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.
