Chapter 35 Love and Loss

Chapter 35 Love and Loss
As Kael fell from suspension, the High Proctor drew a blade and charged at Noah and when close enough pushed him down to the floor.
The blade pressed into Noah’s face, the serrated edge biting deep. From the eyebrow down to the high point of his cheekbone, skin parted, a hot, wet line of crimson blooming instantly.
Noah grunted, his forearm straining against the High Proctor’s wrist. The Proctor didn't just lean his weight into it; he pushed with a malice that felt older than the stones of the hall, the metal grinding against the orbital bone.
“Who gave you the right?” the Proctor hissed, his voice trembling with a toxic mixture of fury and disgust. He twisted the blade, widening the gash. Noah’s vision blurred, the metallic tang of his own blood filling his mouth.
Every nerve in Noah's face screamed in protest, his head snapping back against the hard, cold floor as he tried to mitigate the pressure. “How dare you fight against Vhalir’s will? You are a parasite, a stain on the Vhalir’s garden! You are courting death, boy. I will be the one to grant it.”
He shoved the blade down, aiming for the eye-
THWIP.
A whistling sound cut through the chaos, a sharp displacement of air. The Proctor’s head snapped to the side, his hand blurring in a reflex that defied human speed.
He caught the arrow mid-air, a triumphant, jagged smirk curling his lip. But the expression died instantly as he realized the nature of the shot.
The shaft was lined with jagged, barbed iron spikes, designed to shred. As he gripped it, the barbs buried themselves into his palm, tearing through muscle and sinew like a meat hook.
The Proctor roared, a sound of guttural, inhuman rage. He ripped the arrow from his own hand with a spray of black ichor, the wet sound of tearing meat echoing in the hall, and whirled toward the source.
Chayton stood twenty paces away, bow drawn, his side soaked in blood. His breathing was ragged, his stance wide and unstable, yet his grip on the cedar riser was absolute.
Enyeto was at his flank, a blur of motion as he shattered a cultist’s jaw with a backhanded flick of his fingers. A localized pulse of gravity slammed the cultist into a pillar, the impact turning the man’s face into a concave crater.
Enyeto didn't even turn his head; he kept his eyes locked on the Proctor, shielding Chayton with his very presence.
The Proctor’s face contorted into a mask of pure, unadulterated hate. He ignored the blood dripping from his hand and spread his arms wide, a grotesque, inviting gesture. “See? You missed.”
He began to swell.
It wasn't the natural growth of a man, but an internal, magical pressure. Veins turning into thick, pulsating black ropes beneath his skin. His limbs distended, skin stretching to the point of transparency, the translucent surface revealing the churning, oily zhil vae flooding his system.
He expanded until he resembled a bloated, cancerous tumor, before he vanished in a wet, hollow pop. A cloud of hot viscera and gore rained down over the center of the hall, coating the obsidian floor in a thick, slick layer of rot.
Chayton didn't even look at the mess. He lowered his bow, spitting a glob of blood onto the floor. “Poison, motherfucker.”

A few minutes earlier.
The air in the chamber was thick enough to drown in, saturated with the smell of wet earth and dying light. Duke had run dry, the slide of his pistol locked back.
The weapon was now useless, serving only as a heavy, steel club in his desperate hands. He hammered the butt of the gun into the skull of a shambling corpse, the crunch of bone echoing off the walls.
The creature fell, its jaw hanging at an impossible angle, but another stepped over its twitching body, its fingers elongating into needle-sharp claws.
Kathleen was frantic, her lungs burning, hurling loose stone and debris at the tide of rotting flesh. She looked like a cornered animal, her chest heaving as she checked the perimeter. “Harvey!” she screamed over the wet, tearing sounds of the corpses. “Are you close? We’re running out of space!”
Harvey didn't answer. His hands were locked onto the empty air, his muscles trembling violently. He was holding the invisible boundary, his face twisted in a silent battle of will, sweat streaming into his eyes.
