Page 64 of Tethered In Blood

My body shifted closer to Oberon, the warmth of his presence steadying me. I lifted the hem of my skirt to free my dagger from the sheath against my thigh. The blade felt cool and solid in my grasp, a slight comfort against the eeriness that surrounded us. I parted my lips to say something, but my breath hitched.

A swaying figure stood in the field. My fingers clamped around Oberon’s forearm. “What is that?” I squinted, trying to comprehend the shape and how it rocked.

A violent twist clenched my gut, a profound, primal warning. “That’s not… that’s not human, is it?” Each syllable was wrapped in a held breath. The thing in the field swayed, its movements fragmented and jerky—a puppet controlled by unsteady hands.

Oberon’s voice was guttural, sending a curl of instinctive unease swirling in my stomach. “No.”

The answer didn’t surprise me, but hearing the horror of it confirmed rooted a sickening dread in my chest.

I choked against the rot coating my throat, but the drumming in my ears was too loud to focus. “Is it getting closer?” I whispered. Oberon shifted to my front again, maintaining a loose yet cautious stance, his body blocking me from the grotesque creature beyond the broken fence. His fingers twitched near the pommel of his sword, but his posture remained unwavering.

If the thing noticed, it didn’t care. It staggered forward, a single step. Then it lurched. Its joints moved at unnatural angles, as if it was unfamiliar with how bodies should move. A long, drawn-out pause lingered between each step.

Then it paused, observed, and probed. The weight of its attention crawled over my skin, an unsettling presence that shouldn’t have existed. It had no eyes and no discernible features, yet I felt its gaze as it scrutinized me. A shiver ran down my spine, and I tightened my grip on the dagger clutched in my trembling hands.

The figure vanished, breaking apart in the wind. I blinked hard, as my mind raced to make sense of the absence. Oberon turned rigid. The line of his shoulders stiffened as he tightened his grip on his sword. The faintest creak of leather echoed in the silence.

The emptiness was tangible. My pulse pounded harder. “Where did it—”

The temperature plummeted. The air became frigid, seeping into my bones. Every muscle tensed as my breath hitched with an inhale I couldn’t expel. A blackened, leathery face emerged from the air beside me, twisting into existence where nothing had been a moment ago. The thing’s mouth split open, flesh ripping apart, exposing rows upon rows of jagged teeth, stained yellow and red. A hollow, ear-piercing screech tore from its gaping maw, rattling through my skull in shards of ice.

A strangled noise ripped from my throat when panic lurched hot and fast through me. I stumbled backward, instinct overriding thought. My boot caught on something solid. The world tilted. A wet, squelching noise filled my ears when my hands landed against the decomposing corpse behind me. The sickening give of rotting flesh compressed beneath my weight, and agloopy plopfollowed, like an overripe fruit bursting underfoot.

A putrid gas exploded around me, creating a thick, noxious cloud that scratched my throat, stung my eyes, and burned my nostrils. I gagged, pulling my sleeve up to cover my nose. My stomach lurched.

Oberon’s blade cut through the creature.

Steel met what should have been flesh, but the impact didn’t bring resistance. It brought nothing. The blade sliced through its charred face, but the moment it struck, the head dissipated, the mist unraveling in the wind. The body followed, misting into nothingness.

I scrambled to my feet, breath heaving, and hand trembling on the handle of my dagger. “Did it… did you…?”

Oberon’s torso moved rhythmically, yet tension wove through every muscle, his silver irises glinting in the dim light. His tone was as inevitable as death itself. “No. My sword won’t kill it.”

His words made my stomach knot. He didn’t sayI missedorneeded to strike harder. He said itwon’t kill it.

“Dilthen Doe.” Oberon’s hand seized my arm. “Run.” Dry, wilted wheat whipped at my ankles as we tore through the field. My lungs burned, but I didn’t dare slow down. The only thing more terrifying than the creature was the fact that Oberon was running.

The force of being shoved inside slammed my shoulder into the doorframe, causing a sharp jolt to rattle through my bones. The impact sent me stumbling. My feet dragged against the tile, and my arms flailed to keep me upright. Pain lashed through my hand when my palm caught the floor to stop me. The cut split open again. A fresh warmth seeped through the bandages, sticky against my skin.

Hard tile beneath me. The bite of reopened wounds. The echo of boots closing in behind me.

“Run again, and I’ll make sure you can’t.”

The voice wasn’t Oberon’s. The moment wasn’t then.

But my chest tightened as if it was, as if the past had reached through the thin veil of time and curled its fingers around my throat.

My eyes shut tight.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

My lungs burned as though they could no longer draw in air. I unclenched my fingers. But the damage had been done. The sharp crescents of my nails marked my palms, pressing deep enough to sting.

“Herbalist.”

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