Chapter 24: Bleeding Prophecy
The summons went out on frequencies only Death Scythes could hear—a subsonic pulse that vibrated in the teeth and bones of the chosen weapons across the globe. Within hours, they began to arrive via secured shadow-gates in the academy’s central atrium: figures of legend and nightmare, bearing the weight of thousands of consumed souls. The air grew thick with restrained power and the faint, metallic scent of old blood.
Angel watched from a second-tier observation gallery, Crow a silent, brooding statue beside her. Below, Headmaster Death spoke in low tones with Kilson and a severe-looking woman with hair like spun moonlight—Silas Blackwood, Crow’s mentor. Maria Vasquez stood with them, her war-hammer form leaning against a pillar as if it were an umbrella. Angel counted seven other Death Scythes, each radiating an aura that made the lights flicker.
For seventy-two hours, they monitored the sub-level cartoon graveyard. Soul-frequency scanners swept the area in overlapping waves. Thermal, magical, and motion sensors created a net no ghost could slip through. Teams rotated in six-hour shifts, weapons drawn, souls resonating at a combat-ready hum.
Nothing happened.
The concrete cavern remained just that: a dim, graffiti-scarhed basement smelling of oil and dust. The neon signs flickered over empty weapon racks. No Asura. No blood sigils. No laughing tombstones.
The tightly-wound tension in the academy began to slacken, replaced by a dull, creeping doubt.
“Maybe it was just a dream,” Angel said on the fourth morning, her voice small in Crow’s quiet lab. She’d barely slept, jumping at every distant echo in the vents. “A stress-induced nightmare. My brain cooking up the worst possible scenario after… everything.”
Crow didn’t look at her, his eyes on a monitor showing the empty graveyard feed. “Perhaps,” he said, but the word held no conviction. It held the sterile tone of a scientist who could not yet prove his hypothesis.
Later that day, the order came down. The alert status was lowered. The gathered Death Scythes were thanked and dismissed, though a few, including Maria and Silas, remained at the Headmaster’s request for deeper consultation. The student auxiliaries—Angel, Amber, Leo, Alyce—were officially stood down.
“See?” Amber said, trying to sound cheerful as they left the security hub. Her arm was linked through Leo’s. “Nothing but a creepy basement. You’ve been stressing for nothing, Lina.”
Angel forced a smile. It felt like a crack in dry clay.
Jack Death found them in the main hall, adjusting his perfectly symmetrical black cuffs with sharp, irritated motions. The three white stripes in his black hair seemed to pulse with his annoyance. “Consultations. Strategic reviews. And I am apparently not required,” he spat. “My father treats me like a porcelain set he’s afraid to use.”
He looked at their glum faces, his own expression shifting into something more deliberate. “This is miserable. You’re all miserable. We’re going out.”
“Out where?” Leo asked.
“To act like people who aren’t waiting for the end of the world,” Jack stated. “Basketball. My court. Now.”
Amber and Alyce practically had to drag Angel. She’d been moving through the last few days in a fog, the visceral horror of the vision replaced by a grinding anxiety that she’d cried wolf and mobilized an army for a bad dream. She felt exposed, foolish, and utterly drained.
The afternoon sun was bright and cruel over Jack’s private outdoor court behind Death’s mansion. The game was chaotic. Alyce, despite her short stature, was fiercely competitive, using her scythe-agility to dart around. Amber and Leo played as a seamless unit, passing without looking. Jack was methodical, his every move calculated to create perfect, symmetrical plays.
Angel sat on a wrought-iron bench under a twisted old tree, a thick bioengineering textbook open in her lap. She stared at the same paragraph about recombinant DNA for twenty minutes, not absorbing a word. The sound of the ball slapping the pavement and their laughter felt like it was coming from another planet.
“You’re bringing down the vibe, Delacroix,” Alyce called, sweat plastering her red hair to her forehead.
“Sorry,” Angel mumbled, forcing a weak thumbs-up.
Sari, who had been cheering from the sidelines with her sister Elis, bounced over. “This is boring. Let’s go shopping! The weekly flea market is on in Death City. It’s weird and wonderful.”
The group needed little persuasion. Angel, outvoted and outmaneuvered, trailed behind as they walked the few blocks to the sprawling market that filled Ravens’ Square. Tents and stalls erupted in a riot of color and noise, selling everything from cursed antiques and dubious potions to mundane used clothes and artisanal cheese.
Angel moved through the crowd like a ghost. She smiled when someone told a joke. She nodded at a booth selling intricate clockwork birds. She tried on a wide-brimmed hat that Amber insisted suited her, forcing a laugh that sounded tinny and false to her own ears.
They meandered past a stall of hand-blown glass, another of worn leather journals. The smell of sizzling street food—fried dough and spicy meat—mixed with the scent of incense and old paper.
