I stared at the body for a time. It didn’t look like anyone I knew. It didn’t look like anything at all.

It was night.

My shoulders hunched together and trembled. My torso rose and fell in quick, harsh gasps. It was freezing. I needed to get the body home.

Making a travois requires two long poles, several smaller sticks, and some sort of material to lash it all together. I hadn’t made one for decades before the Raven’s death – that task had been delegated to my subordinates. Fortunately, the surrounding area was rife with shattered furniture – an ornate wardrobe had a pole stuck through it to hang clothes, and what looked like the haft of an abandoned spear seemed well-suited. Two shorter sticks – the halves of a longer pole – could work. One’s splintered end was covered in yellow blood.

They slipped out of my hand as I carried them over. I picked them up, and they fell again. I vomited against the side of a building. I retrieved them a third time and willed my fingers closed.

My vision blurred. It was hard to see.

Binding material was taken from strips of cloth – the remnant’s of a corpse’s underclothes. A head moved its lips silently next to me. Wild eyes were embedded in its skull. They flickered back and forth. Its neck appeared to be regrowing. Its mouth worked quietly, whispers of words passing.

I took it underneath my boot and stomped. Then I stomped again. A few minutes passed and it wasn’t a head anymore.

There was a fine backpack cast over the side of the street. A broken wing was tied to its side. It would work.

The poles were placed in like the sides of a long triangle. The sticks were placed across, like a ladder. I kept fumbling the poles out of place. After a while, I managed to position them properly. It needed one more stick, though.

The body had a scabbard. My singular hand struggled to sheath the sword. The scabbard kept falling over. I tried and failed. Eventually, I held the sheath between both legs and forced the blade within. It would function as a third stick.

The satchel was layered atop the travois, using its straps to keep it in place. The entire construction was in place. The strips of cloth were wrapped around each edge. Shaking fingers made the process much harder.

The travois was placed behind the body. It seemed very far away. Touching it felt wrong. I did so anyway, looping my arm underneath the body’s and dragging it onto the contraption. My stomach heaved, but there was nothing more to give.

A clacking sound repeated, over and over. Someone’s teeth were chattering. It was just too cold.

----------------------------------------

The ground rushed up at me. My bad arm crunched and I screamed.

Getting to my feet was difficult.

----------------------------------------

It was slow, hard work. The travois stumbled over every crevice it could find. When it got caught, whether on a rotting parasite or piece of debris, extricating it meant either brute-forcing it over the impediment, or moving the offending object out of the way. With only one hand, it was impossible, and I was far weaker – or stronger? – than I used to be.

Over the entire city, myself and my burden were the only things that moved. I imagined myself as an ant scurrying through an endless expanse of sand, a grain of rotting meat across its narrow shoulders. It didn’t take much effort to believe it was true. Then I arrived at the restaurant. Where had it gone? Everything was destroyed.

I had forgotten.

I searched my mind for my family’s location. Sash and Dash would be with Jackson. Had I asked Stitch to stay with them as well? And… Ma…

The information shoved itself into my mind, and the shakes that wracked my body vanished. There was more to do.

----------------------------------------

I leaned against a wall and a thin trickle fled from my stomach.

----------------------------------------

The body was dragged atop the travois. Its location was an ever-present reality of my world. It was more important than anything else. The Foot’s dimensions were so familiar that navigating it was a thoughtless activity. The body was new. I needed to be careful.

Vaguely, I noticed it was night. Had it been day when I left? When had the sun set? The stars were out. They twinkled – just a little bit. I wondered when the moons would show.

Gods, it was cold.

----------------------------------------

“Orvi?”

I looked up. I hadn’t been paying attention. A person stood alone in the street. Three, maybe four buildings distant. His voice cast itself perfectly. It was Jackson – taller than the shacks around us. He was covered in bandages. His halberd was shoved under his armpit, like a crutch.

“Why aren’t you in quarantine?”

His face was pale. The Oxblood didn’t look very well. I had warned him. A god’s nature was a difficult thing to master.

“You need to stop, Orvi.” I couldn’t make sense of his expression. “You’re jeopardising your sibling’s safety.”

“What?” I managed.

“Stop pulling… whatever that is.”

“Need to…” I furrowed my brows. “Need to get it home.”

“Orvi…” his voice caught, and his eyes expanded into moons. “I’m coming closer.” The words were a whisper. “Alright?”

