I dreamed. It was shattered, disjointed; a musing that belonged in the warped brain of a madman. Scenes were enacted in veins of black and yellow. Something monumental ending. Everyone I had ever known, dead before I opened my eyes. A burden carried over a large distance. A giant glimpsed from somewhere far away, my family lifeless at her feet. A choice that didn’t seem like a choice. Terror; old as the gods themselves. And then something new; an addendum. Failure.

Slowly, sanity returned.

From experience, I knew that a head injury was a dangerous thing. I’d waited in the corner of a tent, blocking my sibling’s ears, feeling ostensibly undamaged soldiers begin to seize and die. Some would endure, only to find a part of their body or mind unfeeling; unresponsive. Ma, taller than most mountains, had watched all of it, expressionless. Her knuckles had been white where they gripped her halberd.

I shuddered awake, eyes rolling wildly. An edge pressed against my neck. Night had fallen, but even through the darkness I could see Ma’s face across the rooftop, empty of all emotion. She was covered head-to-toe in dust and blood – most yellow, some red. One arm held the hilt of her onyx blade, lowered by her side. Were she anyone else, her stance would seem arrogant. But my mother wasn’t anyone else. Even as reduced as she was, Ma could still promise violence without saying a word.

It took a moment for me to realise that, after her bulging bicep, her other arm was entirely missing. Only a wad of reddened cloth tied around her stump hinted anything had been there at all.

“Ma!” I shouted, the shock driving the exclamation from my mouth.

The edge pressed further into my neck. The sensation of it breaking skin silenced me.

“Your son is awake, Maja.” Master Reagan’s voice – no, Mister Reagan’s voice – was low and savage. It emanated from behind me. “Look at him.” Her eyes didn’t flicker away from the figures forming a rough semicircle around her. “Poor Orvi. He’s worked so hard to make you proud. Do you see where it got him? A burned back; a shattered arm; a hole in his side.”

I focused on the figures. Reagan’s Blooded; six of them, pus and dust filling every nook and cranny. The one holding me – Aston, probably. Captain Vernon was missing, alongside four others. Either they had died or something else had happened. And, finally, Reagan’s vast presence, looming behind us all.

A gurgle sounded from Ma’s feet – someone bled from a hole in their neck beneath her. I felt their life falling away.

“I do not think I’m being unfair, either,” Reagan said, disgustingly casual. “You promised something you couldn’t deliver. You threaten. You cheat. You lie. And you kill – like no one else. You, General Maja, are a disgrace of a human being.”

The corners of her mouth quirked for a moment. “General no longer, Reagan.”

“That’s Master Reagan to you, woman,” he spat. His composure returned as if it had never been gone. “But your moral failings only endure for as long as you remain unendorsed. You could be a general. And not just any general – a Great General.”

“You know what I think of your offer,” Ma gravelled. No one moved.

“Perhaps it remains unappealing to you. Yet, think of all the benefits delivered to your children. Safety. Education. Opportunity.”

“And you take a child hostage as a token of your sincerity.” Ma’s stance was strange, I noticed. She didn’t usually favour one leg so heavily. The line of thought dissolved. Her arm was gone.

“Let us not pretend you didn’t plan on killing myself and my followers,” Reagan responded. I started. Had my mother planned on betraying them?

“Me? Never,” Ma intoned flatly.

“The Slaughter. The Headsman. Neither are meaningless monikers. You’ll forgive me if I take some assurances.”

She grunted. The figures nearby flinched.

“You can be redeemed, you know. Your reputation returned to you. Your loved ones safe, and esteemed above all others.”

Ma stared. Reagan’s voice remained level – maddeningly sweet.

“Or your children can die.”

Aston’s knife was cold against my neck. Six of Reagan’s other thralls were arrayed around the roof – Serl, the Dolphinblood; a wide-eyed Owlblooded woman; a weak Foxblood, identified only by her sideburns; two Oxbloods, each a foot taller than Ma; a sickly-looking man who must’ve been a Lizardblood. Their nonchalance made their eyes unnatural; eerie.

My captor shook me threateningly, allowing my eyes to alight on Reagan. Besides a smattering of dust on his plate armour, his condition was flawless. The Master’s gaze burned from within his helmet, and held all the ferocity of a rabid dog clutching its last bone. Ma faced the assortment, her loose skin telling of power long lost, her mouth stretched into a thin line.

My captor’s chest reverberated as he spoke. “Now, Maja, if you unleash the slaughter you are known for, I will slit this boy’s throat and shatter him on the ground beneath us.”

Ma gave a long, thin smile. It failed to reach her eyes. “Go ahead. Give the order, Reagan; I care nothing for the child.”

I glanced towards Reagan, standing slightly behind us. His face contorted into a grotesque grin, eyes wide and unblinking. “Aston. Stab Orvi – nonlethally, if you’d be so kind.”

