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The same silver armor. No sabatons. My bare soles pressed into the stone, and with every step a red mark bloomed behind me. Not smeared, not dragged, but printed, as if my feet had been dipped in fresh blood I couldn't feel. The gladius was the only weight in my hands, the leather wrap darkened by sweat that wasn't mine, the balance point just forward of the hilt.
Perhaps guilt brought me here. That damned guilt.
I lifted the helmet. The gorget creaked. Metal on metal, the sound too loud in the silence, and the world opened up through the visor's narrow slit before I pulled it free entirely. Fog. Not the wet, clinging kind from the battlefield, but something thinner, drier, like steam that had forgotten how to condense. It hung at eye level, swallowing distance, turning the horizon into a suggestion rather than a place.
I was standing at the gates of a city.
The air tasted wrong. Dry. Parched. The fog should have meant moisture, but my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, and when I swallowed it felt like swallowing dust. No smell, though. That part was familiar. The sense of smell had been severed before, in the tower with the eye-mass, and it hadn't returned. I should have been able to smell rot. I should have been able to smell the dry, sweet stench of opened bowels. But there was nothing. Just the taste of ash.
No humans. No movement. No voices. Was this place abandoned like the last fortress?
Then a bell.
A single note, distant, tolling from somewhere deep in the city's throat. It didn't echo. It didn't fade. It just… arrived, hung in the air for a heartbeat, and vanished, as if the sound had been swallowed before it could decay. This bell meant there was still someone. Anyone.
I stepped through the gates.
The flies found me like sentries in a trench.
At first it was just a sound. A low, electric hum, like a wire vibrating just outside the range of hearing. In fact they sounded more so like buzzes from electronics and not any creature born of a world under the Heavenly Saviour.
Then I saw them. One. Two. A dozen. Then more, materializing from the fog like specks of ash blown upward from a fire. They moved wrong. Not the erratic, drunken flight of normal flies, but purposeful, almost synchronized, as if they shared a single mind distributed across a thousand tiny bodies. Yet they didn't follow straight lines either. Spirals, circles, every shape was etched out. Like little drones dancing in the air.
I saw the first corpse ten meters inside the gate.
It was slumped against the wall, face down, arms stretched forward as if it had been crawling and simply stopped. The skin was gray-green, split open in places where gas had built up beneath it, the flesh bloating and splitting like overripe fruit. Flies covered it. Not crawling over it. Covering it. A living blanket of black that shifted and rippled as they fed. Where the skin had split, the flies had gone inside. I could see them moving beneath the surface, tiny dark shapes under translucent flesh, like seeds in a pomegranate.
The battle that happened here was undoubtedly recent, but the corpse seemed to have been left to rot for days.
I kept walking.
The second corpse was in the middle of the street, face up, mouth open in a silent scream. The tongue was gone. The flies had taken it. The eye sockets were empty, not cut out like the soldiers from the tower, but consumed. The soft tissue was eaten away until only bone remained, clean and white and gleaming wetly in the fog. More flies. More bodies. One. Five. Ten. They appeared faster now, materializing from the mist as I moved, each one worse than the last. Some had been torn open at the abdomen, intestines dragged out and coiled beside them like discarded rope. Others had been split at the chest, ribs cracked outward like the petals of some grotesque flower. All of them were being eaten. All of them were still being consumed by the endless, patient work of the flies.
The alley narrowed. The bodies grew denser. At first I could step around them, picking a path through the gaps. Then the gaps closed. The corpses overlapped, piled on top of each other, arms and legs tangled like brushwood. I had to step over them. Then I had to step on them.
My bare sole pressed into a chest. It gave way with a wet crunch, ribs collapsing under my weight, the sound muffled by the layer of flies that rose and resettled like a single organism disturbed. I didn't feel the texture of the flesh beneath my foot. I didn't feel the resistance. I just knew, intellectually, that I was walking on the dead, and the knowledge was worse than any sensation could have been.
The flies didn't land on me. They avoided me. They parted as I moved, a black river flowing around a stone, and I wondered, not for the first time, whether I was prey or predator in whatever logic governed this place.
The bell tolled again. Closer.
I followed it.
The alley opened into a plaza, and the plaza was a mountain of corpses.
Not scattered. Not strewn. Piled. Deliberately. Like someone had gathered every body in the city and stacked them in the center, layer upon layer, creating a grotesque monument that rose ten meters into the fog. The flies were thicker here, a living cloud that hovered above the pile, so dense it looked like smoke. And at the peak, dancing, laughing, was a jester.
