Arising Fate

XXII

"Anyone else feel like they're walking with an explosive strapped to their chest?" Caim asked to no one in particular.

It had been five hours since the first trial had begun. Initially, when the blue flame had sparked to life and devoured the tall peaks of blood orange and scarlet, the path leading to the Crimson Peaks had opened like a gaping, cracked jaw before the contestants. But instead of the hurried footsteps, the expected sounds of labored breaths filling the space, a light whistle filled the air, following by a wall of white, livid flame.

Valen had watched mystified as the devilish demon-woman with the dark mauve hair set the entire entryway aflame, leaving chaos in her wake. He couldn't help the smile that pierced his face. Demons who had been quick on her heels were consumed under the roaring fire that erupted before them. It melted their flesh, swallowing them whole beneath its heat.

It had been beautiful.

As voices swelled into guttural screams, her roaring black eyes had met Valen. A dreadful smile cracked its way across her frosted lips. A challenge. An invitation. The deep, jagged scar that ran like an extended smile across her cheek glowed red, as if she were a vicious animal whose snout and muzzle and been drenched in the blood of a fresh kill.

In a way, it had.

Then she had turned and fled down the path, her companion quick on her heels.

"Her name is Maura," whispered a voice. Taken aback, Valen had snapped his head to the side. Razor watched beside him, his mouth set in a firm line, eyes narrowed on Maura. Was it fear that filled him?

No. Too firm. He hadn't begun quivering. Valen had looked closer.

Was it rage?

Yes.

A chilled rage had stilled his otherwise twitchy features, transforming him for a moment from this timid cowardly wretch to something else. Something foreign. Curious, Valen cocked his head to the side, blatantly staring. Razor seemed consumed by it, his eyes fixed on Maura, the flame dancing within his black irises.

The air had smelt of burnt flesh.

Rocking back on his heels, as if gradually waking from the stupor, Razor flinched, noticing Valen's attention on him. He shrunk, smaller and smaller until he was so far into himself again one would barely notice him if they hadn't been looking.

"And you know this because...?" Valen had let the question trail off, sniffing the air and turning his head, placing his attention on his nailbeds instead.

They were cracked and dry, filled with soot and looking as if they'd aged centuries on their own. Yet somehow they were still beautiful. Valen scowled, taking one of his claws and picking at a large scab that had crusted over his palm from one of the earlier fights.

"I w-w-watched her in the initial q-q-qualifiers," Razor murmured.

"Sorry I couldn't quite hear that," Valen droned, rolling his eyes, "speak up?"

"I w-w-w-watch-ch-ched he – " Razor scrunched his face, rubbing his forehead violently in frustration before letting his head swing low, cursing beneath his breath. Valen had watched on mockingly, not missing the light tremble of Razor's palms as he gripped them close to his sides in tight fists. The anger had returned, only this time with himself. Valen smiled. He couldn't help the wicked grin as it inched across his face.

A full-blooded child.

The General had paired him with a child.

But he had neglected to see the rage beneath him, the shadows that lay in his heart. All children are malleable. But a demon child who is abandoned without energy, vigor, without drive, is weak. Rarely can they be sharpened into tools. Demon children are not resilient. Especially those born to the gallows, the waste pits of the Abrylth, known as Ghorrds. Razor was a Ghor through and through. Without purpose he would have already died. Taken by sickness, starvation, perhaps eaten alive by one of the more malicious demons in the Abrylth if he had been lucky. At least it would be quick. But a full-blooded demon child with rage, and not just a normal rage but a blossoming hatred simmering just beneath the surface had the potential to be an invaluable weapon, if properly molded. And he was here. He had made it past the initial fights. The General had miscalculated.