VOKIN WHO WILL MAKE YOU BLEED's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Vokin wanted an army, and the enemy already knew. He stood in the center of his arena, a troll wrapped in spiked iron, blood dripping from his tusks onto the sand. From here he meant to raise a champion strong enough to kill Syvys, the God of Justice. Kill Syvys, and every other god would be his to hunt. But he could not gather warriors in secret. He had already seen the problem. They sat on the high stone walls. Small figures in symmetrical armor, silent, facing him. Watchers sent by Syvys. They did not fight. They only counted. Every warrior who climbed his steps to swear an oath, they marked. The moment Vokin recruited openly, one of them would fly to Syvys and speak. Then the God of Justice would come before Vokin was ready. Vokin knew he could not win that fight yet. He walked the ring of walls and counted them himself. Nine watchers. Each one still. Each one patient. He could not reach them fast enough. If he climbed for one, the rest would scatter and carry word. He needed them gone in a single breath, all at once, with no witness left to flee. So he called for something that moved faster than he did. Vokin pressed his bloody palm to the sand and dragged it in a wide circle. He spoke a name into the ground. The sand split. Out crawled a crocodile the size of a war-cart, its hide black and scaled, its eyes burning red. Fangs dripped where a normal beast had none. It hungered for blood, not meat. It looked up at the walls and understood without a word. "All of them," Vokin said. "Leave none to speak." The beast climbed. It moved wrong for its size, quick and low, up the stone arches like water running backward. The first watcher turned too late. The jaws closed and the armored figure burst in a spray of pale light. The others rose to flee. They were slow. The crocodile crossed the top of the wall in leaps, taking them one by one, snapping shut before a single wing could catch the air. Light broke and scattered against the sky. Vokin watched from the sand. He counted the deaths the way he had counted the watchers. Nine. Then silence. No figure escaped the rim. No message left the arena. The beast returned to him, jaws stained, and lay at his feet like a hound. Vokin set his iron hand on its skull. The enemy's eyes were blind now. Syvys would learn nothing tonight. But blindness would not last. When the watchers failed to report, Syvys would know they had been killed. Silence itself was a message. Now Vokin had bought only days, not safety. He had time to raise his champion in the open at last, and no time to waste doing it. He turned toward the gate and began to plan the summons.