"Fuck na. Not in the slightest bit. Keep on dreaming, but do know quite frankly that if you kill me, your powers will still be nullified. Killing me wouldn't bring them back. I'm sure you wouldn't want that, right, my fellow Chosens?" The blonde spoke with haughtiness, unmoved by Isabella's threats.
"You really think I wouldn't lunge this through your neck? What makes you so daring, stranger?" Isabella pressed the jagged leg of a broken chair harder against the blonde's throat.
Andrew paid little heed to their squabble. He had something more disastrous to contend with–something that tore at his skull with intangible blades. He tried to ignore them, but the anxious glances Isabella kept throwing his way were impossible to overlook.
She kept demanding the blonde release his "Nullification," yet he resisted, stubborn even as Isabella's threats edged into reality.
"For fuck's sake, we have no intent of harming you. Just give us our fucking powers back and you'll be on your pitiful way. I'm really not in the mood for this. If you think I'll kill you simply because you refuse, then you must think me some kind of degenerate. But what I can make you feel, stranger… you'd greatly prefer a quick death. I promise you." Venom laced Isabella's words, her tone stripped bare of elegance.
An unnatural anxiety clung to her. It wasn't just about their lack of powers, that much made sense. No, the unease was directed at him. She kept sneaking looks at him, and that was what unsettled him most.
She knows. She's aware of our existence, Andrew.
She has seen our "truth." She wants to trap us–to dissect you, explore you… until nothing remains. Like they always do.
She is a threat, Andrew. A threat to us. We are you, and a threat to us is a threat to you.
She restricts us, Andrew. Kill her before that blonde lifts his restriction–kill them both. You must. It's necessary.
She's afraid of us, Andrew. Her fear will harm you. She doesn't trust me. She'll strike us first. Save yourself… save us… save me.
Andrew pulled away from them, fingers clutching great tufts of his own hair, yanking hard as if pain could drown out the whispers. It didn't. The pain only sharpened the voices, feeding them until they swelled unbearable. This enthrallment had never been so intense–no, only once before had it reached such a pitch.
He tried to make his frantic tugging look subtle, but he was certain Isabella noticed. The way her eyes cut toward him left no doubt.
"I've given you multiple chances to make a different choice. One last time. One last chance. Shut your fuck-ass ability off, or else…" Isabella's voice was calmer now, steady–less a threat than a declaration of consequence.
"No way in hell—"
The words never finished. Something terrifying echoed through the apartment halls.
AHHHHHHHHHHH!
The moment Isabella heard "no," it was all she needed. The wooden stake left the blonde's throat and plunged deep into his thigh.
For a second, the blonde didn't register it–the strike was too swift, too precise. But when pain finally bloomed, he screamed. Pure anguish tore from his lungs, echoing down the building.
The sound was so raw, so overwhelming, that it drowned the voices in Andrew's head. For the first time in what felt like forever, his clarity returned.
And the first thing he did wasn't to check the blonde; it was to look out the window.
The Thralls.
As he feared, their bodies convulsed once more, writhing into grotesque shapes as they shifted into the inhuman. Every one of them moved in unison–toward this place.
At that same moment, Andrew felt something stir in himself. Something intrinsic, something lost… had returned.
Then his vision changed.
Innumerable intangible strings filled his sight, overlaying the world until everything was woven together in threads that weren't truly threads. They only looked like it–representations of what they really were.
Causality.
The word etched itself in his mind. He knew these strings were born of cause and effect, the tethering of events. Yet knowledge was not comprehension. He was aware, but he could not fathom them.
Was it the never-ending complexity within their simple forms? The way they unraveled and rewove themselves ceaselessly, in intricate structures that shifted with every moment?
Maybe. Or maybe something else he couldn't grasp–just as he couldn't grasp the strings themselves when he reached for them.
But it didn't matter. They vanished as swiftly as they came.
And he wasn't the only one who changed.
"That's what I'm talking about," Isabella breathed, a strange smile curving her lips as power rushed back into her.
Andrew felt the twisting pull of a Rift opening. Since he never experienced that sensation with Isabella's Rifts, he immediately knew it was the blonde's.
"Really?" Isabella's eyes narrowed, disbelief and fury flashing as she looked down at him. "You're actually using your Rift in my presence? The fucking audacity."
The poor fool had no idea how unfortunate he was. This Isabella wasn't regal or restrained, she was something else entirely. Not chaotic, but serenely insane.
Andrew watched in shock as she struck him–not with her weapon, but with a single, brutal punch to the skull. He braced for gore, for an explosion of bone and blood… but nothing of the sort came. The force had been deceptive. The blonde simply went limp, unconscious. The Rift sensation died with him.
When Isabella looked up at Andrew, her gaze had shifted. No longer tranquil madness–just gratitude, as though relief itself had steadied her.
"Let's go." She rose, gripping the blonde's collar and dragging him toward Andrew.
Shouldn't you be wary of her?
A thought–his own, this time–whispered.
Why?
He asked it inwardly, but no answer came. Isabella's hand closed around his wrist, firm but not harsh.
"Let's get out of here, Andrew."
The sound of the Thralls' march echoed again; closer, heavier, more dreadful than before.
*****
Asparicin Continent, Republic of Ventica
In a place that will not be named…
Two tall figures in white robes walked leisurely through a vast lavender field. The air was perfumed with its fragrance–cool and soothing, with a sweetness that quieted the mind. It carried the softness of dusk in a summer meadow: earthy, floral, almost dreamlike. Through this tranquil sea, they moved.
"Talen escaped? I'm not surprised, but still disappointed. The Immortals chosen to slaughter the Chosens are far too mediocre. They know nothing of the arcane force we wield. They've failed a simple test. What kind of Chosen can they not handle, freshly awakened or not? Disappointments."
"Do not blame the little ones for their failure. The Chosen they were tasked with was elusive beyond measure. If Talen wanted to flee, they had no means to stop him," the second figure defended.
"Failure is failure. No need to sugarcoat it." The first figure's voice sharpened. "How many of those vermin are left? Those accursed creations of the Otherworldly 'things' must be eradicated swiftly. Do they think we lack a countermeasure? No, they are aware don't lack the means. They know we do, and yet they persist in creating their Chosens. This time, we'll send a message. So–how many remain?"
"A hundred and two out of the original three hundred and nine, Sire," the second answered with respect. "It's only been six days, but only twenty have already fallen by our hands. The rest… many die by each other's hands."
"Of course. Fools. Children granted the powers of gods, but none of the wisdom. We could sit back and watch them butcher themselves… but we won't. We shall join in on the carnage." Depraved words left the mouth of the figure addressed as "sire". "Is there any among them we should be wary of?"
"A few. But the most exceptional Chosen so far is still the young one, Demarcus."
"The audacious boy who calls himself 'God'?"
"Yes, Sire."
"A god, is he? Very well then."
In silence, they continued across the endless lavender, basking in serenity while a time of chaos loomed ever nearer.