"Nice try, boy," the man's cold mockery echoed in his head. The man stared down at Zephyrion with an impassive expression, nodding to himself before turning his attention to his next target. The dying "boy" lay forgotten on the cobblestone.
Zephyrion let his head fall against the cold ground beneath him. It felt as if a lead weight had been placed on his chest. Each breath burned painfully in his lungs, everything felt unbearably heavy. His eyes closed, the strain of keeping them open too great of a challenge. Darkness enveloped him, oddly comforting, almost natural. He could feel the cold creeping up his limbs.
He willingly let the chill seep up his veins. Why even try to fight it? He had always known this was how it would end. No one would miss him. In fact, some would probably be glad he was gone. Yet it was a shame, he was just about to fuse. He could feel power building within him, like a blacksmith stoking the flames, the hypothetical fire growing hotter. The heat seemed like it should have warmed his fingers, but that wasn't how it worked.
At least, he figured it wasn't.
No one could say he didn't try. He had truly given it his all, which surprised even himself. He wondered how far he had come. Maybe he was close to the top ten. Perhaps, because of his death, she would make the top ten. Be spared the chilling grip of death. Doubtful, but a nice thought.
Like thunder on a quiet night, a voice erupted in his skull: "Ani Benedictio." It was a deep, ancient voice. The suddenness of it stilled his chaotic thoughts.
Timed slowed in the stillness of thoughtlesness. He had remembered hearing other voices while fighting. What had they said…?
"I bestow my blessing," or something like that, he thought.
There was an old children's tale that said when you received one of the higher forms of a blessing, you could hear the words of the gods. Maybe it was true, but Zephyrion didn't think so. Now, however, he wasn't so sure.
It was most likely just his adrenaline, he decided. He must be close to dying It seemed like an eternity had passed. His body like granite statue for how much he could move it. He let his mind still. Might as well go peacefully.
Once again in the thralls of thoughtlessness however, he could hear an old man's voice, like a soft whisper from a mile away. It was an odd sensation. Like a corner of his mind that he had never noticed before. Like a door had opened for the first time. He focused on the voice, and it grew a little louder. He let his mind drift through the doorway. "Zephyrion… You… stay…" He could almost make it out. He strained harder, and it felt as if he were spinning. He let the voice consume his thoughts. It became his world; all he could do was listen.
"Zephyrion, you must fight a little longer! Stay alive!" It was like the old man had whispered directly into his ear.
It was startling at first. Then he wanted to laugh. The absolute absurdity of it. All that work and it seemed like a punch line of a joke. Why had he even bothered, struggling just for that? Hadn't he fought enough, tried enough, done enough? He was just one person. What more could anyone ask of him?
All he wanted was to save one person, just once. He couldn't even do that. The fire in his chest seemed to transform into a star. Strangely enough, even the cold creeping up his arms began to fade. The star seared through his insides, pulsing through his veins in waves, each one hotter than the last. The old man's voice tickled the back of his thoughts again. With nothing else to do, he listened once more. Maybe it was going to be a funnier joke this time.
What had been a whisper the first time was now a deafening shout. "Zephyrion! Wake up!"
Like waking from the deepest sleep he had ever known, his eyes snapped open, and he sat upright, air rushing into his lungs. He looked down to see blood covering his chest and coat. With frantic hands, he tore open the blood-soaked fabric. His skin was coated in slick blood, but where a gaping hole should have been, only a slim jagged pink scare remained.
He felt as if a hot breeze was blowing through him. He turned towards the source. A woman in a sullen royal blue cloak stood before him, arms outstretched, both hands pointed at him.
Zephyrion's breath caught in his throat as he watched in horror. The man loomed in front of her, a sinister grip encircling her throat, lifting her effortlessly off the ground as if she were a mere child in his grasp.
Rage filled him—dark, black, ice-cold rage. He let the white-hot star burning inside him flow out.
Black tendrils wrapped themselves around the man and woman. The man was ripped away, launched toward Zephyrion.
The other tendrils created a platform for the woman to stand on. She sagged a little under her own weight, the shadows curling around her to support more of her burden.
The man flew at Zephyrion like a bullet. Zephyrion cocked his arm back, and a right hook connected with the man's jaw. The punch was faster and stronger than any human being should have been able to deliver. Lightning flared where his fist met the man's jaw. The impact was thunderous, accompanied by the sickening sound of breaking bones. He pulled his fist back; the man's jaw was charred, a brand of Zephyrion's fist where his hand had struck. The jawbone was shattered, but so was every bone below Zephyrion's wrist.
He didn't care. He cocked back with his left. One thought seared into his mind: *I can save at least one.*
Faster than his eyes could track, his left fist made contact. More lightning exploded, spraying blood across the stone. His left fist was as much a mass of broken flesh and bone as his right. He didn't care. Rage and power burned hot within him.
Shadows coiled around the man's neck like a snake constricting its prey. Zephyrion stood, looking down at his disfigured hands. Fingers pointed in the wrong directions, bones sticking through the backs of his palms, blood gushing out around the protruding bone. He looked up at the woman still supported by shadows. Then he felt the air stir around him. A gust of hot wind tossed his hair and pulled at his cloak. He looked down again and watched as the bones sunk back into place, fingers straightening to normal angles, skin knitting together. He grunted and clenched his fists tightly.
He could feel the hot air surrounding him, not only healing but strengthening him. He let it envelop him. Every tickle of air felt like a soft caress, leaving his muscles stronger, tougher. His bones grew denser, scars faded, and poorly healed wounds fixed themselves. His eyesight grew sharper; he could see the threads of her cloak as clearly as if he were standing next to her. The subtle hues and shades of her hair seemed more vibrant and pronounced. Then his breath grew slower and less deep, as if each inhalation invigorated him more than before. His sense of smell sharpened, the acrid stench of blood filling his nostrils. It centered him, made him focus.
He stared down at the man wrapped in shadows. With a thought, the man was hoisted into the air by his neck. His jaw and face looked like a mutilated fruit. Zephyrion looked down at his hands. The scars where the bones had poked through the flesh were fading.
A bile sensation ripped through him, then faded. Cold rage replacing everything else. It was just another Name to add to the list of people he'd killed.
He flicked his arm out to the side, and shadows raced from his outstretched hand. With a thought, the shadows curled around the hilt of his thrown dagger, still lodged in the man's back. In the blink of an eye, the dagger rested in Zephyrion's palm. The words etched into the blade glowed vibrantly, blood filling its grooves. The shallow breaths of the dangling man proved he was unconscious. Zephyrion lowered the man into a kneeling position.
"Better luck next time," he said, his voice colder than he expected, and calmer then he felt. He had wanted to deliver a cool one-liner in case a camera was watching, but it felt right to use the man's words against him. Zephyrion plunged the dagger into the mans heart. There was no dramatics no flare. The man just fell, crumpling into a heap of an unrecognizable body.