Then she saw the mug.
It was in a stall cluttered with mismatched ceramics and quirky paraphernalia. A simple, glossy black mug. In clean white script, it read: We’re All Mad Here.
A soft, unexpected giggle escaped her. It was a real sound, startling her. It cut through the fog. She saw the cliffside, the writhing darkness under Crow’s skin, his laugh that was both torment and defiance. The frantic, sublime madness of his laboratory. The clinical hunger in his eyes.
She bought it without a second thought. The elderly vendor, a woman with kind eyes and silver bells in her hair, wrapped it in purple tissue paper with a careful, practiced twist. “For someone special?” she asked.
“For a teacher,” Angel said, and it wasn’t a lie.
The group moved on, their dynamic shifting. Jack fell into step beside Angel, telling an absurd story about his father’s obsession with organizing the library by color, not subject. “The symmetry, Angelina. He ruined the Dewey Decimal System for a gradient!”
She laughed, a real one this time, and it felt like stretching a stiff muscle. Ahead, she saw Alyce glance back, then deliberately slow her pace, pulling Amber and Leo into a deep discussion about weapon polish. Sari and Elis drifted to a jewelry stall. A space opened around her and Jack.
A cold trickle of understanding went down her spine. They were setting her up. Giving her and Jack ‘alone time.’ The sheer, awkward obviousness of it ignited a spark of genuine irritation. She didn’t want this. The careful, symmetrical son of Death was handsome and funny, but he was a distraction she couldn’t afford, a path that felt like settling for a pleasant still-life when she’d glimpsed a violent, magnificent storm.
She deliberately steered the conversation back to basketball, to the academy, to anything neutral.
The group eventually looped back towards the mansion, the afternoon light beginning to slant long and golden. As they neared the basketball court, Angel saw three figures walking from the direction of the main academy building: Crow, Maria, and Kilson.
Her breath hitched. Kilson. Alive. Not hanging from a tree with his intestines spilled. The relief was a physical warmth, followed immediately by a lurch of awkwardness. She hadn’t spoken to him since the vision. What did you say to the man you’d seen eviscerated in your prophetic nightmare?
Before she could think, her feet were carrying her forward, breaking away from the group. “Kilson!”
He turned, his expressive face shifting from mild surprise to a broad, charismatic smile. “Angelina! Heard you caused quite the stir. You alright?”
Up close, he looked tired. His usual vibrant energy was muted, the circles under his eyes pronounced. “I’m… yeah. I’m okay.” She shifted her weight, the tissue-wrapped mug held behind her back. “Would you maybe, want to hang out sometime?”
Kilson’s eyes widened, the smile freezing, then transforming into something stunned and oddly vulnerable. His face paled. His jaw worked. He made a choked, guttural sound, clapped a hand over his mouth, and stumbled to a nearby decorative hedge.
He vomited.
It was violent, abrupt, and thoroughly shocking. He retched into the boxwood, shoulders heaving.
Crow watched, his head tilting. His silver eyes flicked to Angel, then back to Kilson. “Happy vomiting,” he remarked, his tone utterly flat. “That’s new.”
A burst of startled laughter escaped Angel. It was horrible and genuine and broke the last of her strange tension.
Kilson straightened up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking mortified. “Gods. I am so sorry. That was… not the reaction I was going for. Your offer just… hit me sideways.” He managed a weak, apologetic grin.
Still chuckling, Angel remembered the package in her hand. An innocent present for a teacher. She pulled it out and held it toward Crow. “Here. I saw this and thought of you.”
Maria’s golden eyebrows lifted slightly. Crow took it, his long fingers unwrapping the tissue paper with a careful slowness that felt intensely private. He uncovered the mug, read the text.
He went very still.
Then a laugh broke from him—different from the manic cliffside sound, different from the scientist’s chuckle. This was low, rich, and deeply, truly amused. He turned the mug in his hands, his thumb tracing the letters. “We’re all mad here,” he read aloud, the words a private joke between the two of them that echoed with the truth of his condition.
He looked at her, and for a second, the world narrowed to that shared understanding in his silver gaze. “It’s perfect.”
Maria was staring at the exchange, her beautiful face a mask of polite confusion that was slowly hardening into something more pointed. Her eyes darted from the mug to Crow’s softened expression to Angel’s face. It was a strange gift.
Especially since he was having Madness growing inside.
The moment broke. The assessing look in Maria’s golden eyes didn’t soften. The world dilated back to normal size, flooding with the sounds of the market, Kilson’s weak chuckle, and Jack clearing his throat behind Angel. “We’re all mad, are we? Charming.”
Crow didn’t acknowledge him. He simply held the mug closer, a tangible anchor in the turbulence of his blood. “I should go.” His voice was rough, a private rasp meant only for Angel’s ears, though everyone heard it. He turned without another word, the black ceramic gleaming faintly in his hand as he walked away.
