Page 22 of Captive
If Boarstaff had been giving mercy to one of his own people, he'd have taken time to don his ceremonial garments. He and the other members of the council would've purified themselves before dealing the mercy blow. It didn't feel right to grant Sebastian mercy without proper ceremony, beyond being in the sacred chamber. A feeling of wrongness settled heavily into Boarstaff's gut as he completed the circuit of the chamber, returning to the doorway through which the council had disappeared, leaving him to deal mercy.
His people had rituals for everything that mattered. Did vampires? Did they honor their dead, or simply salvage components for reuse? He'd never considered such questions before. Had never cared to.
Even watching Sebastian's labored breathing, he found himself reaching for ritual patterns ingrained since childhood. His fingers wanted to trace blessing signs in the air. His throat tightened around songs of passing that had no place in that moment. This was an enemy,not an ally. Corruption, not kin. Yet something in him still yearned for proper ceremony.
The brass around Sebastian's collar had been changing with each feeding. Where metal met flesh, the boundary had grown less distinct. The Heart Tree's magic had begun waking something in vampire metalwork - not just breaking it down, but transforming it. Reminding it of what it had been before artificers shaped it to mechanical purpose.
Each burst of steam curling around Sebastian carried scents that had become familiar over a day of feeding and watching. Copper and blood, yes, but also something else. Something that spoke of transformation rather than decay. With his systems failing beyond their ability to repair, Sebastian's brass fittings caught the crystal light differently than any vampire machinery Boarstaff had encountered before. The metal seemed almost alive.
What respect did he owe this enemy? This creature whose people had turned from nature's way, had chosen synthetic precision over organic truth? He tried to find words. Their people always spoke to the dying, reminded them of their connection to earth and living wood, to all things natural and true. But what could he say to someone whose very existence denied those connections? Would it have been easier if Sebastian had stayed conscious the previous night? They could've talked things through. Made sure the vampire understood what was happening. It was always easier when the doomed understood the mercy being shown to them.
The weight of choices pressed down. They had tried something unprecedented - had used blood and magic to forge connections between the natural and the artificial, between what was and what could be. Had almost succeeded, if Ochrehand's interpretations of the transformation held truth. But "almost" meant nothing against the reality of systems failing, of magic burning through brass and copper until nothing remained but pain.
Fragments of Ochrehand's vision haunted him: Sebastian standing with their people, blood mixing with magic, something new taking shape from the fusion of the organic and the artificial. But visions were not promises. And mercy, when it came to it, meant ending suffering before it grew too great to bear.
The knife caught crystal light. One clean strike would end it. Onemoment of mercy to finish what Sebastian's own people had started when they'd carved away his humanity piece by piece. Simple. Necessary. True. His hand knew the path. His heart knew the weight.
His free hand moved to touch the scars on his wrist - marks of every feeding that had kept Sebastian alive the past few days. Each one represented a choice to believe in possibility. To trust in transformation. To hope that hatred need not rule every interaction between their peoples.
The rawhide bindings that held Sebastian to the chamber floor weren't simple restraints. They carried old magic, designed not just to contain vampire nature but to guide transformation. To help the brass remember its connection to mountain stone. To help flesh remember what it meant to exist without synthetic regulation.
Thornmaker would be reinforcing the settlement's defenses. Rockbreaker would be evacuating any of the remaining villagers who weren't staying behind to fight for their homes. Ochrehand would be seeking guidance from the crystals. All of them doing what centuries of conflict had taught them was right.
And in the Heart Tree's deepest chamber, Boarstaff faced a choice that challenged everything those centuries had established. What if mercy meant something other than clean death? What if transformation required passing through suffering rather than being spared from it?
"I'm sorry," he said finally. The words fell hollow in the sacred space. Sorry for what? For ending his life? For trying to save it? For not finding some way to make Ochrehand's vision real? For failing to understand what the magic had tried to show them about transformation and possibility?
Sebastian's body shuddered as another surge of power attacked his artificial components. The sound that escaped held nothing mechanical. Just pure animal pain that called to something deeper than hatred. Something that recognized suffering had no tribe, no allegiance, no synthetic bounds.
Steam rose in verdant patterns. Even with systems failing, Sebastian's brass tried to remember what it meant to be part of the living world. To be something other than imposed precision. To be true.
He'd seen similar patterns in the oldest carvings beneath the Heart Tree. In texts that spoke of times before the divide between their peoples. When magic had flowed through all things without artificial constraint. When even metal had a connection to living earth.
The knife felt heavier with each breath. End it. End it clean. End it before doubt could take root. Before the Heart Tree's magic could show him more truths he wasn't ready to face about enemies and allies, about the artificial and the organic, about mercy and murder and all the spaces between.
Through the crystal light, the exposed components in Sebastian's chest - parts his father's artificers had installed to replace natural function with synthetic precision were visible. The brass-caged heart pulsed with irregular rhythm, each beat sending steam through failing vents. One strike there would end everything quickly. Would release Sebastian from suffering. Would protect the settlement from whatever dangers this transformation might ultimately reveal, even as it laid them bare to the other vampire's vengeance.
Boarstaff raised the knife, the motion familiar from countless hunts, from battles where mercy meant swift end to wounded enemy. His hand knew the path. His mind understood the necessity.
Sebastian's eyes snapped open.
Not with violence. Not with hunger. Just awareness, distant and confused, meeting Boarstaff's gaze across a blade's worth of distance. Blue eyes, untouched by brass or copper, holding questions that had no simple answers.
And in that moment, mercy became something far more complicated than death.
Chapter Eleven
Sebastian fought to open his eyes. Consciousness came in fragmentary bursts. Shapes blurred, then sharpened, a face hovering above him, yellow eyes, tusks. An orc. A blade. Danger.
Pain crashed through him in waves, each one disrupting his thoughts. Why couldn't he move properly? Where was he? His synthetic speech regulator failed to translate his confusion into words, producing only a surprising guttural sound.
The cold air against his bare skin suddenly registered with horrifying clarity. They had stripped him naked, left him completely exposed before their eyes and their magic. As a noble of House de la Sang, such vulnerability was unthinkable, his body had been seen only by personal servants and the artificers who installed his enhancements. This deliberate humiliation struck deeper than he expected, another reminder of how thoroughly they had stripped away not just his freedom but every symbol of his status.
Footsteps filling his unfiltered ears. More orcs were pouring into the chamber. The danger level spiked in him. He was doomed. He was too damaged to survive two orcs, let alone several, and the sounds of the footfalls held a lot of orcs coming at him.
A faint pulse of vampire magic washed over him, distant, familiar yet wrong somehow. His eyes rolled, trying to track it. Scout signals? The connection that all vampire devices shared felt distorted, like hearing underwater. The awareness triggered an instinctive response, his body attempting to sit up. Copper threading scraped against tissue, components misaligning with agonizing friction. A yellowish vapor escaped from the seams at his neck in erratic, painful bursts. His vision darkened momentarily from the shock.
"Wha," The word fragmented as his voice regulator sputtered. Hestrained against his bindings, acutely aware of the dead brass at his throat where living metal should pulse. Cool. Inactive. Broken. Panic flared. "Enhancements... not working..." Each word came with effort, his speech patterns disjointed without artificial regulation. His heart hammered with unfamiliar rhythm, too organic, too real. "What's... happening to me?"
