The Razor’s Edge
By Eric Kao
Estimated read time: 26 minutes
Dark red blood filled the expansive sea.
Occasionally, the crests of the bobbing waves glittered like rubies. It was said the world was a living thing and the waves were created from the beat of its heart, deep in the core. And who could deny that?
The Sea of Blood was proof of the Mother Heart.
The Natal Sin tore open the Mother Heart and blood was released into the canyons, forming the oceans themselves. From that blood, life began.
Life does not bring suffering, but rather, the opposite.
Suffering leads to the glory of life.
The Sea of Blood strangled the mainland, clawing at its shore in reclamation. Not long after the Blood filled the canyons and formed the oceans, the Coagulation occurred—and so land was formed. So wasn’t it only right that the sea claw into the land? With every beat of the Mother Heart, every wave of the Great Blood, that coagulated abomination, land, was reclaimed, little by little.
One day land would rejoin the Blood.
Life had no place outside the Great Blood.
The angels were first to rebuke the Blood. Their great fins turned to arms and legs, though the dorsal fins on their backs remained. With these, they learned to swim through the sky.
***
A group of angels soared over the Sea of Blood, wings weaving through the air and keeping them aloft. A blood fish broke the surface of the ocean, emerging with a shriek. The sound assaulted the angels, causing blood to sweat from their body. These drops were reclaimed by the sea. One of the angels wavered as pain stilted their movements.
They careened downward, wings fighting to right themself. The blood fish—its body almost as long as the angel’s—leaped out of the water, its razor teeth bared. The angel jerked upward, pulling out of its dive toward the blood sea, but the fish buried its teeth into the angel’s leg. Despite the added weight, the angel struggled away from the water with the fish still latched on. They landed on the island and the fish released at last, flopping over the land in a desperate attempt to return to the ocean. The angel released a hungry scream and the upper ends of its wings—tipped in claws—plunged into the fish.
Golden blood spurted from the fish’s wound. The angel’s claws ripped a chunk out of the fish’s side and the wing bent backward, taking the meat behind its back. Between the angel’s shoulder blades, from where the wings sprouted, a puckered mouth opened. Barbs lined the cylindrical opening within the orifice. The wing thrust the chunk of fish into the maw and the angel contorted, wriggling its upper body from side to side to facilitate the chewing motion of the mouth. With the alternating movements, the barbs from each side tore into the flesh and ripped it apart into digestible pieces.
The fish shrieked again—this time, its death throes—and a thin layer of blood sweat from the angel’s chest in response. The angel fell to its knees, wrestling the fish in place, while its wings alternated darting forward and ripping chunk after chunk from the fish. The angel’s spasmic swaying to force the maw’s barbs into the food became more chaotic as it relished the flesh.
The fish’s wriggling weakened, its shriek dying out, until it laid still. The angel’s chest and arms were slick with blood—some of it, the fishes; some of it, its own. The angel jerked side to side a few more times, then stilled its feeding frenzy on the island.
In the distance, the Sea of Blood pulsed and waves lapped at the mainland—ever reclaiming the land.
***
Occura clutched the writhing sack to her chest as she fled up the mountain. Howls arose from below and neared even before the sound ended.
They were close.
Too close.
She might not make it.
She cursed and pushed her legs faster, her lungs burning. The plan had gone wrong, so wrong. She raced through the trees that dotted the mountainside and provided at least a semblance of cover. Not that it would help. Damn wolves could track her scent, no doubt.
Xelta, damn you!
Occura wheezed, a fresh burst of pain in her chest. Her last night with Xelta involuntarily flitted through her mind. Xelta’s lips on hers, the feeling of her fingers running through her hair, over her breasts, pulling at her waist. Xelta’s panicked face crashed through the memory—the fear in her eyes as she was pulled out of sight.
Occura jerked her attention back to the path, tears blurring her vision. She swiped a hand over her eyes. Couldn’t have that now. Couldn’t be distracted. Xelta was likely dead already—and Occura might follow after her if she lost focus.
The sack wriggled in her hand, threatening to throw her weight off. She stumbled and caught her footing, her eyes angrily flicking to the outline of the creature struggling within the sack. Don’t let it out. That’s what Xelta had told her. The entity was dangerous.
