Being a monster is simple. All it takes is surrendering to impulse.
To remain human—that's an entirely different story.
I leaned my back against the wall and slid down, drained of strength, until I reached the floor. My palms met the blessedly cool, smooth parquet, grounding me in reality, slowly, step by step. Just a little longer, and the avalanche of tangled emotions would crash down on me, sweeping me off my feet. By sheer force of will, I tried to hold it back—allowing my feelings through in measured doses, struggling to preserve even a fragment of who I used to be. Of who I truly was.
My eyes stung—whether from my own sweat or the enemy's salty blood, which seemed to be everywhere: splattered across the walls, the charred remnants of velvet curtains, even the high ceiling. How could one body have held so much blood?
A satisfied purr echoed within me—Kaandor. I felt power surging back into his spirit in waves. His inner calm should have washed over me, too, but it didn't. My gaze clung to the horrifying scene, refusing to let go of the fear. It felt as though if I so much as relaxed for a moment, if I dared to look away, the enemy would rise again and strike the final blow when I least expected it—when I no longer had the strength to fight back.
But he remained motionless, sprawled in a pool of his own blood. Death's veil had already clouded his gaze, turning his eyes into something lifeless, doll-like, glassy.
My hands began to tremble. I couldn't believe what I had done.
This was it—the end of the story. I had become what I feared most—a killer. And yet, if I had to choose again, I would do it without hesitation. To save my friends, I would do it again.
A wave of dizziness hit me, and for the first time since the battle, a sickening cramp twisted my stomach, as if something inside me was being wrung out, forcing out the last remnants of humanity I still had left.
"Breathe. Deeper," Kaandor's voice echoed in my mind. I obeyed, tilting my head back. My eyes flickered over the scene of my work once more. Just for a moment. It only made things worse.
Focusing on my breath, I tried to pull my mind away, as far as possible from this cursed hall, where the air was thick with heat and salt. But this was nothing like the soothing scent of the sea I remembered from our last holiday together, my father and I. No—this familiar scent filling my lungs with every deep inhale only awakened a searing thirst that burned my throat.
I suppose we won't be going anywhere together this year. Or the next. Or ever again.
A groan of frustration escaped me, and I squeezed my eyes shut. The sting in them grew sharper, and I instinctively rubbed them with my hand, only to make it worse.
Someone's touch—gentle, hesitant—brushed my wrist, urging me to stop.
"Wait," Stas said, his voice roughened, whether by exhaustion or emotion, I couldn't tell. He carefully pulled my hand away. "You'll only make it worse."
I flinched at the unexpected contact, still too wound up from the fight to steady myself. With deliberate care, Stas dabbed at the skin around my eyes, then moved higher, wiping my forehead.
"All done." He pulled back and sat beside me. Only then did I dare to open my eyes and blink a few times. It actually helped—at least as much as anything could, given the circumstances.
From the far end of the hall, soft footsteps echoed. Someone was approaching, slow and cautious.
My body tensed, instincts flaring, and I started to rise, but Stas's hand on my shoulder stopped me.
"Easy," he murmured, running his fingers lightly through my hair, as if afraid to brush against my skin again. "It's your father."
"How do you know?"
"Any sane person would have seen the blood from the doorway and run the other way, not come closer."
Stas hadn't even finished speaking when my father appeared in the doorway, scanning the room, his pistol raised and ready. His gaze swept over the scene before him, and with a heavy sigh, he lowered his weapon. Running a hand through his hair—now streaked with even more grey—he took it all in.
He looked puzzled, but the fear and alarm that had been so stark in his eyes when he first stepped in slowly faded. His posture eased. I think he was just relieved that I was alive. But that didn't change the consequences we all now had to face.
My mother entered the hall behind him.
"I have no idea how we're supposed to explain this to Tatyana's father," my father muttered, sliding his pistol back into its holster.
"Here's an idea—let's just light the fire again and burn this whole damn place to the ground," came a voice from the side.
I turned toward it.
Max was sitting on the floor, just as bloodstained as I was. He snapped his fingers, and a flicker of flame danced to life above them.
"Just say the word."