He was on his knees now.
The steam of blood mist still clung to the air, thick with that burnt-metal tang of spilled lives, and his breath came sharp and rattling. Hands. He looked at his hands—his fucking hands—painted in red and twitching like they were still pulling ribcages apart. There was silence now, like the world had swallowed its own voice in fear.
Moments ago, it hadn't felt like him doing all that. It hadn't felt like anyone human. His mind had blacked out, taken a backseat while something monstrous danced behind his eyes.
Now… clarity returned.
Like a tide pulling back.
Like waking up with sand in your mouth and not remembering how you got to shore.
Then came the voice.
It didn't speak like a person. It reverberated—like an ancient drum calling out from the bottom of the world.
{Chosen warrior of the gods…Do you answer the call?}