Jackson approached. Each step was a slow, measured thing – even his limp. From a dozen paces away, he paused and stared at me.

“Gods, Orvi. You… Are you… okay?”

The words – they didn’t make sense. I could only nod.

He breathed in sharply. “Alright. Okay.” He continued on, then whirled around. “No,” he muttered. “Stitch!” he bellowed, his voice repeating itself against every wall it hit. I flinched and groped blindly for the sword beneath the body. “Keep the kids away!”

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

There was a response. Sounds.

“Raven’s bones!” he swore. Then he turned back to me. I was leaning away, fumbling behind me. “No, no, uh, it’s okay. You’re safe.”

It was easy to pin down the exact moment Jackson realised what my payload was. He glanced at my trembling hand, then stared. He stared at the body.

“…kids away,” he murmured. Jackson’s eyes were huge. He looked like he was on hash or something. I let out a short bark of laughter at the thought. Silence followed.

“Stitch! Keep the kids away!” he screamed.

It was too late, though. Sash and Dash stood, side-by-side. My sister’s hair gathered around her shoulders, bereft of its usual ponytail. Each strand stuck out in impossible directions. Her eyes squinted. Her twin was covered in dust, turning his shorn hair grey. His mouth hung open slightly.

“Hello Sash. Hello Dash,” I intoned. “How-“

“What is that Orvi.” It was my brother speaking. His words were empty of all expression.

For a beautiful, glorious second I was ignorant. I stood swaddled in the same cold nothingness that had swallowed me for the past hour. Then I was suddenly aware of the tears that had been streaming down my face since Ma had hit the floor, her legs broken, smeared in every drop of blood she possessed.

I choked. My vision blurred. There were words that needed to be said, but I couldn’t get them out.

“Ma?” Sash said quietly.

“Ma’s gone,” I managed.

Jackson, my sister, and my brother all looked at me.

My throat closed. They still stared. All was silent. It wasn’t enough.

“Dead,” I spat.

No one spoke.

Then Sash screamed, long and loud, and ran towards us. Jackson intercepted, scooping her into a hug even as she flailed and wept, all skill and elegance forgotten.

“Why…”

I turned. Dash shook, slightly. His eyes were fixed on mine, unmoving, alight with something I refused to recognise.

“Why didn’t you save her?”

What?

I protested, even as his words pierced me. “I-I tried, Dash…”

“You tried?” he cocked his head. Tears flowed from his eyes down to his chin. They slipped off his face, thick and heavy, yet he didn’t blink once. His eyes were wild with raw need; the need to blame someone. Anyone. “You tried? Did you do everything you could?”

Language fled. He raged, however it was all incomprehensible.

“Everything.” I said, but he and I both knew it was a lie.

“If you had backed me, if you hadn’t hated the Houses so much, if you had let me help, this never would have happened!” he howled. Dash was wrong – he couldn’t have done anything. Not without learning of his blood. He was also right.

“I never would have let you,” I spoke rapidly, defensively. “It would have been the end of you both. When you told me, that night, I wanted to lock you two up, and – by the blood – you should be grateful I didn’t.”

Dash’s eyes narrowed and his mouth opened, his face radiating a disgusted confusion. “What are you talking-“

“We didn’t tell you that.”

It was Sash.

“We told Ma.”

The three of them stared again. Something began to rise on their faces.

I squinted. “What? No, you told me. I was in the kitchen, Orvi had…”

No. They had told Ma. Ma had told me.

“You killed her?”

I didn’t know which one of them spoke.

“No… she had to-“

“Did you kill Ma?”

“No! It wasn’t-“

“You sick, cultist monster.” That was Dash.

Jackson’s eyes twisted to the twins, then back to me. His confusion vanished. His body shook. Sash slipped from his grasp, and she stared up at him. I knew that shaking – I had felt it every time I killed a subordinate. Jackson’s anger, multiplied a thousand times by the Ox’s. With an immense bellow, he hefted his fist and swung, lightning-quick-

-and I rolled underneath the blow, screaming, and slammed the scabbard into the back of his knee. It buckled, just enough to force him to kneel, taking enough off Jackson’s height to allow me to swing upwards at his temple. A sharp retort emanated through the street and he toppled, eyes rolling wildly. A second blow closed them.

Silence descended, only breached by my panting. The agony sparking through my body was almost unbearable. Stillness enveloped me, for movement promised only more pain.

