Elves

[THIS CHAPTER VERY CRUEL!!!]

Sefi walked home, her movements smooth and wide, and her smile stretched from ear to ear. It was simply delightful! Such success – and an almost unlimited resource! Perfect. A dream come true, one might say. Mana isn’t always available, but emotions... well, they exist, you just have to pull them out of yourself.

— Need to cook breakfast. What should I make? — she pondered, standing in front of the basement. She wanted sweets and something meaty. Sandwiches? Candies as dessert? Or maybe something more serious? She had wheat, which meant flour too. Pie? Apple? Berry? Why not all at once? The more, the better! — Perfect! — she exclaimed, clapping her hands. There was too much joy in her, everything was bubbling, even her mana shone brighter, despite her trying to hide it.

The next hours flew by in a whirlwind of tasks. She ground the flour, kneaded the dough, gathered berries and picked apples, using magic to clean and sort them. A true homemaker! From the wheat stalks, Sefi wove a basket – neat and very tight. She placed leather inside and, by changing the structure of the stalks, literally glued the leather to the walls of the basket. And then she took up the tablecloth, but alas, except for black and white, there was nothing else, and there never had been. So she decided to alternate them in a checkerboard pattern, creating a simple yet elegant design... How would it look on the green grass? Well... she hoped it would look good. Her skills in such matters had been polished to perfection, and her motivation was so great that the night flew by unnoticed. Sefi didn’t close her eyes, and her magical flame that evening shone brighter than usual, like a lamp in the night. Everything she did, especially with the help of magic, was done well. Magnificently. Perfectly, even.

— Can’t wait! — she muttered, feeling the magic pulsing inside her body. Her movements became sharper, faster, and even in that case, there were no mistakes. Concentration? Motivation? Discipline? Or maybe all together?! Yes!

The dough, carefully covered with cloth, had already risen – perfect for pies. The apples and berries were ready, the meat marinated in that very sauce she kept for a special occasion. The oven blazed, and Sefi got to work, sparing neither effort nor magic. Into one dough went the apple slices, into another – berries. The pies went into the oven, and she took up the meat, heating it with magic. With each dish, her joy grew. Hours passed like seconds. She closed her eyes, opened them, and it was already noon. Soon Friren would come, and then...

Sefi’s hands trembled with impatience. She paced the yard in front of the house, clutching a large woven basket – like one from a supermarket, only not made of metal, and without large holes. Inside were wooden containers, polished to a shine, with neatly arranged pies, sandwiches with meat and sauce, and a drink prepared from an old recipe from the times of Miss Serie. Alas, without ice – magic of that kind was beyond her, a pity. The black-and-white tablecloth lay in the basket, adding a touch of comfort. To keep the meat warm, she heated it with magic, like a living microwave.

The idea of heating was genius! Sefi based it on the principle of warming: she moved the air molecules in a metal box, making them vibrate faster. Temperature – that’s just fast particle motion, right? He-he, she’s a genius! Smart! Magnificent! It’s like a microwave, but not a microwave, and also a thermos! Only for food, of course, but that’s a detail.

Yesterday’s discovery had made her stronger. There wasn’t much mana, but she had learned to spend it efficiently. That sword lying in the corner was proof of it – an enchanted blade glowing with her magic. Now all that was left was to wait for Friren and see her reaction to this feast, and to that sword. Sefi smiled, imagining how the elf would taste the berry pie and gasp in delight. Her eyes would shine, her mouth would water... and when she asked for seconds! The demon would refuse her, and then those very eyes... and... Hah.

— Where is Friren? — And though she was so impatient, she still noticed that the elf wasn’t in a hurry to appear. Strange, that hadn’t happened in a long time. Could something have happened? Or did she oversleep again? Should she revoke her trust? Although it’s better to find out the reason than to make such a hasty decision... should she go look for her? — Hm...

There was a rustle

— You came, Friren!

...

...

...

Something flashed

Too fast. Too close.

Something sharp pierced flesh – right into the neck. Pain flared so violently, as if a piece of her body had been torn out. It all happened suddenly, she didn’t even have time to react... how? Why?

— Argh… khah… — her throat convulsed, and along with the cough came the heavy taste of iron in her mouth. It spread thickly, clinging to her tongue. Breathing became torture: every movement of her chest came with effort, blood ran down the inner wall of her throat, choking her. She clutched her neck, tried to reach the arrow, but couldn’t. Every attempt only made it worse. She had neither the will nor the strength... fear bound her.