I felt the Foxblood shuffle as he produced another dagger. Unwittingly, I struggled, but my efforts were too weak to prevent the blade from plunging down into my shoulder. The sensation was like being kicked by a horse, and was almost immediately followed by incredible pain. My muscles convulsed, twisting my wounds. I tightened my teeth, however a groan still managed to slide out.

Through my drunkenly twisting vision, I saw my mother flinch.

“There it is,” Reagan snarled, smug as a cat full of milk. “So what will it be, Maja? Your family in the dirt? Or an esteemed life, full of the privileges rank can bestow?”

For once, she wasn’t the tallest person around. Even Reagan – rictus grin and all – seemed to tower over her. The tip of her blade wobbled as she sighed. “It’s quite the hole you’ve put us in, Reagan. You should be careful of shoving your hand in.” Ma raised her arm, causing everyone around to flinch, but she was only rubbing her eyes. “Alright. Let’s discuss terms.”

She continued speaking, but I wasn’t paying attention. My mind was eight years past, remembering the hole General Maja found the three of us in. How I had stabbed Jackson when he poked his arm in.

My eyes darted towards her. My mother raised a finger around her scabbard. It was a signal we used in the kitchen on the few times we were too busy for words. It meant: cook the noodles. It always remained unsaid that Ma would handle the rest.

I repeatedly elbowed Aston in the kidneys and shoved my good hand underneath his knife. Almost immediately, it bit down, biting into my palm and sending spurts of blood through the air. I idly noted it was darker than a rich, human red, even as Aston and I strained against each other – myself trying to ignore the pain of working my bad limb while he tried to work his free arm around my own. The deadlock was broken after less than a moment – a black scabbard flew into his head and rocked it backwards, allowing me to wrestle myself from his grip.

Then Ma was there, a flash of black taking Aston’s head from his neck. I snatched his knife, hurriedly shaking a shard of bone from my hand. Belatedly, the desire to wet my pants and run emerged.

“You’re dead first, Dolphinblood,” growled Ma. The urge wobbled and fell away as Serl began scrambling away, only for her to step forward and pierce his spine. He tumbled off the side of the roof, however Reagan was already speaking.

“Surround them. As we’ve discussed.”

Ma and I stood in the centre of the roof, surrounded by five Blooded. Their master stood at the edge of the roof, just out of reach of Ma’s blade. The Oxbloods swung clubs at her simultaneously – one high and one low – while the Foxblood flicked a dagger at her. She parried the high blow, and ducked the dagger, but her foot gave way as she attempted to leap, allowing the second cudgel to smash into her knee. I heard a crack as the joint buckled, and Ma groaned slightly.

I was still. The thought of killing… But even as fear coursed through me the Lizardblood was already approaching, stomps supernaturally heavy. Ma slashed at him, only for him to dip behind the shield. Her blade snaked around it, and sunk into his neck.

My mother turned to bat away another two blows from the Oxbloods – each enhanced with the purple glow that could only be the Owlblood’s doing – and only I realised her mistake. The Lizardblood’s lifeforce flared, and he raised his longsword to add a third strike towards her back…

And he missed me leaping atop his shield and ramming my dagger into his eye – blood trickling out. He struggled, and I churned it around his skull, feeling his life weaken, then die.

I yanked the short blade out and turned, ignoring the sick feeling that I had just crossed an important line. My murder of the Lizardblood had freed a corner of the roof, and Ma backed into it, her large body placed between me and the four remaining Blooded.

“You have something on your head,” she blurted, simultaneously parrying a club glowing purple, accelerating at unnatural speeds. I panicked for a fraction of a second – was it blood? The back of Ma’s hand – still wrapped around her onyx blade – lashed out in front of my face and rubbed at my forehead rapidly.

“It’s gone, now,” Ma panted. She withdrew her hand, and I saw a dagger was embedded in it. Her dark skin trembled, slightly. She had taken one of the Foxblood’s blows for me.

The thought struck me that, even if I could follow the battle’s individual movements, I still had little idea what was going on. But I wasn’t a fool – Reagan would use Ma’s desire to protect me to force her into worse and worse positions. He’d made a miscalculation, though – even as a cripple, I wasn’t helpless.

I breathed in, and lunged past Ma. She shouted from behind, but the words flew past, incomprehensible. The two Oxbloods towered above me, their arms wreathed with a purple glow. Their eyes widened momentarily, but the surprise was not enough to prevent them from swinging with impossible speed – one club high, one low. Yet the two had grown predictable, and diving between the blows was almost as easy as angering Sash. My wound twisted, and even as I gasped I was channelling Babs’ monstrous instincts, digging into one’s leg and ripping an artery open.

Then I was past. The Foxblooded woman advanced towards me. As beat as I was, I had no chance in a fight, so I veered around her. Her footsteps trailed me, but I had the momentum. Reagan and the Owlblood woman stood at the edge of the roof. Reagan laughed, even as I tackled both of them off the side of the roof.

