#basically tarnished paladin/vessel of a god x pathetic wet cat of a ridiculously powerful mage

[blackkatmagic]

Kat you’re planning on writing/publishing a book!?! Could we perhaps have a hint about the genre …👀? Either way I’m so excited and hope to hear more about it in the future.

:3

There's water dripping somewhere close, echoing off the broken stone, and Grey’s breath rasps in his throat, too loud, too harsh, too noticeable. Jagged edges of stone dig deep into his spine where he’s pressed up tight against a fallen column, and the world swims like a heat haze.

At the edge of the cracked column, sprawled out and twisted, still twitching, is the commander’s hand. Grey knows it is because he saw the man fall there, but—

It hardly looks like a hand at all anymore, and fear beats harsh and bloody in the back of Grey’s throat as he strains his ears, tries to quiet his breathing. Nothing is moving but the dripping water, and somehow, that’s a thousand times more frightening than the screams that rose a moment ago.

In the echoing darkness, something shifts. It drags, scraping and crunching and liquid all at once, and blind panic rises, almost drives Grey to his feet to make a run for the distant dot of light that is the entrance. The limp, twisted forms of those who tried are scattered across the temple’s floor, though, and at the last moment Grey forces himself back down, digging his fingers hard into the stone as he tries desperately not to move.

The dragging slide of something too large and misshapen pauses, and then there's a high, thready, terrified moan. Armor scrapes across the stone, a desperate attempt to crawl to safety, but a bare second later there’s a hiss, too deep and multifaceted to come from any mortal throat. It rises and falls like a tide, and the paladin screams, bare and weak and full of nothing but terror—

The cry cuts off so sharply it makes Grey’s stomach turn, and something wet and meaty cracks, cracks again, thumps back to stone and metal and drags like a flayed corpse rolled across the floor.

The door, Grey thinks, that unbearable fear clawing at his insides. He needs to get to the door. They came to fight a god and failed, and now there’s no one left standing but him. If he can just get to the door while it’s distracted by the bodies—

“Please,” a thin, reedy voice calls, cracking in the middle of the word, falling away in fear. “Please, Ylthos, please—”

The fear doesn’t abate. Nothing changes. Ylthos doesn’t answer her paladin’s cries, even though Grey holds his breath, waiting. There's another hiss, another dragging, scraping slide as the thing moves, and nothing happens.

That paladin, or maybe another, is crying, and the thin sobs echo in the hidden temple, drowned out a moment later by the sound of a body twisting, breaking, reforming into something horrific. A wash of blood slides across the floor, stained black in thick ripples as it moves, and Grey squeezes his eyes closed, then forces them open again.

His sword fell into the water, back when the thing first hit them. It vanished into the deep pool, and if Grey turns his head, he can just see the edge of the water, still perfectly clear in the guttering light. All the other weapons the paladins bore in here were twisted, or changed, or broken, but—his sword wasn’t. If he can just get to it, there might be a chance.

Ylthos isn't answering their prayers, but the light of that last blessing is still there. Grey can feel her kiss against his forehead, can see the lights of the Sun Temple if he closes his eyes. Ylthos isn't answering, but maybe she can't. Maybe Grey is the only one who can do anything.

And then, dragging, slick and wet and heavy, something moves on the other side of the broken column.

This isn't how it’s supposed to go. This isn't how it happened.

Grey wrenches to his feet, but instead of bolting for the pool, he turns. In the same moment, a hand closes over cracked stone, and the thing that they came to contain hauls itself up, a dark, twisted shape that only shares the vaguest similarities with a human form. It drags itself along with its hands, long nails scoring deep into the stone as it hauls itself up and over the column, keening, reaching. Grey recoils with a shout, reaching for the blessing, the flame inside him—

Even as light kindles, pure white and blazing, the creature cries, the sound scraping Grey’s flesh raw, sinking barbs into his mind. He stumbles, goes down, sprawled out on the wet stone, and the creatures surges up, grabbing, pinning him even as he struggles. It’s like struggling against a tree, though, or a mountain, and his fingers slip on raw flesh that oozes black blood. With a surge of terror, Grey grabs for that light, throws it up between them like a barrier, and the thing wails. Ichor splatters Grey’s face, drips into his mouth as flesh singes, and he looks up into burning red eyes that are fixed solely on him.

Dark, limp, stringy hanks of hair tumble around them as the thing lowers its head, those long, broken spidery fingers clamping down tight around his arms. A mouth opens, too many teeth, another splatter of ichor that burns sharp enough to make Grey scream, and then—

A voice, wavering, broken, as sharp as needles and knives. It keens, right next to Grey’s ears, so loud it burns. None of the sounds it’s made have ever had words before, but now there are. Now there’s something in the midst of the rage and hatred and fear, and it inscribes itself into Grey’s bones like a vast hand is writing it with a red-hot quill.

Save me, the god says, and Grey stares up into red eyes, the perfect mirror of his own, as it leans in, claws digging in all the way to the bone. Save me save me save me save me—