And then – the second strike. Into the knee.

The arrow pierced the joint so that the bone seemed to crack from within. Her leg twitched on its own and gave out – she fell to one knee. She held herself up only through despair, afraid that the arrow in her neck would shift deeper, cut worse if she fell to the ground. Blood ran down the shaft, staining it crimson. The woman tried to breathe, but only drops of blood mixed with saliva came out of her mouth, an awful gurgling sound of a torn throat. Red bubbles gurgled there, clinging to her neck like a disgusting ribbon. The sound was pitiful, like a mouse squeak.

Pain flared up to the point of nausea, she wanted to turn herself inside out, but couldn’t. Just couldn’t. And then – a new strike. Into the stomach.

The air burst out, and with it poured a warm scarlet mass. The arrow entered somewhere near the liver, the pain was dull, yet deafening. Her head rang as if someone had struck her skull with a hammer. Too much. The stomach area rang, stung.

Arrows. Long. Sharp. Merciless. One after another.

From where? Why? For what?

Her consciousness drifted, but the pain kept her in reality. And not only pain – despair, the will to live. She tried to lift her hand: her fingers scraped the ground. The right one was pressed to her neck, blood ran down the left. Warm, thick clothes didn’t save her – on the contrary, they absorbed the blood, made her body heavier, trapped the stench near her face. With her left hand she still tried to create at least something that could protect her from this barrage. A dome... she needed a dome.

Her hand trembled, nails broke against the stones. She pressed her palm to the ground, but the noise in her head wouldn’t let her focus. Pain, fear...

Mana burst out in uneven surges, disobedient...

— Hhaa… — a cough shook her, scarlet foam flew from her lips. The world darkened. Darker with every second. Air sliced her throat, she couldn’t take a breath, she was suffocating, moaning like an animal before death, trying to cling to life.

She had to pour her strength into the ground. Hold on. Just a little...

She pressed her hand to the earth, mana flowed out, like blood, mixing with the soil into a pink slurry. That mass responded to her control, but shaping it into anything was almost impossible. Her eyelids grew heavy as lead.

And in that same moment – a new strike

An arrow pinned her palm to the ground. Through flesh, through bone. A blast of pain tore through her body, ripping a hoarse scream from her chest. A miracle that any sound came out at all, and not just a bloody gurgling cry, though there was little difference. Except that along with the sound came another portion of crimson liquid, soaking into the ground.

— HRGH!

Her fingers twitched, but breaking free was impossible – the arrow’s shaft held her down. Every movement only tore the wound wider. She knew she had to raise something, anything, before it was too late.

New strikes rained from above. Arrows. Sharp, whistling death fell like rain. One – into the shoulder. Another – into the thigh. A third tore across her cheek and stuck in the ground beside her. A fourth sliced through her leg, leaving a deep gash. Wooden shafts jutted out of her body. Too many. As if she had turned into a pincushion.

Pain was everywhere. Breathing was nearly gone – only the ragged gurgle of blood in her lungs remained. But in her chest, deep down, a spark still flickered. A will. The last one.

Live... somehow. Live...

She pressed her mangled hand deeper into the ground, despite the arrow that impaled it. The scream drowned in blood, red foam, and tears. Mana burst from her fingers, from her torn body – sank into the soil. Blood mixed with the earth, thickening it, and the ground trembled. Stirred.

Sand and stones rushed upward, forming a rough dome. Arrows struck from above with a dry, dull thud – one after another. The dome cracked, crumbled, but held. Stood. Protected. Earth crumbs fell onto her body.

She lay beneath the dome, broken, covered in blood. Her breathing ragged, vision almost gone: before her eyes only darkness, sometimes melting into horror at the realization of her fate. The rumble of arrows striking the stone shell, and the faint consciousness clinging to life.

A living shield. Fragile, cracking, but the only thing separating her from a quick death.

A slow, agonizing death was near, walking toward her unhurriedly. Too much blood lost, breathing impossible. Horrid sounds escaped her mouth, more beastly than human. Arrows here and there... she couldn’t pull her hand free, and the blood flowed stronger. Each breath was torment, and with it came the darkness ready to swallow her whole... she had to act before it was too late.

— Grkh! — another rasp tore from her throat; along with it flew crimson splatters. Her condition was terrible. — "What can I do?"

