figure on the floor. "Wouter and Kerg were playing chess. Wouter wouldn't stop winning, and..."
She trailed off, guilt coiling in her words as she continued, "He couldn't take it anymore."
The scythe bearer's jaw tightened as he processed her words.
"You risked damn life... over a game of chess?" His attention shifted fully to the boy, contempt dripping from every word. "And you find this amusing?"
The boy's face was saturated in adolescent defiance. He met the man's gaze without flinching, savoring another bite of his meal.
"It ain't my fault if he's a sore loser!"
The casual disregard seemed to feed the tension in the room. It made the air crackle.
The scythe bearer's eyes narrowed to fine slits, his presence becoming somehow larger and more threatening.
"Wipe that smile off your Wouter!", Sein demanded.
But Wouter brushed the words off, rolling his eyes.
"I left you in charge, Lyra, and this is what happens?" Sein said, turning to the woman.
Lyra's shoulders slumped beneath the weight of his disapproval.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, though beneath the apology lurked something else—a bud of resentment that's yet to bloom. She bowed her head, accepting the rebuke even as her hands clenched at her sides.
"Apologie don't heal damage."
A heavy sigh escaped Sein, his anger settling in. His gaze moved to the young man still lying unconscious on the floor, and his expression softened fractionally.
He gestured sharply to the fallen Kerg. "Get up."
Kerg stirred, struggling to his feet with visible effort. His eyes were glazed, confused, as if the memory of his transformation was already fading like a half-remembered nightmare. He swayed, pressing one hand against the wall.
"What happened?" Kerg asked.
The scythe bearer landed a quick slap on the reverted man's face.
"Never do this again!" Sein boomed, "Do I make myself clear?"
Kerg, with a stream of blood escaping from the corner of his lips, nodded slightly. He was a bit puzzled, unsure of what happened.
Sein's final look encompassed all except me—the defiant boy, the chastened woman, and the disoriented young man. His gaze carried weight, and the promise of consequences should such events repeat themselves.
"Hey, Sein, who's that?" Wouter asked, ignoring his superior's glare.
Sein reverted his gaze at me.
"I'm Russell."
"Is this chump our new member? You're a beggar, right?" the blonde boy said.
This little brat!
I managed to keep my nerves steady, grinding my teeth as I dismissed his comment.
"No, I'm a guitarist."
"Oh, a Resonator! Nah, I still think you sleep in the slums. You don't even have a guitar!"
I clenched my fists, but Sein grabbed my shoulder and shook his head sideways.
"I thought you'd infiltrate the lab." Lyra said, "I didn't expect you to return with a Resonator."
"Forget it." Sein responded, "I think we have the results in our hands."
I felt like a tool, only to run it course and be left in the shed.
"But wouldn't that be lethal for us?" Kerg interrupted.
Sein's face twisted and he said, "Not without his instrument."
A brief silence filled the chamber.
"Anyways, how's Ven doing?"
"Still in his bed. He's asleep for a day now." Lyra's voice grew louder, as reported. "We still couldn't figure out what the black orb does."
"I'll go check on him. Lyra, clean up this mess."
Sein stormed out of the place and ventured deeper into the chamber.
We all exhaled a breath of relief, almost in unison. Lyra's brows relaxed. Some of the rigidity left her posture as the immediate threat of punishment receded.
"You alright?" She asked Kerg softly, her voice surprisingly gentle. He nodded weakly, wincing as his hand found the bruises blooming along his ribs where the scythe's shaft had struck.
The boy broke the heavy silence first, his voice low but still carrying that edge of rebellion.
"He acts like he's so perfect," he muttered, glaring at the doorway through which Sein had disappeared. "Like he's never made a mistake. Does he really think he's better than all of us?"
"You don't understand, Wouter," Lyra replied, her voice tight with emotion. "Who saved your skin when you were dying in the Void? You should be grateful!"
"What's the difference?" he said in a derisive tone.
He turned away, shoving the last bit of meat into his mouth with less enthusiasm than before.
Kerg's eyes darted between them until he remembered what occurred.
I truly felt like black sheep in a flock of white. Maybe Sein isn't so bad after all. Maybe he's someone I can rely on, at least for now.