[Malach]
Malach recalled the aftermath of the panic with a strange, dreamlike clarity, as if every second had been carved into his mind by fear.
In the instant the room collapsed into chaos, he and Orvell and Ellor moved without speaking. There had been no time to plan. Only the instinct to hold the staff together before the entire estate dissolved into madness.
Orvell was the first to impose order.
He stepped forward, shoulders squared, and bellowed louder than Malach had ever heard him.
"Calm yourselves! Listen to me!"
For a heartbeat, the noise softened. Panic did not vanish, but it hesitated. Orvell had always possessed that quality, a voice that invited compliance, as if people wanted to trust him.
Perhaps that was why Orvell had remained the head servant throughout of Malach's life.
But even Orvell's authority could not overwhelm the creeping, unseen force that had taken hold of the room.
The staff broke again. Some froze while others pushed and clawed their way across the floor, wheezing, stumbling, slamming into one another in blind desperation. The terror was not natural. Trained attendants, many who had served through emergencies before, should not have unraveled so quickly.
Ellor fared even worse. His authority allowed him to sense the emotions of those he knew. Stronger emotions, especially from people he was close to, came in layered detail. Tonight, he did not need to say anything. Everyone could see the emotions that ran throughout the crowd.
The storm was happening outside, but the emotional pressure in the room was worse.
Malach cut his hand again.
Then again.
He tried to soothe the staff's minds, though he knew his rituals were limited when the target and the sacrificial material was unrelated. Still, blood streaked across both palms as he focused with everything he had. He whispered intent after intent, trying to soften fear, quiet breath, steady panic. The rituals activated, but barely. Each one felt swallowed by something stronger.
Beside him, Orvell continued shouting commands. At first his instructions were steady, firm, grounded in instinct and urgency. Yet as the chaos swelled, his voice changed. It grew harsher, sharper, almost rasping. Eventually he was yelling not to the group, but at individuals.
"You there, stay still! You, get back from the wall! Percy, breathe slower! Look at me!"
A few regained composure under his relentless focus, but most fled in desperation, scattering into the hallways in search of an escape that did not exist.
Malach felt a cold certainty settle in his stomach. This hysteria was not natural. Something had gripped the estate, something that preyed on fear and magnified it. He had no proof, only instinct, but the thought refused to leave him.
There was no time to think. Bodies thinned as more and more fled. Soon the room looked hollow, the space suddenly too large for the few that remained, and too quiet, except for the thundering outside.
That was when Malach noticed the bodies.
Lying still. Lying wrong. Positioned as if asleep, yet unmistakably lifeless. Dozens of them. Some on their backs, others slumped forward, a few resting against the walls as though simply resting their eyes.
Malach stopped cutting his hands. The rituals were useless now. His blood dripped onto the marble floor, darkening the stone in tiny scattered dots.
After a long minute of horrified silence, Ellor broke from his frozen stance. His movements were jerky, hesitant, like someone walking through a nightmare they did not believe was real. He shuffled toward the nearest body, a man Malach knew only as his bookkeeper.
Ellor knelt with trembling hands and reached to check the man's pulse.
His fingers touched the skin, but after a moment of realization, he jerked back.
"He's cold," Ellor whispered, shock draining the color from his face.
"How?" Orvell muttered. His voice cracked at the end. Even he could not mask the disbelief.
Silence returned, heavier this time, thick as smoke. Not one person in the room misunderstood what had happened. No wound. No trauma. No struggle. Yet life had vanished.
This was unnatural. Unmistakably so.
Orvell drew in a steadying breath, then rose with the composure of someone forcing himself to stay functional for the sake of others.
"We need to split into groups," he said. "I will organize teams of four. We will search the rest of the manor to locate anyone still alive. Ael and Rhona, prepare a space to treat the wounded. Malach, Ellor, Percy, remain here and try to establish any connection you can, whether internet or phone or direct communication."
His tone brooked no argument. The remnants of the surviving staff understood immediately. They moved with hurried discipline, clinging to Orvell's presence like a lifeline.
Malach watched them begin their tasks. He felt a swell of gratitude for Orvell. Even amid fear, the man's voice carried a kind of protective gravity, something that made the world feel slightly less fractured.
Yet something bothered him.Orvell had not spoken with him privately nor had he had not consulted him.
And perhaps that was what the situation needed, but the thought lingered.
Malach surveyed the room again. The living walked carefully, their clothes soaked with sweat, their eyes filled with dread. The dead looked peaceful, almost gentle in their stillness, as if they had slipped into sleep without suffering.
But the contrast was sickening.
Malach stood in the center of it, hands stained, the weight of dread settling deeper into his bones.