Father and Son
1571 Words
The man who wore William's father's face did not move like a man.
He glided across the chamber floor, his feet barely touching the stone. The Rust covered his entire body—not just veins, but a second skin of black crystal that caught the light and scattered it into rainbows. His eyes were two pools of oil, deep and endless.
William raised his sword. The blade hummed, hungry and eager.
"Don't," Julian said from behind him. "That's still your father."
"My father is dead." William's voice was flat. Cold. "This thing just wears his face."
The figure stopped a few feet away. He tilted his head, studying William with those black, empty eyes. Then he smiled—a wide, horrible smile that stretched too far.
"You sound like your mother," he said. "She said the same thing. Right before I killed her."
The words hit William like a physical blow. His grip on the sword faltered. The blade's hum wavered.
"You're lying."
"I never lie, son. Your mother begged me to stop. Begged me to remember who I was." The figure touched his chest, where the Rust was thickest. "But the Rust doesn't care about memories. It only cares about hunger. And I was very hungry."
William's vision blurred. Tears, or rage, or both. He couldn't tell anymore.
"Why?" he whispered.
"Because the Council made me an offer. Serve them, and they would let you live. Refuse, and they would erase you both." The figure's smile faded. "I chose you. I always chose you. Even when it meant killing her."
William charged.
The sword cut through the air, faster than it ever had before. The blade aimed for the figure's neck—a killing stroke, perfected by weeks of The Hound's training.
The figure caught the blade.
With his bare hand.
The Rust on his palm absorbed the impact. The sword's edge bit into the crystal, but did not draw blood. The figure held William's weapon like it was a toy.
"You forgot, son. I taught you everything you know. But I didn't teach you everything I know."
He twisted. The sword ripped from William's grasp and clattered across the floor. William stumbled backward, his hands stinging.
"No sword," the figure said. "No magic. No family. What are you now, William? What have you ever been?"
William looked at his empty hands. The Rust on his arms pulsed. The hunger in his chest surged.
He spoke the word.
The resonance—the same word he had used against Thorne—ripped from his throat. The sound vibrated through the chamber, cracking the stone floor, shattering the glass tubes on the walls.
The figure staggered. The Rust on his body cracked. Black shards fell from his chest, his arms, his face.
But he did not fall.
"You think that hurts me?" He laughed. "I am the Rust. I am the hunger. I am the thing that lives in the dark beneath this city. You cannot hurt me with my own power."
He lunged.
William dove to the side. The figure's hand passed inches from his throat, leaving trails of black energy in the air. William rolled, grabbed the fallen sword, and swung from the ground.
The blade caught the figure's leg. Rust shattered. Something dark and wet sprayed from the wound.
The figure hissed. "That actually hurt."
"Good."
William scrambled to his feet. He held the sword in both hands, ignoring the Rust that was now crawling up his neck. The blade hummed louder, feeding on his anger, his grief, his desperation.
"You killed my mother," William said. "You took everything from me. Now I'm going to take everything from you."
The figure tilted his head again. "You can't kill me, son. I'm already dead. The Rust is just wearing my corpse."
"Then I'll send your corpse to hell."
They clashed.
Steel against Rust. Blade against claw. The chamber echoed with the sound of their battle—the ring of metal, the crack of crystal, the wet tearing of flesh that wasn't quite flesh.
William was faster. The sword made him faster. But the figure was stronger. Every block sent shockwaves up William's arms. Every dodge was a hair's breadth from death.
Julian moved in the background, cutting Elara free from the table. Her chains of light shattered. She fell into his arms, unconscious but breathing.
"Get her out of here!" William shouted.
Julian hesitated.
"Go!"
Julian dragged Elara toward the door. Vesper—still standing, her arm black with Rust—raised her hand to stop them. But Julian kicked a piece of broken glass tube at her face. She flinched. He and Elara disappeared through the doorway.
The figure laughed. "Your friends are running. They're leaving you to die."
