STRANGULATE | Markicest

57 | MAYHEM

The manor dissolved into chaos.

    The sirens were louder now, blaring through the winding hallways. Voxe ran alongside each team, shifting the halls to their simplest routes. The mansion clicked and shifted like gears, rumbling into place. The ground shook.

    Dark and his team—Equinox, Lux, and Ether—tagged in front, rushing towards the doors.

    "Recruit anyone you can," Dark said when Xilef caught up with him. "I trust you to lead the others."

    Xilef nodded, and he gazed back at the newer Evolveds. He waved them over, and they broke into jogs.

    "Checkpoint?" he said. Wisps of color flared from his body as if he were steaming.

    "We'll meet at the end of the village," said Dark. "We'll wait for you."

    They stopped in the main lobby. Clothes rustled, feet stamped, and murmurs filled the air—it was tense.

    Dark faced Xilef, grabbed the back of his neck, then pressed their foreheads together. They gazed into each other's eyes with an intensity that curdled the air. Everything about them bled with determination. Everyone watched.

    "Remember what he did to you," breathed Dark, eyes flashing. "To your people." Xilef's expression hardened. "Remember what he did to us."

    Xilef nodded, squeezed Dark's shoulder, and pulled away.

    "Team!" he yelled. "Let's go."

    Xilef glanced at Dark, nodded at him, and he, Emery, and the eight Evolveds rushed out of the mansion.

    Ethan trembled among the others, face pale.

    "T.S—" he said. "What about Mark?"

    Dark flicked his team over, staring hard at Ethan. "He's my first priority," he said firmly. "I promise you, Nestor. I'll bring your friend home safe."

    Ethan swallowed, and Voxe placed a hand on his shoulder to calm him. Eyes nodded at Dark.

    "I'll update you on everything," she said. "Go."

    Dark nodded, and he gazed at Equinox, Lux, Ether. They stared at him, intense, and with a nod, they rushed out and through the Fanged Elder forest.

———

"I-I don't understand," Cibil said.

    Prada slumped against the wall, his horns tipped back. There was a stamp across his throat—as if it were branded into his skin. Everytime he made a sound, the marking would glow bright blue, and his jaw would lock. A mute spell.

He sank to the floor and seethed, fury in his eyes.

    "A..." The stamp glowed, and he grimaced. "pill."

    Cibil swallowed, and she knelt beside him, breaths shallow.

    "Try again," she said, brows furrowed beneath her blindfold. "Please, try again."

    Prada met her eyes, and even when he cleared his throat, the marking glowed, doing its best to keep him silent.

    He huffed through his nose—struggled to sit up straight—then rested his arm on the floor.

    Cibil handed him the dagger.

    Prada held it with shaky fingers. He ran the blade over his arm—just a small incision—but enough for blood to well to the surface. The markings on his face sputtered, as if the glow died in them, and he rose a hand over the blood welling to his skin.