The three hooded figures stood back near the entrance, observing the carnage with a detached, rhythmic chanting. Their voices were low, a droning vibration that seemed to make the very floor vibrate.
As the boundary beneath Harvey’s hands began to flicker and fail, the corpses surged forward, their rotten, grasping fingers mere inches from Duke’s throat.
Then, the barrier shattered.
The sound was like a thunderclap in a library. Harvey dropped his arms, gasping for air, his shoulders sagging as the magical strain finally snapped.
On the stone table, Mitch’s eyes snapped open. The vision was a blur of hazy, suffocating grey, but as the fog cleared, it sharpened into a nightmare.
He saw Duke: bruised, bleeding, and fighting like a man possessed.
He saw a stranger: a woman in her late twenties with dark hair, her face pale with terror.
He saw the ginger haired kid standing muttering words, his hands shaking as he held back the tide.
Mitch peeled himself off the stone slab. His skin was paper-white, translucent, the black veins of the zhil vae visible beneath the surface like a map of the abyss.
Every muscle screamed, his nerves singing with the cold, dark rot the Vhalir had poured into him. He crawled, his fingernails digging into the floor, until he reached Duke’s boots.
Duke spun, his gun raised, but the weapon dropped as he saw the face of his partner. “Mitch?”
Mitch didn't speak. He lunged forward, throwing his arms around Duke’s neck. Duke caught him, pulling him into a crushing embrace as Mitch began to sob, a jagged, broken sound of pure, overwhelming relief.
The memories hit Mitch like a tidal wave: the dragging, the fear, the cold, and the realization of what he had become.
He squeezed Duke so hard his own ribs groaned. He pulled back, looking into Duke’s eyes, searching for the man he had almost lost forever. His touch was cold, feverish, and shaking.
"Is there a way?" Mitch rasped, his voice a gravelly echo. "Is there a way out of here?"
Harvey scrambled over, clutching a pair of cracked stone halves. "I have the anchors. If we inject them with zhil vae, they’ll transport us to the other half, but if these three senses the displacement, they’ll shatter the portal mid-transit."
Mitch stared at the stone, then at the wall of corpses pressing in. He looked at Duke, his eyes hardening with a desperate, final resolve.
"Take them, Duke," Mitch whispered. "Take her and the kid. Get out."
Duke’s face drained of color. "No. No, goddammit, Mitch, we didn't come here to-"
"I’m done!" Mitch cut him off, his voice rising in panic and grief. "The hooded ones... they cooked me. I’m a battery, Duke. I’m unstable. If I don't go out on my own terms, I’ll combust in an hour and take this whole sector of the city with me."
Duke shook his head, tears blurring his vision. "Don't say it. Don't you dare say it."
Mitch turned to Harvey. "Get ready, kid."
Duke grabbed Mitch’s hand, trying to drag him toward the portal. "Please. Please don't go."
Mitch smiled, a tearful, heartbreaking, crooked smile that didn't reach his haunted eyes. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against Duke’s. "Don't forget me."
He kissed him. It was a kiss that tasted of salt and blood and a lifetime of things left unsaid. It was a goodbye that tore the air from the room, filled with the devastating weight of a life ended too soon.
Mitch pulled away, shoved Duke toward Harvey, and turned to face the advancing tide of rot.
"Now!" Mitch screamed.
Harvey snapped the stones together, channeling his remaining energy. Duke lunged toward Mitch, a frantic, desperate scream caught in his throat, but the world twisted.
ZAP.
They materialized in the hall where the others are, gasping for breath, lungs burning.
The sight was apocalyptic. Enyeto and Chayton were back-to-back, fighting off a swarm of cultists.
Noah was on his knees, wiping a river of blood from his face, his gaze fixed on the center of the room.
Kael was curled on the floor, retching up bile and the dark, parasitic sludge he’d been forced to consume.
And at the end of the hall, the Vhalir descended from his throne. His smile was gone. His eyes were burning with a cold, divine rage, and the very air around him warped, the shadows stretching and snarling like living things. The harvest had been interfered with, and the being was no longer interested in mercy.