Maria offered a tight smile to the group before following him, her war-hammer form vanishing into the crowd. Kilson patted Angel’s shoulder with exaggerated care. “Still friends? No more sudden vomiting, I promise.”
“Sure,” Angel said, her own voice sounded distant. She felt exposed, as if she’d shown everyone an X-ray of her own confusing heartbeats.
Three days later.
The drizzly, gray afternoon matched Amber’s mood perfectly. She kicked a loose cobblestone on the winding path of the shadow-pocket village, a tucked-away realm that smelled of damp moss and woodsmoke. “It’s a golem, Leo. How hard can it be to find a giant hunk of animated rock?”
“They’re supposed to be stealthy when they want to be,” Leo countered, his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets. His axe form was strapped securely to his back. “The report said ‘erratic,’ not ‘stomping through town square.’”
“Erratic, schmerratic. We’ve been hiking for an hour. My boots are leaking.” She scowled at the thatched roofs and flickering lanterns of the village below. The assignment had felt like a consolation prize, a way to keep them busy after the high-alert fiasco. A simple golem hunt. Something beneath their paygrade. It was annoying.
Leo stopped, tilting his head. “Do you hear that?”
“Hear what? Your stomach growling? Because yeah, I heard that twenty minutes ago.”
“A grinding sound. Like stone on stone.”
They both fell silent. The drizzle pattered on the leaves. And then, from the dense copse of trees ahead, it came: a low, deep grind, followed by the brittle snap of a falling branch. They exchanged a look, all bickering forgotten, and melted into the shadows of the tree line.
The golem wasn’t a hulking giant. It was wide, low to the ground, built from the slate of the local hills and held together by thick ropes of glowing, corrupted energy. Its movements were startlingly fast, a predatory crab-scuttle. And it wasn’t alone.
A man stood beside it, gaunt and pale, his clothes mismatched and stained. His eyes were void-black, and strapped to the soles of his heavy boots were spinning, serrated chainsaw blades that whined and spat wood chips. “Fresh meat,” he hissed, his voice the sound of grinding gears. “The master will reward me for your souls.”
The fight was immediate and brutal. The golem lunged with surprising speed, a slab-like arm whistling toward Amber’s head. Leo transformed mid-leap, his axe form slamming into the stone limb with a shower of sparks. Amber darted in, aiming for the ropes of energy, but the chainsaw-meister was on her.
He moved with a deranged, sliding grace, his feet a blur of spinning teeth. He wasn’t kicking; he was slicing the air itself. Amber barely dodged a swipe that shredded the trunk of an ancient oak. The whine of the blades filled the clearing, mixing with the grind of the golem and Leo’s furious shouts.
Amber landed a solid hit, her soul wavelength flaring and cracking one of the golem’s energy bonds. It roared, a sound of splitting rock. In her moment of triumph, she didn’t see the chainsaw-meister pivot. He slid past Leo’s guard, his leg a horizontal arc of screaming metal aimed straight for Amber’s side.
Leo saw it. He made a sound, raw and desperate, and did the only thing he could think to do. He threw himself in front of her, reverting to human form mid-air, arms spread wide to take the full brunt.
“NO!” Amber’s scream wasn’t fear. It was pure, defiant command. Her small body collided with his, shoving him sideways with a strength borne of terror. The chainsaw teeth didn’t rip into his back.
They grazed her instead.
It wasn’t a clean slice. It was a tearing, shuddering impact along her ribs and hip. The world dissolved into white-hot static and the coppery smell of her own blood. She heard Leo’s ragged cry, felt his arms catch her as her legs gave way.
The golem, its bonds weakened, staggered. The chainsaw-meister shrieked in frustration and leaped onto its back, and the monstrous pair crashed away into the forest, leaving devastation and silence.
“Amber. Amber, look at me.” Leo’s voice was shaking. He pressed his hands against the ruin of her side, the fabric of her shirt already soaked and slick. His attempts to channel his soul wavelength to heal her were frantic, unskilled, sputtering like a wet match.
“Stop… wasting it,” she gasped. Each breath was a knife. The world was getting cold at the edges. His face, pale and stricken, was the only clear thing. “You idiot. You can’t… save me by dying first.”
“Don’t talk. Just… just hold on.” He tried to lift her, to hoist her onto his back, but the pain made her cry out, a sharp, broken sound. He froze, tears cutting tracks through the grime on his cheeks.
“Leo.” Her voice was a thread now. She could feel the heat leaving her, pooling in the mud beneath them. This was it. The stupid, embarrassing end. In a rainy forest, hunting a dumb rock monster. She managed a weak, bloody smile. “I gotta tell you something. I love you. Like, love you love you. It’s really… inconvenient.”
His breath hitched. He stared at her, his eyes wide.
