“That’s it. Drink your fill. Show little Ryne here what fuels your power. Show him what happens to all your precious villagers. Show him what we are and what we’ve been doing and what we plan to do.”

The fire roared even louder and one side of the cloister collapsed, thick smoke joining with the mist. More soldiers appeared through the smoke and saw my brothers feeding on their brethren.

Some of them ran, some of them avenged their fallen comrades, screaming their names. Those who ran were quickly dealt with by Swithin, who always loved a good chase. Those who stayed battled with Ealhstan, avoiding his big swings.

As I witnessed the bloodshed, it was as if I was held back into myself. It was as if I was viewing the whole thing as if time slowed down. I did not know if this was Blake’s doing or my horror as my brothers continued to slice them, crush them, drink their blood the moment it was spilled. Boisterous, laughing Ealhstan who was always careful around every villager. Charming Woodrow who admired the natural beauty, the sunburnt skin and the common brown eyes of men and women. Gentle, nurturing Wilbur…

So this was what my brothers are and what they were meant to do. Wilbur, it turns out, was stronger than he looked, able to disarm and subdue a taller, bulkier man with nothing but his bare arms. His lips were on his neck, and a trail of blood flowed from where he gave his dark kiss. The man screamed, though noiseless as my heartbeat drummed in my ears, flailing away until his arms went limp and his eyes stared into the night sky. Wilbur had gone down to the ground with him, draining him of his life. The man jerked, one final move, and he was still.

Wilbur, when he stood, wiped the blood from his lips like he had simply drank from a cup of water. He then looked around, leaping onto another man. The soldiers hacked at Swithin but he was too fast, and with his claws, sliced the necks of the three men in front of him. Worse, villagers started flooding into the monastery. Or maybe they were going out, too late to notice the chaos. This was the moment I moved.

“No, get out!” I yelled. I waved my arms to get their attention. “Run away! Run away!”

Their hands were full with the tributes they paid Knox. Pouches of coins, sacks of grains. A few of them even fought for the resources; punching, then clawing their eyes out. One of them stabbed his neighbor. He was familiar; the boy whose father begged Knox to become an illustrator. He had grown, all skin and bones, fighting for a sack. He had a pocket knife–his last remaining treasure–and stabbed a bigger man in the chest. He left through the flames, leaving the bloody mess on the grass.

Then Swithin came into view, running on all fours. He chased after the soldiers, tripping them, snarling and howling, smiling and laughing. Woodrow beckoned them towards him. He kissed them full on their mouths, before twisting their heads and sinking his teeth into their necks. When Swithin was done with the soldiers, he pounced on the villagers. He attacked anyone who was in sight, who was near him. He slashed through the women, their hair flowing in the night sky. He tore through bodies, both young and old.

“They haven’t fed for a long time,” Knox said calmly. He was nearest to me. I jumped back and braced myself, but he was simply looking at the scene; fire and blood and screaming. “They did not feed because of you. They wanted to see you, and they hated what they’d been told to do by Abbott Blake. They must be ravenous.”

Wilbur drained another man, then another, slicing with his small knife. His was the cleanest kill. The people who finally witnessed what they were doing fled or fought, depending if they had any weapons. Ealhstan and Swithin made quick work of them.

“Wilbur had not taken any lives before." My tone was level though my hands and knees shook. I was helpless. What can I do? I have no powers, and I was unsure why I was not attacking them like my brothers were in a frenzied state. “Knox, what are we?”

But it was Abbott Blake who answered. “The last surviving trace called through pleas. Chaos fueled by desperate prayers. Creatures of the night, the bane of the holy Saints.”

Knox, upon hearing this, himself looked horrified. “But I thought you said–!”

“Silence,” Blake said, as he pushed Knox away, into the flame, where he screamed a horrible scream, his shadow disappearing into ash. I jumped away from Blake as he turned towards me next. But he simply bowed and spread his arms wide, covering the land in icy darkness, tendrils formed from smoke and shadow circling him.

Then a horrible scream from Wilbur. I whipped my head around to see where he had gone. He was on the grass, a sword plunged through his chest. Blood was dripping from him, the first time I saw my bloodless brothers bleed. I fell to the ground, shock and horror numbing my limbs. This is how everything ends, I thought. No reason, no explanation, no justification.

But Wilbur spun around and pushed the soldier aside. He screamed again as he lifted the sword off his back, where it thudded to the ground. The soldier’s eyes widened, and he screamed to the rest: “There’s no killing them!”

Blake said, quite calmly, “Of course not. We’re already dead.”

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Wilbur’s open wound started to heal, closing as if it were stitched by invisible threads. He ended the soldier who attacked him, and when he was done, turned to look right into my eyes.

Furious, bloodlust eyes, he had.

Then, recollection.

Ryne, he mouthed. Confused, he stumbled back down and while on the ground, looked at all the mess and the blood and the bodies and the flame. He saw my brothers and what they were doing. He slowly looked at me. I backed away. I did not mean to, but everything was happening all at once.