The top of the mountain arrived in her eyeline. Just a little further—she might just make it. Howls rang out from behind her, closer than they had been just half a minute ago. Her escape from this hell was at the top. It had to be.
Xelta was the one who’d known about the transport away from the mountain. Damn her secrecy! What was it? Where was it?
The time it took Occura to figure it out might be the death of her.
Too little information. Xelta had been tightlipped except at night. Even with Occura’s questioning, she’d only revealed that their escape waited for them at the top.
The precious little she’d gleaned about the entity raised more questions than they answered. If released, it would lead to a life of misery. What did that mean?
Everything had hinged on Xelta… and now she was gone.
A snarl erupted from behind Occura, closing in fast. She swiped a hand over her neck, slickening her fingers with sweat, and she spun. Her hand flung the sweat outward before her eyes had fully registered the werewolf leaping at her. The drops of sweat lengthened into fluid needles and shot into the werewolf’s chest. She dove to the side and his bloody body crashed over her head. The wolf’s howl turned pained, then gurgled as blood infiltrated its lungs.
Occura rolled out of her dive, one arm braced against her leg, the other desperately clutching the writhing sack. Her entire body burned with exertion, her legs trembling with adrenaline and fatigue. The chorus of howls rang out again in response to the injured wolf’s cry.
No time to catch her breath.
She stumbled back into motion, fighting up the last portion of the incline. She finally broke onto the plateau, nearly sobbing with exhaustion and fear. The burn of sweat in her eyes made the world dull. The plateau was almost entirely bare—nowhere to hide. Nowhere, except a lone tree in the middle. It stood out prominently, the Sea of Blood now visible just beyond this mountain.
She ran to the tree. Where was it? Where was her escape, her salvation? There was nothing hidden along the base or stuck among the lower branches. As she circled the trunk, a circular rune carving caught her eye.
Two werewolves burst onto the plateau. She shouted and thrust her hand toward the rune. Please please please.
Her hand passed directly through the rune and her body jerked forward at the unexpected lack of resistance. She fell forward, her shoulder crashing against the trunk as the entirety of her arm entered the rune. This couldn’t be the escape—the rune was far too small for her to fit through.
Sacred Blood. Mother Heart, please. Something, anything.
Her fingers encountered leather and she latched onto what felt like a pair of shoes. She wrenched her arm out and a pair of boots emerged. This had to be it. Her escape. She dropped them to the ground.
Another three werewolves appeared at the edge of the plateau. As a pack, they dropped to all fours and loped toward her. She screamed and thrust her right foot, then her left, into the boots.
The wolves neared.
The boots did nothing.
Panic clawed up her throat, choking off even her sobs. She jumped and caught the lowest branch, the wriggling sack threatening to break her grip. With fear-induced strength, she heaved herself upward. She climbed up through the tree with no thought for safety. Branches tore at her skin, leaving thin cuts that only urged her faster. The wolves arrived at the base of the tree and each reared up onto their hindlegs. The first two leaped up, their claws catching purchase on the bark, and they pulled themselves into the tree below her.
She kicked a leg out, praying to the Mother’s angels that the boot caught the air. It had to do something for blood’s sake. The boot slipped through the air to no avail. She bit back a shout of frustration and looked up. The tree only extended a few more feet up. Below her, the wolves worked their way up through the limbs, now at a measured prowl. All five had fanned out, closing the distance to her. She was trapped. Nowhere to go. Too high to jump.
This was it. Her return to the Blood.
There is hope yet, young flesh.
Occura jerked, almost dropping the sack. Had it… talked? Xelta had never said the entity could communicate.
You may live yet…
Occura heaved the sack up as she climbed through the thinning branches toward the top. Xelta said the entity brought ruin: a life of misery. But didn’t that mean life? She had to be alive to be miserable—and right now, that promise was more than anything else she had. She reached as high as she could go, the limb swaying under her weight. The werewolves reached the halfway point up the tree. From all edges of the plateau, more and more werewolves arrived. Others convened on the tree, starting their ascent.
Miserable—but alive. What other choice did she have?
Occura wrenched open the knot at the top of the bag as the wriggling from within it intensified. She thrust her arm into the writhing sack—and felt nothing. Her hand desperately searched the sack, but it was empty and motionless.
