Chapter 95 Blood Sacrifice
Klaus stood between me and the nightmare, his feet planted wide in the red-stained sand. He had jumped. From fifty feet up, from the royal balcony, he had hurled himself into the pit. The six iron chains that had bound his wrists to the balustrade were gone, though the heavy iron cuffs still circled his forearms, ragged links of broken metal dangling and sparking against the ground.
He wasn't using his speed. He wasn't using the blur of a vampire lord that could outrun a bullet. He was moving heavily, his movements stiff and desperate.
"Klaus!"
The name died in my throat, trapped by the black ribbon around my wrist. I lunged forward, reaching for him, but the Trench-Stalker let out a shriek that rattled the very foundations of the colosseum. The beast had been knocked sideways, its chitinous legs scraping deep furrows into the arena floor as it scrambled to regain its balance.
Klaus didn't look at me. His back was a broad, heaving expanse of dark linen, already soaked with sweat. He was breathing in shallow, jagged rasps. I knew why. I could feel it through the air.
"Stay back," he growled. It wasn't the roar of an Admiral. It was the raw, guttural warning of a cornered animal.
The Trench-Stalker recovered. Its bone-white, eyeless head swung toward Klaus, its jaw unhinging with a sound like grinding stones. It lunged again, its six legs churning the sand into a blinding white cloud.
Klaus met the charge.
I watched in horror as the beast’s needle-teeth sank into Klaus’s forearms, just above the iron cuffs. Silver blood spattered the sand.
"No," I mouthed. I tore at the black silk ribbon on my wrist, my fingernails drawing blood from my own skin. Sing, my mind screamed. End this!
But then I saw his neck.
The black veins were pulsing. Even without using his magic, the physical strain was forcing the curse to work. The ink-black rot was climbing, dark lines snaking up toward his jaw with every second he spent holding the beast at bay. If I sang now, I wouldn't just be clearing the arena; I would be driving the final nail into his heart.
Klaus let out a guttural roar and twisted his torso, using the beast's own weight to hurl it over his shoulder. The creature slammed into the black stone wall of the arena that made the stands vibrate.
But Klaus didn't follow up. He staggered, his knees buckling. He caught himself on one hand, his head hanging low. A thick, dark fluid dripped from his lips onto the white sand.
"Look at him!" The Emperor’s voice boomed from the brass horns, dripping with a cold, scientific curiosity. "The Admiral is fading. The Anchor is heavy today, is it not, Peregrine?"
The crowd erupted.
The Trench-Stalker didn't stay down. It was a creature of the deep; it was used to being crushed. It scrambled to its feet, its acidic saliva sizzling as it dripped onto the sand. It didn't charge this time. It circled. It sensed the weakness.
"Klaus, please," I mouthed, reaching out, my fingers trembling.
He looked at me then. Just for a second.
His sapphire eyes were clouded with agony, the vibrant blue almost entirely swallowed by the grey haze of the rot. His face was a mask of sweat and blood, his skin the color of wet ash. But the look he gave me wasn't a plea for help. It was a command. Do not sing.
The beast lunged from the side.
Klaus wasn't fast enough. He turned, his arm coming up to shield his head, and the Trench-Stalker’s claws tore through his side. The dark linen shirt was shredded instantly. Four deep, jagged furrows appeared from his ribs to his hip, spilling silver blood across the sand.
Klaus hit the ground hard.
The beast didn't give him space. I heard the sound of ribs snapping that echoed through the sudden silence of the crowd.
"KLAUS!"
The scream was silent, trapped behind my locked teeth. I ran toward them, my charcoal skirts heavy and tangled around my legs.
Klaus jammed his forearm into the creature’s mouth, the needle-teeth sinking deep into his muscle, grinding against the bone. He used his other hand to strike the beast’s soft underbelly, his punches landing with dull, wet thuds. Each blow was slower than the last. Each movement was a battle against the curse that was turning his insides to sludge.
"Kill it, Admiral!" Vespera’s voice rose above the din, high and shrill with delight. "Show us the hero of the Southern Rift!"
The beast's claw raked across Klaus's chest, tearing through the remaining fabric of his shirt.
The black veins were fully exposed now. They were bulging, thick as worms, radiating from his heart. They were no longer just lines; they were a web of necrotic tissue that seemed to be eating him alive. As the beast’s weight pressed down, the rot flared, a sickly violet light pulsing beneath his skin.
Klaus’s eyes rolled back in his head. His grip on the creature’s jaw faltered.
The Trench-Stalker sensed the end. It pulled its head back, preparing for the final, crushing bite that would sever his head from his shoulders.
I stood there, three feet away, the obsidian shard falling from my numb fingers.
The air in the arena was hot, smelling of blood and the sour, acidic stench of the beast. I looked at Klaus, the man who was currently being torn apart so I wouldn't have to feel guilty.
He was dying. Not from the beast, but from the silence.
The pressure in my chest surged. It wasn't a hum anymore. It was a volcanic pressure, a white-hot fire that burned from my lungs to my teeth. It was the exhaust of my soul, and it was screaming to be let out.
I looked at the black silk ribbon on my wrist. I looked at the black blood dripping from Klaus's mouth.
If I stayed silent, the beast would kill him.
If I sang, the curse would kill him.
The beast unhinged its jaw. It began to descend.
"Klaus," I whispered. It wasn't a song. It was a sob.
He looked at me, one last time. His lips moved. No sound came out, but I read the words.
It's... okay.
He stopped fighting. His arms dropped to the sand. He closed his eyes, waiting for the teeth.
The crowd leaned forward. The Emperor gripped the arms of his throne. The sun beat down, harsh and indifferent, on the white sand and the dying soldier.
I felt the Song of the First King snap.
It wasn't a choice anymore. It wasn't about the curse or the ocean or the Emperor’s greed. It was about the man on the sand.
I tore the black silk ribbon from my wrist. I ripped it away, the fabric fluttering into the dirt like a dead moth.
I opened my mouth.
The air in the arena suddenly went cold. The sound of the crowd vanished. The smell of the blood disappeared.
I sang a requiem.