Chapter 648: You Might Become an Infant

Primal fear, cold and absolute, drove me to my feet before I could think of resisting, before I could remind myself that I was old, tired, and had no business standing before a creature like this.

My legs trembled, but I stood. I stood because I had no choice.

Because kneeling was not acceptable at the time.

"First," it said, still smiling and radiating that terrible, casual aura, "I am a ’he,’ not an ’it.’ You should keep that in mind. I am not a thing or a monster." The smile softened into something reassuring and kinder.

"And rest easy... I do not plan on killing them. They are not my enemies. We are only... bonding. The language they understand most clearly is violence, so that is the language we are speaking. Nothing more, and nothing personal."

It... He took a single step closer, but the pressure of his presence did not lessen.

"More importantly," he continued, voice lowering as though sharing private advice, as though we were old friends conversing over tea, "kick those hags out of your house already. You will die a bad death if they remain stuck to you at this rate. Take your family away from this horrible place as well.

"Leave this district, and let your daughters live among people who are actually good. Let them see what kindness looks like when it is not filtered through fear. And then they will learn how to trust others... and how to rebel against you in the proper ways."

Movement at the edge of the ruined street drew his attention, and my attention followed.

Zanya was forcing herself upright, one hand clamped hard over a still-bleeding shoulder, her teeth gritted against the pain.

Saharit’s healing light still flashing around the wound, but the effort showed on both their faces—sweat beading on Saharit’s brow, her jaw clenched, her hands trembling with strain.

Zuri had pushed herself off her knees, standing on legs that shook, her grey robe hanging in tatters, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

Even Sekhmet was dragging herself free of the rubble that had buried her, her claws scraping against stone, her tail lashing with effort.

Their eyes, when they found me, held no relief—only a raw, focused intensity, a determination that burned through the pain and exhaustion.

Zanya’s gaze locked onto mine. The bloodlust that rolled off her was so thick it felt like a second physical force in the air, pressing against my skin, making my stomach turn.

"Old man," she said, voice rough but steady, "get out of here. Take your family and get out now!" She shifted her grip on her injured shoulder while Saharit continued to work, her staff glowing with soft light. "There might not be a location left in this part of the city an hour from now. So please... take everyone and run as quickly as you can. Do not stop, and do not even think of waiting for us. If you stay..."

Her eyes flicked once toward the blue-eyed all-powerful creature, then back to me, and something in her expression shifted—something that might have been pity, fear, or just a warning she could not put into words.

"If you stay, you might become an infant."

Infant?

The word landed strangely, in a way that did not quite make sense.

It sat in my mind like a puzzle piece that did not fit

But there was no time to examine it, or ask what she meant.

I turned and ran.

There was no thought of dignity, no consideration of the proper pace for a man of my years, no lingering concern for appearances or the opinions of whoever might be watching.

My boots hammered the cobblestones as hard as my legs would allow, each impact sending shocks up through my ankles and knees, each step taking me farther from the impossible thing that stood in the ruins.

Behind me the air still thrummed with the pressure of powers that did not belong in any ordinary street—forces that pressed against my back like a hand, like a warning, like a promise of what would come if I slowed.

I understood, with sudden and absolute clarity, that both sides had been holding themselves in check for as long as I remained nearby.

They had been waiting, and they had been patient.

A true collision of their strength would not merely kill me. It would erase me—flesh and bone turned to something no longer solid.

I cut hard around the corner of a nearly collapsed warehouse, lungs burning, vision narrowing at the edges until the world became a tunnel of smoke and stone.

My shoulder struck another body with enough force to send me sprawling—the impact knocked the wind from my chest, drove the breath from my lungs, sent me tumbling to the ground.

I hit the cobblestones on one knee and one palm, grit biting into the skin, blood welling up from a dozen small cuts.

"Ah... forgive me!" The words came out in a rush as I scrambled to rise, my hand already extended to help the other person up, already reaching to offer assistance. "But you should not be here. It is far too dangerous. You must leave at once."

My fingers closed on empty air.

The figure I had collided with had never fallen, had not even swayed.

He stood exactly where the impact had occurred, perfectly balanced, as though my weight had been no more than a passing breeze.

It was an elven boy of painful beauty—fine features, high cheekbones, eyes the pale colour of new leaves regarding me without expression.

A long, curved blade hung in his right hand, the steel dark and wet with fresh blood that still dripped slowly onto the stones, each drop making a small dark circle that spread and faded.

More blood streaked his face in thin lines, some of it dried into brown tracks that spoke of earlier tears, earlier grief and violence.

"I am the one who should be asking that of you, young man." His voice was low and hoarse, possibly roughened by hours of fighting and running.