Mother Heart. PLEASE SAVE—
The sack clamped down on her arm like a toothless mouth. She screamed and tore at it with her other hand. The sack came off like a skin being shedded, revealing a large snake now twined around her arm. As the sack disintegrated, the snake darted toward her head. She jerked back and it constricted around her neck, its head ending near her ear.
Its tight coils cut off her air and she reeled, the strength already bleeding from her limbs. Against her will, the snake forced her head upward and to the left to stare out over the Sea of Blood.
Walk, young flesh… along ‘the Razor’s Edge’.
Darkness crowded the edges of her vision as she pried at the snake around her throat. Growling from below—the wolves only a few bodylengths away. As her vision tunneled, the snake directed her chin slightly upward. At the very center of her line of sight was an island. From the distance, it looked like birds circled it.
Escape.
She swayed as a werewolf reached the bough she stood on. The wolf inhaled sharply and she could feel its entire body coil as it readied to pounce.
Take your leap…
The black tunnel of her vision almost made it seem as if the entire world fell away, except the line from her to the island. Nothing else existed, except the line, thin as a razor. The boots tightened around her feet and an impulse to step from the tree pulled at her from deep within her body, almost like her very sense of balance.
The bough recoiled at the sudden release of the wolf’s weight as he lunged.
Occura took a step.
Her boot landed on the razor-thin pathway of the air itself as she left the tree. The wolf’s claws swiped behind her, missing the nape of her neck. She wobbled, flinging her arms wide, and took another step. Her other boot landed on the invisible line toward the island. The snake loosened around her throat and new strength filled her body. Elation coursed through her as, step by step, she walked through the air, leaving death behind.
The wolves howled in fury, earning a vindictive laugh from her. Despite being able to breathe easily once again, the world still appeared warped. Instead of the darkness that had haunted the edges of her oxygen-starved vision, everything around her was blurred—almost as if viewing it through murky water. But it didn’t matter.
Her vision was clear along the aisle of her salvation. The path that cut directly toward the island was bright and beckoned her attention with a heady allure. The warmth of survival, at her blood flowing through her body, washed through her. By the Mother Heart, she’d done it!
You cast me from your mind so quick…?
Occura walked across the Razor’s Edge, placing each foot with care, and bobbed her head. “I meant no offense.” The snake, this entity, could sense her thoughts. Before, that would have disturbed her. Now, a wave of gratitude swept through her. It had sensed her distress and helped her harness the boots. “You saved me. I owe you my life.”
The snake released a pleased hiss beside her ear and shifted around her shoulders. Young flesh, you are pain made corporeal. The Mother Heart sought to reclaim you too early. You owe me nothing, but your vow to keep resisting the pull of Blood. Seek life, whatever sorrows it brings you, and know you have repaid me.
“So try to stay alive? Yeah, I think I can do that.” Occura grinned, and the anguished sound of hungry wolves behind her was like music to her ears. She kept her eyes focused on the island. It was quite a ways away, even walking the shortest distance to it. At the lower area of her peripheral vision, the Sea of Blood was a red haze. The birds she’d seen circling near the shore of the island seemed to fly toward her. It was hard to tell their movements—everything outside of her direct sight of the island was out of focus. The birds—were they birds? Their outline seemed strange as they flew upward and she lost sight of them.
She wobbled, the Razor’s Edge digging into the soles of her boots. Was it sharp? She hadn’t noticed it at first—maybe the elation of escape had dulled her senses. But now it grabbed her attention. She could feel the edge of her path even through the boots. It wasn’t painful, just the sensation of walking over rocks.
“Tell me, serpent. What are these boots?”
Ah, Pythos’ Boots. They are powerful indeed. The island you walk to, how far away does it seem?
Occura squinted and shrugged. “Half a mile, perhaps?”
The snake’s tongue flicked out in a silent laugh. It is further than you could walk on land in an entire day.
“Further than…?”
Yes. In human terms, over fifty miles of Blood separates you from that island.
“Fifty?!” She teetered for a moment before regaining physical and mental equilibrium. “How can I even see it, then?”
Ah. A courtesy, I bestowed. A blessing, if you will.
