The Blood of Fate ✧ min yoongi ✓

𝐒 𝐄 𝐕 𝐄 𝐍 𝐓 𝐄 𝐄 𝐍

CHAPTER 17 | MAKE THEM BLEED, MAKE THEM SUFFER
"Nothing gives great warmth to see your enemies beg."
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YOU

I had never been fortunate when it came to love, and I had no idea how to love myself. My heart had become a storm of confusion, and my soul was a vast, impenetrable darkness. Everything felt distant, disconnected, as if I was watching life unfold from behind a curtain I could never fully part. I could never see past the red line that marked the boundary between love and hate—both emotions too close, too intertwined. The only image that remained clearly etched in my mind was that of a rose, its delicate petals soaked in blood, my enemies' blood... and my own. A symbol of destruction, of loss. It was a haunting reminder that love had no place in my world, not when I couldn't even find peace with myself.

It was painfully obvious to anyone who observed me—someone who knew only hatred and had no understanding of love.

And then, there was the boy.

He was a strange presence in my world of pain and discipline. While I crushed my own body into the ground, endlessly training in an attempt to outpace my own demons, he would appear—silent, seemingly detached from the intensity that swirled around me. He wore an expression of deep sadness, but never fear. His eyes, though tired, held a softness, as if he understood something I couldn't. Every now and then, when I was utterly spent and near collapse, he would leave small offerings for me: a piece of bread, a flask of water, pomegranates, their seeds glistening like little drops of hope. It wasn't much, nothing compared to what I needed, but when hunger gnawed at me like a wild animal, his kindness was a lifeline—though I would never admit that. Not even to myself.

Each day, I would train until my body screamed for mercy. Sweat poured from every pore, my skin slick with the effort, my chest heaving as I fought the exhaustion that threatened to consume me. The cold air of the morning bit at me, but the fire inside kept me going, until my body felt like a weapon, moving of its own accord. I no longer thought of the steps or the motions—it was all muscle memory now, automatic, instinctual. My legs would carry me, each movement a part of the routine, while my hands would twitch, aching to hold something, anything—a sword, a dagger, a bow. It felt as if Axel had somehow transferred his will to me, driving my body as if he were a puppet master pulling the strings.

The snap of a twig cut through the air, sharp and unexpected. Instantly, I went into motion. My bow was in my hands, my fingers drawing back an arrow before my brain even had time to process the situation. The arrow sang through the air, guided by the sharp edge of instinct, and I saw it fly past the hay bales with deadly precision.

A faint yelp of surprise came from behind the stack, and without hesitation, I reached for another arrow, drawing it back just as swiftly, the string creaking under the tension.

"Come out," I commanded, my voice cold, clipped, and unwavering as I aimed at the rustling hay. I could see the outline of the figure trying to stay hidden, but it wasn't enough. "I can see you from behind there."

My grip tightened around the bow as I prepared to release once more, my eyes narrowing with the precision of a hunter. The familiar rush flooded my senses—the intoxicating hunger to end this, to fight, to prove that I was untouchable, that no one could sneak up on me, not when my focus was so sharp, my instincts so honed. The world around me became a blur, my target the only thing that mattered, my breath steady as I waited, poised to strike.

He hesitated, the silence stretching between us like a thick, taut rope. Slowly, with careful movements, he peered around the corner, his form rising to his feet. In his hands, he held a simple platter of sliced wheat bread and a cup of water. I watched him closely, my gaze flickering between the food and his face, trying to gauge the sincerity of his presence.