The beast horde in the Bone Orchards surged endlessly through the night, yet the Raiders cut them down with the precision of seasoned warriors.
They made efficient use of the fallen, even turning the Hungers—too consumed by their insatiable feasting to realize they'd never finish—into unwitting allies.
Their hunger, for once, was sated.
Mad Dog had promised them freedom if they made it through the Bone Orchards, though whether they'd return to their tribe safely would depend entirely on luck.
Yet, in stark contrast to the chaos outside, the carriage held an oasis of calm. Inside, Hound, Lily, and Lady Rose sat undisturbed.
"Think of your wing as just another limb," came the gentle advice.
"Then its movement will come naturally."
Hound concentrated, and to his own surprise, his wing jerked upward, shoving Lily aside.
The graceful composure she had shown the night before—when the Hungers attacked—was nowhere to be seen.
Instead, she stumbled with the clumsiness of an unrefined lady, laughing like an innocent girl.
And Hound believed it.
To him, Lily was only the caring elder sister, gentle and protective. He had never glimpsed the demonic side of her—the ruthless woman who saw no value in lives outside her chosen family.
Had he known the truth, his perception of her might have shattered entirely.
Even Lady Rose's tone shifted, far softer with Hound than the cold authority she wielded over the Raiders. She spoke to him like a mother guiding a child, patient but firm.
"Hound…" Her voice carried quiet steel.
"I won't let you leave this carriage until you master your wing. The Raiders don't know you're a True Blessed of Death… but rumors spread fast. And if secrecy fails?" A pause, her gaze unflinching.
"I'd slaughter this entire caravan to keep you safe. Without hesitation."
Hound studied Lady Rose, his emotions slowly unraveling in her presence—yet he couldn't forget that she and Lily had once been his enemies.
But to Lady Rose, such history meant little. Hound's value far outweighed this ragtag band of Raiders. He was a rarity—a Blessed of Death, a lineage nearly wiped from existence.
These men were expendable.
He was not.
...
The night bled into dawn, but Hound hadn't slept.
The relentless slaughter outside had held his attention, the horde's ceaseless assault etching itself into his mind.
Between the carnage, he practiced—learning to hide his wing beneath his skin, as if it were never there, or unfurl it wide like an eagle taking flight. Progress, yes—but not mastery.
The limb still resisted him, not yet an extension of his body but a force half-tamed.
Lady Rose, ever the teacher, had schooled him on the wings of other Blessed.
The Blessed of Life, for instance, bore jade-green wings that drank energy from the world around them, pulsing with vitality. She spoke of Anabol and Catabol, their functions mysterious yet potent—but offered no further explanation, leaving Hound to wonder.
The Blessed of Light bear wings of radiant white, gleaming like the sun itself. By day, they draw power from sunlight, rendering them nearly unstoppable. At night, their wings glow softly, providing illumination in the darkest hours.
The Blessed of Darkness, in contrast, wield wings of deepest void-black—a darkness so absolute it devours light itself. They slip unseen through shadows, their forms flickering like mirages under daylight, their edges blurred as if reality struggles to define them.
The Blessed of Time possess ethereal, translucent wings, shimmering like heat haze. With a mere ripple, they bend time around them, slowing time in their surrounding.
And then there are the Blessed of Space—their wings fracture like splintered reality, lined with jagged rifts. They use them to blink short distances in an instant or sharpen the edges into weapons that cut sharper than any mortal blade.
But the wings of the Blessed of Death? Lady Rose had no answers.
No records survived—only silence, as if history itself had swallowed their secrets.
Hound would have to uncover their power alone, testing their limits in the shadows, where no one could see.
What she had shared were only the broad strokes—the general traits of each Blessing. The true depths of their power varied by essence, each twisting the wings' abilities in unique ways.
Only their colors remained constant.
Take Lily, for example—once a Blessed of Light with the essence of Sun, before her corruption. Had she ever manifested wings, her wings ability would have absorbed the sun's scorching fury, unleashing it upon her enemies in searing waves—or shaping it into a blazing shield.
And that was just the wings—the feathers were an entirely different weapon.
Take Kalix, for instance—an Angel of Darkness with the essence of Blackness. He once slaughtered a Skinless Leopard with nothing but a single feather, its edge sharper than any blade. His wings didn't just conceal him in shadows—they let him slip through darkness like a phantom, untouchable and unseen.
Hound retracted his wing back, his appearance now deceptively ordinary—save for the signs that marked him as anything but human.
His long, white hair, jet-black nails, and slightly elongated canines hinted at his true nature as a Berserker.
His pale, almost translucent skin made the purple veins beneath visible, while his crimson eyes—now permanently stained by Death's Trait—burned with a quiet intensity.
He adjusted the oversized black cloak Lily had given him, the fabric swallowing his small frame in folds of shadow.
It was too long, too loose, but what choice did he have? Either wear this or brave the world in nothing but his tattered, blood-caked trousers.
Steeling himself, he pushed open the carriage door and leaped out.
The scene outside was one of exhaustion and grim survival.
The Raiders took shifts sleeping, their sunken eyes and slumped postures betraying their fatigue.
The cages that once held his tribesmen now imprisoned the Hungers instead, their monstrous forms writhing behind iron bars.
His gaze swept the camp, searching desperately for any familiar face—any survivor of his people.
But there was no one.
Then, his crimson eyes flared, and a hunger of his own surged through him—not for flesh, but for bloodshed.