Her hand, pinned to the ground by the arrow, was useless – no strength to pull it out. And the arrow in her neck? Even if she removed it – her throat was damaged: how would she breathe then? And what’s the point: the neck is fragile, full of vessels; if she pulled it out, the blood flow would kill her instantly. The arrows in her legs had become shackles, especially the one that pierced the knee. With them, movement was impossible – even walking, let alone running.

— "How?! HOW!! HOW CAN I?!" — the remnants of her consciousness clung to fear; fear for life – and that alone kept her from blacking out. — "Magic... mana... blood... breathe..." — dozens of thoughts flickered in her mind, tangled in despair.

And suddenly – enlightenment

She could control her own blood. How could she forget that? Stop the bleeding... and even breathe through magic. Everything was possible. The main thing – to act. Before it was too late. Before consciousness faded inside this fragile dome, turning into her own grave.

Drops of blood – that’s what she needed. Every drop. She had to stop the bleeding, make it clot. The process itself was simple, but keeping it going was almost impossible. There was no choice. Although... what if she infused her clothes with mana and pushed them into the wounds like bandages? Yes, that might work. The problem was something else: the arrows were stuck in her body, and especially the one in her neck... it wouldn’t let her breathe. She needed something different.

— "The body needs oxygen. For that, it needs lungs..." — the thought cut through her mind like a knife. — "Can they be replaced? The blood is outside now... it surely still contains oxygen. But no... I need to move it from the lungs straight to the brain. Otherwise, it will shut down."

She began to concentrate. To imagine that her blood was still flowing inside, that it wasn’t spilling out. A hoarse, grotesque semblance of breathing mixed with the bubbling of blood in her throat. Cold focus returned – step by step, she tried to delay death: her lack of emotion gave her the push she so desperately needed. And it worked – the bleeding slowed down, the flow began to circulate again. But the sensations were monstrous.

She poured mana into her blood and body – and felt everything. Every movement. As if thousands of cold worms crawled through her veins, writhing inside her like a lump of stuck food. Their sluggish, sticky motion – in every vessel. And it wasn’t just imagination: she was forcing even the blood that had already spilled out, the blood slowly seeping into the ground near the arrows, to move again.

Drops gathered and returned into the wounds. Watching it was torture. At first it was disgusting, but soon something foreign entered her body along with the blood. A tiny splinter, smaller than a match, apparently from an arrow. It went through her veins, scratching them from the inside, and she felt it. She couldn’t cancel the spell: if she stopped – all effort would be wasted. Fear. Disgust. That impenetrable wall of coldness began to shake.

The worst part – she couldn’t deliver blood directly to her neck. She had to build new, artificial channels between the pierced throat and veins. The channels came out ugly, incomplete. It didn’t reach the lungs: the clotted lumps couldn’t pass through narrow passages, got stuck and blocked them. Only mana helped to move this damned life machine – or rather, the bloody machine. The blood thickened too fast and moved painfully slow. Breathing became possible, but it was torture: she was choking on blood that she couldn’t spit out – because it was being forcefully pulled back into the wounds and went up to the throat, but couldn’t go further: all vessels were torn, and those that remained were like fragile bridges, horrible and misshapen; this was merely reshaped blood forced to take the form of a vessel. She built them as best she could, more for transport; there was no return flow, and these bloody tubes were disposable – for each new portion she had to make another one. Blood accumulated in her head, making it throb; her eyes reddened. It felt as if tiny veins were bursting from excess blood: a migraine started, so strong she could barely open her eyes. There was ringing in her ears; the dome cracked at the seams, dust fell down and, with the blood, got inside...

Was it worse now? Definitely. But now she had the most important thing – time. The price was disgusting. But time – was all she had left.

Sefi knew: she couldn’t maintain this fragile state for long. She was already halfway in the grave. She had to get out of here, run somewhere – beyond the forest. But where? It didn’t matter...

Something else was terrifying. Her palm wouldn’t move. How was that possible? She tried to pull her hand free, but only widened the wound. The arrow sat firmly, as if it had nailed her to the ground. Was it enchanted? Made heavier? Or was she just that weak? Wrong. Her body was far from fragile – it had endured blows and arrows, even the one that hit her neck. But now this... she couldn’t even lift her hand. This wasn’t chance. Something was definitely wrong here. Magic? Weight enchantment?

One thing mattered – if Sefi didn’t free herself, sooner or later the hunters would come and break the dome. Her protection would fall. Then it would be the end. What to do?

