Elohims wrath

Kilian told me to come upstairs, I whispered to Mikkel. He sat slumped in the chair, his head hung low, the weight of everything pressing down on him. For a moment, I thought about telling him not to feel guilty for keeping Olaf's death from me, but I stopped myself. It would only waste time. There was too much to do, too many unanswered questions gnawing at me.

"You're already up, Bjorn?" Mikkel asked, his voice flat but tinged with confusion.

"Kilian said we should go upstairs," I repeated, my tone sharper than I intended. I'd mentioned it twice already, and there wasn't much else to explain.

Mikkel didn't respond immediately. He stared at the ground for a few beats before nodding slowly, his expression hardening into the determined mask I'd grown accustomed to. He pushed himself up from the chair with visible effort, his old legs protesting every movement. He was resilient, always pushing forward no matter how much the years had taken from him.

I couldn't help but marvel at his endurance. He and Larse had endured so much, trapped in that engine room, living off carcasses and clinging to survival in the darkest of times. The trauma must have been unbearable, yet here he was, standing tall despite the weight of it.

How did they manage to live with me for so long? The thought lingered, unbidden, until Mikkel's hand on my shoulder brought me back to the moment.

"Let's go," he said simply, his voice steady.

I nodded and followed him, wishing I could be more like him—calm, composed, a leader with a plan. Mikkel carried a quiet strength that I envied. I imagined myself with the same resolve, the same poise, and it felt like a distant dream.

We walked down the dim corridor, the narrow walls of brick closing in around us. The faint light of a distant torch barely illuminated our way. The air was damp and cold, carrying the faint metallic scent of rust and decay. Turning a corner, we reached a spiraling staircase, its ancient stone steps worn smooth by countless feet.

As we ascended, the air changed. A sudden, biting chill brushed against my face, and I realized for the first time that I had been underground. The revelation startled me. How long had we been down there? Days? Weeks? Time felt strange, slipping through my fingers like grains of sand.

We emerged into a large, open room. The air was frigid, carrying the faint tang of frost. Moonlight streamed in through a small, barred window high above, casting pale silver beams onto the cold stone floor. In the center of the room sat Kilian, hunched over his metallic sheet, flipping it between his fingers with mechanical precision.

The flicker of reflected light caught my eye. The way the silver surface shimmered as it spun made it look almost alive, as though it were feeding on the faint glow of the moonlight. It was hypnotic in a way that unsettled me.

"Hey, Kilian," I called out, breaking the silence. "We're here. Let's talk."

Kilian glanced up from his sheet, his ever-present grin widening. "Sure," he said, slapping the ground next to him with an open palm. "Come sit here."

I hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to expect, then slowly approached the spot he had indicated. The floor was rough and dirty, a cold reminder of just how alien this place was to me. I had no idea where we were or what this space was meant for. But I sat down beside him, and Mikkel followed suit, settling in on my other side.

"Where are the others?" I asked, my voice echoing faintly in the cavernous room.

Kilian's smirk grew sharper, his black eyes glinting faintly in the moonlight. "It's two in the morning," he explained, his voice dripping with amusement. "It's deep night, Bjorn."

His answer didn't satisfy me, but it was enough for now. I nodded. "A good time for conversation and future planning," I said, more to myself than to him.

Kilian laughed, a low, raspy sound that echoed unnervingly in the empty space. "It is indeed," he observed, leaning back slightly. "Shall we start?"

I looked at him, his grin stretching impossibly wide, and felt a chill run down my spine. There was something about him, something I couldn't quite place, that made me uneasy. Still, I nodded. "Let's begin."

"So, ask anything that's on your mind, Bjorn," Kilian began, his voice even, but with an undertone that dared me to engage.

I hesitated. The questions swirled in my mind, yet the air between us felt heavy, as if each unspoken word added to the weight pressing down on my chest. Trust was a fragile thing, and I didn't know these men well enough to reveal what I truly thought or felt.

The seconds ticked by. Kilian's ever-present grin began to fade, the corners of his mouth flattening into a line. The shift in his expression was subtle, but it struck me like a cold wind. The transformation of his face, that smile melting away into something almost human, was far more unsettling than his earlier menace.

A shiver ran through me, and I spoke before I was ready, the words tumbling out in a hurried attempt to fill the silence. "Let's start by getting to know each other a bit more," I said. "Since you seem to know much more about me than I do about you, Kilian, why don't you start first?"

The grin returned instantly, as though I'd flipped a switch. "As you both know, my name is Kilian," he began, his tone lighter now, almost conversational. "I am the leader of this group of three men. They are my consorts and live for my sake only. My word is everything to them, so just keep that in mind."

