I walked toward one.
The next.
He was among a group. Huddled. Quiet. Breathing like he hoped I wouldn't notice. Like if he stayed still enough, fear would cloak him from my eyes.
But I saw him.
Saw more than his trembling limbs or the sweat rolling down his brow.
I saw what sat in his eyes.
Hope.
Small, flickering.
But it was there.
That was enough.
Enough to make him the sixth blood eagle.
Because hope had no place here.
Not in the eyes of scum who stood by while innocence was torn apart.
Not in the face of cowards who watched and did nothing.
Hope was a luxury.
And they forfeited their right to it long ago.
I walked toward them, and the group noticed. As one, they shifted.
Uncertainty rippled through them like a disease.
Weapons rose—not in unity, but in desperation.
Some raised swords.
Some pointed pistols.
Shaking. Hesitant.
They didn't believe they could stop me.
But maybe, just maybe, they thought they could slow me down.
I stopped.
Not because I feared the bullet or the blade.
Not because I doubted myself.
But because there were easier ways.
Cleaner ways.
I pointed—right at him.
My finger raised like a grim executioner's axe, singling him out with surgical certainty.
And then I crooked it.
A gesture.
Come.
He didn't move.
But his eyes widened.
His fear twisted into disbelief. Into recognition.
He stepped back, and I followed—step for step—finger still raised, never wavering.
And then they broke.
His friends.
His brothers-in-filth.
The ones who stood beside him, who may have shared laughs and spoils and crimes with him.
They broke like brittle wood.
One shoved him forward.
Another smacked him with the butt of a gun.
Not a shot fired. Not one willing to die in his place.
They pushed him toward me like an offering.
Like a goat led to the altar.
And he looked back at them—eyes wild, mouth open, heart screaming—but they wouldn't meet his gaze.
His eyes had lost the hope that was buried in it. Destroyed by the very comrades he had trusted once.
Such nice friends you have.
I didn't smile.
Didn't mock.
There was no need.
Betrayal was its own punishment.
He stumbled toward me, arms flailing, feet dragging like he still couldn't believe this was happening.
I caught him by the collar.
No struggle now.
Just surrender.
Because what else was left?
I pulled him aside, away from the group, to the side of the ship where the ritual had been unfolding, piece by bloody piece.
His hands shook. His mouth tried to speak—maybe beg, maybe explain, maybe scream.
But I didn't give him the chance.
The sword met his spine like an old friend.
And it began again.
Skin first—soft and thin, peeling away like parchment.
Flesh next—warm, alive, trembling beneath the blade.
Muscle tore. Tendons split. Bones cracked in sequence.
I worked without hesitation, without rush.
This wasn't butchery.
This was a process. A rite. A memory made physical.
Each rib was snapped, pulled, spread.
Each wing shaped from the cage that once protected a filthy heart.
His lungs were drawn out like flags.
His heart, still beating, left untouched.
When I was done, he was nothing like the man his group had thrown forward.
He was a symbol now.
I gripped what remained of his hair—matted, blood-slick, sticky with sweat—and dragged him toward the others.
The eagle's wings scraped the wood. Blood traced a familiar path. His head bobbed with every step.
And when I arrived at the ritual site, I positioned him like the rest.
Kneeling.
Broken.
Facing the sixth girl—his eyes vacant, his body still pulsing faintly with the last dregs of life.
Now he belonged to something greater than fear.
He was one of them now.
Not the girls.
The blood eagles.
And I… I raised my hand again.
One finger.
Just one.
I looked around me.
One more. Just one more.
The final blood eagle.
The last offering before the ritual could be whole.
But this time… I didn't move.
Didn't search. Didn't stalk.
I didn't need to.
They brought him to me.
A small group of them—four or five—dragging a man between them like a sack of guilt, his feet scraping the deck, his body limp with fear.
He didn't resist. Couldn't, maybe.
He was too weak. Too small.
Too scared.
He didn't cry out.
Didn't beg.
His mouth moved like it wanted to form words, but they only came out in gasps—thin, empty sounds carried by trembling breath.
They thought they were being clever.
That by offering one of their own, they could avoid the blade.
That I would be appeased.
That I'd see a sacrifice and not think too hard about where it came from.
But I wasn't interested in what was dragged.
I was interested in who did the dragging.
My eyes swept past the one on his knees, past the broken offering they thought would fool me, and landed on them—the group.
I watched their faces.
Most were simple: fear, relief, fatigue. The look of men trying to survive just one more minute.
But one…
One wasn't like the rest.
One had a glint in his eye.
Not of fear.
Not of shame.
But of calculation.
He planned this.
He orchestrated it.
Maybe whispered it into the ears of others like a devil in the dark.
We give him someone.
A weak one.
One of ours, sure, but not one that matters.
And maybe he lets us live.
He thought himself clever.
He thought he'd found a loophole.
A shortcut through terror.
But the ritual doesn't accept shortcuts.
And I don't accept scum pretending to be priests.
I didn't look at the one they brought.
Not at first.
He wasn't my blood eagle.
I looked at the glint.
At the cunning.
And I raised my hand—just one finger this time.
And pointed.
Not at the sacrifice.
But at the coward who tried to offer him.
His smirk cracked.
The cunning in his eyes shattered.
What replaced it was art.
Raw, cinematic despair.
A collapse in real time.
A man who'd just seen his future snap like bone beneath steel.
That was the look I wanted.
The others around him stilled, frozen in place by the sharp twist of fate.
And then—unexpected—came laughter.
Not mine.
His.
The one they dragged.
The weak one.
The offered lamb.
He laughed—not joyfully, not madly, but with something sharp and bitter tucked beneath it.
Vindication, maybe.
Justice, in its cruelest form.
He ripped free of their grip—not with strength, but with adrenaline.
With purpose.
And then, before they could stop him, he lunged—grabbing the one I had chosen.
The one with the glint.
The one who thought he was clever.
He tackled him to the deck, screaming—not in fear, but in fury.
"This is who you want!" he roared. "Take him! You want him!"
I understood not a single word of what he spoke. But I understood him.
The others backed away.
Fast.
All of them.
Like rats abandoning a fire they'd helped spark.
No loyalty.
No unity.
Just self-preservation—true scum to the end.
And there it was.
My seventh blood eagle.
Not offered.
Not hunted.
Claimed.
His face, pinned beneath the weight of the man he tried to offer up, was a masterpiece of dread.
Of realization.
Of poetic end.
I walked to him slowly, methodically.
No need to rush.
He was mine now.
Claimed not by choice, but by consequence.
And he knew it.
The weak one stood up, stepping aside—silent, pale, still breathing hard—but his eyes were clear now.
Empty, maybe. But clear.
And the chosen one?
The glint was gone.
Cunning, gone.
Smirk, gone.
All that remained was fear.
True, raw, shuddering fear.
I placed a hand on his shoulder.
My fingers dug in—not to hurt.
Just to anchor him.
To let him feel the weight.
"You," I whispered.
"You are the seventh."
Then I began the final carving.
The last set of wings.
The closing piece of a ritual born not just from vengeance…
…but from justice.
And in that moment, the deck was quiet.
No more shouts.
No more protests.
Only breath.
Only blood.
Only silence.
And one by one, the blood eagles watched their queen.