He wasn't human. Not anymore. Maybe he never had been.
His eyelids were pulled back, no, retracted, like shutters forced open, revealing sockets that should have held eyes but didn't. Just empty holes, bleeding steadily, the blood running down his cheeks in thin red lines that never dried, never coagulated, just kept flowing as if his body was producing it faster than it could clot. His lips were stretched too wide, pulled back at an angle that no human face could sustain without tearing, the corners of his mouth split and bleeding to match the eyes. His skin was breaking apart in patches, sloughing off in wet sheets that hung from his body like tattered costume, revealing muscle and tendon beneath that twitched and moved independently of the rot.
He was dancing. Not stumbling or thrashing… dancing. A deliberate, rhythmic movement, feet stepping in time to a music I couldn't hear, arms waving in arcs that were fluid, his feet tumbling left and right, but standing. His laugh was human. Too human. It wasn't the cackle of a madman or the shriek of a monster. It was the laugh of an amused man, the kind of laugh that belongs in a tavern, in a theater, in a place where joy still meant something. But it was coming from a body that was rotting while it moved, skin peeling, bones poking through the flesh at the shoulders, the elbows, the knees, the joints overextended and wrong, as if the thing inside had grown too large for the skin and was stretching it from the inside out.
Stains of overstretching. That's what they were. The skin was shiny in places, pulled so tight it had gone translucent, and beneath it I could see the shape of bones that shouldn't have been visible, the outline of muscles that had been stretched beyond their natural limit. Some bones had already broken through. The tip of a shoulder blade here, the end of a femur there, poking out like spikes, the flesh around them black and necrotic but not falling away, held in place by whatever force was animating the thing.
Possessed. The word surfaced without my permission. Not haunted. Possessed. The body was a vessel, and something else was wearing it, and it was laughing.
The laugh stopped.
The jester's head, no, the thing's head, turned toward me. The empty sockets didn't focus. They couldn't. But I felt the attention land on me anyway, a weight on my chest, a pressure behind my eyes, the same sensation of being watched that I'd felt in the tower, except this time it was worse because I knew the thing could see me even without eyes.
It tilted its head. The neck cracked. Not the sound of a joint moving, but the sound of something breaking, like a branch snapping under weight, and the head kept tilting past the point where a neck should have broken, past the point where the spine should have severed, until the chin was almost touching the shoulder and the empty sockets were staring at me from an angle that made my own neck ache in sympathy.
The flies around it stopped moving. The buzzing was nauseating.
The cloud froze. A thousand tiny bodies suspended in midair, wings still, legs tucked, as if they were waiting. As if they were listening.
The jester's mouth opened wider. The split at the corners of his lips tore further, blood welling up and running down his chin, and when he spoke his voice was human. No different than from a man you pass by daily. There was something strangely eerie in that.
"The Silver General?" he said.
It was a question, but the tone was more so of an affirmation.
The word didn't echo. It didn't need to.
Then a scream swallowed my senses.
My body vibrated. But the scream didn't come from the jester. It came from above, from the buildings that ringed the plaza, their facades swallowed by fog, their upper floors lost in the gray. It was a sound I knew. The same resonance that had ruptured my ear canals in the tower, that had turned the world silent and left only vibration and pain.
My knees hit the ground before my brain registered the command to fall. The impact drove the air from my lungs in a sharp gasp that was half pain, half surprise.
I looked up.
It was perched on the edge of a building, maybe twenty meters above, clinging to the stone with limbs that shouldn't have been able to support its weight. The same creature. The same aberration. Eight human feet strung together by lines of thin flesh, ankles fused, skin pulled tight where tendons and veins crossed from one limb into the next . And the eyes, dozens, hundreds now, scattered across what should have been a face but wasn't, embedded in slabs of meat, in folds of skin, even along the length of the connecting tendrils. Some were half-lidded. Others stretched wide, veins standing out red against their whites. All of them blinking independently, rolling in their sockets, never quite aligning to form a single gaze.
But this time it spoke.
"Baal-Zebul." I recognized it at once. The Governor's master.
The word came from nineteen different mouths. Jagged holes lined with rows of teeth opened and closed randomly across its surface, stretching flesh and then snapping shut like traps, and nineteen of them, scattered across the torso, the limbs, the connecting tendrils, formed the syllables in unison, the sound layered and wrong, like a chorus speaking through a single throat.