The way he spoke of them—my consorts, live for my sake only—sent a ripple of unease through me. What kind of psychological relationship was this? I'd always believed in the value of a voice, the right to speak one's mind. But in this group, it seemed individuality was not just discouraged but obliterated.

Kilian carried on, oblivious or indifferent to my discomfort. "As I said before, I come from Bristol's capital with a battalion of one hundred Apostorijats from the Black Star Order. The Black Star is one of the leading houses in Bristol, both politically and militarily. Its influence is vast, its power undeniable."

I listened, my expression neutral, though every word seemed to echo in my mind. The terms he used—Apostorijats, Black Star Order—were foreign, heavy with meaning I didn't yet grasp.

He continued, his voice steady but tinged with pride. "We picked up a signal from Altera while on a mission and were given new orders from our higher-ups. Now, we search for Altera itself, a place thought lost for decades. Our mission is both exploration and protection. We keep Bristol safe from Mimics—those vile creatures that infest minds and memories."

I nodded faintly, keeping my face as blank as I could. His story was compelling, but I couldn't shake the feeling that it was designed to be. Every detail was calculated, every pause perfectly placed to draw me in.

"And, yes," Kilian added, his grin widening, "I almost forgot to mention—our entire battalion is made up strictly of criminals."

I blinked, caught off guard.

"Every one of us," Kilian said, his tone almost cheerful, "was given a second chance by the Black Star. We serve with loyalty and discipline in exchange for our freedom. Redemption, you could call it, though not everyone deserves it."

I kept my breathing steady, my posture calm, but inside, my thoughts churned. Criminals. A battalion of one hundred men, all bound by a second chance, wielding the power of the Black Star. It explained the ruthlessness I'd seen, the cold efficiency with which they operated. But it also raised more questions. What crimes had they committed? What kind of force was the Black Star to command such loyalty from those who had once broken its laws?

I reminded myself to stay calm, to listen carefully. Kilian's words were a web, and I couldn't risk being ensnared by their intricacies.

As he spoke, I focused on the rhythm of his voice, the way it carried both authority and danger. His story seemed believable, but the sheer weight of new concepts—Mimics, battalions, Black Star, Altera—left me teetering on the edge of frustration.

"Just keep calm," I told myself. "Listen carefully. Let him finish."

Kilian seemed to sense my restraint, his grin widening as if he relished the struggle playing out within me. The metallic sheet in his hand glinted as he flipped it idly, the sound punctuating his words like the ticking of a clock.

Finally, he fell silent, his grin lingering as he waited for a reaction.

Kilian had given me even more reasons not to trust him. A criminal. A murderer. Who knew what unholy acts he had committed before the Black Star folded him into their ranks? He was dangerous, and every instinct in me screamed that I needed a plan—an escape, a way out of this mess before things spiraled further out of control.

"What is it, Bjorn? Feline got your tongue?" Kilian's voice broke the silence, his grin twisting into something sharper, something almost predatory. "I'll allow you to ask as many questions as you'd like."

That word—allow. It crawled under my skin, setting every nerve on edge. I worked to keep calm, but the disrespect was too much to bear.

"It is not on you to allow me anything, Kilian," I stated, my voice steady but laced with steel.

Mikkel, seated beside me, jumped to his feet at the sharpness of my tone. His expression was a mixture of concern and frustration, but I didn't stop.

"You're probably a criminal and a murderer. You killed Olaf, and now you have the audacity to order us around." My words came faster, angrier, fueled by the simmering distrust that had been building since we first met.

But then Mikkel's voice rose above mine, cutting through my anger with startling authority. "Bjorn, who do you think you are?" His tone was almost a shout, a rare display of emotion from a man who so often kept his calm. "It was a misunderstanding! They didn't mean to hurt us, and they're willing to help us now. And you, of all people, have the gall to discriminate against Kilian for being a criminal after—"

Mikkel's voice caught mid-sentence, silenced by Kilian, who spoke with a sudden gravity that made the air in the room feel heavier.

"After what you and Arne did to Larse," Kilian said, his grin replaced by a grim seriousness.

The words hit me like a hammer. My breath caught, and the room seemed to close in around me.

"When Brozek entered your consciousness to teach you our language," Kilian continued, "he also caught glimpses of your most vibrant memories and emotions. I know it's an invasion of privacy, but that's how his abilities work." He paused, his gaze fixed on me. "He told me about your burdens and sins, Bjorn."

I felt the blood drain from my face. My fingers and feet grew cold, my palms damp with sweat. The walls of the room seemed to blur, my vision narrowing to Kilian's face.

"How much do you know?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, thick with a mixture of anger and fear.

Kilian tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "As I said, I know a lot about all of you. But it's far from everything—just the most vibrant memories. The ones that haunt your souls, the ones that make your heart skip a beat, and the ones that send butterflies—or demons—rampaging through your stomach."