It had come to me, then. The bloodletting, the wooden basin, the looks he traded with Woodrow. Ealhstan was about to pummel a soldier to the ground near him.

Their commander, the one who was always conducting business with Knox, ordered, “Sound the alarm. Let it rain down arrows. And tell the Holy Crest that monsters hide under the cloaks of monkhood!”

The Holy Crest was unfamiliar to me, but even in this time of horror, I remembered some ascended knights were stationed around key kingdoms, protecting the most important nobles.

The commander pulled out a miniature club from under his cloak and threw it at the one who was fastest. The messenger ran through a tight passage of the ruined cloister, ducking under debris. I saw the soldiers who remained look at each other, then nod, blocking Swithin’s passage. They were ready to die so that their comrade could deliver the message. At that moment, one side of the cloister fully crashed, along with Knox’s high tower. We all scattered away, Wilbur running towards me. I let him carry me by the waist.

Blake roared through the dust and flew high in the air, his tendrils turning into bat-like wings. He dragged us along once more, like chains attached to our torsos, knocking the breath out of us as we dangled from him.

“It flies!” The commander cried.

We were dragged in the air, over the cloisters, over the church, and into the granges. Blake threw Swithin with one of his tendrils at the man but missed. Swithin yelped in pain, scattering rocks and dirt and debris. As he recovered from the impact, the messenger whistled at his horse–which was waiting in the far meadows through the mist, along with the other fallen soldiers’ horses–and galloped through the night. Thunderous hoofbeats faded away.

Swithin was out of the walls when we heard from the mist a loud horn. And then silence, and then Swithin’s yelp as he returned. Balke roared and was about to chase the messenger himself when he banged into a force that prevented him from escaping the monastery grounds.

“He cannot escape,” I said softly. Then repeated it loudly. “He cannot escape! He is trapped!”

Blake turned sharply at me and growled, his fangs and claws growing sharp. He let us all fall to the ground. By this point, my brothers had recovered themselves and were released from the bloodlust, all looking at me. Knox was there, clothes singed, skin burnt, but otherwise fine.

Wilbur called out. “Look at Ryne. Only look at Ryne!”

I did not understand him, but when Blake ordered them to charge through the grange walls, they did not move. Even Knox was looking at me. Blake from up above snarled, and to my horror, flew down to Wilbur and choked him.

“You dare challenge me?! I who granted you your existence! I who answered your pleas to save your pathetic mortal life!”

“Wilbur!” I screamed and ran towards him. I did not know what happened, but all I felt was rage, and then a spear-like sensation through my chest, and I leaped, farther than I could ever have managed, and pushed Blake away, holding onto his tendrils. It turned to smoke, but I held onto it wildly, feeling all leather and slime, and then… it turned to fire in my hands.

Blake howled, injured, and the voices of so many wounded souls erupted from his mouth. He dropped Wilbur and choked me next, his hands twisting around my neck. I braced myself but did not close my eyes. I was not afraid of him.

He yelled angrily again, withdrawing his hands, like how Wilbur held his hand as when he touched me that night when I ran away to the shade of an apple tree back in Fairstep.

Ealhstan boldted towards us and punched Blake, right on the stomach, the impact sending him high into the smoky sky and back onto the cloisters. He helped Wilbur up but backed away when I approached him. He was bloody and torn, and if I did not know him, it would look like he belonged in battle.

This time, I approached Wilbur. The bruises on his neck were rapidly healing. He touched them gingerly and sucked in the night air. “Blake. He said I prayed to him,” he choked.

“We all prayed to him,” Knox said. He looked at all of us. He seemed lost now that Blake had easily disposed of him. Good. Now he felt the sting. But he did not elaborate. “We have to escape.”

“How? We’re tied to him! We’re trapped just as much as he is,” Woodrow said.

“The monastery,” I said. “Maybe he’s tied to the monastery himself.” I described the feeling of being anchored to the ground once he set dominion in the chapter house. And that I did not feel the pull as strong as them.

Swithin growled. From far behind us. “There is no escape, you fools.” It was Blake’s voice from his mouth.

It was at this moment when some remaining soldiers and villagers looting the premises ran from the cloisters. Swithin, controlled by Blake, hunted them down. He sped through us with so much speed that we all flew apart from each other, helpless to save the people from him. I lay on the ground, scraping my bare arms. I closed my eyes as I saw him rip a woman to shreds. The screams were horrendous, chilling my insides. I only opened them again when the last scream begged Swithin to spare his life, and then a curious whipping noise and a soft thud near me.

I opened my eyes just in time to see a flaming arrow hit the ground. One arrow. Then another, and then several of them rained down all at once. Wilbur and Woodrow ran towards me, shouting my name, and shouting at everyone to take cover. Ealhstan grabbed Swithin aiming at the church door, but then paused, and instead threw him far in another direction, out into the fields, away from Saint Korbin monastery.