— "Maybe…" — the thought flickered, vile but lucid. Her “Law of Cost.” The higher the price, the stronger the response. Sacrifice her palm to break free from the trap? The thought was sound, perhaps even necessary… The problem... was in the hand itself, in herself. — "I can’t… there must be another way."

She didn’t have enough will. She couldn’t bring herself to part with a limb. Whether human or demonic part of her mind – it didn’t matter, it was still terrifying. She didn’t want to. But there was almost no choice.

Once attacked – they wouldn’t spare her. Negotiation was impossible. She didn’t know their position to direct an attack there. And to use large-scale, area magic in her current state was unreal. All her remaining mana went only to sustain life for just another moment. To dig a tunnel with magic? Maybe… yes, it should work. Yes… it should… and the arrow could be removed too.

The arrows meant one thing – the enemies weren’t strong enough to immediately use powerful magic. But if they were intelligent… that was bad. Terrible. They could have something worse than arrows, swords, and axes. Taking a hit from that now would mean only death.

— "Need to act." — the cold, sharp sobriety returned again. She began to pour mana into the ground, loosening it, preparing a tunnel. And at that moment, something knocked her off balance. Too strong. Mighty.

The dome collapsed. Not from the arrows raining down, but from something far more powerful. A current. It wasn’t water – not that familiar current, but a torrent of wind. The air struck with such force that the sturdy wall crumpled like cardboard. Like a grain of sand before a tornado.

It lifted her and hurled her dozens of meters away

And if only that… Her arm couldn’t take it. It tore off. The hand and part of the wrist dangled by tendons, then finally detached completely, like a rag doll’s limb. A bloody trail followed – a crimson stump. Not just from this new wound, but from a dozen others.

The wind didn’t only shatter her defense and arm – it threw her so far that her body struck the ground multiple times. Each impact shattered bones, broke arrows, driving their splinters inside. The one in her neck sank so deep that the tip struck bone and made a sickening crunch. How her neck endured that… incomprehensible. A miracle.

A miracle that she was still alive. A miracle that her spine wasn’t broken...

But this miracle came with agony

It would’ve been better if death had taken her right away. Without arrows, without a torn arm, without this carnage. Now the pain was everywhere. The body ached, muscles torn, every centimeter of skin covered in bruises and abrasions. Blood mixed with dirt, sticky and hot. Bones quivered even at the slightest movement. Something inside cracked, merged, and swelled. The body became a blot of blue, purple, and red hues.

Her head split apart with such pain she wanted to bite into the earth just to end the migraine. Upon impact she had bitten her tongue, and a chunk of flesh still dangled in her mouth, tasting of metal. Her eye – the only working one – twitched, blindly searching for something in this nightmare. The other was ruined: something had struck it, a stone maybe, or a piece of her dome. The eyeball was nearly crushed.

— Why... — speaking was impossible; only dry, exhausted moans escaped her, barely resembling words. She didn’t have a chance anyway: her throat was pierced nearly through, her tongue bitten. What was there to say?

Why? Why her? What had she done? For what? Why was she lying here, choking on her own blood? Why were her bones shattered to dust, why did her body burn with pain? WHY?! FOR WHAT?! What had she done to this cursed world she never even wanted?

From her single eye rolled a tear

A bloody one, for her tears had long run dry

— Home… mama… papa… help…

But no one heard her. There were only footsteps – several pairs. Cautious, muffled. Voices, whispers; she couldn’t make out the words. Had her ears been damaged too? Wasn’t this enough? It wasn’t fair... not fair...

Someone tall approached her with a sword. Leather armor, light hair, pale skin – long ears. An elf. Despite the clear day and blue sky, his face seemed dark and blurred; only his eyes were visible – blue, almost lifeless. Shadows thickened: it was no longer a living being, but something incomprehensible, nightmarish. Her own hell. Other shadows began to approach; she couldn’t see faces or mouths – only eyes, everything else was darkness. Emotionless. There was no rage, no hatred... nothing. It wasn’t vengeance, not judgment, just... just...

He looked at her with one cold eye. Then raised the sword.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not like this. She had never harmed them. And this is the result? Elves... elves... those cursed ones. Scum. Filthy creatures.

That bastard Serie – and now these? What the hell?! Why?

— Die, demon.

Ah... I see. HA-HA-HA! I SEE, DAMN IT! IT’S BECAUSE OF THESE HORNS! HA-HA-HA! THESE DAMNED ONES WANT TO KILL JUST BECAUSE OF THAT!

