𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗦𝗘 𝗦𝗛𝗔𝗧𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗘𝗗 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗧𝗦 || 𝖭𝗂𝗄𝗈𝗅𝖺𝗂 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌𝗈𝗏

𝘹𝘷𝘪 - 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦

A WET RIPPING sound tore through the air. Hot droplets of blood fell on Freya's body by the thousands, coating her in red and gore. The drüskelle died in an instant, body dropping to the ground in a nauseating mangle. Freya couldn't tear her eyes away from the corpse, her hands shaking. So this was what she could do. She'd known she was powerful, that she could be dangerous. She just never expected it to be this loud. This vivid.

A long silence spanned through the storage house as everyone paused for a long while. The other two drüskelle glared at her with fear and disgust. She suspected that if she turned around, the prisoners would be terrified. She didn't think she could blame them.

"Demon!" the tall drüskelle seethed, preparing to strike. But by then Freya was already moving, feeling her power surge through her veins, her bones, her flesh for the first time in months. And it felt freeing like her wings had come unbound for the first time in her life. She didn't think as she repeated the same attack on the tall drüskelle, relishing in the way his chest collapsed in on itself and ruptured. She laughed like she was mad as his body hit the ground. Her promise came true sooner than she'd expected. She had half the mind to spit on his body, but there was still the third drüskelle she had to deal with.

The last drüskelle wasn't charging at her. He kept his distance, his arm stretched between them. A slight glint of steel and Freya found herself glaring down the barrel of a pistol. She froze, keeping her hands raised. She could also burst this man's heart, but when she tried to focus on the sound of his heart, she felt nothing at all.

The drüskelle's mouth tilted up on one side. "Corecloth," he said when he saw her surprise. "Did you think you were the only ones with Fabrikators?" The implications of his words were lost in the sudden flurry of movement. A loud bang sounded as the bullet flew from the barrel and shredded through the air. Freya threw her body to the side, but the bullet still grazed her arm. It burned sharply and her eyes instinctively filled with tears.

Footsteps neared her, and then there was a wet crunch. Freya waited for the pain of a blade cutting her open. Held her breath as she waited for the drüskelle to gut her and leave her bleeding on the floor. Instead, nothing was at all, and something heavy hit the ground.

Freya breathed in slowly, turning to look at where the drüskelle had been moments ago. He was splayed out on the floor in a big burly heap. Blood bubbled at his mouth, and he choked on it wetly.

"Djel," Freya cursed. Above the drüskelle stood Henrik, one hand wrapped tightly around the axe's handle raised in the air, blood dripping from the sharp. Before Freya could say anything else or even move, he struck the drüskelle again and again. A sharp, rage-willed cry left his lips.

Freya flinched with each squelch and thud. She realized she hadn't even noticed that Henrik had moved. He lifted the axe like it weighed a thousand stones, but when he brought it down, it was with a surety she hadn't ever seen before. During those two months in the ship's hold, he'd always been so frighteningly calm, so quick to resort to humour. All traces of that were gone now, and all that was left was a bone-chilling sort of calm stretched across his face as each strike of the axe splattered more droplets of blood over his grimy face and hair. It was nothing compared to the painting of red that Freya was, but he would soon be covered in it completely.