She swallowed as another glimmer of gratitude shivered through her. “Thank you. Truly, you saved me.” They lapsed into silence as she took a few more careful steps. The pressure of the Razor’s Edge was more intense against her feet, there was no mistaking it. It was almost painful now and caused her legs to tense which, in turn, made balancing more difficult. “Wh-what is this? This line and the boots?”
Pythos spared no blood in creating those. Many languished in his temple to forge that enchantment.
Occura halted as chills ran down her spine. These boots—people had died to create them?
Yes, young flesh. Such is the way of Blood. And with their pain, the boots can distort the physical world. The distance between two places is collapsed, condensed into a narrow line—the Razor’s Edge.
Occura resumed walking. Now was not the time to dwell on the cost of her escape, especially to people who had died long before she’d ever been born. The memory of Xelta’s final scream threatened to make Occura’s legs give out from under her. She swayed over the Razor’s Edge, arms windmilling and she fought to regain her balance, lest she plummet into the Sea of Blood. She righted herself and shoved the intrusive thoughts away. Thinking about those lost had already almost gotten her killed once before. Beneath her, something splashed, but she didn’t dare glance away from the island.
Center yourself. Must you die so easily?
“I-it’s digging into my feet. It’s starting to hurt.”
The Razor’s Edge demands pain. The physical world does not take so lightly to being twisted. The blood spilled for the boots acts as a shield—but will only protect you for so long…
Her pulse sped up as she eyed the island, still relatively far away. She’d have to speed up if she wanted to make it there. If the boots ran out of blood, what would happen then? Would the Razor’s Edge cut through the boots themselves and into her feet?
Yes. Now walk, young flesh. Crawl, if you must. Wield not to the Mother Heart.
Occura shuddered and forced herself onward, going as fast as she could balance. Movement overhead caught her attention. In the haze of her peripheral vision, the blurred outline of the birds reappeared, far closer now. She couldn’t make them out, the distortion from the boots masking their shape. But something wasn’t right. The creatures didn’t quite seem like birds. She jerked her attention back to the island. A hundred feet to go.
The Razor’s Edge was sharp under each foot. It had cut through half of the boots’ soles.
Another splash beneath her as something emerged from the water.
Brace yourself, flesh.
A shriek cut through the air from below, sending terror through Occura. She screamed, her body oscillating over the Razor’s Edge. Her legs burned from the tension of keeping herself from pitching into the blood sea. The fish’s shriek seemed almost physical, chafing on her skin just as much as her ears. Her heart hammered in her chest as the exposed skin of her arms, neck, and face felt raw as if burned by a blast of heat. She swiped her forehead with the back of her wrist and it came away bloody. Drops of blood beaded on her skin in response to the fish’s cry.
She gasped, her body trembling as she struggled to stay upright. By the Mother’s mercy, please let her survive this. She lost her balance forward and she folded at the waist. Without thinking, she threw her hands out and grabbed the Razor’s Edge, splitting the skin of her palms. Pain shot up her arms and she cried out. Blood dripped down to the sea and the fish stopped shrieking as it suckled for her blood. She forced her weight back to her heels and straightened up, her hands in agony.
Couldn’t stop. Couldn’t fall. Keep going.
Yes. Struggle more. Walk. Crawl if you must.
She stumbled forward. Fifty feet away. Her attention was torn between the increasing pain in her feet, the split flesh of her hands, her balance, and the island. Had to make it to the island. She was close enough to see the vibrant green grass, an oasis of color in the haze around her. Every step allowed the Razor’s Edge to saw deeper into the boots. More than halfway through them now, close enough to her feet that she could feel its thin edge.
The bird-like creatures descended toward her, a disorienting haze of blurred figures. What were they? One dove toward her and she cringed down, ducking as low as she dared. Its unfocused outline streaked past her, leaving her with nothing but the impression of its size. It was almost as large as her. She pitched forward and threw her leg out in a stabilizing lunge. The pressure caused the Razor’s Edge to cut even deeper into her boot, almost clean through it. Her knee nearly buckled from the reactive urge to withdraw from the sharp edge.
The island was only twenty or thirty feet away now—but she’d never make it with these creatures assaulting her. Below her, another fish emerged from the water with a splash. Her hands flew to her ears, blood wetting them. A moment later, the shriek erupted. Occura wobbled, her skin burning as blood was pulled through the raw tissue. The birds seemed affected as well, their movements hitching.