We hung for a fraction of a moment, suspended three storeys above the ground. The vignette slipped away. We fell in a tangle – Reagan’s laughter ringing in my ears. Briefly, I wondered whether my luck would hold; I’d survived this exact fall weeks ago, but this was still a gamble. Then we hit the ground, and something snapped, and my world was alight in agony.

My arm; my side; my back. The pain erupting from them was my entire world. A cold, logical part of me wondered whether the breaking sound had signalled my death. My eyes couldn’t focus, so I used a deeper sense. The mystery was solved immediately. The Owlblood was dying. Her neck had broken.

Even as I felt the woman’s life fade away, another abruptly disappeared on the roof. Not Ma’s – hers was weakened, but still stable. And Reagan’s waxed and waned wildly. The mystery disciplined my mind, allowing me to finally look over at Reagan.

He was upright, staggering through the field of dead monsters. He tore off his helmet, hurling it across the street. An image flashed by of him beating one of his Blooded in a mansion filled with luxury, even as I trembled in fear. Babs’ memory. The Master gurgled. Somehow, my knife had found a way into his throat.

And then he ripped it out and his lifeforce stabilised.

He cracked his neck and turned towards me, lips peeled back in an animal sneer. The man’s face was sickly, yellow; the white of his teeth was radiant in comparison. His eyes were two sunken holes, putrid embers burning within.

“You. You’ve ruined my plan. I made the plan. I made the speech. You all just had to follow,” the Leydenese scion ranted, spittle flying from his lips. “The plan, then get the conversion stone, then the blood out, and all of them none the wiser.”

His gaze fixed me in place. Within was the weight of an unwavering conviction – the same I had seen in the cultists that had raised me, in madmen, and in the Lizard’s parasites. The cementing of belief and the discarding of flexibility – a hallmark of every cautionary tale surrounding Lizardbloods, and their ensuing tragedy.

It struck me that Dure’s nature didn’t bring stupidity – it brought will. And the strongest will cannot be bent. Even if it were wrong.

“You’ve ruined the plan. The words should’ve been enough. How-how-how-how…” the madman raved. He paused, staring into space. “I will remove you.” Only his mouth moved. “With the offending agent gone, the plan can recommence.”

My knees shook as I rose. “Don’t you… need me? How can you persuade Maja without me?” Unwittingly, my gaze wandered to the roof – someone screamed, and another font of lifeforce disappeared. Only Ma and one other remained.

He bit a fingernail, gnawing wildly. “I don’t need you. I need the boy. Or…” his eyes narrowed. “Or-or-or-or the… the twins. Irrelevant. I need to rid myself of the obstruction.”

In one swift movement, Reagan drew his longsword and swung it at me. I stepped backwards, managing to avoid any damage, but for some reason my jaw felt wet. My hand pawed at my face. The madman was neither an Foxblood nor an Oxblood, yet somehow his weapon sliced through the air fast enough to slice a long gouge across my lips.

Every step forward from him was met with two steps backwards from me. My senses cast themselves backwards, warning me of a body or chunk of rubble – any obstacle that would lead to a fatal stumble. Retreat wasn’t a lasting strategy – Reagan had openly threatened Sash and Dash – however it was impossible to subdue him without a weapon. My vulpine eyes scanned the environment – my knife, still behind him and too short besides; parasite bone, too fragile; loose bricks; shattered pieces of wood… And there! A long haft missing a spearhead.

I kicked a brick at Reagan and he dipped aside. The momentary distraction should have affected his follow-up swing, allowing me to cut through the range of his sword and grab the haft. But it didn’t. His face lit up, as if I had given him the perfect gift, and his blade bit diagonally. I leaped yet it followed still, catching my injured side even as I sprinted across the street.

I moved, even as my blood splattered the ground at an astonishing rate. The dark liquid covered the yellow ichor of Dure’s parasites, droplets cast across their bodies. Readjusting my rag-tunic, I scooped up the haft and whipped it behind, hearing a sharp retort as it made contact with metal. It took effort to turn around and see Reagan’s smile. My blow had reflected off his shin-guard.

Our positioning had been reversed, yet Reagan still approached and I still retreated, even as I battered his body. None of my strikes had lasting impact. If I clubbed his torso, he would just grin at the dent in his armour. If I smashed his joints, he would limp or slow for a dozen seconds, then straighten out, as if he had never been hurt at all. And I couldn’t harm his neck or face – his sword would dance over or he would raise an arm, deflecting the attack.

The biggest difference between us was more pronounced, though. I was flagging, my energy leaving one drop at a time as my mind darted like a capricious bird and my heart thundered in my chest and I wondered if the universe was sick of me and if I was going to die. And Reagan’s expression never changed.

But we were back to where we had started. I kicked the yellow-smeared knife to my hand and flicked it towards him. Reagan – now entirely unafraid of me – didn’t bother to prevent it from sinking into his knee. He limped forward, inexorably, yet I knew I had won.

