Chapter 166: The Black Spot - Leah
Forty-two days after the battle, I find a black spot on the door.
Not a stain. Something... alive. Like mold. Like cancer. Slowly spreading across the dark silver surface, irregular in shape, its edges wriggling with tiny black tendrils.
"Kael."
He's awake now. Five days since he woke up from his thirty-seven-day sleep. He still sleeps fourteen hours a day. The rest of the time he spends teaching me how to make pancakes—the eleventh one finally didn't burn, but the twelfth one did. He ate the burnt part. "Crispy. Good."
He looks up. His ice-blue vertical pupils contract. His Gatekeeper senses reach toward the door.
"The Forge's... dream," he says. "What's left of it."
"What does that mean?"
"The Forge is dead. But its dreams... keep leaking out. Like oil from a badly sealed engine. These black spots... are the dreams taking shape."
"Are they dangerous?"
"Not yet. But if they spread... past ten percent... the door will... go bad."
"Turn into what?"
"Into... the Forge's... womb. A new Forge. Using our door to... bring itself back."
I freeze. "How do we stop it?"
"Clean it. With Gatekeeper blood. Every day. Wipe away the spots."
"Like... washing windows?"
"Like... chemo. Painful. Never-ending. Might not even work."
"But the only way."
I nod. "Okay. I'll do it."
"No." He grabs my wrist gently. "I'm the Gatekeeper. My blood is dark red. Works against the spots. Yours... Primogenitor silver... would make them grow faster."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Three thousand years of records. The de Noct family... dealt with this before. Blood cleaning. For... a hundred years."
"A hundred years?"
"After a hundred years, the spots went away. But the person doing the cleaning... died. From losing too much blood."
I look at him. Pale. Just woke up. Still tired from all that sleeping.
"How much blood every day?"
"About... two hundred milliliters."
"How much blood does a person have?"
"Five liters," he says. "In theory. Enough for twenty-five days."
"But you'll..."
"Get weak." He looks at me, eyes steady. "Anemic. Pass out. Eventually..."
"Die."
The room goes quiet.
The twins are in the next room. Ophelia is building with blocks. Adrian is taking apart an alarm clock—using his teeth on the screws. Their laughter drifts over.
"Is there another way?" I ask.
Kael is silent. Then: "Yes. But not... right."
"What?"
"Other people's blood." He looks away. "The refugees... some have diluted Gatekeeper blood. Their blood would... barely work."
"But that would mean... using them as... tools."
"As... supplies."
I think of the refugees kneeling before the altar. Their prayers. Their hope.
"Not yet," I say. "Use your own blood first. If that's not enough, then we'll figure something out."
Kael smiles. "Okay."
That night, he flies up.
Not physically to the door—it's thousands of meters high. He flies to the castle tower, connects with the door through his Gatekeeper senses, and...
Cuts his wrist.
Dark red blood wells up. He doesn't let it fall. Uses his power to control the drops, suspending them like a string of dark rubies floating toward the door.
The blood touches the black spot.
Sssss.
Like acid on metal.
The spot shrinks. From fingernail-sized to rice grain-sized.
But Kael's face...
Goes white.
"That's enough!" I yell from the tower.
He shakes his head. Keeps going.
More drops. More sizzling.
Second spot. Third.
He clears five spots.
Then...
Falls.
Not flying. Just dropping. Like a kite with a broken string.
I spread my wings. Silver-white. Rush up. Catch him ten meters from the ground.
He's light as paper. Like a plant with all its water drained out.
"Kael!"
"...I'm fine..." He can barely speak. "Just... a little... dizzy..."
"How much blood did you lose?"
"About... three hundred milliliters..." He smiles, blood on his lips. "A bit more... than I planned..."
"You idiot!"
"Yeah." He admits it. "But... the spots... went away..."
I look up.
The spots did go away. Five gone. The other two smaller.
But the cost...
Kael's breathing is shallow. Heart rate one-twenty per minute. His body trying to compensate.
I bandage his wrist. Tight. Dark red blood seeps through—the Gatekeeper glow barely there.
"You're not doing this tomorrow."
"I have to. The spots grow new ones every day. If I don't clean them... they'll spread."
"Then half. One hundred milliliters."
"That won't be enough..."
"One hundred milliliters. Or I won't let you go."
He looks at me. Eyes half-closed. Exhausted. But with... something soft.
"Okay," he says. "One hundred."
"Promise?"
"Promise." Then he closes his eyes. "But... if they spread..."
"We'll deal with it."
He falls asleep.
In my arms.
Wings drooping to the ground. Dark red feathers bloodstained. Dirty.
I hold him.
All night.
Until Side B's sun comes up.
I look up at the door.
The spots didn't spread.
But they didn't disappear either.
They're waiting.
For what?
I don't know.
But in his sleep, Kael...
Mumbles clearly.
"Perfect... you know... a faster way..."
"Tell me..."
"The cost... I'll pay..."
I freeze.
He's dreaming...
Bargaining with his Perfect Self...
For...
A faster way.
The price of his soul.
I grip his hand tighter.
Like I'm trying to pull him...
Out of the dream...
Back to me.