Reality distorted.
The air around the creature bent, like heat haze over asphalt, but colder, denser, as if the space it occupied was being drained of something fundamental. The fog around it thinned, then vanished, then reappeared, cycling like a broken mechanism. The light from… where? I realized there was no light source, just the ambient gray of the fog, dimmed, then brightened, then dimmed again, as if the creature's presence was consuming photons faster than they could arrive.
Yes, the creature was swallowing the very concepts around it.
It jumped.
Not a leap. A fall with intent. Its mass surged through the air, eight feet pedaling, eyes widening, mouths tearing open wider, and it was moving toward the jester with a speed that shouldn't have been possible for something that large, that heavy, that wrong.
The jester didn't flinch.
He moved, a single, fluid motion, like a dancer and launched himself upward, not away, but toward a clothesline that stretched between two buildings, maybe ten meters above the corpse-pile. He landed on it. Both feet on the rope. Balanced. Dubiously. The line sagged under his weight, swaying, threatening to snap, but he held it, arms raised backward for counterbalance, body leaning forward at an angle that defied physics, the way a tightrope walker leans into the wind.
He sneered.
Not a grimace. Not a snarl. A sneer. Deliberate. Mocking. The split corners of his mouth tore wider as he did it, blood welling up and running down his chin, but the expression was clear. Contempt, amusement, the kind of look you give a dog that has just tried to bite you and failed.
Thunder followed his laugh, but it wasn't like the weather placed itself before the jester. It felt controlled. No. Coordinated. As if this figure was the sky itself. And the sky was laughing the only way it knew.
Then he opened his mouth.
The swarm rose from the corpses.
Not a few flies. A living, moving mass of black that lifted from the pile of bodies like smoke from a fire, so dense it blocked the fog behind it, so loud it was almost a sound, the electric hum of a thousand wings beating in unison.
The flies hit the creature like a wave.
They covered it. Not landing, covering. A living blanket of black that obscured the eyes, the mouths, the limbs, the flesh, and the creature thrashed, fighting back, limbs flailing, mouths screaming, but it was useless. The flies didn't stop. They didn't slow. They kept coming, even as the creature's limbs crushed them, even as its mouths bit and tore and consumed them, even as their bodies fell in a rain of black specks, new ones arrived. From the corpses. From the buildings. From the jester's mouth, I saw them pour out, a steady stream of black pouring from between his split lips, from his bleeding eye sockets, from the patches of skin that had sloughed off to reveal muscle beneath.
The creature bellowed .
Not the layered, nineteen-mouthed voice from before. A single, raw, animal sound, the kind of scream that comes from something that is threatened. The sound hit me like a physical wall, shoving me backward, my ears popping violently, the memory of pain flaring even though the canals had already ruptured and there was nothing left to tear. And I went deaf.
The world shook. Buildings collapsed, the corpses were thrown out into the distance like a wave…
The ground beneath me, beneath the corpses, beneath the pile, beneath the plaza, vibrated, once, twice, three times, like a bell that had been struck. The fog rippled. The clothesline the jester was balancing on snapped, but he didn't fall. He just… hung there, for a moment, suspended, as if gravity had forgotten to apply to him, then dropped lightly on the stone pathway, landing without sound, without impact, like a feather settling on water.
The flies fell.
All of them. Dead. Or dying. They dropped from the creature's body in a rain of black, hitting the ground, hitting the corpses, hitting me, and for a moment the plaza was silent except for the sound of their bodies piling up, a soft, continuous patter like rain on a roof.
The jester stopped grinning.
The silence that followed was worse than the scream had been. It wasn't empty. It was full. Full of attention. Full of the weight of something that had just finished playing and was now deciding what to do next.
He glanced into the distance at me. At where I'd been sent.
The empty sockets didn't focus. They couldn't. But I felt the attention land on me anyway.
He raised one hand.
The thumb went down. It broke itself to point to the ground.
Not a gesture. A verdict.
The swarm reformed.
Not the flies. Something else. The fog reformed into a black matter, denser, heavier, then spread out into flies, moving with purpose rather than instinct, and they were coming toward me.
The flies hit me.
They didn't land. They burrowed. They went for my face and neck, the only gaps in the armor besides the feet which they seemingly ignored. Or perhaps avoided.
