Cursed Hearts | ATEEZ

038

I hauled one of my throwing knives at my usual target within the old, abandoned library I had begun to favor more than my training room; the wooden beam supporting the weight of the roof overhead now chipped and worn and looking dangerously unsteady though that didn't keep me from attacking it.

Training was a bad idea, I knew that much, and yet, I had been unable to stop myself from coming here, my feet moving as if on their own accord as they led me through the mostly-empty castle, grand halls, and intricately decorated mazes of rooms and corridors leading to the library. I smirked as the satisfying sound of a thud as the metal blade pierced the sturdy piece of timber echoed off the walls and endless rows of bookshelves surrounding me.

A flicker of pain shuddered through my entire body every time I grabbed a new knife and pulled my arm back to aim, stretching and provoking the wound on my stomach which had still not healed, but simply clenching my teeth even tighter together as I reminded myself that I deserved every ache, burn, and strain.

As another thud cut through the silence, a quick memory, an image, flashed before my eyes as I absentmindedly went to retrieve the knives before turning to the beam once again.

I took aim, pulled back my arm and then hauled one of the weapons towards the beam, letting go of the knife as I sent it flying through the air, piercing the silence at the same time I breathed the name "Wonwoo," and watched it hit home right at the center of the now barely-visible crown I had once sketched onto the old wood with a piece of chalk I had found in a corner of the immense library.

I fell still for a moment, imagining the man's face before me; his kind, brown eyes, a smile that held secrets I would never get to know, stories I would never get to hear. He had been the first one to fall.

I grabbed another knife and hurled it towards the beam, the blade embedding itself just above the previous one; both of them platinum, gifts from the Kings of the North and Winter, Hongjoong and Seonghwa. "Baekhyun," I said, remembering, with a feeling of dread settling at the bottom of my stomach, how he had died in that synagogue, how the others had killed him.

"Jisoo," I whispered, my voice cracking a little as yet another knife was flung through the air, singing a song of sorrow and loss before the familiar thud og wood and metal once again echoed through the heavy silence of the room. "Irene," I said, flinging another knife at the beam; gold, a gift from either the King of the South or Summer. "Chungha," I breathed as I let go of another knife, letting it cut through the silence as well.

I took a shaky breath as I clutched my fists as my sides, trying to keep them from shaking and swallowing heavily as I tried to calm my irregular breathing and galopping heart. "Changkyun," I choked, reaching for another knife and hesitating for a moment before sending it towards the beam as well, hitting home right amonst the others.

That familiar flicker of flames and fury within me, barely contained by my exhausted and weak body licked up my heart as I felt it ache at the thought of the next names, my very soul feeling restless, wronged, and yet guilty, as memories of what they had done, wanted to do to me, resurfaced.

"Jackson," I growled, clutching one of the copper knives so hard my hand ached from the pressure against my palm, barely hesitating before hauling the knife at the beat-up beam as the familiar thud once again echoed off the walls, remembering how his eyes had been devoid of sympathy, of reasoning, of understanding, as he aimed his crossbow at me like I was nothing more than prey, an obstacle in his way.