Chapter 13: Do or Die
790 Words
Chapter 13: Do or Die
The world, if it could still be called that, felt like a fever dream soaked in failure. A smearing of emotion painted across Aric Blackthorn’s mind as he knelt amid the splinters of pride and shattered bone.
For years, he had ground his knuckles against the teeth of fate. He had trained, bled, and swallowed scorn like it was medicine. Every sunrise was another vow. But now, with the Sovereign’s decree upon him, the universe folded in like a cruel joke.
He was going to die.
"FUCKKK!"
His roar shredded the silence. He slammed his hand into the floor, shattering stone and screaming through splintered nerves. Cracks spiderwebbed from the impact, but the worse cracks were internal. His arms broke beneath him like wet branches.
And yet...
"f**k! f**k! f**k!"
He slammed again. And again. Each blow spat red into the air, blood soaking the ivory floor, painting the quiet room in violent grief. Pain was just punctuation now.
All his hard work. All the years of endurance, of silently choking down every humiliation, every failure.
Gone.
This was his reward: a death sentence wrapped in protocol.
His fists kept falling until the meat of his palms was pulp. His breath hitched. His tears—raw, unfiltered anguish—spilled like truth serum.
Seris stood at the threshold, silent but unraveling. Her hands clenched so tightly her nails cut half-moons into her skin. She had seen Aric fight gods, crawl through shadow realms, laugh in the face of torment. But this?
This was heartbreak.
She said nothing.
The command had come from the Blood Sovereign himself. Lucien Blackthorn’s word was immutable. Not even Seris could defy it.
The thudding stopped. Aric collapsed backward, breath ragged, eyes leaking stars. His gaze was distant, like he was searching for a version of himself that had never been born.
"Leave."
Seris hesitated. His voice was a whisper sharpened by fury. Then he barked again:
"LEAVE."
She bowed, her wings of shadow tucking in solemn silence, and exited. Outside the room, two maids skittered like guilty ghosts. Seris ignored them. Her thoughts were anchored inside that broken room.
She didn’t walk far.
She stood by the door, silent sentinel, listening to every ragged sob that slipped through the cracks.
You have to stay strong. The words echoed in her head but never reached her lips.
He’s just like him...
The memory pulled her under. Another boy. Another death march. The echo of loss sounded the same.
Hours passed. Aric’s tears dried into salt trails. He stared upward, unmoving. Blood clung to him like a lover that couldn’t let go.
What now?
He sorted through options like broken blades. Run? He’d be hunted. Refuse? He’d be chained and tossed into the Pit anyway.
There was no out. Only through.
He steadied his breath. In the silence, he sang the Creed in his mind: that old lullaby of warriors who walked into death smiling.
Do or die.
That was it. The only truth left.
…
One day.
That was all the Sovereign had granted Aric to prepare.
The Blackthorn estate buzzed with vicious anticipation. Word had spread: the 9th Vein was finally being pruned. Reactions ranged from smug satisfaction to cold apathy. A few looked on with pity.
Vira was not one of them.
She was radiant with joy. If death were a festival, she would’ve brought wine.
No one intervened. No one ever did.
Spring should have been gentle. But this morning, the cold sank like knives into Aric’s bones.
He stood before a mirror, n***d save for the story his scars told. Each mark was a memory, a sacrifice. He exhaled once, then dressed deliberately.
Combat gear hugged his frame. Reinforced trousers with armored plates. A tactical jacket bristling with pockets. Gloves that turned fists into weapons.
A g*n rested in his belt: standard issue, but customized by Aric’s own hand. Practical. Lethal.
But it was the weapon in the corner that defined him.
The scythe.
No one else used one. Not in this world, not in this age.
The grip, leather-wrapped and sweat-darkened, molded to his palm. He spun it once, and the air parted like it feared him. He slung it across his back, the blade locking into a diagonal holster like it belonged there.
Aric Blackthorn turned. No more hesitation.
Outside, the estate had assembled for the send-off. Armored guards lined the courtyard in two crisp rows. At the end of the path, a sleek obsidian carriage waited.
Before it stood Darius Blackthorn.
His face, all cruel geometry and joyless glee, split into a grin. He had been assigned to escort Aric to the Sovereign’s suicide mission.
For the first time in years, he looked delighted.
- Writer
