Page 2 of Bonepetal
But no one is listening.
Except me.
My chest cracks. I see her and all I can think ismine.
We were raised under the same devil, but I’ve loved her like she was a god since we were kids. Since she braided my hair with feathers and whispered that the moon only belonged to people who believed in second chances.
And now they’re gonna slit her throat like she’s a fucking lamb?
Not while I’m breathing.
I crash through the clearing like fire incarnate.
The knife is already in my hand, a wicked thing I tore from the devil’s altar three nights ago when I made my decision. Its blade is steel, sharpened to a brutal point, but it’s the handle that makes it monstrous—carved from bone, lined with yellowed teeth still rooted in the jaw. When I grip it, the teeth press into my palm, biting back like it resents being wielded.
It’s old. Older than me. Older than this place. It carries the stink of blood and ash, every notch in the bone humming with the memory of sacrifice. When I move, it feels alive, thrumming against my skin like it knows what I came to do.
No mask. No warning. No mercy.
The first man I gut is Brother Malric, my former mentor. He taught me how to read the stars, and how to silence a heart with a single puncture. He looks into my eyes, confused, lips parting for a prayer. He doesn’t finish it. I bury the blade in his stomach and rip it upward. Entrails hit the leaves like rotting garland.
The second, Elder Thorne, trained all the Thorned Path children how to perform ritual dances. Gave us candy every year during the Harvest Rite. I take his tongue before his life, carving it clean out of his mouth like a serpent’s gift. He chokes on blood and goes down on his knees.
Blood sprays across the altar, baptizing my girl in proof that I’m not gonna let them take her.
She sobs my name.
“Finn—” Her voice is cracked porcelain. “No, no, no—what did you do?”
But it’s not over yet.
I move through the crowd like a fucking reaper unbound, slashing through robes and screams, cutting down our people. People who raised us, and who prayed beside us. People who dared to look at her like she was nothing more than flesh born to be bled for their sins.
Her mother screams. Her father begs. I don’t give a fuck. I cut them down all the same.
By the time I reach her, the altar is nothing but carnage—blood, bodies, and smoke.
I drop to my knees beside her. Kiss her wrists where the ropes have torn her raw and slice through them with hands that won’t stop shaking.
My face is smeared in blood—mine, theirs, doesn’t matter, but my eyes are locked on hers. They always have been. Always fucking will be. Nobody touches what’s mine. Nobody takes her from me.
“You’re not dying for them,” I whisper, voice shaking. “You’re not dying for anything.”
I take the blade.
Carve the ritual symbol deep into my chest, down my ribs, across my heart.
“MY SOUL FOR HERS.”
Again. Again. Until flesh peels like parchment. Until my blood spills thick across the altar.
Until the stone drinks it, and the veil begins to thin.
Because he’s coming.
He always does.
The fire gutters. The wind dies.
