Sanctuary [h.s.]

Chapter Thirty-One

"I've been breathing air, but there's no sign of life

Doctor, the problem's in my chest

My heart feels cold as ice, but it's anybody's guess"

***

My eyes fluttered open to the sound of Harry's raised voice, harsh and commanding, cutting through the stillness of the night. For a disoriented moment, I thought it was a dream, the echo of his anger too foreign to belong in the space we shared.

"Get the hell away from me," Harry roared, his voice sharp and laced with venom. I bolted upright, my heart pounding as I took in the scene before me.

Harry was out of bed, standing rigid and tense near the footboard. His posture was defensive, his frame coiled tight like a predator ready to strike. The dim light from the bedside lamp casted shadows on his face, accentuating the cold glint in his crimson eyes. Two figures stood opposite him, strangers who had no business in our room.

The woman spoke first, her voice soft and calm. "Peace, brother. We're here to take you home," She stepped forward slightly, her long black braid swaying against her back. Her skin was light brown, her expression a mask of placidity that felt as dangerous as a drawn dagger.

"The master needs all seven of us for the ceremony," the man added, his tone smooth but reverent, as though he were reciting scripture. His softer brown hair framed a pale face, just a touch warmer in hue than Harry's, though his eyes glinted with the same unnatural intensity. "Come with us, Harry. Be reborn. The Rite will make us whole again."

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. These were Harry's other siblings. I shoved the blanket aside, the cold of the floor biting my feet as I hurried to stand beside Harry. My hand brushed his arm, a silent show of solidarity, though my pulse was wild beneath my skin. "How did you find us?" I demanded, my voice steadier than I felt. As I spoke, a familiar figure emerged from the hallway behind the strangers—Ryder, tall and menacing, his sharp eyes locked on the scene unfolding before him.

The woman's gaze flickered to Ryder, acknowledging him with a brief glance before settling back on Harry. Her composure remained unnervingly intact, though her words carried a subtle undertone of triumph. "Master Silas has always known where you were," she said plainly. "He knew you would return. The Rite is upon us, Harry. He needs you to attend."

Harry let out a cold laugh, a sound devoid of humor but brimming with defiance. "Oh, I'm well aware of what the master needs. But don't we deserve better?" His voice shifted, taking on a persuasive, almost hypnotic cadence. He took a small step forward, his movements calculated, his presence commanding.

"Better?" the man echoed, confusion flickering across his features. "What could be better than what he offers?"

Harry's crimson gaze burned with intensity as he leaned into his words, each syllable sharp and deliberate. "After all these centuries of torment, I know what you want. More than power. More than sunlight. You want him dead. Don't deny it. Silas has stolen our lives, broken us, and bound us to his will. The Rite will be mine—not his. He won't taste a drop of its glory."

The strangers exchanged a wary glance, their masks of calm beginning to crack under the weight of Harry's words. Sensing their hesitation, Harry pressed on, his voice low and full of conviction. "Join me. Name me your master. We can end him—together. This is your chance for freedom, for revenge. Pledge yourselves to me, and I swear, you will live again. Not as pawns, but as equals."

Harry's liar's smile stretched across his face, a mask of charm that could disarm or destroy, depending on how he wielded it. The faint curve of his lips screamed danger to anyone who truly knew him. He understood perfectly well that his kin—the so-called "bearers of the scar"—would not survive the Rite. Yet, he needed their willing participation. If any of them perished before the ceremony commenced, his opportunity to claim the Rite for himself would be lost. Harry wasn't leading them to salvation; he was sending them, blind and hopeful, into the jaws of their destruction. They would run willingly, chasing revenge against Silas, believing they stood a chance.