Ma was the only one left on the roof.

I grinned, even he swung towards me, his longsword splitting my haft in two and giving me barely enough time to hop backwards. I smiled as I readjusted my grip and moved past him, hammering at the dagger in his knee. My bloodied lips quirked as he turned around and stabbed, nailing my foot to the dirt. And then Reagan’s gauntleted fist caught me in the head and I tore my foot away, feeling my toes sever and barely managed to keep my balance. I clenched my teeth, even as my jaw wobbled. My mother’s lifeforce was on the roof, unmoving.

She was going to let me die. Because I was a Ravenblood? Because I had messed up, and caused Dirk to die, Jackson to be grievously wounded, and Stitch to never stop shaking? Because I had let her down, over and over again? Because I was a bad son? Because I had never been her son?

I noticed a sword blurring towards my neck. I flinched away, yet it was already too late. I raised my hand to dull the blow. And then some strange instinct filled my limbs. The arc wasn’t any slower, nor less skilful, yet suddenly it was predictable.

I caught the blade. But I wasn’t paying attention to that.

You move. Your father; your mother; your brothers; your sisters; your uncles; your aunts; your cousins; all are in constant motion. When the day’s labour is done, your yurt is large enough to cover the stars themselves. But then a month or a week or a day passes and it is torn down, and everything moves. The yurt moves, the flocks and the herds move, the family moves. “A god moves, now,” all the adults say, “and so too must we.”

My stupor allowed Reagan to wrench the sword from my hand. He sent it blurring towards me once again and unconsciously I stepped out of his range. Ma’s lifeforce filled my attention. The channel between us yawned open.

Everything you have, you get from your animals. Your horses lend their speed, allowing the hunters to bring back rabbits and geese. Your raptors lend their eyes and talons, watching for danger and occasionally bringing back rodents. Your dogs protect you and the animals. Your sheep give wool, milk, and cheese. You have a favourite – Heti – a ewe who has already mothered ten lambs, and you sit and watch the sun set with her every day. Heti is your first and most important lesson. It is your older sister’s wedding. Your father butchers Heti, steely-eyed, and you watch the life drain from her body. “It is a celebration,” he says, “and we need the meat.”

The madman’s blade sliced through my cheek and I stumbled backwards. Where was I? Another swipe of his longsword blurred towards me – too fast. I kicked up a brick and it clanged against the weapon, fouling the blow and allowing me to retreat further.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

You trade with the walled villages for food with greater longevity. Everyone secretly disdains the Wallers for their foolishness and cowardice. You do too. Their elders are older, though, and there are more of them. Sometimes the villages disappear. “The gods’ work,” everyone says. They still ask for your father’s cooking, though – he is a legend, and as much as they hate them their coin is good. When your brother brings you to trade, you hear the word ‘nomads’ for the first time. You like the word. It has a nice sound. But sternly, your brother tells you “We are warriors, not nomads.” And so, far earlier than your parents are happy with, he begins to teach you to fight.

How? Ma’s blood must have gotten on my forehead, but when? During the clash on the roof? I would have noticed if she had gotten any on her. It didn’t matter. I needed to remove the blood. I reached my hand up to wipe it away, only for a snarling man to force me to bat his blade away.

You grow and you learn. The ballad of blades appeals to you, because within it is a truth you know well – movement. The bow; the sword; horsemanship; these fit like a tailored glove. Your responsibilities grow: you join the hunts, you shepherd the animals, you train the dogs. You butcher the sheep. The debate is fierce when you request a raptor – you hear it even as you try to sleep. They call you a girl, and they call you unnatural. But the next day your brother brings you a juvenile and grins, his smile radiant even through the bruises on his face.

He swiped horizontally; I ducked underneath the blow, grunting at the pain in my side, and slammed my boot against his knee. The joint buckled, but the reverb cut into the stumps of my missing toes and I clutched at them for half a moment.

An Oxkin tears through the men’s yurt in the night, and the next day he and your baby brother are dead. Your father and remaining brothers stare. You take your weapons and leathers and pursue, even as the rest call you a fool and refuse you your horse.

In the time it took for me to recover, the sickly man’s knee had snapped into place, the horrific sound accompanied by his screams. He slashed towards me again, and I was forced to use my hand to bat the sword away. It was agonising. I needed to save my son, and this stupid man was stopping me.

No one follows. You track it for days. Through broken foliage, shattered trees, mutilated bodies and sobbing families, you pursue. You don’t sleep. You have no food, so you persist on whatever crosses your path. You find it feasting on a boar. It charges and – even as exhausted as you are – you dance around it, sliding arrow after arrow into its hide. It is stupid and weak. Eventually, it slows. You hack its head off.

No… I needed to cut the connection. The pale man howled in frustration and thrusted his longsword towards me. I trapped it with my good arm, even as my mind’s eye filled with the channel between myself and… Ma.