"They're leaving me to fight."
William attacked again. This time, he didn't aim for the body. He aimed for the face—for the eyes that had once looked at him with love, and now looked at him with nothing.
The blade struck true.
The figure's left eye burst. Black liquid sprayed across William's face. The figure screamed—not in pain, but in fury. He backhanded William across the chamber.
William flew into the wall. His head cracked against the stone. The sword slipped from his grip again. His vision swam.
The figure walked toward him, one hand pressed to his ruined eye. The Rust was already healing the wound, knitting the flesh back together, but the eye was gone.
"You've made me angry, son."
"Good." William spat blood. "Angry people make mistakes."
He reached for the sword. His fingers brushed the hilt.
The figure stomped on his hand.
Bones cracked. William screamed. The figure pressed down, grinding William's fingers into the stone.
"Your mother screamed like that," the figure said. "Right before her heart stopped. She called your name. Did you know that? Her last word was 'William.'"
Tears streamed down William's face. Not from the pain. From the loss.
"I hate you," he whispered.
"I know." The figure leaned closer. "That's why I'm proud of you."
He raised his foot to crush William's skull.
A blade erupted from his chest.
The figure looked down. A silver sword—not William's black blade, but a different one, smaller, sharper—had pierced through his heart. The tip was clean, unmarked by Rust.
Behind him stood Elara.
She was pale, barely standing, her auburn hair matted with sweat. But her hand was steady on the sword's hilt.
"You forgot about me," she whispered.
The figure tried to turn. Couldn't. The sword had pierced something vital—something even the Rust couldn't heal.
"I taught your brother," Elara said. "He taught me. And he told me where to strike."
The figure's black eyes widened. "Marcus? That little—"
He collapsed.
The Rust on his body began to flake away, falling to the floor like black snow. Beneath it, William saw his father's face—the real face, pale and gaunt and human.
"Will," the man whispered. His voice was weak. Small. "I'm sorry."
William crawled to him. His broken hand left a trail of blood on the stone. He cradled his father's head in his lap.
"You didn't kill her," William said. "You couldn't have. You loved her too much."
The man's lips trembled. "I don't remember. The Rust—it took everything. Even the bad things. Especially the bad things." He reached up with a shaking hand and touched William's cheek. "You look like her."
"Don't talk. We can get you out of here. The Hound can—"
"No." His father's eyes were clearing now, the black fading to gray. "The Rust is all that's keeping me alive. When it's gone, I'm gone." He smiled—a real smile, the one William remembered from childhood. "It's okay. I've been dead for a long time. I just didn't know it."
William held him tighter. "Don't leave me. Not again."
"I have to. But I'm not leaving you alone." His father's hand dropped to his chest, where the silver sword was still embedded. "The Rust in your blood—it's not a curse. It's a key. Use it to open the way. Use it to save them."
"Save who?"
"The others. The ones in the cages. The ones the Council forgot." His father's eyes fluttered closed. "Sub-level 9. The Saint's chains. Break them, and you break the tower. Break the tower, and you break the Council."
His hand went limp.
William sat in the silence, holding his father's body. The Rust flakes continued to fall, covering them both in black dust.
Elara knelt beside him. She didn't speak. She just put her hand on his shoulder.
Julian appeared in the doorway, out of breath. "Wardens are coming. We need to go."
William didn't move.
"William." Julian's voice was urgent. "We can't save anyone if we're dead."
Slowly, William laid his father's head on the stone floor. He stood up. His broken hand hung useless at his side, but his other hand found the black sword.
"Sub-level 9," he said. "The Saint's chains."
"That's suicide," Julian said.
"Maybe." William looked at his father's face, peaceful now, free of Rust. "But I'm done running."
They left the chamber. Behind them, Vesper lay unconscious, her arm black to the shoulder. The machines hummed. The tower groaned.
And somewhere far below, in the deepest darkness of sub-level 9, the Sword-Saint opened his eyes.
- Writer
