Chronicles of a Falling Empire [Bloodstained, Bloodshed]

O Lady War, with strength and grace
you fight for peace, a healing balm
in conflict's wake, you leave a trace
of Hope and Love, a soothing calm

- "The Shield," final verse

Only a little light penetrates the natural foliage—I carry a torch, and Killián carries Leómadura. The air is filled with the crackling of dead leaves under our boots and the occasional fluttering of wings. Ancient trees with wide, gnarled trunks line our path. From the side of the trees, bioluminous fungi provide an ethereal glow. We pass a clearing with a still, reflective pond and move further into the underbrush.

"This should be far enough," Killián says, glancing over his shoulder. He deposits Leómadura underneath an oak, shrugging him off as if he's a piece of luggage. I can't see the moon or stars through the trees—the only light is my glowing torch. Leómadura slumps over, his eyes closed—Killián leans over him and pats his cheek. "Wake up," he says, low and dangerous. "I know you're conscious."

Leómadura opens his eyes and says something through the gag. Killián unties the rope and removes the handkerchief—it's damp. He looks disgusted and wipes his hand on his leathers.

"What the fuck?" Leómadura demands, then takes a deep breath—a pleasant smile crosses his face. "There are nicer ways to wake someone up, general."

"I appreciate the lesson on etiquette." Killián's voice is equally neutral. "I assume you know why you're here?"

"You brought a tea set?"

"I left it in the carriage. Try again."

"You missed my company."

Killián reaches behind Leómadura's back, takes his hand. For a second I stare at their interwoven fingers, nonplussed, and then Killián breaks his wrist with such a resounding snap that I jerk backward. Leómadura shrieks a brief, inhuman yell—his breathing grows stilted, and he looks up at Killián with wide, horrified eyes. Now Killián is the one who's smiling. I'm never going to forget that noise, not as long as I live.

Killián ignores me.

"I'm going to give you one last chance." His voice is kind, and somehow that's scarier than if he was yelling. "Guess wrong, and I break your other hand."

"You asshole—"

"Is that your guess?"

Leómadura can't cradle his injury—his hands are still tied behind his back. His eyes are damp, and he looks up at Killián with undisguised loathing.

"You're going to kill me," he says.

"Good guess," Killián says. "You're correct, of course—but that's not why we're here."

He breaks Leómadura's other hand with an equally resounding snap. The torch is clenched so tightly in my fist that my knuckles are white. Breathing is difficult, but it looks like it's harder for Leómadura—he's gasping, tears streaming down his face, silent otherwise.

Killián lets go of Leómadura's hands and sits down. He kicks his legs out in front of him and hums under his breath—he's going to take his time with this, I realize. He's not in any rush. Sure, he has a death duel with his brother scheduled for tomorrow, and we'll be getting up at dawn—but that's less important to him than resolving this issue. Earlier today, I felt betrayed that he was so blasé about the state of my soul. He hesitated when Audrin offered to help. Now, I'm coming to a realization—he didn't think we needed the king's assistance. He was always planning on taking care of this.

I'm not sure if I'm more grateful or nauseous—either way, I'm not enjoying this. Not at all.

Not even a little.

Maybe a little.

Am I a terrible person?

"Do you have another guess?" Killián asks. "You have two feet."

"You said that was my last try," Leómadura snarls, trying to brush his tears away on his shoulder. He has to twist to do so, and he lets out a deranged cry when his mangled hands touch the oak's bark.

"I'm feeling generous," Killián says.

Somehow Leómadura musters another smile—this one is twisted, and he's half grimacing from pain.

"Punishment for fucking the general's whore?"

"Well, if that's the way we're playing it," Killián says.

He grabs one of Leómadura's socked feet—Leómadura tries to kick him. It's a feeble gesture, almost pathetic, and Killián wrenches the ankle with a violent, twisting motion. Something pops. It's not nearly as bad as the hands crunching, but Leómadura howls. Killián strokes the foot almost tenderly before setting it back on the ground. He turns to look at me, still expressionless—is this affecting him at all? How can he be so calm? My heart has never pounded so fast in my entire life. It feels like it's about to explode out of my chest like a lit hollowood bomb.

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"Doing okay, Ko?" he asks.

I nod mutely. I don't think I could say anything if I tried.

Killián turns back to Leómadura.

"Got another guess?"

"Go to Hel." It's half a sob. "Clèr's tits. Goddamn."

"I'm losing patience."

"That was you with patience?"

"I've given you ample opportunity for reformation, considering you weren't murdered in your cell," Killián says. "Were there others?"

"Of course not."

"Liar." Killián grabs his other ankle, twists it viciously, pops it. "I know when people are lying to me. I don't like it, Leó—you know that."