My fists clenched. I wanted to strike him, to wipe that knowing look off his face. But I couldn't bring myself to do it.

"So, you know who I am," I announced, the words bitter on my tongue.

"Yeah, I do," Kilian said simply. "But as Mikkel mentioned, I only want to help you."

"The question is why and how, Bjorn?" Mikkel interjected, his voice cutting through the tension.

My head throbbed, nausea building in my stomach. The dizziness was overwhelming, and I pressed a hand to my forehead, trying to keep my thoughts from spiraling.

"Yeah," I finally said, my voice weak but steady. "Why the hell do you want to help us?"

"And… I guess I'm sorry, Kilian." The apology was bitter and forced, but I knew I had to get the conversation back on track.

Kilian's grin returned, as wide as ever. "No problem, Bjorn," he said lightly. "You can't imagine the kinds of slurs my higher-ups hurl at me on a daily basis."

His response caught me off guard. It was strangely disarming, almost friendly, and it was enough to let me push forward.

"So," I commented, my voice firmer now, "why do you want to help us?"

Kilian's grin lingered as he leaned forward slightly, the flicker of the candle casting shadows across his face. "That's a long story," he implied, his voice lowering to a near whisper, "but I'll keep it short."

I bit back my irritation at the commanding tone he always seemed to adopt. For now, I needed to endure it.

"As you know," Kilian began, "we assumed everyone on Altera was long dead. Just finding survivors here is insane in itself. But there's another reason…"

His voice dropped further, a conspiratorial tone that drew me in despite myself.

"I'm all ears," I said, though my words were tinged with annoyance.

Kilian's grin widened as he leaned even closer, his next words barely audible but heavy with implication.

"Your purity, your genes, your background," Kilian revealed, his voice calm yet weighted with intent. "They're impactful enough to change the power dynamics between political houses in Bristol. Having you gives the Black Star Order an ace up its sleeve."

I stared at him, the words swirling in my mind. So you're good to us because you want to use us, I thought, but I yelled it aloud, my voice carrying the accusation.

Kilian didn't flinch. He simply smiled that unnervingly wide smile of his. "Aren't all exchanges in nature self-serving?" he asked, his tone almost philosophical. "You help others because you want their gratitude. You protect others so they'll return the favor. You provide for others because you crave their attention. You love because you want to be loved in return."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "In other words, I'm just doing the most natural thing, aren't I?"

There was a chilling logic to his argument. He wasn't wrong—not entirely. His words wormed their way into my mind, dismantling my points before I could even voice them. But something about his assertion unsettled me deeply. Did I really love because I wanted to be loved? Was every action rooted in self-gain?

I needed an answer, a rebuttal, but the words wouldn't come. My thoughts churned in search of something that felt true, something that could counter the creeping doubt.

"It's not about self-gain, Kilian," Mikkel said, breaking the silence before I could. "But what's in it for us?"

Kilian's grin widened. "Isn't it obvious? You'd live under the protection of one of the most powerful political forces in the largest city in the world."

The room fell silent for a moment, the enormity of Kilian's offer settling over us like a thick fog.

I felt like an outsider in the conversation, watching as Mikkel and Kilian volleyed questions and answers back and forth. Was I that bad of a leader? Should I just let Mikkel take the reins? The doubt gnawed at me, but I stayed silent, unsure of how to interject.

"How can we know you're not lying?" Mikkel asked, his voice sharp and direct.

It was a question I hadn't thought to ask but immediately wished I had. It was the perfect challenge, and I turned my gaze to Kilian, eager to see how he would respond.

Kilian leaned back slightly, his grin shifting to something more thoughtful. "To this point, I've been completely open with you. I've never lied. And even if I had, let's face it—you're not getting out of this place without me. You'd never survive the cold North, let alone cross the Silviju—the great river that divides the equator. And that's before we even get to the deserts, the mountains, and the other… obstacles between you and Bristol."

His voice grew heavier, each word hammering home a grim reality. "Without me, you'd die here. The cold would take you. The beasts would find you. Or nature itself would finish the job. So ask yourself—what reason would I have to lie when the truth alone is enough to prove you need me?"

I clenched my fists, searching for a crack in his argument, a flaw in his reasoning, but I couldn't find one. His logic was airtight, and it left me feeling cornered.

"You have a point," Mikkel admitted after a long pause. "So what do you propose?"

Kilian's grin returned in full force, but this time it carried an edge of cunning. "It's not as simple as just following me," he said, his tone suddenly more serious. "My battalion wouldn't accept it. They'd fight over you. And that's not even considering the higher-ups. You're not just survivors to them; you're leverage, currency, a resource they'd kill to possess."

He let that sink in before continuing. "But I have a plan. If you're willing to listen, I'll tell you how we can navigate all of this—together."