I walked toward the scum.
Five skulls.
Six blood eagles.
That was what remained.
And I would get them.
There were still more than twenty people aboard—twenty walking corpses who hadn't yet realized they were already dead. Their eyes followed me as I moved through the deck, every step echoing louder than the one before.
They didn't speak.
Didn't flinch.
Some didn't even breathe—as if holding their breath might somehow make them invisible. As if the stillness could save them from the ritual. As if I hadn't already seen them long before this moment.
Fools.
This wasn't about who I noticed.
It was about who was needed.
I scanned them slowly. Deliberately. One face at a time.
The ritual demanded sacrifice. Not in rage. Not in haste. But in _intention_. This wasn't blind slaughter. This was structure. A system. A form of justice twisted into art. Every skull, every blood eagle—it had to mean something.
So I had to choose.
Who would be most suitable?
The strong ones—those with calloused hands and sharpened blades, the ones who barked orders, who led the others into the dark?
Or the weak—the ones who followed in silence, who stood behind the violence, heads down, pretending not to see?
The young?
The old?
The ones with age-worn eyes that had seen too much and done too little?
Or maybe… the ones who played an active hand in your death?
I asked the questions, not expecting answers.
Not from the crowd.
Not even from myself.
But maybe… maybe from you.
From the girls who lay beneath the sun, finally at rest.
I asked as if hoping your silence would speak.
Was it the strong?
The ones who carved the path to your end?
The ones who held you down?
The ones who gave the orders to drag you into the cabin?
They were the most obvious.
They deserved the blood eagle.
They needed to feel their ribs break apart like wings.
They needed to be put on display like their sins.
Six blood eagles.
Six of the strong.
And the skulls?
The weak.
The ones who didn't lift a hand but opened the door.
The ones who looked away.
The ones who let it happen.
Five skulls of the weak.
Five quiet little cowards to carry a beating heart.
Not to honor them—but to remind them that guilt lives longer than action.
That blood sticks to silence just as much as to the blade.
I could see it now. The design.
Seven wings stretched toward the heavens in mockery.
Seven skulls pulsing with life they didn't deserve.
And one head of the demon itself.
I walked through the crowd, and their gazes dropped.
But I wasn't rushing.
This wasn't about fear anymore.
It was about balance.
It was about weight.
And I would weigh each soul before I ripped it from their body.
"You look quite strong."
My voice was calm—too calm. The kind of calm that doesn't ask questions, just delivers truths.
"Your hands must be soaked in blood.
Tainted with filth.
Slick with everything unholy."
I stepped forward.
"You shall be the second blood eagle."
He didn't respond. Didn't move. Not yet. But I saw it—the twitch in his jaw, the tightening in his throat. The realization settling into his bones like cold iron. This wasn't a threat.
This was a verdict.
I stopped in front of him. Just a breath's length away. Face to face.
He was only a few inches shorter than me, but in this moment, he felt so much smaller. He had to tilt his head to meet my gaze—and even then, he couldn't hold it. His eyes kept flicking down, as if looking away might lessen the weight of what he saw in mine.
He took a step back. Then another.
Until his spine touched the railing of the ship.
There it was. The boundary.
No more space to run.
No more room to pretend.
Was it the red flashing in my eyes?
The silence I wore like a shroud?
Or was it just instinct—that primal whisper in his blood telling him he'd been chosen for something dreadful?
Something final?
He didn't beg. Not yet. Maybe he thought pride would save him. Or maybe he was just too frozen to speak. But his body told the truth. The sweat. The subtle shake in his shoulders. The wide eyes trying not to widen further.
I turned slightly. Looked at the man beside him.
He jumped at the attention, face pale, jaw clenched.
My eyes dropped to the sword at his side, then back to him.
I didn't say a word.
But he understood.
He unsheathed it quickly—clumsy with nerves—and held it out to me like an offering to a god he'd just discovered. The blade trembled in his grip.
Smart.
He gave it fast. Fast enough to avoid becoming a skull instead of a witness.
I took the sword without thanks. Without ceremony.
Then I turned back toward the man pressed against the railing.
The second blood eagle.
He was still there.
Still breathing.
Still hoping.
He hadn't jumped.
Didn't try to climb over the side and disappear into the depths.
Huh.
I guess the waters were more terrifying to him than I was.
Maybe there were things down there darker than me.
Maybe he couldn't swim.
Or maybe—just maybe—he thought he had a chance.
But he didn't.
Not from the moment I saw him.
Not from the moment I decided.
And he knew that now.
No words.
No screaming.
Just silence and salt wind as I stepped closer, sword in hand.
One of six.
Second of seven.
The ritual would continue.
I held the sword by its blade.
Not the hilt—the blade.
The sharp edge bit into my skin immediately.
It sliced shallow lines across my palm, and then deeper ones as I tightened my grip.
Warm blood spilled, slow at first, then faster.
It dripped from my fingers, traced the curve of the blade, and sank into the wood at my feet.
I didn't care.
Pain didn't matter here.
Not now.
Not when the ritual had already begun.
I didn't want to swing the sword like some mindless butcher.
I didn't want the edge to sever too early, to ruin the structure, to desecrate what needed to be whole.
The blood eagle had to be complete.
Precise.
Intentional.
Because it wasn't just punishment.
It was remembrance.
So I gripped the blade tight, ignoring the sting, and began striking him with the hilt.
Each blow came heavy.
Blunt.
Measured.
I didn't scream. I didn't roar.
I just moved—one step, one hit, one breath at a time.
The hilt slammed into his gut, his chest, his jaw.
He grunted, gasped, stumbled—but I kept going.
Every movement of the sword carved another line across my palm.
My own blood mixed with his pain.
Let it.
Let it blend.
He struggled, of course.
Flailing arms, frantic steps backward, a desperate swing or two at the air between us.
Like that would stop what was already set in stone.
But I wanted him to fight.
I needed him to struggle.
To resist.
To believe, even for a second, that he might escape. That there was still hope.
Because when I took it from him—when I snatched it from his chest and left him hollow—I wanted it to matter.
I wanted despair to stain his soul before death ever touched his body.
So I kept hitting.
Until he could barely hold himself upright.
Until the light in his eyes flickered, not from pain—but from realization.
Then I moved.
Quick. Sharp. Precise.
I grabbed him, turned him, and forced him to the deck.
Face down.
Chest heaving.
Breath shallow.
My own blood now slick on the sword, I raised it.
The blade hovered for a second—just long enough for him to feel the weight of what came next.
And then I brought it down.
The steel kissed his back—not to kill, but to open.
Skin parted.
Muscle tore.
His spine greeted me like a secret long buried.
I kept cutting.
Slow, steady strokes.
Through flesh.
Through resistance.
Through the soft meat that guarded his ribs.
He screamed now.
Of course he did.
But the sea didn't care.
And neither did I.
Because this was the moment.
When death wasn't vengeance.
It was tribute.
I reached his ribs.
Pressed harder.
The sword groaned against bone.
But I didn't stop.
I opened him.
Like a cage.
Like a twisted set of wings waiting to be unfurled.
The blood spilled in waves, some of it mine, most of it his.
And still, I carved.
Until he was ready.
Until the blood eagle could finally spread its wings.