Leómadura falls onto his side, curls into a fetal position—snot runs down his face. He's shuddering, moaning, gasping—it's pathetic. I stare down at him, not sure what I should be feeling. Should I be angry? Empathetic? Vindicated? Mostly I just feel sad—I almost want to cry too. I don't want to be here, watching this. I don't want any of this to have happened. Maybe the last few months have been a crazy fever dream, maybe I never met Brid or Killián in the deadlands, maybe I'm recovering from syphus flu and I'll wake up tomorrow atop my floormat on L-Street.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

"Try again," Killián says. "I've run out of bones I can easily break—I don't want to take your nose lest you lose the ability to converse with us coherently—but I have a knife. I can start taking fingers."

"You wouldn't," Leómadura says.

"I assure you—it would be a pleasure." Killián scratches his nose with the tip of his knife. "I haven't had this much fun since we dismembered Samiel."

He sounds like he means it, and besides—he never lies. Great Yosif—Killián's a psychopath. It shouldn't surprise me, but he's so gentle with Brid and Miro, so good with Bardic. There's a slight smile on his face, and he's reclined on the arm that's not holding a blade. He looks perfectly at ease, completely in control. My mind races, trying to form thoughts. I open my mouth to speak, but I can't find any words. There are no words.

"Fine." Leómadura uses his elbows to push himself back into a seated position, wincing. "Just…fine. This is about the soul."

"Finally!" Killián sits up straighter, slaps a hand to his thigh. "When did you take it?"

"Your turn to guess." Leómadura sniffles, tries for another sneer. "I'll give you a hint—he was crying like a little bitch by that point. What do you think was happening?"

"I don't like this story," Killián says. "I want a finger."

He cuts the ropes that bind Leómadura's hands. Leómadura tries to crawl away on his elbows, shrieking, but Killián strikes like a loupwolf. The next thing I know Leómadura's on his back, writhing, screaming, and Killián's seated on his chest. He moves the knife back and forth over the base of Leómadura's thumb in a sawing motion, ignoring the panic of the man beneath him.

I can't watch this.

I can't look away.

The screams are animalistic.

My right hand clenches the torch like it's a lifeline. My left hand covers my mouth—my fingers are trembling. There's pressure in my chest—I'm not breathing enough, or maybe I'm breathing too much. Bile burns the back of my throat. At long last, Killián finishes the final cut. He tosses a thumb in my direction. It lands on my lap.

"Boil the skin off," he suggests, lips twitching. "It'll make a good necklace."

I flick the digit off me, turn to the side, and dry heave.

"Come on," Killián says. "Really, Ko? I should've brought Brid."

"You just cut off his finger!"

"He's fine." Killián pats his cheek. "Aren't you, Leó? Tell Ko you're fine, or I'll take your index."

Leómadura's sobbing, his chest shuddering beneath Killián as if he's struggling to breathe. He doesn't answer.

There's a manic glint in Killián's eyes as he studies me.

When Linden told me Killián was pissed about this, he wasn't joking.

"That's enough," I say weakly. "He's had enough. Seriously…please. Stop."

Killián squints up at the oak as if he hopes to see the moonlight through it. "Night's still young," he says. "He's confessed to stealing your soul—he hasn't offered to return it yet. The gesture has to come from within. It can't be extracted."

"If you think I'm giving it back after this, you're deluding yourself." Leómadura's voice is a wet gasp. "I'll so enjoy having him in the afterlife, Killián—you have no idea the things I'll do to him. What I did before will be nothing, nothing, in comparison—I'll make it hurt more than you can possibly imagine, Whoreson. I'll rape you so many times your ass will be a bloody pulp, and I'll just keep doing it for eternity—"

"Another terrible story," Killián says, promptly and without hesitation. "Time for castration, I think."

His hands move to Leómadura's waistband.

I'm flying through the air before I can stop myself—I have to stop this, have to end this. I slam against Killián, knock him off Leómadura. He lets out a huff of surprise, but it's too late—his knife is already in my hand. Without thinking, without planning on doing it, without a moment of forethought besides stop it stop it stop it—I've plunged the knife into Leómadura's neck. Forward momentum drove the tip deep into fleshy tissue—I twist it. I withdraw it. I stab again, and again, as he gurgles blood through the gaping hole in his trachea. Sticky heat covers my hands, splashes my face. I stab one more time for good measure and then drop the knife.

Tears stream down my face.

I gasp for air.

I try to wipe my face with my less-bloody hand and realize it's still clamped around the torch.

"Ko." Killián's voice is quiet. "What have you done?"

I turn on my knees to face him, chest heaving. "What you told me to do."

"Not before you got your essence back!" Finally he's showing emotion—but his expression is horrified. "Ko…do you have any idea what this means?"

That's when I hear it.

A voice in my mind—not Marix.

Quiet.

Frighteningly calm.

Thanks for that, Whoreson.

"No." My chest rises and falls rapidly, but I'm barely aware of it. "What? No."

Killián gets up, kicks the corpse.

Walks away.