WitchBite

Push Onwards

 Simon and I hurried down the hallway. It soon became a maze of thin corridors of doppelgänger walls that blended together with no discernable variation save for sharp lefts and even sharper rights. I followed Simons lead, who strode forward with purpose, ears twitching intermittently as they picked up on what I assume some form of noise that my own senses were too feeble to hear.

My legs burned as tiredness bore down over my shoulders. Something I attributed to equal parts lack of sleep, and the constant searing of adrenaline that had, had time to teeter down in to near nothingness.

We took another left, and then a right. Eventually clambering up stairs of cold, hard, stone. Any other time I would question such a building like this. It's lack of sense, and up until this point I had yet to discern any reasonable purpose for it. I had assumed it to be an office building of some kind, but its maddeningly monotonous halls and lack of doors would suggest otherwise, could it be that Victoria had expected us all this time? Did she really deem us such a threat that she would devise and prepare with such an astute paranoia, as to fashion this building for the sole purpose of her protection?

Admittedly, the thought hurt. Like the aftermath of a splinter, a dull, burning, sting, at my core, that she would think her pursuers so vicious. That she would think me as so vicious. She was right of course. We did find her, and we are attacking her with at least one of our party particularly pulsing with bloodlust. But to me, this was an admission. An acknowledgement of what she had done, guilt without knowing what to do or how to fix it and is just lashing out in the worst way possible?

Soon enough, I begun to hear the noises that we were apparently following. It was an amalgamation of deep snarls and crashes, like a wild beast set loose in a furniture store. When eventually we came to a stop, as did the noise.

Simon had paused our travel, holding an arm up defensively as his other held onto the blade, and his eyes scanned the environment before us. The hall inexplicably, came to a stop not fifty feet ahead, where it seemed to widen somewhat and ascend into a set of concrete stairs. Peeking over Simons shoulder, I could see a figure standing there.

It took a moment for me to recognise who stood before us. The crimson stained skirt, like blood upon the snow. What remained of acid burned, platinum hair, hung limply over her shoulders, the weapon at her side, slick with blood. Bethany. Something was wrong again. The Cunning pricked at my spine, and sparked up my arms. I barely had enough time to register that Bethany wasn't wearing the protective charm I'd made her, when agony shot upwards from my core.

She was before me, a conflicted light in her eyes that followed my own to look at the sword penetrating its length into the soft flesh of my mid-drift. Blood began to slowly pool around the area, as a heavy winded feeling choked the air from the throat and a heaviness over took me. I could feel Bethany being yanked away, taking the blade with her, as I felt myself begin to fall.

I tasted metal in my throat, and on my tongue. A shaky hand gripped the wound with failing strength in an attempt to apply pressure. The floor was hard on my knees as they hit the ground first, but a certain numbness allowed me to ignore the ache it caused as I tried to gather myself. Tried to focus.

Bethany was still clawing to get to me. Lashing out at Simon with uncharacteristically sluggish movements. There was no poise, no finesse, to the from that would challenge a cat to its grace. It was then I spotted Lyra, or at least what I hoped was Lyra. A hulking mass of chestnut fur, and muscle, focused into a lupine form came lumbering around the corner, and barrelled into Bethany. Ripping her from Simons grip as it slammed her like a rag-doll against the close surfaces of the hall. It was this that I knew I had to move. They were going to kill each other, or at least her.