A village nearby rejoices. You request an ox and cart, and bring the monster home. But home has moved already, so you track your family for days, even as the body begins to decompose. When you find them, they are pleased. Your father and mother tell you what a fine dowry you have secured. You tell them what you intend to do and ask for instruction. They protest, calling you unfit for En’s power – you are too angry, too hasty. You eat the monster anyway, provoking days of agonising pain and castigation from those you love. You rouse, and, furious, you duel those that allowed your brothers to die. After killing five, your father refuses your challenge, as do the rest of your people. You look at them and learn another important lesson: they are stupid and weak.

I rallied my willpower, even as my opponent struggled to yank his weapon from my grip. I pulled my mind together, straining to plug the connection between myself and the dying…

In the following months you become a nomad in truth. Curled in the crooks of trees; in the ruins of a village; in a bundle of dead grass; beneath the roots of an oak, waiting out a storm; no two nights are spent in the same place. But a lone traveller is nothing more than food for Godkin, and every few nights come with an unwanted visitor. You sell their corpses at villages. Soon, a Representative of a House approaches you. They shove words down your ears: ‘fortune’, ‘fame’, ‘esteem’, but none of them truly register. You accept anyway – it’s something to do. When you join House Esfaria’s standing army, you are almost immediately taken aside by your senior officer for insubordination. The two of you fight, and he beats you. As you lay on the cool stone, blood oozing from your broken nose, all you can think of is how real the fight seemed.

…only for a monumental power to push through from the other side, shattering my hastily-formed blockage and further widening the channel.

The training is excruciating. Whatever power you gained is offset by a vastly reduced stamina, and you struggle to endure through the hundreds of exercises you are pushed through. It’s all worth it for the sparring – hundreds of peers honing each other’s skills, over and over. Even when you can no longer move, you simulate combat – the correct technique, the perfect manoeuvre. It takes you less than a month to defeat the senior officer – but he’s not the only Blooded you cannot defeat.

Blood dripped from my nose and I blinked, clearing stars from my eyes. The sickly man used the opening to reclaim control of his weapon, pulling it from my grip to send it sailing towards me. Why were we fighting? He was unquestionably well-trained, however all of his moves were formulaic, even against a superior opponent.

Your first skirmish is incredibly exciting. You cut through the opposing House’s forces like a reaper through grain – they’re chaff, but the ease you dispatch them with is a sign of growth. Your commander calls a retreat, and only after the fact do you realise how badly your House lost the battle. Your success meant nothing. That night, you do not sleep. The next day, you request officer training.

I was unarmed, though, so his lack of creativity meant little. I slip aside two slashes and roll under a third, scooping up a discarded haft of wood and slamming it into the back of his head.

You are lectured on the proper uses of Blooded and the best methods to counter them. Ox for Lizard, Lizard for Fox, Fox for Ox. The more obscure Blooded are too valuable to risk – a Dolphin must be deployed stealthily, amongst soldiers in danger of breaking; a Spider only as a valuable consultant; an Owl only under the supervision of a commanding officer. Meditative techniques go against your nature, however the thought of a Dolphinblood influencing your will is enough motivation.

He fell to one knee and I impaled his neck with my splinter. I backed away, looking to regain my bearings. What was I… Ma!

You and your 100 soldiers are deployed against bandits and rogue agents. You never lose, until you fight against a single decrepit old man. Holed inside a building, your men can only approach him one at a time. Your first soldier dies after nearly decapitating the man, leaving blood erupting from a shorn arm. Your second soldier delivers a dozen cuts, but dies anyway. Your third soldier is locked in combat for some time. Only his head emerges. Your fourth soldier dies quickly. Then the man emerges. At the end of the battle, the man escapes, leaving you and ten other soldiers alive. Later, you are told he is a Ravenblood. He dies a month later, having slaughtered several villages. Secretly, you are relieved you weren’t commanded to fight him again. That shameful thought drives you harder than any before it.

I tried once again to block the passage between myself and her. Even I could recognise my attempts as amateurish, but they were all I had. I didn’t want it – I didn’t want this. But against my wishes, a greater will than my own cleared the channel once again.

Years pass. You succeed, often by personally taking the field. Your successes are met with rewards. You only ever want one: Oxblood. As your personal power grows, you find your temper fraying more and more. A flawed stroke sees you breaking walls; a poor tactical decision gnashing teeth. Any slights compel you to demand a duel, and you kill eight men before you are barred from challenging others. You are passed over for promotion more and more until you comprehend the problem: your emotions are too obvious. You learn to hide them, even as another’s incompetency causes you to demolish your personal quarters. After you are raised to lead 1,000 men, you kill a subordinate in a fit of rage. The killings don’t stop. But no one cares: you rarely fail, and your men have some of the lowest fatality rates in the entire House.

The recoil caused me to black out for a moment. Yet something screams at me to move – to move! – so I roll aside as a sword pierced downwards to where my throat lay just a moment earlier.