I felt them, tiny points of pressure, then pain, then nothing, as they pushed through my skin, into my flesh, into the muscle beneath, and they were eating. Not biting. Eating. Consuming. I could feel my flesh disappearing, not as pain, but as absence, as the sensation of my own body being erased from the inside out.
At first I regretted taking out the helmet, but if that entity wanted me dead he certainly could have done that anyway. Perhaps I would have just extended my suffering. Or perhaps I was wrong and he couldn't have hurt me.
The creature jumped at me.
Seemingly screaming. Flailing. Limbs pedaling, mouths tearing open, eyes widening, and it was trying to kill the flies, trying to save me, and I knew that it was too late. The flies were already inside me.
The world shook again.
Harder this time. The buildings swayed. The fog rippled. The stones shifted, bodies sliding, bones clattering, and the creature's scream, now more of a vibration I felt rather than a sound I could hear, cut off mid-breath, and I felt… not pain, not fear, not anything human… I felt the sensation of my own consciousness being pulled away, like a thread being drawn through a needle, and then nothing.
Darkness.
Not sleep. Not unconsciousness. Darkness. The kind of darkness that exists before the world is created, before light has a name, and I was in it, and I was not alone.
Something was waiting.
But it never reached me.
______
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DATE:3nd of September, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis
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I was woken up by loud bangs at my door. To think that they can do such gestures even in expensive hotels…
Well, considering what happened I couldn't be more thankful.
I got up to receive my guests, dressed only in a bathrobe. Perhaps I should get some pajamas in the future.
At the door I was met with two soldiers who weren't particularly happy to see me. They were fully equipped too, gas masks and all. I'm not sure what they were expecting.
"By order of the Provost Marshal, you are to be present at the Leandre Military Headquarters." The first thing I noticed was the location. The Governor's Castle. Judging by the men sent, it wasn't by his orders. And the position of 'Marshall'? Foiçs?
"Marshal? Do you mean the General?" Why bother taking on such an antiquated title?
"We will offer you five minutes to dress yourself." They weren't particularly warm. So not everyone is a 'fan'.
Pamela was already dressing herself without the modesty of going into another room.
"Why do you even bother? It's me they want."
"I'm not letting you go alone."
"Don't be absurd. It's not up to me."
"Then make it."
"What? This is childish."
"You don't get it Kassius. We are going to the Governor's castle. I may get to see him… DO I have to continue?"
"Right." I'd almost forgotten about the contract.
Anyway, we got ready as much as we could given the circumstances. I took the drug, but didn't bother equipping any weapons. I'd probably be searched anyway.
They didn't have the decency of knocking a second time. The guy to the left quickly understood what we were trying to do. Not like it took much reasoning.
"Only him." He was stern in that way soldiers usually are, but his tone was misplaced. Authority didn't mean much before me, let alone before 'Carter'.
"She's my bodyguard. Taking her isn't up to discussion."
The one to his right raised his weapon. Bold. Or stupid?
"You'll regret this more than I will." Does he actually expect this to work?
"WOULD I? I wonder, whose lives out of the four of us here are considered more valuable? Two grunts or two heroes?" I didn't exactly have to fake humility if they weren't amiable.
We stood like that for a few seconds before he decided to not act foolish.
We were escorted more like criminals than anything else. Down from the elevator were 10 or more soldiers occupying the lobby. Quite draining for the room's vibe. Not even rich tourists are spared from seeing these barbarians. Their officer instructed us to enter an armored personnel carrier. Of course, we were thoroughly searched for any weapons or electronic devices.
Are they imprisoning me or what? In fairness that girl from yesterday was from my guild, but it wasn't really my fault, right?
We were seated alongside four other soldiers, all equipped to the brim. I don't know about them, but I was quite comfy. Who imagined an APC with cushioned seats? I have to admit, the mercenaries don't compare with the Normandian army in equipment. Even this van we were placed in was quite a piece of technology, full of screens and other equipment I didn't recognize. It had an unmanned turret. The convoy was made up of three such vans and two more that had a tank turret instead of the machinegun of ours.
Who would bother with ambushing a 'guest' of the General? Or was this a deterrent for me to not run away? I think I could still take them on with my ability. Oh well.
The ride was uneventful, lest for the fact that I couldn't see outside. There was this brawny guy opposite me. I could perceive the soldier's distaste even through the mask. He was tense. Scared? I suppose I would also be. I didn't bother making any reaction in particular.