This was it—her only chance.
She screamed, allowing the sound of her own horror to clash with the fish’s shriek, and flung her right hand, slick with blood, away from her ear and toward the nearest creatures. Her blood hurtled away, lengthening into liquid knives that pierced two of the creatures. Their own screams joined the cacophony as they spiraled down toward the Sea of Blood. The fish’s shriek abruptly ended as it leaped from the water, the blob of its outline latching onto one of the creatures. The bird soared to the island with the fish latched onto it.
Occura burst into motion, sprinting along the Razor’s Edge the last dozen paces. Angered screams rained down on her as the creatures dove at her. Discomfort dug into her feet with every step as she arrived just in front of the island, the lush field within jumping distance. Her right foot came down and the Razor’s Edge bit through the last of the boot’s sole. It cut into the flesh of her foot, her weight forcing it clean to the bone.
She screamed as her right leg buckled. Her left foot caught her weight and she covered the final stretch with a desperate leap. She landed on the grass and rolled several times, leaving a bloody trail. The snake hissed and tightened around her body at the impact, restricting her air once more. Without aiming, she slashed both arms through the air, shooting bloody projectiles back at the encroaching creatures. Several screams came in response and she continued blindly flinging the blood that flowed from her lacerated hands.
Everything was still blurry, a horror of outlines set against the Sea of Blood. Several of the bird-like creatures fell away, but a few arced past their fallen, and streaked toward her. Her body burned from the lack of air and her blood-slicked fingers pried at the snake’s constricting body. She wrenched the upper half of the snake off. The creatures shrieked and veered away. She wheezed and pulled the entire snake from her neck, holding it like a ward. The creatures shied back and landed almost fifty paces inland from her. They didn’t approach.
Alive. Occura sobbed, the pain from her injuries and fear from her journey, soaking back into her mind. She was in agony… but she was alive.
Transferring the snake to one arm, she pried off the left boot. Her fingers grazed the hardened sole. There was a large groove cut into it, almost completely through. Her right foot throbbed and she took in a shuddering breath. The right boot’s sole was cut completely through. The bottom was wet with blood from her foot. She gritted her teeth and tried to ease the boot off. Pain burned through the gash and she gasped. She caught her breath, hands shaking.
The world was a blur all around except for the Razor’s Edge. The strange creatures were clustered inland, but slowly moving toward her. She had to see. She had to get the boot off.
Her fingers tightened around the heel of the boot and, with a grunt, she ripped her foot free. Hot pain stabbed into her foot and she cried out. Her vision blacked out, the world swirling around her, but she desperately clung to consciousness.
Couldn’t fall now. The bird things were too close.
She panted and forced the bile in her throat back down. Slowly, her vision faded in—the green grass, her bloody foot, the boots. The deep cut in both boots extended almost halfway through.
No. That couldn’t be right.
She raised the right boot up. It should have been cut all the way through.
Your suffering was not in vain, young flesh.
Her blood—it had repaired part of the boot’s enchantment. No, fed the boot itself.
Movement caught her eye and she jerked her head up. The birds!
Her eyes focused on the creatures and the color drained from her face.
Oh, no. By the Mother Heart…
The group of angels—their forms now clear to her—froze, only thirty paces away, as she looked up. They were near the angel she must have hit with her blood. It laid on the ground, weakly writhing. It bled from several cuts on its chest, but it was hemorrhaging from a huge wound on its thigh. A chunk had been taken out its leg. Only a few feet away, the fish that had latched on flopped on the ground. It was covered in the angel’s blood. After a few more twitches, the fish weakened, then fell motionless, the silent gasping of its mouth giving glimpses of the angel’s flesh stuck between jagged teeth. The angel dragged itself toward the fish, but its arms gave out and it collapsed. Blood continued to spurt from the gaping wound on its thigh.
Guilt rose up in Occura. What had she done? She’d sinned against the guardians of the Blood, against the shepherds of the Mother Blood.
