Page 43 of Decimation

I wanted to be the one to do it.

To watch the life drain from those blue eyes, to feel her blood on my hands as I split her flesh open, to whisper in her ear that it was me as she fought for her last breaths.

But now… now she’s gone, and I have been robbed.

Robbed of my moment, of my revenge, of the one thing that kept me sane all that time in the dark.

Someone else took what was mine. Someone else got to watch her die, and the thought makes me want to burn the entire fucking world down.

I turn my gaze to Konstantine and the rage falters, replaced by something colder, more terrifying. He’s sitting on the floor, his back against the bed, like he needs the very frame to keep him from collapsing into the abyss. He’s rocking back and forth, his movements jerky, mechanical, his breath coming in shallow, wet gasps as he clings to her lifeless body. His tattoos, the symbols of his power, his rank are smeared with her blood, like obscene hieroglyphs. His eyes are wide and unseeing, fixed on some point beyond this room, beyond sanity. His lips are moving silently, forming words I can’t hear no matter how desperately I try; prayers maybe, curses or just her name, over and over, like a broken record.

“Konstantine,” I growl, my voice a rasp.

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look at me. He just keeps rocking, his hands clutching her tighter, as if he can will her back to life. As if he has that power. As if love alone could stitch that chasm in her throat closed. The sight of him, my invincible brother, the man who once held empires in his fist reduced to this mewling, catatonic thing… it should satisfy me.

Instead, it unsettles something deep in my bones.

This is what she did to him. This is how she broke him. And even in death, she’s still destroying him.

I step closer, leaving bloody footprints on the floor as I go, each one a deliberate mark. “Konstantine,” I say again, louder this time, tightening the grip on my sword while the urge to bury it in his spine practically overwhelms me.

Still nothing. I crouch down in front of him, my knees sinking into the blood-soaked carpet with a wet, sucking sound. I reach out, grabbing his shoulder with my other hand, shaking him.

“Konstantine!” My voice cracks, betraying a desperation I didn’t know I had.

He has to be present, he has to be here when I do it, when I kill him. Otherwise, what is the fucking point?

He flinches, his eyes snapping to mine, but there’s no recognition there. No awareness. Just emptiness, a vast, echoing void where my brother used to be. He’s gone. Broken.

I stand, my jaw clenched, my fists tight at my sides, nails biting into my palms. I look around the room again, my eyes scanning the chaos, searching for meaning in the madness. That’s when I see it, the words scrawled on the wall above the headboard, written in that language I know so well, the language of our blood, of our enemies.

Mawtā l-mitdammā. Death to the pretender.

I tilt my head, staring at it. Oh, I know what it means, I know who wrote it. The Esau. It’s part of their bullshit prophecy, their holy war against our family. But why? Why her? She was meant to be one of them, or at least her family is. A daughter of their covenant. Would they really murder one of their own with such… fervour? Or was it Konstantine they came for, and she got in the way? I glance back at my brother, still rocking, still clutching her, and a colder logic cuts through the heat.

No. They needed time to do this, time to cause such an injury, to smear her blood like war paint, to write that message on the walls. This wasn’t a failed assassination, this was planned, this was personal. This was justice metered out on a biblical scale, an eye for an eye, a throat for a throat.

I want to tear the room apart all over again,

I want to shake Konstantine until his teeth fucking rattle.

I want to find whoever did this and show them what true butchery looks like, but I can’t. Not yet. Because then I see what I’ve been missing, what my blinding, selfish fury has ignored. Footprints. A child’s footprints, smeared through the blood, small and frantic, leading away from the carnage.

“Where’s Ezra?” I demand, my voice cold, hard, a blade drawn from its sheath. I haven’t seen the boy since he was born. He must be four now. Four or five? The years in that cell have blurred into a single, endless night. But the thought of him, small, dark-haired, with eyes that might be mine or might be Konstantine’s, cuts through the rage like a shard of ice.

Still, Konstantine doesn’t answer. He just keeps rocking away like he truly has lost it, like the world outside his arms has ceased to exist.

“Konstantine!” I shout, grabbing him by the shoulders, shaking him violently. Her head falls at an awful angle, exposing how close her neck was to being severed. “Where’s Ezra?!” My voice is a roar, raw and desperate, echoing off the blood-streaked walls.

Still nothing. Just that endless, rhythmic rocking, the whisper of his lips.

I let go of him, stepping back, my mind racing. Ezra. My nephew. My… son? The thought makes my stomach twist, a knot of nausea and something terrifyingly close to hope. If he’s mine… if he’s mine, then he’s in danger. If the Esau did this, if they killed Ines with such ritualistic glee, then they could well have murdered him too. Or taken him. Or worse. The possibilities spiral, each one darker than the last, and I realize with a jolt that I care. I care whether that boy lives or dies, and that caring is a vulnerability I haven’t felt in years.

I move quickly, stepping over the overturned furniture, the shattered glass, the pools of blood that seem to be spreading, creeping outward like a living thing. I check the closet first, throwing open the doors, my eyes scanning the darkness. Nothing but shadows and the faint, cloying scent of her perfume. I move to the bathroom, the door hanging off its hinges, the tiles cracked like every single one has been deliberately smashed by a hammer blow. It’s empty. The silence here is different, heavier, expectant.

I move to the next room, my boots leaving bloody footprints on the pristine white carpet, a trail of accusation. The nursery. Ezra’s room. The crib is overturned, the toys scattered like casualties, the walls smeared with blood, small handprints, a child’s height. My heart pounds in my chest, a frantic, trapped bird as I see it. Is it his? Is my son dead? The thought is a knife twisting in a place I’d long thought numb.

“Ezra!” I call, my voice echoing in the silence, cracking with a fear I can’t control. “Ezra, where are you?!”