Глава 13

We are the rebels!

'I decree, therefore, I correct.'

'Blood and fire extinguished, face to doom.'

Look out, Logos!

A touch of crimson appears from nothing.

The space once occupied by the Banshee is replaced by blood.

*cough*!

His blood, it's... affecting me.

Several times stronger than those Arts Circles—

Yes, thanks to you, I have also shed my blood here.

And therefore—

This place is now part of Kazdel.

Who would have thought that as much as anyone assumed they knew the full length and breadth of this great land...

The boundaries of our home are still expanding, even in this time and place.

Sarkaz, my self-proclaimed Sarkaz kin!

March with your blood, carry on with that which will never betray you, the boon of your blood!

I will take you back to the origin of all of this.

And that is—

A shadow pierces his chest.

Threads of blood holding him together are severed in an instant.

You—

Sorry, Sarkaz boons don't do much for me.

Bunny!

You *Sarkaz profanity* aren't Sarkaz! Hop to it! Weaken his binds!

That's what I'm doing! His Arts are even... crazier than I imagined!

I can barely hear his thoughts anymore, there's... there's only red... all red...

I've almost... got it!

Another outblood... an unexpected development.

The scent of your blood... you're Caprinae?

Such a dull disguise... let's have your blood suffocate you.

...Urk!

Do you think such crude Arts would let you kill a King of the Sarkaz Royal Court?

Of course not.

A heavy sword points directly at the Sanguinarch's head.

You can't call something as cliche as slaughter an 'awakening', Sanguinarch.

You're still wandering in hatred and destruction, you've never left the 'abyss'.

You're the ones who are still sleeping.

—Vile traitors—

King of Sarkaz!

Now!

Before he recovers, knock him off the skeleton!

An elegy begins to play.

The wailing of the Banshee weaves into a mournful melody, and the waves beneath his feet sing a solemn song.

A steady male voice harmonizes with the sound of the bells, with moonlight as his prose.

The bone whistle sounds itself before it is played.

Its distant howl, traversing time itself, strikes the Crimson Court.

The moment I took my throne, the knells were already tied to my fate.

None of us can escape.

But what the elegy mourns will not be your corpse.

It will be all of our connections.

The Sanguinarch continues to struggle, blood gushing from his fingertips, like claws carving deep scratches into the bleached skull of the Feranmut.

His body disintegrates into the dirge, only to reform in blood.

He is the icon of blood, and as long as there is blood, he will continue to fight.

I—will not—Banshee—

Amiya, join me.

Explore the strings of the elegy. Seek out the origin of the Banshee.

Look at me. Look to the wails you once covered your ears to avoid.

We must end him here.

I'll try!

The Banshee's song echoes again, and the ancient knells seem to materialize, deterring the creeping blood.

The Vampire still rises.

After a moment, a rather tender feminine voice joins the harmonic dirge.

A proclamation of death? A sentence of rejection?

No, not only. The melody carries a kind of timidity, and lingering... sadness.

As the blood cools, the moonlight changes. The hatred of the Sarkaz is not unreasonable, and the Vampire's vengeance is not unreasonable.

However, this is by no means the promised future. Can the survivors have a future, on scorched earth?

No!

What do those siblings... actually see?

Banshee! Listen!

You have still—Accepted your blood, my boon—

You have not yet... defeated yourself!

What echoes here is no longer an elegy.

It is only a sigh.

A sigh that makes him uneasy.

The heat of the explosion and the weight of the sword make the Sanguinarch feel powerless for the first time.

He looks at the small, ever so small, King of Sarkaz.

He looks at that Cautus, so inferior to the Sarkaz. He looks at the Black Crown, such a meaningless curse.

The history and illusions he trampled on, the bloodline and inheritance, the revenge and unrivaled power, all suddenly disappear.

He feels a void beneath his feet.

A figure in white falls from the skeleton.

Ridiculous... even the myriad souls mock me.

Lord of the Banshees, and... <i>King of Sarkaz.</i>

You keep these deserters around who ignore the past, and in the end, you don't even dare to act yourselves.

Oh... the vile always prevail.

This is indeed our curse.

The outblood King has executed me?

The King of Sarkaz resounds with the knells. But you don't know how strong the ties of blood are. You try to judge...

You—

Heh, in the end, you did use the power within your blood!

Two elegiac singers offered me a dirge at the same time—

When the time came, you could not resist the instinct within your blood that comprises all that you are.

Did you really kill me? No.

I have returned the Teekaz blood to where it belongs...

Go and see, go to Londinium—

(Whispered Sarkaz) I'll be waiting for you behind the curtain of ruin.