Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 123065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Another person who felt this fear, the taste of blood and metal in their mouth, the trauma of knowing that you’ll be writing your own death sentence just so gods can stay in power and kill off Chaos.
Why?
What’s so important?
What’s the worst thing that could happen… more war? Disease? Death? We’re already in that situation! Is this really about my sacrifice when Chaos has existed for centuries apparently? He has to be leaving something out. Something pivotal.
I swear I’m getting a headache, and I know time is ticking ever so slowly toward the moment when I’ll bow before a god and open my mouth.
I shove the book to the side and hang my head in my hands.
“You hungry?” Daggon’s voice sounds. “I have sandwiches.”
Yes, because that’s what I want right now, a freaking sandwich. Seriously, what is it with these guys and sandwiches?
I don’t answer.
He approaches the mouth of the cave. “You done yet?”
“I’m not immortal, so no I’m not done, I have like a thousand more names to write before I write my own.”
He bites into a sandwich and nods then wipes his face. “You’re slow.”
I want to scream. “Why does everyone say I’m slow?”
He makes a funny face, his auburn hair is wet and plastered to his cheeks like he’s been doing laps; a few bits of dust are flecked on his cheeks. “You really don’t know?”
“I’m only allowed nine questions, jackass!”
He chokes on his sandwich and finally swallows. “No wonder he struggles.”
“He?”
“Not important.” He waves me off with his turkey sandwich. It looks so good. He’s in black armor, just black, a sword at his side. No helmet, only masculine beauty that shouldn’t be allowed to exist by way of my blood. “Anyway, almost everyone, and I do mean almost everyone who comes into these caves says ‘thank you’ and can’t wait for the end. It’s like a whole thing. They know it’s going to be fine. They’ll eventually be sacrificed, but it’s not like it’s painful. We aren’t complete monsters.” He digs into his sandwich again and shrugs. “It’s about the human trials for the gods, it’s more about us than it is about you, sorry for the truth.”
“And if balance doesn’t happen? If I run?”
He laughs and starts choking. “Oh, sorry, I thought you were kidding. Yeah, you can’t run, then you just get punished, though I’m pretty sure Cyrus enjoys that part. Second…” He clears his throat. “Balance is everything. The world breaks when there is no balance between immortals and humanity. Since you’re the last sacrifice he has to make, if you run, he’s punished—severely and he’s already suffered. Do you want that on your head? The sun refuses to shine because a weak human—who should never have been born in the first place—got scared when she was promised everything? Do you know why it’s important? Because the gods still care, they still fight Chaos, they still try to avoid war as much as possible, they are benevolent. Cyrus isn’t a monster, he’s the strongest of us all, he must ascend, and in order to do that, you have to give up the one thing that was given to you by the gods—the very breath in your lungs. Don’t allow the world to break because you aren’t strong enough.”
“So let it break.” I shrug. “It’s already broken anyway.”
“Cool, so I’ll just pencil in the apocalypse for noon?” he suggests. “And it’s not broken just fractured. You don’t know broken. How could you?”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t believe you’re even that powerful. I mean without me what really are you? Nothing.” I’m angry. I’m lashing out.
He sobers then nods and puts his sandwich away, wrapping it neatly in the paper. I squint at it. Is that Subway? He tucks it by the rock and then starts walking closer to the mouth of the cave.
His steps are decisive, the sand rises around his feet. His grin is cruel. I feel it in my soul like I’ve seen it before and hated it. He slams his palms together in a prayer and drives them down the air in front of him like a sword.
A whooshing sound fills my ears, so loud that I scream.
And then a burst of light radiates from his mouth before he falls to one knee and looks up at me.
He’s covered in silver armor that shines in the moonlight, his white cape flapping in the wind.
His eyes burn red.
Frost coats his face. His sword is a massive silver thing that appears bigger than the cat in her panther form. His hands grip it as silver blood slides down his hands into little intricate veins that look like branches interwoven through his skin.
Even his eyelashes have a layer of frost. His helmet covers half his face, leaving just a strong jawline. The auburn in his dreads glows gold against the black where it touches his cape.