How... how...

— Unfair...

The sword moved, and at that very moment something inside her snapped. Not her strength, not her will to live, but the thin barrier that held within her the last remnants of choice, something... her own... human. It broke. Everything left of her mind shrank into one clear thought: “Pay.”

“The law of payment,” the one she had created herself – it was calculation, cold and precise. The higher the price, the stronger the response. The arm? It was no longer an arm, just obstructing flesh. Torn off, yes, but still a part of her, connected by her blood... by that bloody trail.

The tongue? She was already... in a terrible state, so the voice... pay with the voice... yes... nothing. She could still write, and will be able to in the future, magic works wonders, and she believes in that.

That shattered eye...

No use for it, none at all. And even if it healed, the sight would be awful. Doesn’t matter, what matters is to survive.

Memories? That which made her herself. To give one away means to slip away, and that will create new ones. And she had plenty of memories... some of them mean nothing... doesn’t matter.

She didn’t scream. Inside, everything froze like ice. No words, nothing... not even sound. Only the decision, one that required no will... it demanded despair. Sefi gathered the last threads of mana and directed them not into the ground, but into herself – into those places ready to pay the price. No knife, no ritual: a simple, cold act in the narrow corridor between life and death. Mana flowed like current, burning her from within, and the body began to change.

First – the remains of the arm. It didn’t tear, didn’t crunch, didn’t fall off as a chunk of flesh. It was as if it had been erased from the world: the feeling – like a part of herself had dissolved, leaving behind emptiness and the smell of burnt skin. Nothing, it was gone.

The eye twitched, and the world within it ruptured. It wasn’t bleeding or horror, but the instant when the picture on a screen suddenly lost a fragment – a set of colors, associations. Where once there were dark faces, now – an empty gap. That eye was gone, only the twitching one remained.

She felt the voice leaving from within: not just sound, but the memory of a mother’s words, fading into a monotone blot, gray... dull... incomprehensible. Instead of familiar speech – nothing, as if the tongue had never been there at all. Along with the voice, something else vanished... can’t remember. The demoness blinked, and a part of the memories linked to that gaze, like film, peeled away. Specific faces, smells, names – small vanished islands inside her head. It didn’t pass without a trace: along with pain came emptiness, and within it – release.

The mana she gave didn’t rise to the sky; it thickened, like steam. From her wounds, from the places where the flesh no longer responded, a mist arose – not cold and not nocturnal, but viscous, dense with light and haze, red. It didn’t spread randomly: thickening, the mist cut off sounds, softly blurred silhouettes, those black shadows. The people around slowed down; their movements turned sluggish, like underwater. Whispers tangled, shapes lost clarity.

The elf froze, as did the others, eyes widening, but not to see; rather – to feel the void where Sefi should have been. In that pause, between one step and the next thought, she remembered her home, the last image of a baby’s hand, and that fragment too sank into the red mist, like a grain of sand in water. The woman could no longer return it: where her mother’s name had been, there was now a dim blot. She had lost something... again. But what? Doesn’t matter, what matters is to survive.

The demoness crawled. Not rose – crawled on her chest, dragging herself along the ground, leaving behind a bloody trail. The density of the mist grew, and the world around began to look as if painted with wrong colors. Voices tangled; things were being decided without her. A few swings of a sword through air, not flesh – and the squad retreated, hastily. Voices echoed. She couldn’t hear them. What mattered – they were gone, and she was alive.

***

When the fog cleared, Sefi was no longer lying where they had left her. She was where shadows could exist: in a ravine beneath the roots of an ancient tree, hunched, trembling from pain and cold absence. The right arm was gone – not a bloodied shred, but emptiness, there was nothing there, not even a stump, part of the shoulder sealed with dense skin. Her voice couldn’t make even the weakest push, a sob… nothing.

Her left eye, the only one still working, was wounded and blinder than before. In her head – gaps, white spots where moments of childhood used to be, the smell of bread, the name of the person she once laughed with. They fell behind, like in an old photograph, and never returned. Had they ever really been?

The escape succeeded – but the price left her different. The demoness got out of the hunters’ circle, but not entirely: part of her stayed in that fog, in the exchange that took her flesh and memory. What she survived carved a defect in her soul: not only the body was gone… something of her own was gone too.

It didn’t matter

She survived. And to survive meant to remember less, to feel differently, and to carry the price she had, coldly and clearly, chosen to pay.