She raised her palms and the group of angels cringed back. The snake was still coiled around her arm. “I-I didn’t mean to… Please, I—”
You did what you had to in order to live. Walk, then crawl, then slither on your belly. We all must continue to survive, regardless of the agony, of the misery. That is what Blood is, is it not? Pain, life itself, flowing free of the cruel embrace of the Mother Heart.
Occura lowered her arm, slowly focusing on the snake. Cruel embrace? “You… want me to bleed? To suffer?” Xelta’s warning flashed through her mind. But the snake had saved her life.
The snake’s tongue flicked out. Ah… you still don’t understand, young flesh. You revere the Mother Heart, but would there be life at all had the First Wound never been inflicted on Her? No. She hoarded Blood—life itself—within her confines. It was I who released the Blood. Just as I set you free.
Occura’s chest tightened, almost as though the snake had constricted around her body again. But this time, it had not moved, merely resting on her arm, surveying her with cool, emotionless eyes. Xelta had told her. The snake, the entity, would bring ruin to her life. But what choice had she—
The angels reached their fallen brethren and knelt down by its side. Their wings stretched upward in a strange way—more like the motion of a claw, than a wing. With a sudden snarl, the tips of their wings darted down and ripped into the fallen angel. It let out a scream as its brethren tore into its flesh. The claw of the wings took the bloody chunks of flesh and bent backwards, shoving them into an orifice. The angels writhed, shoulders oscillating side to side in chaotic feeding frenzy, as they devoured the fallen one.
Occura’s gorge rose at the massacre, her heart hammering at the dying shrieks of the angel. What was happening? These were not the benevolent angels she’d heard of… these were monsters.
We are all sinners. Choosing to survive means rebuking the Mother Heart’s steady beat, does it not? She wishes our blood returned to Blood. Does her pulse not make the sea lap at the shore, ever devouring the land? Who are we to defy her call? And yet… we do.
“You.” She grabbed the snake by its neck, the blood from her palm trickling down its scales. “You led me here. T-to suffer.” Her hand tightened, reopening the gash on her palm.
To live.
The angels finished their gorging, the pack covered in blood and marrow. Several reeled to their feet, their shoulders still shuddering side to side, as they faced Occura. She thrust her arm with the snake forward and the angels flinched back. They roared, the clawed tips of their wings clenching and unclenching the air, then the largest angel took a step toward her. The others fell in line as they prowled closer, warily eyeing the snake.
Occura tried to stand, but pain shot through her right foot and she crashed back down to her knee. Her hands still wept blood from the laceration that stretched across both palms. Her chest and neck were slick with blood from the fish’s shriek. She swiped the backs of her hands over her neck and forehead, trembling as she armed herself with her own blood.
All her life she’d honored the Mother Heart. Revered the angels—or at least, the idea of them. But she wasn’t ready to die. “Help me.”
The angels picked up speed, striding more confidently. They were only twenty paces away.
The snake constricted around her arm for a moment, then turned and slithered up her body. It curled around her throat—but did not obstruct the airway—until its head hovered near her left ear. The boots. I will guide you.
She glanced down at the discarded boots. “Th-they’re almost worn through. I’ll barely be able to go anywhere.”
Walk…
“I can’t balance with my feet bleeding. Please…”
…then crawl, then slither on your belly.
“I can’t.”
Then be ripped apart. Return to the Mother.
The angels neared to ten paces away. Occura swallowed a sob and shoved her feet back into the boots. The snake wrenched her head so she stared out over the Sea of Blood once more, but not back toward the mountain. Her vision tunneled and she spied a forest back on the mainland. The edges of her vision blurred away as the pathway compelled her forward. She shuddered and stepped back onto the Razor’s Edge. Her right foot screamed in protest as she forced it to accept her weight. Blood wept from the cut, soaking into the boot which seemed to lap it up. Bolstered by her blood, the Razor’s Edge cut no further into the sole.
She glanced back. The angels—contorted into blurred horrors once more—screeched as she stepped into the air. The ones in front crouched, their wings spanning out. Occura jerked her head back to stare at the Razor’s Edge.
Stay alive. One step at a time.
Couldn’t die, not yet. Not ready.
She choked down the rising panic and stumbled forward.
Run, young flesh. Bleed your death away. The snake’s tail forced her chin up, bringing the forest back into sight. Walk the Razor’s Edge—and fight the ebb of Blood.