“So don’t you dare… die on me.” Her eyes fluttered shut. The cold rushed in.
“AMBER!” His scream was raw animal grief, tearing from his throat and echoing through the dripping trees. He gathered her limp form against his chest, rocking slightly, the sound crumbling into sobs.
The sudden rustle in the undergrowth made him snarl, holding her tighter, baring his teeth at whatever was coming to finish them off.
Crow stepped into the clearing, Maria a step behind him. His silver eyes took in the scene: the blood, the shattered trees, Leo cradling Amber’s lifeless-looking body. He didn’t speak. He simply knelt, pressing his fingers to Amber’s throat. He gave a short, sharp nod.
“There’s a pulse. Maria, bind the wound. Now.”
Maria moved with lethal efficiency, tearing open a field kit. Her hands glowed with a cool, blue-white healing energy as she packed and sealed the gash. Crow placed a hand on Leo’s shoulder. “Let her go. We have her.”
Leo’s arms were locked. It took Maria prying his fingers away one by one before he released her, his whole body trembling with spent adrenaline and horror.
The infirmary lights were a sterile, relentless white. Angel sat in the stiff chair beside the bed, watching the steady blip on the heart monitor. Amber looked small under the blankets, her face pale, her tattoos stark against her skin.
When her eyes opened, they were bleary and unfocused for a moment before landing on Angel. Confusion, then a dawning, horrific recollection. Amber squeezed her eyes shut again, a low groan escaping her. “Oh, god. Did I… did I actually say it? Out loud?”
Angel smiled, squeezing her hand. “You did. Very dramatic. Almost bled out for the punchline.”
“I want to die. Again. For real this time.” Amber tried to sit up, winced, and fell back against the pillows. “Where’s Leo?”
“Not here,” Angel said softly. “Crow gave him mandatory rest. He was… not good. He’s probably pacing a hole in his dorm floor.” She pushed a tray with broth and a straw closer. “You’ve been out for a couple of days. Crow says you need to rest here a bit longer before they release you.”
Amber took the broth with a shaky hand. Over the next few hours, color slowly returned to her cheeks. Angel brought her water, adjusted her pillows, sat with her while she dozed. But Amber noticed. Every time the door opened, Angel’s attention snapped toward it, her shoulders tensing slightly. And every time it wasn’t him, she subtly deflated.
When Amber was lucid again, sipping juice, she fixed Angel with a knowing look. “Okay. Spill.”
“Spill what? The juice? I will if you don’t drink it.”
“What’s going on with you and Professor Broody? You practically levitate every time someone walks by the door.”
Angel’s face heated instantly. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing is going on. He’s a teacher. I’m a student. It’s a very clear, very non-existent line.”
“Are you suuuurrree?” Amber drawled, a weak but genuine giggle bubbling up. She winced, holding her side. “Ow. Don’t make me laugh. But seriously, I thought for sure you had a thing for Jack. You and Jack Death would be a cute couple. Symmetrical. Organized.”
Angel buried her face in her hands, the mortification complete. “Oh my god, stop.”
“What? He’s hot. In a ‘probably folds his socks by color’ kind of way.” Amber was grinning now, the joy of gossip outweighing her pain. “Admit it. You’ve thought about it.”
“Fine! Yes, Jack is… aesthetically pleasing. But it’s not like that.” Angel dropped her hands, sighing in defeat. “Okay, fine. I have a… a crush. On Crow. That’s all it is. A stupid crush. Happy?”
Amber’s eyebrows shot up. She gave a slow, exaggerated nod. “Ooooh, girl. Okay. Dark, mysterious, probably dangerous, definitely has a body count. I get it.” She patted Angel’s hand. “Way more interesting than Mr. Symmetry.”
They lapsed into easier chatter, Amber teasingly comparing the two men—Jack’ crisp suits versus Crow’s leather jacket, Jack’s controlled speeches versus Crow’s grunts, Jack’s mansion versus Crow’s mad scientist lab. “I mean, the lab is kinda cool,” Amber conceded. “In a ‘might-dissect-you’ kind of way. But Jack has that whole powerful-heir thing going on. That’s pretty hot.”
The door to the infirmary swung open.
Crow stood in the doorway, his usual imposing figure backlit by the hallway light. His silver eyes scanned the room, lingering on Amber’s now-animated face, then on Angel’s, which was still flushed from their conversation.
He’d clearly only heard the tail end. His expression, already stern, tightened. “If you’re well enough to giggle about Jack Death,” he stated, his voice flat and cold, “then you’re well enough to recover at home. Discharge papers will be at the front desk.”
He turned and left, the door clicking shut with a decisive finality behind him.
Amber winced, meeting Angel’s wide, horrified eyes. “Oops.”
Angel slumped back in her chair, the brief, light-hearted warmth of the moment utterly frozen out of the room.