As a sign of esteem, you are asked to participate in a hunt. Ironically, it is En, the Ox. The god is large. It is impossibly fast. Your eardrums burst at its cries. The nets intended to slow it have little effect, and pits only stop it momentarily. It kills hundreds in less than twelve seconds, leaving only the obliterated remains of armour, weaponry, and what used to be your men. But you get the blood. You grow. The next night is torture. You wonder if you choose your life poorly. The notion eats you. The day after you ask to do it again.

I lashed out with a leg, deflecting the next blow, but each wild swing kept me trapped on the ground as I twisted and shuffled between them. Though somehow, my perception had expanded – I can sense the sword whistling towards me without seeing it, making avoiding the swings despite my twisting body trivial. Wait, no, that’s the Foxblood.

Decades pass. After a thousand bloody victories, the world has started calling you ‘the Slaughter’. You have met with few defeats – Blooded like yourself, hundreds of stories dogging their wake. You walk among giants. Only gods matter now. So when people suddenly start dying and rumours of black-blooded men covered in eyes reach you, you are excited. The Cult has vomited its madness upon the world, and Avri is beginning to move. Heltia is the first House to make a move, and the rest quickly follow. You are there. The beginning of the meeting talks of transgressions and mitigating measures, but the attendees soon realise that such an alignment of interest is almost unprecedented. The Representatives and Heads discuss in private. When they emerge, their faces are full of awe. The proposal: killing a god. The promise: becoming a legend. But it is only when an Albright smiles that the room erupts in agreement.

I slithered behind the man and thrust upward with a leg, sending him staggering forward. It gave me a reprieve; enough time to push myself to my feet. My opponent turned, but I had time to paw at my forehead…

You are the General House Esfaria sends. It is only appropriate – the House has no Great Generals, and you are the closest thing to one. Your peers are legends in their own right. This, you think, is why I am here. Then the march begins and the army begins taking losses. People disappear in the night. Your closest aide is hung outside your tent, throat slit. The soldiery is poisoned. Your supply-lines are severed – you and the generals agree the only option is to loot. You wake to three assassins stabbing you. You learn two other generals are dead, and fight monsters wielding their skills. You reach the wasteland with half the men you set out with. A trail of rotting heads stretches to the horizon. But it is only when you meet a Ravenblood who promises to “Bring you home” that you begin to regret.

…and stop. My mind was a shattered, violated mess. I traced the events – the Lizard, the battle, the fight. And the channel.

Recruits are drafted from the only nearby city. Only a fellow general’s persuasive power and their fear of the Raven prevents rioting. There is only enough time to drill them on the basics. Then the battle. Words fail. A thousand mad cultists, each capable of killing dozens. Some are a match for your finest. Some are a match for you. Then a mass of eyes and gibbering mouths, tendrils lashing to consume friend and foe alike. You see a dozen young men dying to protect a general. That same general is disembowelled and torn apart by cultists, before you finally reach the scene and dispatch all involved. The death is horrible. But the pointlessness is more horrific than anything else.

The man – Reagan – carved the air in an upward slash, but I stepped out of the way. The channel was… it was purposeful, wasn’t it?

A million moments pass, and not one is bereft of insanity. Veterans and green recruits bleed out, the triage units having long been conscripted to the front lines. The cultists are dead – it feels like you killed a hundred yourself – yet the god remains, reacting to its severed pieces with equal parts laughter and screams. Your bones chill. It isn’t dying, even as you take command of the remaining troops. Can a god be killed? Is all this slaughter for nothing?

His upward slash flowed into a downward blow. It impacted the dirt and I stepped on the blade.

And then it falls. You’ve grown accustomed to the screams of gods, yet Avri’s death-knell is beyond anything a human has witnessed before. Half the remaining soldiery drop dead at the sensation. As you watch the Raven collapse, you feel your heart stop. Too old, too tired. Such a life – such a pointless, horrific life. The terror causes you to beat at your chest, and suddenly you are alive again. Yet the fifty years behind you are now full of regrets.

Could I save her? I had never witnessed someone in the process of being assimilated survive, but if there was a chance… I needed to get up to her. And to do that, I needed to kill Reagan.

Your resolution is quiet. You are owed an end after your service. With no one else to shoulder the burden, the final task is left to you. Valorous service awarded by execution. It is necessary. Yet even after it is done, you are left with one last chore. Somehow, a trio of children survived. They emerge from a hole in the ground, and you admire the will of a six-year-old boy with a ferocity that surprises you. You are certain he is lying. Yet they deserve to live – but a final test is in order. You kill a man who deserves killing, and watch the boy for the mad ecstasy every cultist you have seen carries. He weeps instead.

My steps faltered slightly at the esteem Ma had held me in. I didn’t remember it like that. It had been terrifying. The contradictory thoughts were interrupted by a swipe from Reagan. His moves were still incredibly quick; underestimating him would lead to my death.

