I wake to the scent of tea. Not blood. Not Sweat. Not the coppery sting of death. Just the rich and bitter aroma of something calm and warm. It unsettles me. My limbs are heavy, sluggish, weighted down by something that isn't just pain. Memories. I try to pull at them. Nothing. Just the lingering aftertaste of something that should be there, but isn't.
And then—pain.
A slow, pulsing ache runs through my body like an iron rod driven through my spine. My right-hand burns where the knife once carved its mark, it is nearly closed. My ribs feel cracked, my throat dry, and my tongue thick in my mouth.
The first thing I see is Prime, sitting across the room, sipping tea like a gentleman rather than the monster he appears. He meets my gaze, unfazed.
"Oh, good. You're not dead."
I blink, willing myself upright. The effort sends bolts of pain down my back. "Where am I?"
"My place." He lifts his cup to his mouth. "I'd thought remember the home you destroyed." He looking to the roof—or lack thereof. I look up as well, and the pain in my stomach gains power. "Elena patched you up, then dumped you on me."
I shift, wincing as pain flares through my sides. I am happy Prime is with me. I glance down, my shirt is replaced with tight bandages wrapping around my torso, shoulder, and hand. I exhale sharply, my mind still sluggish. But I have questions.
I look back to Prime, his usual smirk is absent.
"What the hell happened?"
Prime shrugs. "You got stabbed. Twice."
"I got that part."
He takes another sip of tea. "Then what are you asking?"
I flex my fingers, bandages pulling tight over my skin. "A good starter would be how attacked up, and why?"
Prime leans back in his chair as casually as ever. "Bad guys. Criminals," he says simply. "Scum, just a couple of low-ranking members of some cult."
"A cult?" I retort.
He nods "They worship gods, not the good king. The kind that demands blood and suffering in return for power. Mainly low-life idiots and blood-thirsty maniacs, they refer to themselves as 'Evil Moth Of Dead' but we call them EMOD for short."
The title is unfamiliar to me. It tastes wrong in my mouth.
"And the guy with blood powers was a Shaman right?" I ask. "Like you and Elena?"
My skin crawls as I think back to my fight with Asshole, the way his blood moved on its own, twisting, forming weapons. It wasn't natural, neither was Prime or Elena, this magic these Shamans possess is odd and terrifying. I want to know more.
Prime tilts his head, studying me over the rim of his cup. "Not just like us. Shamans are… complicated."
"Complicated how?" I push.
Prime smirks, but it's a smaller thing than usual, more measured. "As Elena explained, most Shamans belong to factions. Groups that train them, guide them, and—most importantly—control them." He sets his cup down. "Remember Asshole? He was a member of The Sanguine Coven. Blood freaks. They have a nasty habit of spilling their own just to make a point."
I twirl the bandages around my finger, pulsing at the memory. "And he was working with EMOD?"
Prime clicks his tongue. "More like EMOD got their hooks in him. That's what they do. The weak, the desperate, the angry—they take them in, whisper sweet promises in their ears. Promises of power in exchange for devotion." He rolls his wrist, lazily. "They don't care who you are. The only price of admissino is blood."
"And you? You and Elena? You were part of these factions?"
"A long time ago." Prime nods.
"I might be misreading you but you seem like an okay guy." I joke. "So are the Shamans good or bad guys."
"Neither." Prime responds in cold. "We have authority because we possess power. And because we have power they try and make it seem like they comand us to do good. Many of us are good, me and Elena should be proof of that. But corruption is not uncommon in our organization."
"Organization?" I ask.
Shamans are the titles given to those who gain our abilities, while not exclusive, Shamans refer to those part of a protective force that fights off threats to our land. You just so happened to crash into the most important place on Earth, where the highest concentration of Shamans fights off against our most fearsome enemies. EMOD."
I shift, trying to get comfortable. "So how did you become a Shaman? You don't seem like the type to do recruitment seminars."
Prime snorts. "No, even better, the Shaman Exam does that for me."
I blink. "What?"
He leans forward, resting his arms on his knees. "It's how people with potential prove themselves. Or really any idiot who wants to sign up.A trail. A culling. The government oversees it, the factions scout for talent, and they awaken our skills. You pass, you're in. You fail?" He shrugs. "You don't."
My heart settles cold. "And by 'fail'---"
"You die."
I swallow.
"Which brings me to you." Prime taps his finger against his cup. So common I barely save it to memory. "Your strong, even if you don't know why. You held your own against a Shaman with nothing but instinct." He gestures lazily. His words hit me like a truck, I know where he is getting and it destroys me. "That's not normal. And I don't just mean talent. There's something off about you." His finger finds me. "You move like a soldier, but you don't remeber why. You fight like a veteran, but it still surprises you." His gaze sharpens. "And if someone like you doesn't pick a side? Someone with pick it for you."
The weight of his words settles in my chest.
"That's what this city does," he continues. "It chews up people like you. Turns them into pawns, or corpses." He leans back again. "I'm offering you a chance at neither."
A silence stretches between us. His lack of humour, his incrediable stillness, its almost like he is a different person. He is dead serious.
My mind is racing, my thoughts spiraling between the fight, the knife, the magic, the memory loss.
I want answers. I want control.
If the only way to get that is to become a Shaman? Then so be it.
I exhale slowly, cracking a fake smile. "Alright, tell me how to sign up!"
Prime grins.