The bitch wouldn't stop. I could hear her claws furrowing the earth, a wet, rhythmic scratching that told me she was catching my scent. I pressed into the mud, lungs burning, praying the stench of peat and my own fear would mask the copper tang of the gashes on my ribs. I didn't move until the first gray sliver of dawn hit the treeline. Only then did the screeching stop, replaced by the sound of something heavy retreating into the dark.
I didn't walk home. I stumbled, my boots heavy with muck and the adrenaline finally curdling into a nauseating ache.
I kicked the door inward, ready to boast, ready to show off the prize. The words died in my throat. The cabin didn't smell like the usual bitter herbs and stale tobacco. It smelled like a slaughterhouse.
The old man was slumped by the hearth, a pathetic heap of bone and ragged wool. He'd tried to scrub the floor—I could see the frantic, dark smears where he'd pushed a rag through a lake of his own blood—but he'd collapsed halfway through. The rag was still clutched in a white-knuckled fist, soaked through with blackening gore.
His chest hitched. It was a wet, rattling sound, like marbles rolling in a drain.
"Took you... long enough," he wheezed. His eyes were milky, unfocused, until they finally snagged on mine. "Look at you. Covered in shit and blood. Did you get it?"
I dropped to my knees, the floorboards slick under my shins. I held out the fruit. It was vibrant, pulsing with a golden light that felt like a mockery in this dim, dying room.
"I got it, Master. Just swallow it. It'll—"
"It won't do a damn thing for a rotted gut, boy." He reached out, his hand like a bird's claw as he clamped onto my wrist. He pulled me down until I could smell the rot and the metallic sting of his breath. "Your footwork... it's better. You didn't trip over your own shadow coming in. Good."
I let out a jagged, pathetic laugh. "You're dying, you old bastard, and you're still grading my form?"
He tried to bark a laugh back, but it dissolved into a violent, gurgling cough. A spray of red mist hit my cheek. He didn't even flinch. He just fumbled under the cot, dragging out a bundle wrapped in oilcloth.
"The Devil's Maneuvers," he rasped, shoving the leather-bound book toward my chest. It felt heavy, cold. "And this. Take it."
It was a letter, the seal a jagged, broken crown. Catington Academy.
"Why?" I hissed, my throat tightening. "You always said that place was for pampered high-bloods."
"It's for ghosts," he spat, his grip tightening until my bones creaked. "And you're going to be one if you stay here. Go to the city. Find the one they call the white sage . He owes me... more than his life."
He shuddered, his body seizing against the floor. "Your mother... Valos... she didn't weave those protection rites into your skin just so you could die in a shack on a cliffside. The sea couldn't take you. Don't let this world swallow you whole."
"Stop," I choked out. "Save your breath. We can cauterize it, we can—"
"I gave you the name Raymond because it sounded like stone," he whispered, his eyes finally beginning to glaze. "Don't be a blade, kid. A blade is just a tool for someone else's hand. Be the mountain."
He didn't offer a prayer. He didn't ask for forgiveness. He just looked at me, a final, demanding stare, and then the light simply went out. The grip on my wrist didn't loosen immediately; it stayed there, a cold weight for a long, silent minute.
"Master?"
Nothing. Just the roar of the surf outside, indifferent and hungry.
"What am I supposed to do with a three-headed freak hunting me?" I muttered to the corpse. "You told me to make it my objective. How do I kill something that heals faster than I can cut?"
The silence was the only answer I got.
I didn't cry. There wasn't enough water left in me for that. I spent the next four hours digging. The earth near my mother's grave was packed tight with salt and shale. By the time the hole was deep enough, my fingernails were torn and my knuckles were raw, weeping blood into the dirt.
I rolled him in his old winter blanket and lowered him down. Thud. "You were a miserable teacher," I said, my voice flat, blending into the wind. "And you lied about the soup every single time. But thanks for the name."
I filled the grave until my arms turned to lead. Back inside, the cabin felt hollow, a ribcage with the heart ripped out. I sat on the cold floor, the golden fruit in one hand and the book in the other.
I bit into the fruit. It was sweet, cloying, and tasted like ash. I didn't feel a sudden surge of peace or power. I just felt the weight of the dice in my hand.
And for the first time, I was the one throwing them.