You take care of the wounded, then leave with the children in your arms. You follow a daydream – a restaurant and an occupation far removed from the battlefield. You are a horrible cook. The child – Orvi – speaks little but you can see that knowledge in his eyes. You are a worse mother. The boy does not sleep. You struggle to feed the twins; to change their soiled garments; to stay awake at all hours. You regret your decision to take them several times. One night, you are so frustrated you bellow at the three of them. In Orvi’s eyes you see yourself. A fearsome, furious monster. The Godsblood isn’t worth it. You find a transferral stone – its runework tarnished – and foist the burden onto one of your few remaining comrades – stable enough to bear it, young enough to want it. You care for the children, and attempt to make your food palatable. You become more and more human by the day.

I quickened. An open-handed deflection of the blade transformed into a shove. Reagan stumbled and tripped over a parasite.

You grow and you learn. Dash babbles his first words – ‘Ma’ and ‘Vi’ – a month after his adoption, and you’ve never been happier to exist. The feeling is overwhelmed when he toddles into the pantry and nearly cracks his skull open with a falling jar. Sash is more concerning – she does little, and you wonder whether her head-injury has turned her simple. It is only when, under the advice of Stitch, you carve several toys that she begins to engage with the world. You make an effort to become gentler, and your boy starts to become more comfortable around you. You sew clothes out of cloth fragments; you give fortunes away to hire wetnurses; you burn your eyebrows off cooking; you accidentally make every single child cry simultaneously, again and again. Mid-way through the year a mob of angry Footers burn your home down; the children’s tear-filled eyes almost drives you to kill the civilians, but those same eyes stop you. You move and decide to stay inside, having former soldiery deliver supplies. They occasionally take the children for walks as well – the separation stabs at you, and you are terrified every second until they get back. The feeling fades with time, but never dissipates.

I dove onto him, knees first, and slammed a brick into his skull. The dent was sizeable, but not enough to kill him outright.

Once a year has passed, you are small enough to play at being a lesser Oxblood. Despite that, plague is running rampant through the Foot – you keep the children inside and purchase all food personally. Ensuring the building will eventually be fit to serve customers is an entertaining hobby compared to tutoring Orvi. He already knows half the things you teach him, but stubbornly refuses to sit still long enough to learn more. You give up, and foist the task onto Stitch – though she negotiates a disproportionate fee after one session. Sash and Dash see Orvi trip and burst into giggles – he repeats the manoeuvre several times, with escalating dramaticism. Your girl’s first word is ‘More!’ and Orvi, ecstatic, obliges until both twins grow bored and toddle away. You watch the entire scene, and know your wide smile is unbecoming. Orvi sees it and asks if you need to poo.

I struck again, cracking the skull, and leave the brick embedded in his head. His mouth opens and closes wordlessly.

Years pass. You shrink; your children grow. The plague eventually leaves the city, and you start sending the children on more and more chores. The twins begin becoming more mobile, and their individual personalities become more apparent. They join in on tutoring. The restaurant opens for business; you run at a loss for over a year, but your pockets are deep. Orvi’s free afternoons will occasionally see him return covered in cuts and bruises. He demands you teach him how to fight. You think for several days on the matter. Eventually, his wounds convince you. Upon beginning training, you begin to notice the signs – or maybe they’ve simply grown too great to ignore. He heals too quickly – you try to wave it off as youthful vigour, but it’s still too fast. He has a penchant for stealing shiny or impressive objects. You aren’t familiar with all the signs, but he’s clearly a Ravenblood. You quietly rage at how blatantly he has lied, even as you know he did so out of necessity. Your responsibilities demand you kill him. You witnessed the Accords; you know the agreement. Yet your son wept for the one he assimilated. And you are no longer that woman.

The longsword was still in his hand, somehow. I tried to wrench it away, yet his convulsing fingers still held an iron grip. I thought I could no longer feel the pain, but my other arm disabused me of the notion when I tried to persuade it to assist.

Then, one day, House Esfaria returns. Their lackeys corner you in an empty street, offering you a fine blade in exchange for continued service. You direct them to your successor with terse words and veiled threats. You’re terrified – Orvi hates the Houses, and they have reason to kill him. You accelerate the children’s training. The three of them are a match for one, maybe two adults, yet the twins have both quietly expressed the desire to join a House and accrue glory. You’re furious – at them and at yourself – and know through distant memories of childhood that you can’t stop them, only persuade them. The House begins to pull everything into its orbit – Jackson is pulled into their service; donations and constant proselytising spread unease over the city; Orvi’s anger flares and he returns horrifically wounded; a young spy sniffs around your restaurant and before you can kill him befriends your son. You have a plan to drive them away, if not for the tipping point: the Lizard is coming.

Then my opponent’s other arm rose and tore the brick out with a sound like breaking eggs. I barely avoided a wild fist, and then we were both staggering to our feet once again.