***

They took everything from her: home, food, hand, eyes, voice… and memory. Everything she had built for so long, everything she had lived for, vanished in an instant. Even that sword made just yesterday – dissolved into nothingness. Everything was gone.

And what was left instead? Nothing.

No, not nothing. A body remained, swollen and full of something alien, like a sack stuffed with pain. Beneath the skin pulsed yellow, viscous ooze, abscesses ready to burst at any moment. Everything itched, burned, as if thousands of needles tore her flesh from within, like that time when the blood had gone inward. She felt her body literally rotting. Too hot – the fever burned from inside, her head spun, her mouth was filled with nauseating bitterness, and she retched with every breath. And this couldn’t go anywhere. She lay on her back, too weak to turn over, foul vomit flowing inward. The blood came again, sticky and hot, streaming into emptiness. Infection. Sepsis. Was this how she would die? After so many attempts to survive – to choke on her own rot in this wilderness?

That wasn’t how she imagined her end. Not at all.

How many days had passed? She couldn’t count. Tried to stand, tear off the growths, but her body wouldn’t obey. Her neck somehow learned to pull in air, but even then each breath was like a noose. Her skin – deathly pale, bluish in places, purple from bruises, further down crimson – from dried blood. And there, in the ruptures, swollen yellow abscesses full of foul pus. Some burst, squelching, and she heard things inside pressing and tearing with a wet, meaty sound.

She tried to crawl, but couldn’t. Exactly – couldn’t. Tried to purify her blood with magic – failed. Last time, she had deliberately opened a wound, directing a flow of blood outward, imagining that the sickness would leave with it. Maybe it helped a little back then… but now… she was a living breeding ground of infection. Mana was catastrophically low, and she waited for it to recover… prayed it would happen faster.

And all that time, animals came near. Deer, small creatures, even predators. But when they smelled her, they turned away and left. Even scavengers didn’t touch her. She was worse than carrion – so rotten they despised her. Funny, isn’t it? Even as dead meat she was revolting.

Maybe it was because of the horns?

Ha… ha… she wanted to laugh. To scream. But not a sound came from her throat. Only dry, torturous silence. Everything was slipping away…

But the insects didn’t leave

Flies came for the smell, buzzing around, landing on the wounds, laying eggs. She felt tiny white worms begin to crawl just under her skin, in the pus, gnawing new tunnels through her flesh. They swarmed in the wounds, writhing, creating a vile, warm motion inside her. The stench around was hellish: a mix of blood, pus, and the reek of rotting meat. And she couldn’t escape it – for it came not from outside, but from her. She was the smell itself.

Other insects came too. Small beetles and centipedes crawled over her body, under her skin. One long centipede crept to her eye, the right one, the one that was gone. She tried to blow, to blink with the left one, to drive it away – she couldn’t. The creature greedily burrowed into the dead flesh around the socket, as if searching for a path inside.

She felt horrible. Powerless. Terrified.

And there was nothing left but to wait… to wait for the mana to return

Because she had nothing else

Her mouth had long dried out. No saliva – her tongue was rough, cracked, like a piece of old leather. Every movement inside felt like scraping with sandpaper. And when insects crawled in, she felt everything – every leg, every bite.

At first, it was flies. They landed on her lips, tried to slip into the corners of her mouth. Then, meeting no resistance, they went inside. A warm, fat fly crawled across her cheek, its legs scraping her parched mucosa. Then – another. They hungrily sought moisture that wasn’t there. But soon others came – smaller, longer, quicker.

They climbed into the cracks of her tongue, bit her gums, went deeper. The pain was stabbing and humiliating. In her throat thin legs scraped, further, further… she felt something crawling into her trachea, scratching her insides. She tried to cough, to force them out – failed. Her lungs seemed to have stopped, her chest only weakly twitching. Her neck itched, oxygen became scarce.

Air passed through her throat with a wheeze, breaking into a whistle, and along with it – the insects. Some got stuck in the dry folds of her mouth, others pushed downward. They were eating her from the inside.

And that was the worst – not the pain itself, not the itching, not the rot, but her complete helplessness. She could no longer even close her mouth to stop them. Her jaws wouldn’t obey. She became an open entrance to a living decay, into which everything that wished could crawl.

Her body wasn’t hers. It was a field for someone else’s feast

And she could only wait, as mana dripped back, like drops of water in a desert

Only wait