Pamela was thinking about something. She appeared… disappointed? In them, not me. I can't say I understand. Is it because they are technically 'killers'? I suppose to her there isn't much difference between 'lawful' and illegal murder.
At some point they stopped and I heard one soldier mention the word 'checkpoint'. Then we continued. These things are pretty slow. I estimated we took around an hour to reach the castle.
We were basically shoved outside when we arrived. Everything looked pretty different than the last time I came here with Alice.
For one, the famous garden outside the castle had been turned into a makeshift base. THe castle itself was always off-limits, but this part was open.
Then there were the banners announcing the Temporary HQ designation mounted from the balcony of the castle. The castle itself wasn't anything special. Tall rather than wide, it used to act both as a watchtower over the city and also a prison. Originally made of stone, a large part of the old structure had been replaced with concrete blocks. Supposedly to reinforce it after an earthquake. Yet this made it quite ugly. Thankfully someone on the tourist board recognized this and they painted over the walls.
I'm surprised the Royal Governor approved the conversion. I would have almost assumed that he was gone, but that wasn't the case. I don't know about Pamela, but I could feel it even from here. His presence. This place smelled of rot more than anything I had sensed before. And it's strange because this isn't the first time I came here.
I could almost see his aura. The castle itself had this ominous red hue as if it focused the light from the surroundings… He was definitely inside.
At the entrance soldiers were scrambling from one place to another. Not really orderly. Maybe yesterday's chaos was still ongoing.
We were led up three floors. Then our path cornered three times to the left. Then once down, then twice more to the left. Can't say I understand the layout. It's most likely intended to be confusing for attackers. The retainers in this place were meant to hold out as long as possible as they were separated from the actual fortress. Said fortress was demolished after the conquest as it had been reduced to rubble in the siege.
The stench became stronger as we advanced.
The hallways weren't particularly lavish. Stone or concrete blocks bounded like a puzzle with only a red carpet partly covering them. You'd think that the Investigators required luxury. I assumed there would be torches, but they made the effort of running wires throughout the building for actual lights. I'd say they were actually a bit too strong. Pretty tiring.
We were guided into what I presume is the General's improvised office. It was a medieval armory with a desk and chairs moved near the windows. I'm surprised they kept all these outdated hunks of metal, more so because they could have moved them into a museum rather than catching dust for how long the Governor has been around.
And speaking of the man himself, I could feel him. Not his exact position, but he was close. Only a few rooms over from me if I were to guess. Could he perceive us?
The General himself was just as I've seen on TV. Maybe looking a little older in person. He didn't strike me with power like I had been impressed by Meyer or Mundi, but his conviction was real. He posed himself confidently even despite the danger he was in.
He raised his eyes from whatever papers were on the desk, but didn't comment on our arrival.
Four guards flanked him to the sides, all in a kind of metal armor I couldn't recognize. They reminded me of the Hao suits, but more so bulky than nimble. Mundi's product? He invited me to take a seat and I didn't hesitate.
I'd like to think that I presented myself as resolute in front of this man. Pamela on the other hand was a mess. She was lost in his face, no doubt having seen something horrific. Even so, she was dragging me down to her level by association and I couldn't have that. Appearing weak in front of him wasn't an option.
I didn't let him have the courtesy of an introduction.
"Let's not waste any more of our time."
"I agree. Please tell me, Aionis, why I shouldn't have you tried for terrorism on the grounds of what your 'guild' did yesterday? I'm curious." He didn't bother to hide his hostility. The manners!
"For one you're clearly not going to do that. Is this enough of a reason?"
"You think this city is your play-pen and there are no consequences for what you and all of your friends do?"
"The second mistake was calling them my friends." He raised an eyebrow at that.
"And the first?"
"That you assume this position is something I want."
"I don't particularly care whether you do this 'job' out of some obligation or out of ambition. You are still responsible for what is happening! What will you tell the families that died yesterday? How will you face them?!"
What was this even about? He should know I don't do PR.
"Since when do the dead… hear?"
I didn't think I could make him redden this easily. Is there any excuse I can pull if I kill him in self-defence? Hmm, probably not. Foiçs made a pause to breathe in before continuing.
"You're so pathetic. And those people too. The fact that they need to depend on selfish egoists like you!"
