The bodies lay still, twitching slightly where they sprawled in the dirt, their long, tendril-like limbs coiled and spasming in slow death. Jian stood over them, panting, his hands slick with gore—some of it black, some of it gold.
The graylings didn't scream when they died. They made this wet, horrible clicking sound that echoed too much in his ears. Even now, with their bodies going limp, the memory of that sound lingered in the back of his throat like bile.
He stumbled toward a crooked tree and slumped down beside its gnarled trunk. His knees ached, and his fingers cramped around the knife handle as if fused there. Only when he forced himself to look down did he notice the cut on his palm.
Thin. Shallow. Barely stung. But from it, that unmistakable liquid shimmered—bright, hot gold, like sunlight made blood. It slipped down the crease of his palm before crystallizing, solidifying into tiny flakes. They cracked and fell away like dried petals.