My head flicked up at a soft voice. “Dash is right, isn’t he?” Sash let out a great sob. “How could you do this?”

Dash’s gaze burned. He said nothing.

“It’s not-“

All anyone knew about the Ravenblooded was that they stole the memories of those they killed. I was the only one who knew they could take without killing. They didn't know. Over the years, I'd figured it out: their Ravenblood was latent. Once upon a time, mine must've been as well. Until I'd killed and died at the end of a spear. They couldn't have known. I wouldn't let them. So long as they stayed safe, neither of my siblings would have to bear the knowledge of what lay within their veins.

But what they were saying wasn’t correct. I hadn’t killed Ma, not with my own hands. I hadn’t coveted her power. I had never wanted anything more than what I had.

But if I had been more willing to kill, the fight would never have gotten that bad. If I had accrued more power – if I had killed Serl, or more Lizardkin – then my mother would be alive. If I had never trusted Bab, the Old Guard would still be around. Ma would never have had to fight.

No. The problem stretched further back. If I had died with the other cultists, none of this would have happened.

Their words weren’t correct. But they were the truth.

For once, I said nothing. I sensed that someone wiser, older, or more charismatic would have the words to convince them – to make everything just a bit better. But whoever that person was, they weren’t here. I looked at Dash and Sash, and I saw their hatred.

I looked away.

Guilt burned. “Don’t kill,” I told them. “No matter what. Keep away from blood.”

“Shut up-“

“You listen or I’ll split you open,” I screamed. He silenced. “Don’t be like me.”

My brother and sister stared. I reached into the travois and unslung the backpack. The scabbard was awkwardly buckled to my belt.

“She wanted to be cremated,” I told the air above their heads. “And she wanted to stay with you, always.”

I could make out the form of Stitch approaching. A dog – Dirk’s dog – followed on her heels.

“You need to-“ I choked. I swallowed a pool of saliva and tried again. “Ma wanted you to stay away from the Houses. From Godsblood.”

Stitch arrived. Her thin lips contorted into horror at Jackson’s unconscious form. “What happened here?”

I had to trick them. I had to let the city know the twins had no part in it all.

“I fooled you, didn’t I?” A smile was too difficult to conjure. I could only manage a watery sneer. “Maja thought-“ I choked up. “She thought she could tame a Ravenblood.”

I wished I could have extended it. Made it into a proper, villainous rant. But I couldn’t.

The dog panted. Dash mouthed a word.

Monster.

The breath left my body. My legs weakened. I staggered backwards, the stumble transforming into a turn, then into a run. Dead monsters and empty houses leered at me, watching as I sprinted through the streets, pack against my back, sword smacking against my leg.

How? Why?

I retched, only water and stomach acid emerging, yet continued running. The world was a dream; a nightmare; every single sensation was sharp, more cutting than even my Foxblood could make. It was all too close, yet somehow far away; as if my mind had been cut in two pieces, one grieving mindlessly, the other watching, muted.

I ignored my pain and ran.

Slowly, the derelict architecture thinned. Then, it all fell into the wasteland.

Dure had vanished from the moonless night, leaving only dust in its wake.

The battle was over. The Foot was safe. And I had lost everything.

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I’ve wondered, more times than I can recall, how much of what happened was my fault. If I hadn’t decided to follow Bab, would the Esfarians have been able to protect us from the Lizard? Would Bab be alive? If I had been better at fighting the monstrous Bab and avoided getting hurt, would we still have had the healing potions? Could I have used them on Ma? If I been more secretive with my powers, could I have tricked Erin? If I had taken less wounds, could I have defeated Aston? If had killed Serl and stolen his Dolphinblood, could I have saved my mother?

If I had been a better person, could I have stayed?

My life would have been different. I could’ve been a better brother. I could’ve helped care for the Foot, remained with Blake and Erin. Maybe I could have eventually wooed Jasmine, though I somehow doubt it. I could have had a home.

But that’s not what happened. All my agonising was – is – pointless. I know, and I’ve always known, that the past is hammered into reality, driven into the earth by the weight of my own foolish actions. Nothing can be taken back.

Despite all the gods that roam the lands – horrific, monstrous, and savage – that is the truth that scares me the most. No matter who I become, my actions will remain; like a thousand shattered bodies, their crushed bones forming the bedrock of my existence.

And only a monster could live with such a weight.

I am monstrous. Stay away.