"You aren't getting the irony? The military also depends on us. If they didn't there wouldn't be a need for heroes."
"You're getting on the edge of earning an execution. How dare you act this impudent in front of His Majesty's emissary?" The what? Or is it because of his new position as 'Marshall'?
Pamela decided to interject.
"Arrogance? What about you? Since when do you spare anyone? Let alone civilians?"
His face went pale for a moment, sliding back into his chair. More so because of the way she said it, not really the words themselves. Pamela had that introspective tone that annoyed me so I can get his reaction.
Then in a fury he threw the papers he was looking at earlier towards us.
"This tolerance the crown has given to mongrels like the superhumans of Concord was only afforded because of your local support. But you don't think about what is actually happening. You don't!"
I picked up some of the papers. They were front pages from different newspapers. A lot of them were reporting on the Aurelian bombing. A few also on Aira's rampage.
"Look at these. The newspapers of Concord are free to publish anything, and look at what they are presenting? Does this reflect a terrorist attack?"
No, he's right. These pages were more so praising the bombers. They were positioning it as a 'win for the people' and that the nouveau elites were punished for their greed. They were cheering on the deaths of the heroes. I can see how the Aurelians in particular would be unpopular, but for the deaths of the guests to be celebrated? The culture here devolved quite a bit. Are they trying to imitate Ventians?
"This bombing required the garrison to mobilize. Do you know what the people want to do? In that numb skull of yours, do you have any idea what the goal of this collective is?"
"To start a revolution." The Combine's goal wasn't really a mystery.
"Yes." He was glaring at me as if this was my fault.
"Heroes aren't seen as different from the very conglomerates which own the factories and offices these people work in."
"And how is it my fault?"
"What your demon of a subordinate did yesterday pushed the city to its breaking point. This isn't just the heroes front anymore. How are you going to take responsibility?"
"Why does he even need to take any?" Pamela responded before I could. "Why don't you call your Monarch here to defend the jewel of his Empire? The people would turn against the Combine if he called for it."
"You know nothing, woman! Who is this?" He asked me as if I owed him a response.
Pamela continued despite his words.
"We both know that he doesn't care if a revolution starts. In fact he'd appreciate one." One of the soldiers flaking the General raised his arm and a blade came out of the gauntlet, letting it touch Pamela's neck.
I didn't get to talk with Pamela, but I could see what she meant by that.
"She's not vulnerable so this threat is kind of… useless. But I think I get what this charade is about."
Foiçs changed his focus back to me. He was visibly debating whether to give the order.
"You aren't actually the King's lead, are you? You're a lackey of the Royal Governor."
Foiçs didn't respond to that, but he didn't need to. Clearly the Royal Governor was the only one hurt if the current order was destroyed. The very reason heroes were allowed to exist was to not interfere with him. It wasn't the 'popularity'. Otherwise why would there be an autonomous zone so deep in their core territories?
Pamela was smart to see that. And being summoned here served two purposes. First to chew out the person who is seen as the strongest of the leaders for the recent failures and save face himself, and second for a hidden goal of the Governor's. Perhaps to see me. Specifically me. I did meet his patron even if indirectly. And his deity hinted at being aware of who I was. In a nightmare I had yesterday. Clearly not a coincidence.
"So why don't we skip all this nonsense? Didn't I say at the beginning to not waste my time?" I almost wanted to giggle in his face.
A pause followed.
A long one. But Foiçs didn't punish me. Rather than angry, he seemed… tired?
"You are correct. This is futile." The man before me started erratically breathing in. Was he having a panic attack?
It stopped at once.
The General sighed long and heavy with a blank expression as if life had been taken out of his body and at the same time his nose began releasing a bizarre white smoke. His body twitched unnaturally and the soldiers fell to the ground, screaming in pain. Shouting the phrase "Lord of the High Place". Again and again. Then they all convulsed one by one, hit by something like a stroke and died.
Pamela was frozen in place with a fear even stronger than what I instilled in her. I believe she felt dread. I for one didn't know how to react.
What was coming out of the General? It began filling the room. Mist? No, it was steam, hot enough that I thought the man before me was boiling alive.
I should have raised and ran, or even thrown myself out of the window, but my instincts didn't let me. A thing inside, deep under my skin in a place I couldn't recognize, something glued me to my seat. Was I also sensing the terror? No, it was different.
Then I felt it. He emerged.
Perhaps it was my mistake. I was too insolent-