10. Laia

10

LAIA

I rix drags the last dark elf to me, his black eyes wide with fear as he struggles against Irix’s iron grip. “Do it,” Irix growls, shoving the elf to his knees before me. “Prove your loyalty.”

My hands shake, the dagger heavy in my grip. I stare down at the elf, my vision blurring as memories flood in—Eryndor’s face, the screams of my friends, the taste of blood in my mouth as I watched them die.

The dark elf looks up at me, his lips moving in silent prayer, his eyes pleading. For a moment, I hesitate. I’m not a killer. I’ve never been this person.

“Do it!” Irix’s voice snaps me back to the present. The dagger feels like a lead weight in my hand, and my heart pounds so hard it feels like it might burst from my chest.

The elf’s eyes lock onto mine, and I see something familiar—fear, desperation. My grip tightens on the hilt, knuckles white against the rough leather. The memories press in closer: Eryndor’s laughter echoing in my ears, the sight of blood pooling around lifeless bodies.

Bile rose in my throat.

“I can’t...” The words slip out before I can stop them.

Irix’s snarl is immediate. “You have no choice.” His hand clamps down on my shoulder, fingers digging into my flesh. “Prove your worth or die trying.”

Tears blur my vision as I lift the dagger higher. The dark elf’s silent prayers become audible whispers, words I don’t understand but feel deep in my bones.

I take a shaky breath and step closer, the cold metal of the blade reflecting the moonlight. The forest around us seems to hold its breath, waiting for what comes next.

My heart screams at me to stop, to run away, but there’s nowhere left to go. This is my life now—a life where survival means becoming someone else entirely.

Irix’s grip tightens again. “Now.”

I raise the dagger above my head, every muscle in my body screaming in protest. The dark elf’s face morphs into something else. His face distorts into loathing, looking at me as if I’m less than dust.

Then…

I remember. Eryndor’s cruelty. The way he slaughtered my friends without mercy. The way he broke me, piece by piece. And something inside me snaps.

My body moves on instinct, the blade driving deep into the elf’s chest. His breath hitches, and for a second, time seems to freeze. Then, with a final gasp, the life fades from his eyes, and he slumps forward, dead.

I stare at the body, my hands covered in blood. I feel sick and hollow, but there’s something else too—anger. Rage. Power.

The blood on my hands feels both foreign and familiar, as if it has always been there, waiting for this moment. My chest heaves with labored breaths as I look up at Irix.

His grin is feral, satisfied. "There it is," he says, voice low and approving.

I swallow hard, fighting the bile rising in my throat. "Is this what you wanted?" My voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

Iron nods slowly. "More than that," he says, stepping closer. "I wanted to see what you’re made of."

I drop the dagger; its weight suddenly becomes unbearable. The sound of it hitting the ground is swallowed by the forest's silence.

"Now you know," I murmur.

He reaches out, lifting my chin with a rough finger. "Oh, I know." His eyes bore into mine, searching for something deeper.

The power I felt moments ago still simmers beneath my skin, but it's tainted by the horror of what I've done. The anger is there too—a raw wound that refuses to heal.

"You’re stronger than you think," Irix says softly, almost as if he’s talking to himself.

I shake my head. "I'm not strong. I'm just... desperate."

"Desperation can be a kind of strength," he counters.

I look down at the dark elf's lifeless body once more. The blood on my hands has dried to a dark crimson stain—an indelible mark of what I've become.

"Maybe," I say quietly.

But inside, a part of me wonders if I've just taken the first step down a path from which there's no return.

Irix watches me, his expression unreadable. “You did it,” he says softly, almost approving. “You’re one of us now.”

My heart pounds in my ears as I wipe the blood from my hands, my mind racing. I’ve killed, and though guilt gnaws at me, I know I’ll do it again. Because in this world, it’s kill or be killed.

The darl elf’s lifeless body lies at my feet, a stark reminder of what I’ve become. The forest seems to close in around us, the trees whispering secrets of survival and death. Irix’s gaze never wavers, his eyes searching mine for something—approval? Respect? Fear?

I’m not sure what he sees, but his nod is almost imperceptible. “Good,” he murmurs. “You’re learning.”

The blood on my hands feels like a brand, a mark that will never wash away. But as much as it sickens me, there’s a strange sense of relief too. The power I felt when I drove the dagger home—it was real. Tangible.

“I had no choice,” I say, more to myself than to him.

“There’s always a choice,” Irix replies, his voice low and steady. “But you made the right one.”

I glance down at the dark elf again, my stomach churning. This isn’t who I wanted to be. But maybe it’s who I need to be to survive here.

“Come on,” Irix says, breaking the silence. “We need to get back before Thalos wonders what’s taking so long.”

He turns and starts walking back toward our lair, leaving me standing there with my thoughts and the corpse at my feet. For a moment, I consider staying—letting the forest swallow me up. But then I remember Eryndor’s face, the way he tore me to pieces.

I take a deep breath and follow Irix, each step feeling heavier than the last. But at least now I know—I can fight back.

As we walk through the dense underbrush, the impact what I've done settles in my bones. This is my life now—a life where survival means becoming someone else entirely.

And though guilt gnaws at me, a small part of me knows—I’ll do it again if I have to.

Because in this world, it’s kill or be killed.

And I've chosen to live.