It all falls apart anyway. You visit House Esfaria to negotiate a plan for Dure. You find it devastated and Jackson grievously wounded. Sprinting back home finds the place in shambled. Sash and Dash burst in, plead for your help, producing Jackson’s stolen sword and – more concerningly – concoctions Orvi stole – military standard. On the sprint over you understand how deeply you’ve failed. You arrive, kill the Foxkin, and hurry Orvi back home. He has Lizardblood – he’ll survive – but that night you weep for the first time in decades. After days of worrying – were you wrong? Were you too slow to prevent permanent damage? – he wakes, and you find the courage to tell him you know what he is. Then he leaves anyway, and the stupid child comes back in shock with a captive Blooded.

He swung the blade and I went for the brick. I must’ve been getting too predictable, because he thrust downwards. My leg moved fractionally, and a pierced knee was downgraded to a cut calf.

You cajole Orvi out of his stupor, telling him what you’ve always known: he’s a good boy, and he can handle the Godsblood. Then you use the opportunity he delivered. The skills you cast aside eight years ago are still there, just below the surface. But in using them, you accrue tendon damage – it’s not the first time, but you don’t have a team of potions & Owlbloods to fix you. Negotiations begins, and then preparation; there’s not enough time to worry about the strange rift forming between the twins and Orvi. Your son insists on helping, and the only way of keeping him out of the major battles is to make him a runner. Even that is a risk – the flying parasites are deadly – yet a dual Foxblood/Lizardblood should be able to survive. And he knows better than to take their blood. When you face Dure, you are still worrying for him.

I could feel Ma’s lifeforce running out. There was no time. There was no time! Reagan swung again and I jabbed his neck twice, feeling cartilage break. He made choking sounds, and I dove for the brick.

It’s a fight. Dure has always been the most placid of gods, however a god is a god. The Houses have him down to an exact methodology, and you mimic it as best as you can with one percent of the manpower. Make it hurt – it’s innards and head are the most vulnerable – and hope it changes direction. The Owlbloods help you up, and you along with several others burrow through it. But your muscle-memory is from someone much stronger, and less old. You dodge a pair of pincers, and your heel fails you. In a moment, your arm is gone, and half your blood flees your body before you properly staunch the wound. But you succeed in burrowing back out, and an emergency cauterisation from the loathsome Reagan prevents you from dying. You’re still waiting for the betrayal, and it comes in a nightmarish form: you severely weakened, and your broken son with a knife to his neck.

The man was laughing by the time I turned around. I went for him, but a wild swing forced me to deflect using the brick. It broke apart in my hands.

You try to look strong despite battling the urge to pass out. Reagan says words, and you look for an opening. The offer would be good were it honest, but it would transform your children into eternal hostages. The ones surrounding you are weakened. There is no better opportunity, but… Then Orvi wakes, and like the good boy that he is manages to pick up on your messages. The fight breaks out and you kill several, but once again you’ve overestimated yourself. You’re missing an arm, can barely move and on the verge of collapsing due to blood loss. Every exchange takes a bit more away, and they’re making good use of your need to protect your son. But, if… you die, your death can become your son’s strength. You trick Orvi, smearing some on his forehead, and tremble. You hope he forgives you.

No. I flicked a shard of clay at him, and it embedded in his throat. It wasn’t enough.

Orvi kills one. The horror of the sight outstrips anything else you’ve seen. Then he takes Reagan and the Owlblood off the roof. You have a chance, now. Three opponents become two, at the cost of your knee. Two becomes one, at the cost of your shoulder. And, finally, one becomes zero, though you have to use your teeth. The wounds are grievous – crippling, even – but you can survive. You crawl to the edge of the roof and watch your son edging closer and closer to death. Reagan – the rat – has taken Lizardblood. You didn’t notice; you failed again. Your mind mechanically surveys the possibilities. All but one requires strength you no longer have. Your blood is still there, though, drying on Orvi’s forehead. He stumbles backwards, and Reagan prepares the death-blow, so you slit your own throat.

No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.

Your gambit is working. You drown in your blood. That’s fitting, you think. The link between you and him is open. You feel your son’s despair. Distantly, you claw at your neck. He’s not in danger anymore. He’s terrified. He wants you to live; you can’t. Not if it means him dying. He tries to stop it, to cut off the flow, but it's all you have to help him. You can't let him. He needs to kill Reagan. He doesn’t have a weapon. He needs a weapon. Not much longer now. Movement. Like always, you need to move. Your spasming fingers flail, and grasp the onyx blade. You think that, despite everything, you might have lived a good life if you can save him. You cast it off the edge of the roof…

…and I reached upwards and grasped its hilt. I howled as I swung, and the flawless sword cuts through skin and cartilage and flesh, separating Reagan’s head from his body. But it was too late.

You need him to know that you’re proud. Proud of everything that he is. And then you let go, and go somewhere very, very close…

…and Ma's body hit the street with a muffled thump. I screamed.